So he was paying for his room and board by being a handyman. Impressive. Natasha watched without comment as Barnes prepared to ascend the ladder, not missing the nuance of being a 'partner in crime', so to speak. "Sure," she replied easily, placing her glass next to his and crossing her arms, moving just enough so she could keep the driveway in her sight-line.

The rest of the yard looked about as expected; toys here and there, a semi-rusted swing set in one corner, grass higher at the fence than anywhere else in the yard. All in all, the place had the typical American flavor to it. Something the redhead standing with her hip cocked and arms comfortably crossed at the edge of the house wasn't entirely familiar with, but appreciated all the same.

She also kept a keen eye on the man up the ladder; habit, that. She'd been backup more than once, and knew how things were supposed to work. And it wasn't entirely her fault that the female part of her brain quietly appreciated the edible aesthetic of James Barnes in fitted jeans and a too-small shirt, halfway up the side of the house, tools in hand. Natasha gave a silent snort; ludicrous. Clearly she was jetlagged, if her brain was going down that particular mine-laden trail.