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The sky is dark minus the brightness of white scattered stars when I turn the ignition off in front of the safe house. I have been fighting to keep my eyes open for the last hour on the drive back to the house while James sat stoically in the passenger seat staring out the window.
The only thing that kept me awake for the hour drive was thinking about what James was thinking about. That never leads me anywhere good, you know, being there left with my thoughts for a long period of time. I trip over them and they wrap around my feet and pull me under. I have to be doing something. Always. Talking. Fixing. Fighting. Just something to stop thinking.
There's a part of my brain that I'm not scared of— the part that shows me computer coding but when it strays from that to equations and the probability of my success of being alive after everything or even my emotions or thoughts... I wish there was something I could do to switch it off.
"Are you hungry?" James asked when we entered the house.
I nodded. "Starving,"
We were silent in the kitchen as we pulled out various food items to show each other, asking if it was suitable for dinner. Most of it expired, leaving me to gag when James said it would still be edible if I was that starving.
"I am not eating expired chili, that is disgusting,"
He threw the can into the trash can after my refusal to eat it. In the back of the pantry I spotted noodles, unexpired noodles. Jackpot. I took them out and flashed them at him with a smile. He didn't object as he filled up a pot with water and tossed me marinara sauce, that was also unexpired.
"Wow," I said. "Our lucky day, huh?"
"Don't say that," he warned. "Don't jinx it,"
I smiled and attempted to open the lid of the marinara sauce container, but after many struggling attempts to pry the damn thing off James rolled his eyes and grabbed the jar from my hands.
With his left hand— the metal one— the lid easily popped off. "Pathetic, Stark," he shook his head.
"Not all of us have metal limbs," I remarked. "Though it must come in handy when you can't open a jar of pickles. Tell me James," I leaned forward against the counter on my forearms staring up at the blue eyed assassin. "Does it come in handy to have that metal spork at the end of your arm when the pickle jar is just a little bit too difficult to open?"
