A Birdie Lost in Time | Bucky Barnes

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"I hate the stuff... my mom used to add ketchup to everything—and make anything out of it... It was cheap in the depression, so most people relied on it," he explained, contemplating his cards.

Nine and King.

He flicked his eyes to Marlow across from him, seeing the slight quirk of her lips at his story. It wasn't much, but it was something.

"Hit," she mumbled. "But not even on fries?"

"Not even on fries," he shook his head, sliding a card face up towards her. "I got sick of it... Same as whole grain bread—can't stand it now."

"And I bet being a super soldier means you never have to worry about eating too many carbs," she quipped quietly as she scanned her cards. "I'm out."

He had to withhold his sigh.

He knew it wasn't that big of a deal, but she wasn't even trying. He didn't blame her, he probably would have sent the pack of cards through someone's head if they suggested playing back when he got away from Hydra, but he'd hoped the game would be good for her. Or, more so, the competition. So briefly a day and a half before he'd seen that spark come back to her eyes.

He wanted to see it again... but he knew he couldn't push for it.

"What about you?" he asked, dropping his cards to the side before dealing a new hand. "Any food your parents make that you can't stand now?"

She sent him a grimace of a smile and dropped his gaze, waiting for him to deal the cards. "My mom wasn't much of a cook," she breathed, sliding her cards towards herself. "Never knew my dad. And my mom's boyfriend... he... he didn't cook either. Ate a lot of frozen dinners growing up—but if it counts, I don't like them anymore. Well, I never liked them back then, but I really don't like them now."

Good one, Barnes.

"I'd say that counts," he nodded, looking down to his hand. "What about what you cooked for yourself as you got older? Make yourself sick of anything?"

"I loved everything I cooked," she tutted, "I would never get sick of it."

A smile rose to his lips at her haughty tone, and he nodded.

Five and three.

"What's your favorite thing to cook?" he asked, flipping a card for himself before looking at her in question.

She nodded and he slid her one off the top off the deck and flipped it. "I loved making fresh pasta... and stews and soups... roast vegetables and fried chicken... I loved trying new recipes, but I somehow usually burned whatever I made," she explained, voice lighter than it had been all day.

"I'll have to get you to cook for me sometime," he suggested.

She hummed in response, but he had no idea whether it was agreeance or not, and her eyes gave nothing away as they focused on her cards.

Rather than push, he looked down to the card he'd pulled.

Five, three, five.

What a shit hand.

He took another card off the top and looked if she wanted another, and when she shook her head, he looked down to the Jack. "I'm out."

"If only we were betting," she mumbled, laying down her hand of 21.

She won, yet she didn't care. He bit down on his molars and finally admitted to himself that his distraction wasn't working.

So, he put his cards down and looked across at her. "If your mom didn't teach you to cook, where did you learn?"