The Watermelon Incident:
She should have cut the watermelon before the Saints game started. Sarah wasn't particularly invested in football, but her boys were–something they inherited from their grandfather. While she prepared a late lunch in the kitchen, they watched in the next room. Fate, or the Saints, or whichever force of nature must've hated her because nothing exciting happened the entire game until her last slice of the thick rind, the slice that she always second guessed because she feared for her safety but did anyway so as not to waste an ounce of food. Sarah started the cut, the boys erupted into screaming and cheering that turned her head, she looked back, and blood had replaced the watermelon juice as the primary red liquid on the cutting board.
"Shit," she muttered, reaching for the nearest towel and not caring that it would probably be ruined forever. Sarah knew just by looking at the volume of blood that she'd probably need stitches. She'd cut herself in the kitchen before, when Andre was still alive, and this seemed like a similar injury.
"Mom, are you okay?" AJ asked.
"Yeah, it's just a cut. I'll be fine."
"That's a lot of blood."
Cass glanced over and noticed Sarah's predicament, his eyes widening in shock. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"The wait time is probably better at urgent care than the ER. I'll just head over there."
"Can you drive?" Cass asked. "We can ask Carlos or Ms. Johnson to take you."
"I'll be fine. It won't be the first time I end up having to wash blood stains out of my car."
Both boys looked utterly stunned. Sarah smirked and pulled the towel tight, gripping it in her fist. "If I'm not back by the time Dad gets home, just tell him I'll be back soon."
"Wait, what was the first time?" Cass called after her.
"That's a story for another time!" she called back as she grabbed her car keys. The wound did in fact drip some blood in her car, but nothing too alarming. She ended up needing eleven stitches between her thumb and index finger, a new record for kitchen injuries, and the nurse bandaging her was so thorough she could hardly move any part of her hand. Fortunately, she was right-handed.
When Sarah got home, the boys were still on the couch, now watching postgame commentary, but Bucky had joined them. And someone (probably Bucky) had put away the watermelon slices, washed the dishes, and cleaned the blood off the counter.
"Hey!" Bucky stood up as soon as he saw her walk in. "The boys told me you ended up on the wrong side of a knife."
She held up her bandaged hand. "Unfortunately."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I cleaned up the kitchen, but is there anything else I can do to help?"
"I think I'm alright, but thank you. Cleaning the kitchen is a huge help." Sarah always laughed when her friends asked her if Andre and now Bucky helped around the house. She never would have married a man who didn't.
"How many stitches?" he asked.
"Eleven."
He whistled. "You must've done a number on your poor hand."
"How many did you have when they took your arm off?" AJ asked.
Bucky smirked. "Forty-six."
"There's no need to brag," Sarah said.
"I'm not bragging! Sorry."
"You're fine, you're fine. I had thirty-four with Cass, twenty-six with AJ. Believe me, I'd much rather have stitches here," she held up her hand, "than down there."
AJ and Cass both covered their ears and exclaimed some variation of "Gross, Mom!" Bucky also looked a little pale. That was the end of that conversation. Sarah resigned herself to an annoying week or so of feeling stitches pull every time she so much as thought about moving her hand. As it turned out, that feeling was the least annoying part about that week.
~0~
Making breakfast for the boys was never complicated when she could use both hands. But with only one in working order, she hit a roadblock seemingly every step of the process. The ziploc seal on the bag of flour, cracking eggs, stirring something in a bowl. By the time the boys woke up and wandered downstairs, she was exasperated.
"How does he make it look so easy?" she muttered.
"Make what look easy?" AJ asked.
"Everything," she sighed. Sarah could not imagine living her entire life like this.
"I see you've reached the defeated stage."
Sarah glanced up just as Bucky entered the kitchen, a devious smirk on his face.
"She's gonna need some of your one-handed wisdom," Cass told him.
"I'm more than happy to offer it."
"Was it this hard for you to figure out how to do things?"
