haven ; 𝐛. 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 , 𝟏

022. trust me

TWENTY-TWO—TRUST ME
————————————————————

BUCKY DIDN'T HAVE much to say after I told him everything. He didn't look at me like I was broken, or like I was a psychopathic murderer who deserved to be locked up in prison. He just nodded swiftly, and said a small, "Thank you for telling me. Doesn't it feel better to have that off your chest?"

I'd grinned, but only a small one. "I guess. You're a good listener, you know that?"

He looked down at me and smirked. "I've had a lot of practice."

We'd walked back to the house, a gentle silence falling over us. With nothing to do for the rest of the night, we simply watched a movie until we had to fight to keep our eyelids open and yawned every time we opened our mouths. 

That was three months ago. And still, nothing had changed. Bucky knew just about everything about me, but I knew nothing about him. After that night, though, I couldn't get close to him, and he rarely touched me like he had that night. He was back to being a quiet, brooding soldier from World War II. 

Five months. Five months had passed since I'd welcomed him into my home, interrupting the usual silence that I'd become accustomed to. Now, it was just me and him, living simply in the middle of nowhere.

"Hey," I greeted him softly when I heard him enter the kitchen. My back was to him, making my best piece of avocado toast with a hard-boiled egg on top. "What do you want for breakfast?"

It wasn't a big surprise when he remained wordless; he still wasn't much of a morning person. Every morning, it felt like he was remembering all of it, everything he'd gone through to get here. Like he didn't even know me. I tried to shrug it off, but it still hurt. I just wished he would talk to me like he used to.

"I have to go grocery shopping today," I said as I took a seat at the granite island in the kitchen. "We're running out of food."

That's when his eyes flicked up to mine, those sharp blue eyes clouded over with...concern? "Don't go."

I attempted to hide my smirk by taking another bite, but I couldn't stop the flutter in my gut. "We can't just sit here and waste away, Bucky, I've got to get food. You know, so we don't starve."

He looked away, absently bringing his hand to rest on his stump of a shoulder. "You could be spotted. It would only bring trouble," he argued.

"No one's looking for me," I persisted, but realized my mistake as soon as the words escaped my lips. "Sorry," I said, ducking my head.

He shook his head, shrugging. "It's nothing I don't already know." Sliding into the seat across from me, he rested his hand on the countertop.

"You know, I don't know how you do it."

Bucky's eyes flitted up to mine again. "Do what?"

I shrugged, picking at my food. "I don't know, keep your emotions inside all the time. Sam's always told me that I'm an open book, that you can always tell what I'm feeling."

"You should take it as a compliment," he replied. Now he couldn't stop staring at me.

Shaking my head, I stood up to make a cup of coffee. "I don't know, it's never done any good. Once, when I was trying to tell my mom that my brother broke her favorite vase, I couldn't stop grinning. She knew I'd done it."

"At least people can trust you." His voice hovered above my ear. I turned, and there he was. His ability to move silently still shocked me, making my breath catch in my throat. "No one trusts me. Not anymore."