AN AT END OF CHAPTER THIS TIME.

Chapter Three:

Sleeping was always dangerous for Bucky. After the fall of the helicarriers, he had never slept more than a few hours at a time. And never for a whole night for fear someone from HYDRA or SHIELD would find him. And when he did sleep, it was fitful. He either had nightmares about what HYDRA had done to him or it was the recurring nightmare about falling from a train which he still didn't fully understand. He knew Steve was associated with that dream and some part of his brain knew it was actually a memory rather than a nightmare. But it was one of those memories that hadn't come back to him yet. Even worse were the other nightmares. When he wasn't having nightmares about what happened to him, he had nightmares about what he had done to people; his acts as the Winter Soldier. And sometimes, though rare, he would revert back to the Winter Soldier, the brainwashing that had been done to him ran that deep in his mind. Those were the scariest nights. Nights when he would wake up not where he had fallen asleep. Nights when he would wake up with a gun or a knife in his hand, speaking Russian, or German, or one of the other languages HYDRA had forced him to learn. So he didn't like to sleep. Sleeping usually left him feeling guilty, or scared, or ashamed depending on what he had dreamt about. Rarely did sleeping leave him feeling rested as it should. So, Bucky avoided sleeping as much as he could. At least it was relatively easy. The super soldier serum that Zola had used on him, though experimental, was nearly, nearly, identical to Steve's. And because of that, he didn't need much sleep to function.

It was a shock to Bucky when he woke up from his nap on the couch to realize he hadn't dreamt at all. And he felt rested and refreshed. He pushed himself up into a sitting position with his one arm. His hair was a tousled mess and he realized he hadn't had a shower since emerging from the cryo chamber. Well, time to explore the bathroom then.

Bucky stretched, stood from the couch, and wiped the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. Glancing at the clock on the microwave as he headed towards the bathroom, he noticed it was early in the evening. His nap had been a good four hours which was usually longer than he slept most nights. Bucky paused in his walk to the bathroom and looked around at the room as if looking for something. It felt vastly unfamiliar to have slept for so long, so peacefully. It was almost as if he was looking for someone hiding amongst his furniture that might have drugged him to make him sleep for so long. Or like he was looking for some kind of sign that he had had a flashback to the Winter Soldier and left a path of destruction to some new horror that he had committed.

When he saw nothing, he heaved a heavy sigh.

Stop looking over your shoulder, he thought. Normal people don't act like this when they wake up from a nap.

But I'm not normal.

But I'll learn to be.

Bucky physically shook himself and finished his short walk to the bathroom. Flipping on the light, he saw that the fixtures were all chrome and the place was spotless. He was pretty sure his apartment in Romania had black mold growing in the bottom of the shower stall. This was a vast improvement. He stripped out of his white sweats and tank and turned on the shower faucet. When the bathroom was all steamy and warm, Bucky stepped into the shower. He simply stood for a few minutes, letting the soothing, warm water run down his skin.

He still had bruises, cuts, and scrapes from his battle with Iron Man. The cryosleep had essentially put him in suspended animation, meaning even his enhanced healing abilities were paused. So, even though it had been almost half a year since that fight, he was still healing. He would probably be all healed by tomorrow night. The warm water felt good on his injuries and it also loosened up his muscles, stiff from the rigid way in which he had slept in the cryo chamber.

After a good five minutes of letting the water run over him, Bucky reached over for the soap. He washed his face and neck, working down to his chest and back. He paused in his cleaning, letting the suds rinse down around his feet and swirl down the drain in a little whirlpool. He blinked against the spray of water on his face and looked at the little white bar of soap in his hand. How was he going to wash his arm? He didn't have another hand to use.

He felt a moment of panic disproportionate to the situation. He knew in the back of his mind that this was unrealistic anxiety fueled by his post-traumatic stress syndrome and that this really was nothing to be panicking over. But that didn't stop the increase in his heart rate. The cold, clammy feeling in his chest despite the warm water cascading down around him. The gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Bucky's fingers clenched around the soap in his hand as he tried to calm down. The slippery bar of soap shot out of his fist, hit the wall of the shower, and fell to the floor.

Damn it. Bucky forced his eyes closed and made himself take several deep, even breaths until he was calm. He opened his eyes again when the feeling of anxiety released and his chest and stomach unclenched. By now the water was cold, but Bucky hardly felt the temperature change. His body's normal thermal regulation had switched gears to keep him comfortably warm; another gift of the experimental serum from Zola.

