Hope you all enjoy some more Bucky.
Disclaimer: I do not own Captain America.
Sleep brings with it unwelcome complications. Nightmares and this time he struggles to wake up. His mouth is dry when he finally claws his way to awareness. He is breathing softly but harshly and the muscles of his neck feel like tension cords, standing so starkly out, that it hurts. He swallows, although all that manages to is make his throat hurt more due to how dry it is. He rolls off the bed smoothly and goes to get a drink of water.
After he has soothed his throat he leans onto the doorjamb and crosses an arm across his chest, props the elbow of the other arm on it and rests his head on the back of the hand. He breathes for a few moments until he calms himself down and then drops his arms and leans his head back on the door jamb.
He takes a few more breaths and then moves into the room, flicks on the lights and grabs the outdated magazine that was left on the little dresser. He flicks through it aimlessly. There is really nothing of import in the pages. When he has gone through the whole thing, he flicks the pages back and forth as harshly as he can and plays a little game with himself where he tries to see how much he can hear over the rustle of the pages.
It's surprisingly little but that's only because there is surprisingly little to hear. Or not so surprising. People and still a bit subdued. Judging from the pattern of human behavior, he's pretty sure they'll be up in arms tomorrow.
He contemplates this. Perhaps he should leave tonight, before the inevitable wave of public response begins. But it is not yet morning and while he is reasonably sure he can escape detection, it's probably better to do it when the curfew is lifted and other people are moving around.
He is still injured and there is no need for him to make this harder that he needs to.
He looks at the clock on the nightstand and frowns at it. It's been half an hour since he awoke but he still hasn't calmed down enough to go back to sleep. He listens again, waiting to see if there is anything in the surroundings that is keeping him awake but there is nothing.
He narrows his eyes at himself. New mission. Sleep. He wrestles his body into submission and falls asleep.
He wakes up when the sky lightens. People are now beginning to move around in the compound. He gets up, takes stock of his surroundings. Satisfied that no one will barge in on him during his shower, he heads to the bathroom.
His shoulder is almost better now. Cuts and bruises have healed overnight although it leaves him terribly hungry. He tries to clean off the grooves in his metal arm once more and is pleased to see that some of the stuff actually washes off this time. Maybe the previous soaking had worked them loose.
He washes his hair again. Scrubs his scalp and comes up with tiny bits of debris that hadn't gotten washed off in the first shower. He sprays the fungi in the bathroom, feeling immensely childish while he does so and only realizes after, that he has probably just watered the thing enabling it to grow more.
When he emerges, he gathers up his things, grabs breakfast in the dining room of the place. He takes pancakes this time and some juice. He really never wants to see milk again even though he actually likes it. But milk reminded him of Pierce and pierce reminded him of...He shut his thoughts off and takes a healthy swig of his orange juice.
It's cold and it soothes his throat going down. He drinks all of it, tosses the cup in a nearby bin and heads out the motel, settling his cap on his head.
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