January, 2015. 

Copenhagen, Denmark. 

Bucky Barnes was a diva sometimes.

It all started one morning when I caught him shaking out his left arm after taking a shower. Water kept dripping off his fingertips long after he had dried off.

Then he kept his left hand tucked into his pocket all the time. The metal arm and all its intricacies made him practically ambidextrous, but suddenly he was solely right-handed. 

And then, he started trying to avoid conversations about his arm. 

"What's going on with your hand?" I asked bluntly. He turned around with a look of shock on his face.

"What do you mean?" he retorted. 

"Your hand. You haven't been using your left hand. Take it out of your pocket," I ordered. I had been enjoying a lazy day of no bakery work, lounging on the bed, but I stood and crossed the room to him. He took a step back as I approached. "Let me see."

"There's nothing wrong with it," he assured me. I shook my head and reached for his hand. I had no qualms invading his personal space.

"Bullshit."

He didn't resist when I pulled his arm away from his side. His hand was quivering. Every finger was moving in its own rhythm, stuttering almost, even though he was trying to hold it still. Even the hydraulic musculature of his forearm was shaking.

"When did this start?" I asked. My mind went to the files and schematics I had seen only once in passing. The same sort of symptoms had been mentioned in that macabre literature.

"A week ago. I figure water had gotten inside so I tired washing my hair in the sink instead of taking a shower, but it's been getting worse," he said. "I can't go to work like this. I called in this morning, but I doubt the foreman is going to let me take more than a couple days to get this sorted out."

"Let me open it up and get a look at it. We'll go from there," I decided.

~

"Hello, can I help you?" the sales boy asked. He had to be sixteen or seventeen years old, with a crop of blonde hair and few freckles across his nose.

"No, it's alright," I answered. "I know what I'm looking for."

He looked disappointed, but he walked away. The store was small. Maybe fifteen feet wide and twice as deep, but it was full to bursting with every kind of hardware supply imaginable. Standing in front of a wall of soldering irons was like looking into an abyss. Adding in the fact that my Danish reading comprehension related to electrical supplies was practically nonexistent made the choice much, much harder.

But I was an asshole who didn't want to ask for help. So I took a long hard look at every box on the wall until I found a soldering iron that looked similar to the one I had always practiced with at the SHIELD Academy. I tucked it under my arm and turned to face the opposite side of the aisle. I grabbed wiring, various electronic accoutrements, and a little tub of flux. Satisfied with my shopping choices, I started walking toward the cash register.

I passed the endcap of the paint aisle, where a selection of red and white paints in miniature pots were stacked. I grabbed one of each and turned down the aisle. I found a matching pot of 'azure blue' and a package of paintbrushes and added them to my ever-growing collection of stuff. By the time I made it to the till, everything was falling out of my hands.

"I guess you found everything," he laughed.

"And then some."

~

Bucky Barnes was the epitome of 'curiosity killed the cat.'

Or in his case, 'curiosity nearly burned the scruff off the master assassin.'

"Stop looking over your shoulder," I scolded. The soldering iron was steaming as it came in contact with the water droplets inside Bucky's arm. Various strips of sealant along the dermal plates had been worn down, meaning water leaked in and ruined the inner mechanisms. After another trip to the hardware store for sealant strips, I had started the process of resealing Bucky's arm and repairing the damaged pieces inside.

I also had to have a talk with Bucky's boss about the horrible stomach bug he had picked up somewhere that was keeping him from coming to work.

"I can't feel anything from the shoulder down," he complained, trying to look at me again. I nudged his cheek with the butt end of the soldering iron.

"I know, that's because the water damage messed up the proximal pseudo-nervous connections. I had to disconnect the wonky stuff so I can repair it," I told him.

"You're just making up words now. Proximal pseudo-nervous connectors?" he imitated.

"Do you want the literal translation from the German files I saw?" I joked. I put the last weld in and put the soldering iron back in its holder. "It was something along the lines of 'mechanical pieces that act like natural nervous tissue but aren't really natural nervous tissue.'"

"Makes sense. German is like that," Bucky laughed softly. "Hey, I can feel stuff again."

"Good. I fixed that part. I'll get to the rest tomorrow," I decided. "I can only look at this stuff for so long before I go cross-eyed."

I unplugged the soldering iron and grabbed the paints I had bought. Bucky had been less than impressed when I first threatened him with the patriotic collection of paint. But he had relented after I painted his red, Soviet star white. As I had repaired and resealed, I had repainted as well. Now his arm sported a roughly painted version of Captain America's shield.

~

"This stuff still isn't coming off, Gail."

I looked up from my computer and realized Bucky was standing in the threshold of the bathroom door in nothing but a pair of his work pants. Two weeks after finishing the repairs and paintjob, and he was still covered in a half sleeve of my red, white, and blue artistry.

"I didn't realize it was exterior, all-weather paint," I repeated, smiling at him as he scratched at his metal deltoid with a fingernail.

"How long do you think it'll take for it to wear off?" he wondered. He finally put on a shirt, pushing the sleeves of the red Henley up his forearms once it was on.

I didn't know the answer when he asked, but for the next three weeks Bucky left paint flecks wherever he went.