haven ; 𝐛. 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 , 𝟏

008. try to remember

EIGHT—TRY TO REMEMBER
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TIME SEEMED TO go extraordinarily slowly for the rest of the day. I'd gone back inside after the...slight altercation with Bucky, flowers in hand and ready to be put in a vase. After doing such, I grabbed my book and proceeded to the bottom of the stairs, leading up to my bedroom. 

Before I began the ascent, though, I cast a glance down the narrow hallway, the only leg of the house that Bucky seemed to like, since he spent most of his time in the guest room. I considered going to check on him but I shook my head, a sharp voice in my mind scolding me.

If he wants help, he'll ask for it, the voice said. It's his choice if he wants to distance himself from everyone. 

Ignoring the pang of guilt in my chest, I climbed the stairs and curled up on my bed, diving into Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express. The copy I had was quite old, a well-worn cover just barely holding the book together. It was my mother's, one of the only things she'd decided to leave at the house.

"Who knows, Elda," she'd said with her wide, warm smile, "someday it may serve you well. Remind you of us when you get lonely." Of course, as any mother would, she'd had tears in her glassy gray eyes. She was emotional like that.

Yes, because what screams "fond family memories" more than the murder of a child kidnapper on a train in the dead of winter? 

Stifling a nostalgic grin, I turned the page and wrapped a blanket around my legs, settling in for a few hours. If Bucky was going to be moody the whole time he was here, I was going to have to get used to it. Not that it would be much of a difference from my previous years living alone. 

Hercules Poirot had only just finished collecting all of the aliases from the train's occupants when I looked over to check the time. It had been a short two hours. Groaning, I marked my place in the book and set it down. I swung my legs off the bed and padded downstairs into the kitchen. 

I wasn't much of a cook, but like Sam said, I could make a mean dish of scrambled eggs and hashbrowns. It was my specialty. In the need of comfort food, I grabbed a mixing bowl and a bag of frozen hashbrowns--I didn't have the time to cut up the potatoes, alright?--and placed them on the counter. With the stove on, I began to crack some eggs and stir them together, watching the previously separate liquids converge into a pale yellow substance. 

Before I put the mixture on the stove, though, I found myself looking back into the darkened hallway. Sucking it up, I wiped my hands off with a dishtowel and started my way down the hallway.

"Bucky?" I asked softly, my knuckles tapping on the closed door. I knew it wasn't smart to startle a former soldier, no matter how long ago their tour was. "I...I'm making dinner. Do you want to come out and eat with me?"

There was no reply.

"Hey, there's eggs and hashbrowns. I don't really want to eat alone if I don't have to," I tried to coax him out of the room but still, he didn't answer.

Alright, fine, I rolled my eyes and turned the doorknob. 

The room was dark aside from the soft light cascading in through the window, flickering through the curtains as it danced on the carpet. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring out into the day, his back straight and unmoving. I could barely tell he was alive, but his shoulders rose and fell gently with his breaths. 

"Come on," I tried again, my voice soft but starting to fill with annoyance, "we can't be strangers forever. Sometimes we're going to have to talk."