Bucky reached down and retrieved the soap. He washed the rest of himself, ignoring his one arm for the time being. When he finished, he set the soap aside and grabbed the bottle of shampoo. Again he paused.

Normally, he would squeeze out some shampoo from the bottle with this right hand, into his metal left hand. And then with both hands, wash his hair. But he only had one hand now. So instead, Bucky squeezed the shampoo directly onto his head. He shivered when the cold blob met his skull. He replaced the shampoo bottle and reached up to scrub. But in the time it took him to put the shampoo bottle back on its little shelf in the shower, the shampoo had dripped down his head, onto his face, and into his eyes.

Son of a bitch! He swore to himself as the liquid stung his eyes.

Bucky grit his teeth and growled audibly as he scrubbed his head and rinsed the shampoo lather from his eyes.

At this point, regardless of the super soldier serum, Bucky was getting cold. And he still had to figure out how to wash his one arm. He shivered and grabbed the soap again.

Okay, just think this through. You know four languages. You can disassemble and reassemble any automatic firearm in less than five minutes. You can figure out how to wash your own arm.

He still had a nub of a shoulder. He put the soap against it and then moved his forearm up and down, applying a little bit of pressure as he did so to keep the bar of soap in place. But the soap shot up into the air from between his right arm and left shoulder. It bounced off the ceiling and thudded down in the bottom of the bathtub again.

Bucky let out another growl. He grabbed the soap again and glared at it as if it was the cause of all the misfortune in his life. Thinking of another idea, he placed the soap on his right shoulder this time and held it in place with his cheek. At least this way he was able to clean his upper arm fairly well. He took the soap in his hand and reaching underneath his arm, he was able to wash his arm pit, though he felt rather like a monkey while he did so.

Getting colder by the second, Bucky couldn't figure out a way to wash between his wrist and elbow. He tried holding the soap against the remains of his left shoulder again. And again, the soap fell. He bent down to get it, stood up too quickly, and bumped his head against the shelf holding the shampoo. The bottle of shampoo fell and landed on the top of his foot.

No sooner had Bucky yelled, "Ow!" and grabbed his head in pain, he yelled again and, balancing on one foot, reached down to massage his hurt foot.

Bucky growled again, grabbed the shampoo and put it back, and grabbed the soap one more time. Furiously, he rubbed it against his stomach, creating a cloud of bubbles. Then he put the soap on the shelf beside the shampoo and rubbed his arm against the bubbles on his stomach, deciding it would have to be good enough to clean his arm.

He angrily shut off the water and stepped out of the tub. With an angry thrust, he closed the shower curtain behind him. Only, due to his super strength, the force of the thrust broke the shower curtain rings, causing the shower curtain to fall over his head.

Bucky sighed. I wonder if Steve has these problems. He pulled the curtain off his body and threw it in the tub for now. He'd put it back up later when he calmed down. He swiped the towel off the rack and clumsily wrapped it around his waist.

Leaving the bathroom, Bucky left a trail of wet foot prints across the floor as he crossed over to the dresser beside the bed. He had a moment of embarrassment, realizing he was standing in front of a nearly wall-sized window, in nothing but a towel. But he realized that this was a) one-way glass and b) there was no one out there to see him. This window looked over a leg of the train track that crisscrossed the mine and the trains were self-operating. Also, there were no other windows level with his.

His hair dripped down his shoulders and, shaking his head like a dog, he sprinkled his room with water droplets. Bucky pulled open a dresser drawer, not really expecting to find anything, but he figured he'd at least check. If someone had brought his backpack here, maybe they brought his clothes as well. Though, he didn't have much, and what he had worn to Wakanda after the fight with Stark was a ruined mess.

But, to his amazement, the drawer was full. Bucky pulled one drawer out after another. They were all full of clothes. Pants, shirts. Jackets, socks. Everything he needed. Bucky let his towel drop down around his feet and eagerly pulled out a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt. He put them on despite the water droplets still clinging to his skin. They fit perfectly; well, except for the left sleeve which hung limply over his shoulder, irritating him. Bucky's eyes were wide in shock. Who had done this? And for him, of all people. He didn't deserve this.

His shocked expression was reflected back to him in the mirror above the dresser. And he saw, tucked in the corner of the mirror, a folded piece of paper. He reached out and grabbed it. Holding the paper between his fingers, he flipped it open with his thumb. Neat, cursive writing sprawled across the paper.

