The Long Journey Home

15: We repeat what we don't repair

[ Chapter notes: TFATWS 1x05 ]

          You wake to the sound of knocking on the apartment door. It's morning? It's morning. You've slept without dreaming — exhaustion, and likely a little jet lag — catching up to you. It was a deep, dark, nothingness. Empty of the good and the bad. It is a blessing, yes, but it clings to you, refusing to be shaken off. Groggy and still in yesterday's clothes, you stumble through the apartment to answer the door.

          Bucky's across-the-hall neighbor holds out a covered dish partially wrapped in a towel. Hannah? Hilda? Helga? Helmut — his name echoes within you, making you waiver on your feet. No. That's the remnants of empty sleep making you unsteady, calling you back to unconsciousness. It's not that you miss your former employer. The intonation of his displeasure, the tinge of delight that would accompany a private smile that --

          No. You shake your head to try to clear the pang of loss, not that the action has much effect. There is no escaping this hollowed out feeling stretching to consume you from the inside out.

          Bucky's neighbor had been taking the moment to peer around you, peeking in the door to get a good look at the interior of the apartment. Now she locks her focus on you: the clothes that you're wearing from yesterday -- wrinkled from sleep, your only-just-starting-to-move-around appearance, and the struggle you're clearly having here at the door.

          You're not even sure what time it is other than sometime in the morning... you think. You're not familiar enough with the natural light peeking into the apartment to be able to accurately judge. Have you said anything in greeting yet -- or did you simply open the door to try to get the knocking to stop?

          She's stepping over the threshold before you can think of any decent excuse why she shouldn't. Bucky hadn't specifically said to keep neighbors out, but then there hadn't really been time for going over house rules before he'd vanished on his 'errand' and you were shepherded onto a plane. At least the groceries you'd picked up yesterday aren't still sprawled across the counter... not that you could confidently say where they are in the cabinets. You vaguely remember that everything was in the upper cabinetry on the far end of the kitchen. At least -- you don't remember stooping to put anything away. Yesterday is a blur of almost-memories, hazed by prolonged travel.