From the moment Bucky wakes in the morning, he can already tell it’s going to be a bad day. His left shoulder is in excruciating pain, if he had feeling in his arm it would hurt as well but since he doesn’t his body seems to spite him and instead the pain travels down his back. He’d lost the mobility in his arm at the age of twenty, only two years after joining the army. It was a gunshot to the forearm that ruined everything for him. Many people, who don’t know him, ask him why he keeps the arm. There’s only one reason, the reason he begged endlessly to doctors to let him keep his paralized arm -- his soulmate. During his time in the army, Bucky didn’t have the time to speak to his soulmate much, the art always appeared on his skin as it does for everyone when they turned eighteen. However with a long sleeve military uniform on and a schedule so packed he barely had time to breath, Bucky hardly got time to admire the artwork. But now things are different. His soulmate is truly the only thing keeping Bucky attached to his arm.
He’s figured out a bit about his soulmate is that the other is an artist, or if they aren’t they should be. Bucky’s often covered head to toe (literally) in the diluted colors and sprawling works of art. They often feel endless and the man can find himself wrapped up in the art all day if he’s not careful. Bucky’s recovery has been a slow one, but this is the one thing that truly helps. Even on his worst days, he can look down and know that there’s someone out there that was meant for him, leaving him little reminders in the form of beauty on his skin.
He rubs his eyes triedly with his good hand as he drags himself out of bed. He’s got work in about an hour and the subway is always a struggle for him. So he forgos the shower, struggles to get his ever growing hair tied up and packs a travel mug of hot coffee before grabbing his gym bag. He works the front desk of the local gym, gives him a bit of purpose and something to focus on. As Bucky anticipates, the subway is a problem. There’s always too many people, and the man’s head can only come to bad conclusions of what might happen to him if something goes wrong. He stomachs the panic and the pain and forces himself to get onto the damn train. Glancing down at his hand, he can barely see the remnants of his soulmates previous work. He hates to taint it with his own handwriting, sloppy. It looks like a child is writing it, but it’s something his therapist has asked him to do to work on both mental and physical therapy. He slowly scrawls out the word “BAD” on the top of his hand. His goal of the day is to make this bad start an okay end. But for now he feels like how the word looks, sloppy and out of place.
