🦾🤍

He sorts them with practiced efficiency, fingers moving automatically—metal brushing cardboard, the quiet click of pieces touching. There’s comfort in the predictability of it. In knowing that this piece will only fit one place, that if he keeps going long enough, the picture will make sense.

Unlike memories.

Unlike him.

Halfway through assembling the frame, his phone buzzes on the counter. The vibration makes his shoulders tense before he can stop himself.

Then he exhales when he sees the name.

Steve.

You eating? Sam says you forgot lunch again.

Bucky snorts under his breath, something almost like a smile tugging at his mouth. He types back with his flesh hand, slower than he used to be.

I’m fine. Got coffee.

A beat passes. Another piece clicks into place.

That’s not food, Steve replies. I’ll bring something by tomorrow.

Bucky doesn’t argue. He never does anymore.

He sets the phone aside and goes back to the puzzle, turning a piece over and over in his fingers. It’s blue and gray, a sliver of sky. He tries it in three different places before it finally fits with a soft, satisfying snap.

That sound—click—does something to him.

It grounds him.

Sometimes, when the nightmares are bad, when he wakes up tangled in sheets with his heart racing and phantom pain screaming up his left arm, he comes out here and works on a puzzle instead of trying to force himself back to sleep. He tells himself: Just finish the edge. Or just match the colors. Small goals. Achievable ones.

Proof that his hands can still make something instead of destroying it.

The clock on the wall ticks quietly. Midnight passes without him noticing.

He pauses when his reflection catches in the dark window—scruffy jaw, tired eyes, a man stitched together from old scars and newer regrets. For a moment, the weight of everything presses down on his chest. All the things he can’t fix. All the pieces that don’t fit no matter how hard he tries.

Bucky closes his eyes and takes a calming breath.

Then he reaches for another piece.

This one has part of a tree on it—branches stretching upward, stubborn and alive. He fits it into place, then another beside it, and another. Slowly, the image grows clearer. A forest at dawn. Light breaking through leaves. The promise of something still standing after the long dark.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the section is finished.

When he finally exhales, it feels like letting go of something he’s been carrying all day.

By the time he stops, the puzzle isn’t done—but it’s close. Just a handful of pieces left in the box. Enough for tomorrow. He likes knowing there’s more waiting.

Bucky carefully straightens the pieces, aligning the edges, making sure nothing’s out of place. He covers the puzzle with a clean cloth before turning off the kitchen light.

As he heads for the bedroom, the rain outside softens, easing into a quiet drizzle.

For the first time that night, his chest doesn’t feel so tight.

The world is still broken. He knows that.