Soft Robotics ✧ Bucky Barnes

(data[1.07]);

"Did I tell you I got a research grant for this summer? Through the university, I mean." I was an insufferable movie-talker.

Half an hour into Wuthering Heights, I was basically sitting on his lap. I'd been gravitating that way, more interested in him than in the screen. I wasn't even pretending to watch, although until this moment, I'd done a successful job of not voicing any of my thoughts.

Then I remembered my research, and I got too excited.

"No. That's great," he said. "What're you researching?"

I was already torn between shutting up to keep from bothering him and exploding with information at his single question. "Do you know anything about soft robotics?" I asked.

"No."

"Okay," I sat up so I could look at him, still on his lap, almost too excited to notice how strong his shoulders felt when I balanced myself with them (almost). "It's just what it sound like; it's robots made from soft materials. Think silicone. Not rigid—they're fluid, flexible, versatile."

He nodded in understanding, faintly smiling.

"It's bioinspired," I continued. "The idea is to develop tech that works with humans, that's built to be adaptable in human environments. And in life on earth, softness is more common than rigidity. Much more common."

I waited for him to nod again, and he did, the smile reaching his eyes.

"So, this summer, I'm gonna develop—" I cut myself off, hearing a crescendo in the movie's soundtrack. I laughed a little to myself. "Anyway, yeah. That's all."

I watched confusion cross his face as I settled back into his arms. He didn't press me on it, though. He scooted me up on his lap. I buried my face into his chest.

"That's really interesting, Grace," he told me quietly.

For some reason, the reassurance made me want to cry, so I closed my eyes and didn't say anything for another half hour.

But by then, I was content again, listening to the movie in the back of my mind, feeling his breathing, his steady heartbeat in my ear.

"Are you gonna fall asleep like this?" he asked eventually. His voice was low, under his breath, like he wasn't sure if I was already asleep or not.

I probably could have slept like that. I was leaning all of my weight onto him, feeling ridiculously snug. Impossibly secure. His metal hand was still resting on my thigh, and I didn't think his arm behind my back would budge even if I pushed against it.

"No, I'm listening," I said.

"You can sleep on me if you want to," he said. "I can get you a blanket."

"No, don't get up," I whined.

"Do you want the heat on?"

"No."