billiards, pool, snooker, whatever the hell you wanted to call it--there's a radio blinking back at the two of them from the corner, the bar largely unoccupied but for a lonesome old drunk in the corner (he's blind, nursing hard whisky, mumbling some sad recount about the fumes and the lights, whatever that meant). bucky likes this song, but then again, he's sure thousands of people do; dean martin's voice is smooth butter as it spreads over the room, everybody loves somebody sometimes... he cant help but watch mark as he studies the table, moves around the edges a few times, adjusting his angle and the way the cue sat against the bridge of his hand. they're playing a game of eight ball, though bucky thinks of it more like a game held between heavy swigs of gin and tonic. it's his preferred drink, reminds him of one of his few war comforts, unhealthy as that was.
mark's form is good. it's really good. bucky watches him bank ball number three into his predicted pocket (one so close to where barnes stands he feels it vibrate and thud when it lands) via carom shot. bucky makes a soft click of the tongue, a hiss of disappointment, followed by a sharp, impressed whistle.
' show off. ' he jokes, pressing the wide end of his cue into the floor. he leans in a way that angles his hip out, bare muscle from unwounded shoulder to hand flexing. it's his prosthetic that holds the cue. ' y'know, i used to do this for money sometimes. made myself look like a shit player, or like i was drunk, get 'em loose and confident so they'd bet big, then make a hard come back. pool hustling, yeah.. pissed off a few people. had to put a guy in a chokehold once. ' his grin is loose, crooked, still mired in his quiet admiration. ' promise i wont do that to you. '