I don't own Captain America.

(Bucky Point of View)

Dear Diary,

My therapist told me it would be therapeutic to take up a hobby. Something about stress relief.

I'm not buying it.

Now that Steve has a full time job to feed both of us, I'm home alone until he comes. I mean, he still takes me to my therapy appointments, but it's a lot for him to do a full time job and do all the chores in the house. So cooking seemed like the perfect hobby to take up, to me.

Initially, I chose baking, much to Steve's confusion since he knows I don't like to cook, because his girlfriend was coming over. She's always trying to set me up with a dame. I'm not ready for that yet. Don't get me wrong, Natasha's nice, but I miss Steve's old girfriend. Sharon didn't push me like that. It's a pity Sharon broke up with Steve.

I knew, if I tried out baking and it worked, that Nat would have to find another excuse to come over. She wouldn't be able to say that Steve needed help in the baking and cooking department.

It's supposed to be easy. How hard can it be to stir flour and sugar together?

My first mistake, the metal arm is not designed to cook. I found out the hard way. After using my left hand, I accidentally xracked the egg too hard and the shell was pulverised into powder which quickly dropped into the bowl. Oops. Too much pressure. But I assumed that no would notice that pulverised egg shell was included in the mix.

The next mistake: do not use a small bowl. I thought, since all the ingredients fit to the brim, the bowl was fine. It was literally filled to the brim. Then I turned the mixer on.

I could not breathe through the puff of powder for four minutes straight. In fact, I had a panic attack. There's no way Steve's going to notice flour caked towels, right?

Next mistake, I sopped a clean towel in water to clean up my mess. I was not anticipating the stuff to cake up and become a thick slime that hardened into cement. Cement I could not get off the counter and flours without using the strength of my metal arm, which would crack and destroy everything.

Yeah, thanks for the suggestion therapist.

Oh, and by the way, therapist? Your suggestion to write things down when I'm upset and angry is not working. It's just making me more mad. And now I've got flour all over my journal and pen.

Thanks, therapist.

Oh, shoot! Steve's home! I can hear the key turning!

What do I do?

If we had a dog, I would blame the mess on him. I'm regretting not getting a PTSD service dog.

See you soon,

Bucky

I hope you like the new story!

Since this story is in the form of letters in a diary, the chapters will be shorter than I'm used to.

Please review!