Hushed Willows furnace

A soft chuckle slipped from betwixt Buchanan's lips when Banner attempted to repeat the Russian word for songbird. Her attempt had been ...cute, Buchanan found. Extremely so. He studied her boldly for a moment, mercurial gaze admiring her before the assassin blinked and glimpsed down at the small songbird, embarrassed for a few moments, that he'd been staring so unabashed and also because she was his superior and that, according to The Officer he had no business even looking at a superior's paws — which was ridiculous to Buchanan if only because he wanted to look at Banner, wanted to see her reactions and be captivated by the green of her irises over and over again.

She did not reach out to take the warbler from where he'd nosed it, and for a moment he worried that she didn't like it, or that it was too small, before she claimed that it was beautiful. Buchanan's gaze lifted to her face, a warmth spreading through his chest. Her gaze touched his, striking green meeting the cool silver of his own gaze and the assassin did not avert his gaze. She had been the one to make the eye contact after all so Buchanan was content. “I found him hopping among the willow boughs,” He told her freely and admitted in a low murmur, “he was distracted trying to catch a worm.” Otherwise, he would have put up more of a challenge and there would have been a good chance Buchanan would not have had a gift to present to her.

“Do you like it?” He inquired, gaze rising from the warbler to Banner, where it rested upon her hopeful that his lovely companion did, indeed, like the gift even though it was small.