So a little bit more of Bucky.
Disclaimer: I do not own Captain America.
The waffle tasted terrible cold. It was dry too. He hadn't snatched up anything to put on it. He had brief moment of elation when he realized that he remembered that waffles usually went with something. Then he felt kind of stupid. The he decided the he wasn't going to feel stupid about it. At least his stomach could handle it. He drank some water and began packing up everything useful.
He should get a pack next, he thinks and mentally adds it to the list. His shoulder is much, much better, thankfully, but he still downs some painkillers, although not enough to get him groggy. Once he is all set he gets up and moves cautiously away from the warehouse. He hears nothing to indicate that anyone is watching the warehouse, but it is better to be safe than sorry. He's good, but he has never made the mistake of thinking that he's the best.
He leaves the warehouse without incident though. He trugs back to the city where it's loaded with cops. There are hardly people outside, perhaps there's been a ban of some sort, perhaps people were just too scared to leave their homes right now.
It was just like after the alien attack. He'd been thoroughly pissed that he'd slept through a proper alien attack. It was even more frustrating that he hadn't been given any information about it. The only way he'd known was because the members of the hydra strike team had been talking about it. He'd finally stolen a phone and after juggling with it for a few minutes because he still wasn't comfortable with the technology, he'd managed to get details. It had passed the time on a boring stakeout.
Not that he'd remembered much about what he'd read. He'd been wiped soon after. But he'd remembered about the attack. Now was similar. It made walking about harder, especially because ex-SHIELD agents were still scattered across the city, looking for ex-hydra agents, and there were cameras everywhere and everybody was on hair trigger still.
But he managed to get on a bus, out of the city for awhile into the suburbs. He found one those junk motels and paid for a room and then inspected the bed for bugs. The germs his body could deal with, the bugs? Not so much. But the bed was surprisingly bug-free so he dropped down into it and wondered if it would be really bad if he slept right about now.
He considers the course of action critically. His body is still healing and does need the rest. Of course, he should probably bathe, because he is beginning to smell ripe and there is still blood smeared on him under his clothes. Better hygiene will improve both his physical and mental state. But he is tired in a bone deep weariness way, but he hasn't earned the rest, hasn't done enough yet.
H struggles with the problem before deciding that a small power nap would be okay. That way he'd also get enough energy to shower. He had a feeling a lot of scrubbing would be needed.
He closes his eyes and falls asleep almost immediately.
Fifteen minutes later his eyes open and he drags himself out of bed. He goes into the shower and stops himself from wrinkling his nose before remembering and then wrinkles his nose at it just because he can. Oh well, fungi hasn't been the worst thing he's shared space with before. He strips and steps into the shower. He scrubs hard in the cold water to remove any trace of blood or dirt. Then he just stands there and lets the water fall heavily on his previously dislocated shoulder, letting it soothe it. The water is close to ice cold now but that seems to help. After awhile he shifts to let the water pour down his metal arm. The water pushes away dirt and other random things caked in the grooves. He tries to help the process by using his fingernails to clear out some of the grooves but his nails are always cut short and don't do much good.
The best thing about his bathe though was washing his hair. He scrubs at his scalp and runs his fingers through his long locks, easing out bits that have matted together. Eventually he gets most of the matted bits unstuck and then wraps a towel around his waist and goes to scrub his clothes in the bathroom. After he wrings them out, and snaps them a few times. With luck they should be dry in about half an hour.
He sits on the bed and just waits, staring at nothing until his inner alarm chimes and he goes to check his clothes. After feeling them, he decides to tack on another ten minutes and resumes his thoughtless waiting on the bed.
Finally his clothes dry and he puts them back on. He looks down at them and thinks he should probably get more than one set of clothes.
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