Bucky sat down on a barstool. "Yeah, a lot of it. I had occupational therapists teach me how to do some of the basic stuff, but I mostly remember a lot of trial and error. Mostly error. And sometimes screaming and crying in frustration. All it takes is a lot of practice."
"How long did it take you before the screaming and crying in frustration phase ended?"
"I don't remember exactly. But your other hand will probably be back to working order before you fully escape it."
"Great."
"I can't practice for you, obviously, but I could show you all the techniques that help me do things," he offered.
"Yes please."
Bucky smiled. "You know, I always dreamed of teaching my secrets to a new amputee or a kid born with a limb difference, but I guess teaching my temporarily disabled wife will have to do."
"Help me get these pancakes together and I'll teach you a few secrets of my own," she teased.
His eyebrows shot up. "Alrighty then."
Cass and AJ exchanged disgusted faces. Bucky cracked the eggs for her and grabbed one of his nonstick mats from the drawer to place under the mixing bowl. Sarah wanted to smack herself for not thinking of that in the first place. This kitchen was full of assistive technology for one-handed people and at no point did she consider using it.
"Boys, you listen to this too in case you ever find yourself without the use of a hand for whatever reason. The first and most important rule: if your hand can't do it, your mouth probably can."
Cass and AJ snickered until Sarah shot them a glare that shut them up. Bucky looked so pleased with himself for coming up with that, and Sarah couldn't help but find it endearing as hell. He easily ripped open the flour bag she'd been struggling with by using his teeth. Together, they made breakfast, Bucky offering tips and tricks all the while. It was the best breakfast Sarah had ever tasted.
~0~
She learned a lot that week. Zipping up a jacket by bracing it against her thigh. Why Bucky poured his shampoo into a pump bottle instead of just keeping the original bottle in the shower. Chopping produce. Driving with Bucky's steering wheel knob. Cracking eggs. Opening bags and jars. Using the scrubber on the shower wall to wash her good arm. Tying her shoes, though at this time of year she didn't really wear lace-up shoes. That was mostly because Bucky really wanted to teach her, and the boys wanted to learn too so they could show off to their friends.
Most importantly, however, she learned to give herself grace and accept help. Bucky told her that had been the hardest part for him. "I was so determined to learn how to do everything myself that when I finally faced something that was literally impossible for me I didn't want to accept it. But no amount of grit was going to let me carry a large box up stairs, or wash the back of my hand in a public restroom, or…clap. You'd be surprised how often that one comes up."
"That's a pretty short list," she commended, gently flexing her now-freed fingers. They were still stiff and sore, but the stitches were out and the wounds were fully closed.
"Yeah, I guess it is. But as a teenager I was so mad that I even had a list at all."
"I'm sure that was a real chip on your shoulder."
Bucky playfully shoved her. "I can't have a chip on my shoulder, that would leave me with no free shoulders!"
She laughed. "Thank you for teaching me. It was a huge help."
"It was nothing. I'm surprised you didn't learn most of it just from watching me all this time."
"I don't watch you do everyday chores."
"That's fair."
"Please just take the compliment."
"Okay, fine. You're welcome. You can pay me back by carrying all my large boxes up and down stairs."
"Don't you keep your stuff in bags specifically because you can't carry boxes?"
"Most of it, yeah. But if I buy a desk or whatever from Ikea I can't exactly have them put all the pieces in a bag."
"You could ask."
"I have. They won't do it."
Sarah should have known he'd tried that before. Probably on a dare from his soccer friends. "That's a shame." She leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek. "I'll always carry your boxes for you, until I'm too old and weak to do it."
Someone I know recently cut themself in the kitchen and couldn't use their non-dominant hand for a while. They struggled to do a lot of things, most of which are things I taught myself to do when I was writing this series and needed to learn how Bucky would do them. Then I thought about how someone like Sarah Wilson wouldn't really want to complain about how hard things are with one hand since she lives with someone who has to do everything with one hand all the time. Just some interesting thoughts about everyday things happening to people who have different everyday lives.