Bucky, Steve and I figured you were about his size. We knew you must not have many belongings, so please, accept these from us. I hope they are your style.
-T'Challa

Bucky swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. He reread the note and his eyes lingered on Steve's name. Steve knew him but he barely knew Steve. And not so long ago Bucky had tried to kill him; almost succeeded. Bucky put the note down on the top of his dresser feeling uncomfortable. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of this. Not after all he had done.

No. Stop it. That wasn't you. That was HYDRA.

Bucky swallowed again, this time in an attempt to calm himself. He told himself that a thousand times a day. He told himself that every time he woke up in a cold sweat after a nightmare about one of the murders he had committed. He told himself that over and over. But no matter how often he said it, he didn't believe it.

Bucky picked up the hairbrush on the top of the dresser to distract himself. He brushed his wet hair until it was under some semblance of control. Then he picked up his used towel and put it in the hamper next to the bathroom door.

Then, his stomach growled loudly. That one apple from earlier seemed like ages ago. At least food was a good distraction from feeling guilty. Bucky turned and strode back across the room to the kitchenette.

Bucky riffled through the cupboards until he found something that sounded good; a box of macaroni and cheese. He stood holding the box for a moment, glancing from the stove to the box. He hadn't cooked in… what… seventy something years. He was always given food at HYDRA. Military ration, tasteless stuff.

Bucky took a breath. He would have to rely on pre-war Bucky to get him through using the stove. He read the box, taking in the directions. Bucky filled a pot with water from the sink and turned to the stove. It looked simple enough. He placed the pot on a burner and managed to turn it on without igniting anything on fire. He smiled, pleased with himself. Bucky poured in the noodles. Then, he added a pinch of salt. He stopped abruptly and watched the noodles in the bubbling, boiling water. The directions on the box didn't call for a pinch of salt. A memory tugged at the back of his mind.

He was maybe six or seven years old. He had stayed home from school, sick with strep throat. His throat hurt too much to eat anything. He watched as his mom made macaroni on the stove top; his favorite. He always ate it when he was sick. The warm cheesy noodles soothed his throat. His mom smiled as she stirred in a pinch of salt. So the noodles don't stick to the bottom of the pan. His mom had said that. His mom. Winnifred. But everyone called her Winnie.

Bucky nearly vaulted over the kitchen counter and ran to the bookshelf where his backpack still lay. His macaroni was completely forgotten. He hastily opened his notebook and snatched up his pen. In a messy scrawl, he hurriedly wrote down his memory before he forgot it. Or before it was taken away from him.

When he was finished he re-read it over and over. His mom. Winnie. He finally remembered his mom. He felt a stinging in his eyes and for a moment he thought he still had shampoo in his eyes. Bucky reached up and wiped his eyes, surprised when his hand came back damp. He gave a huff and blinked furiously. He was not crying. He felt embarrassed. But he remembered his mom. He desperately wanted to remember her ever since he had told Steve his memory about Sarah Rogers. He remembered his mom. He remembered Winnie. It felt bittersweet. He finally remembered and it was as if he had done something to make her proud. But if she knew what he had done….

Bucky felt the stinging in his eyes again. He blinked until it went away. He would not think of his mother and of the Winter Soldier together. He would not spoil his memories of his her with thoughts about the Winter Soldier.

He gently shut his notebook. He picked it up and managed to tuck it under his one arm. Holding it as if it was his life, he headed back to the stove and finished his dinner. Bucky poured some of the finished macaroni and cheese into a bowl and headed over to the couch. He sat down, crossed his legs, and set the bowl on the coffee table for a moment. Beside it, he placed the notebook. He opened it up to the page with his most recent memory and picked up his bowl. Balancing the bowl in his lap, Bucky enjoyed his dinner while he read his memory again and again and again.

AN: Thank you for the reviews! Especially OnYourLeft107; your reviews always make me smile :) Thanks for the follows as well! So, I decided to put my AN at the end cuz I didn't want to spoil anything. So the shower scene, as much as I liked writing Bucky showering (hehehe ;) ) I hope it didn't sound too stupid... I was literally standing here trying to figure out how I'd wash my arm if I only had the one. So apparently, from my research, Bucky's mom's name really is Winnifred but I made up that they called her Winnie. And technically boxed mac and cheese was invented in 1937 so Bucky would have had to have been like 20 when he first had it but I imagine something similar would have been around when Bucky was a kid so I hope it works. And now I want some mac and cheese. I hope you like and please review! :)