He leaves the windows open despite the gray sky’s cold air causing the skin next to his left arm to turn unbearably cold. He lays on his back on top of the chilled wooden floors of his apartment. No blankets. No pillows. The air is too warm. The floor is too soft. He had gotten so used to the cold, frozen, deathly feeling that would drag him away into a painfully long sleep that ever since then, even in Wakanda, he had been unable to reach a light doze until at least four hours after letting the chill seep into his bones.
He sits up. The sun is beginning to rise. The air is becoming less frigid. Bucky doesn’t say a word as he stands up in the, still unfurnished, ‘living’ space. The TV is all too large in the room, and parts of him still missing the less high-tech version of his old life. His better life. The life when he picked out his broken apartment. The life where he had a best friend that he killed himself to take care of. The life where the knives weren’t confiscated from his kitchen.
The bathroom tile is cold, not cold enough. A constant back and forth for the — not soldier, not threat, not civilian — no — for the — not old, not young — no — for the weapon man. He doesn’t move his feet, not telling if it’s in hope to warm that spot or to chill his bare skin.
He looks into the endless black of the fabric draped over the mirror. He remembers the old, mold-infested bathroom of his and his best friend’s old house. He remembers how he would put such care into shaving his beard, him and Steve taking turns cutting each other's hair. All too poor to get their hair professionally cut. The depression bled them dry, Steve only being able to work when it was warmer out, Bucky having to cut back on his jobs during the colder months to ensure he could keep a closer eye on the man he had known all his life.
It startled him sometimes. How quickly it all changed. Drafted at eighteen, captured at twenty, dying at twenty-two. Everything after that is blurry. Everything before that is blurry. He pulls on the corner of the curtain where it began to fall off, a bit of metal brightly reflecting the light, bouncing from the ceiling to his arm to the mirror to his eye. His finger scraps against the offensive surface, pinging sharp in his sensitive ears. The black of Wakanda's metal rest softer against the wall. It doesn’t pull on his broken-off nerve ending, nor does it weigh twice as much as his other arm. It isn’t a weapon used to inflict pain, to hurt, to kill. It is still uncomfortable, unwelcome in Bucky’s life, parts of him longing for the peace he managed in Wakanda, all greens and docile sheep, all kind words and loving people, all safety and comfort.
Bucky moves his arm from the surface and pulls open the shower curtain. The off-white tub, much like everything else in his house, is cold when he steps on it. Not yet undressed, still struggling to break the habit of waiting for his handler to undo the buckles that trapped him in the tight, flexible suit. His hands shake as he finally does, waiting for something to go wrong.
He reaches out with his right hand, lightly pushing the cold handle up. The freezing water pours over the, now short, hair, down the over-tense muscles covering his whole body, falling in every duvet of the deep, shallow, long, short—over the constant stream of scars that cascade down his body more constantly than his natural skin. It brings out the numbness of shoving needles into his thighs. The water is still more forgiving than his handlers. Used to the pain of a too-strong stream of freezing cold water lightly breaking his skin down, forcing the serum to work double time in his body.
He runs his hand through his hair, not bothering with shampoo. He was always hesitant around it. His handlers never used it, not even soap. It would cause his arm to rust. The hair feels foreign, like most of his body does, against the tight skin covering his palm. His arm flops his side, allowing the cold water to run against his face. His eyes close, filling with the images of handlers, the little girls from the red room, the cold rivers he and Steve used to bathe in during the war.
He stands under the current. Eyes closed. Body tense. Breath even. Eventually, the lids open. The soap sits on the tub’s ledge. Mocking him. He doesn’t shower often. Maybe once a week. Only finding it necessary when he knows he’ll be going somewhere. The store, a check-up, that stupid therapist. It’s been five days since his last shower. The floor was cold enough to placate his body to stay still. Not even moving for food. His serum is different from Steve’s. While Steve had to eat more, Bucky could survive off one meal for every four days. His body eventually eats the lining of his cells when necessary. The cold almost makes him shiver. His left fingers brush against his thigh, causing the muscle to twitch. He reaches for the soap, needing to wash off the sweat from his shivering and the dust from the floor.
He hesitated before touching it. The metallic fingers curl slightly inward before flexing back out picking it up. The soap was a stark contrast against the black of his hand. His jaw tenses body forcing itself not to shiver. He rushes through rubbing he soap over his body. The silky moisturizing texture too nice. He balances the feeling, rubbing so hard that his pale skin was left a dull red once his moved on. By the time he was done, the expanse of skin was left irritated, soap abandoned, once again, on the side of the tub. The shower knob clinks as his hand moves to shut it off, body left cold, unshivering, in the bright white tub.
His feet squishing the water as he steps onto the frozen tiles, specks of snow falling in from the open window. He looks at the black fabric. Indulges in the thought of what he would see if he moved it. Long, slightly greasy, wet hair, sticking to his neck, the sides of his face, the whole of his forehead. The muscle tone of his right arm no longer matching that of his left arm. The deep outline of his ribs and collar bone. His right knee gives out, as it often does. Much of his body does, dislocated and stretched far more than any one body was made to. He falls on it. His vision going black for a second, starving and weak. His body tenses, unwilling to fall until he is sure it is safe too. The sound of a car moves past his apartment, flowing in through the window. He allows himself to fall, collapsing like a ragdoll on the floor. His body finally relaxing, body now shivering, though not gaining any warmth. The water drying on his dying skin. Leaving him in a puddle of frozen water, mini droplets covering the scar infested leather. He lets the puddle freeze his cheek and his side and his legs. He lets it freeze him the same way he always does.
He lets the fridged air harden his dried-out skin, allows access for the flecks of snow coming through the open window—and even leaves himself defenseless at night without a blanket or shirt to bring him warmth. Because the world was never going to be as cold as he feels. The world could never dull and blank out every sense until the only thought in his head was numb. The world couldn’t make him shiver so violently nor teeth clatter so aggressively as he felt he should. The world would never steal his sleep or deny him food or force his suffering. Because the frozen, biting, cut-throat world was too kind for him, too warm. So, he leaves the windows open for the strong winter's sting. He turns off the heating, tears the blankets and hides the clothes. Allowing himself to freeze into his eternal winter. Waiting desperately for Steve’s cool, sunny, blooming spring to pull him into a new season. Out of the burning hot summer of war. Out of the icy river that Hydra drowned him in. But Steve isn’t coming. Steve had someone better. Someone more stable. Someone soft and sweet and secure. His phone buzzes: Sam. He lets it ring into silence. Steve, his best friend Steve, the one man who knew him better than anybody. If Steve, if his Stevie, couldn’t stand to be around him. To stay with him during his hardest moments in life; how could he possibly trust another warm, perfect spring to want to? His phone rings again. He doesn’t move from his spot on the sopping tiles. It stops. A harsher breeze ran over his wet body. His eyes start to fall shut, heart beats slower than it should be, even for him. The phone doesn’t ring again. The world blanks. He lays on the floor, shivering and turning blue. Waiting. Hoping.
But spring isn’t coming.
He leaves the windows open.