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Even with his enhanced healing, Shuri had said, it’ll still take some time for his body to recover from the surgery. Bucky doesn’t mind though. He was fine waiting a few extra days to see the results, he’s been waiting for this for over seventy years.
The day the drains came out of his chest was a grey one, a stark contrast to how the rest of the days that week had been bright and sunny.
Bucky didn’t care though, it was less work for him to do. He didn’t have to worry about watering any of the crops so they didn’t shrivel up in the sun, or having to herd any of the goats into the river for a quick cool down; he could just rest.
He spends the day lying on the tiny grass mattress in his hut. He drifts off a handful of times, only waking at the sound of his goats’ bleating or the occasional fisherman calling from the river.
The children come by, clay pots and woven baskets high on their heads to shield themselves from the sun that still dares to glare through the clouds. They don’t bother him (although Bucky wouldn’t say bother, he likes their company. Shuri would though), they sit outside of his hut, quietly talking amongst each other in Xhosa and in English, which Bucky can tell they’re still learning.
He remembers the first time he was brought to this hut and introduced to the kids. They were polite and always tried to call him by his title, though he eventually told them to just call him Bucky.
Most did, but some opted to call him ibhokhwe indoda, or the goat man. He couldn’t tell whether they referred to him as such because he worked with the goats, or, as Sam claimed, because he looked like a goat. He laughed softly to himself at the memory.
He’s slow to sit himself up, not moving too quickly as his stitches are still healing. Walking a few feet around the inside of his hut makes him remember exactly why he had been lying down the entire day. His chest aches, but not the way it used to.
It’s a good ache.
An ache he can tolerate.
An ache that shows he’s recovering.
An ache that means he’s becoming who he’s always seen himself as; an ache he’s been waiting for his whole life.
Bucky carefully removes the kanga he slept in, tossing it in the corner with all the other garments Shuri and T’Challa had provided him with. Looking at the pile, he makes a mental note to wash them once he’s fully healed.
He looks to his diary that resides next to his mattress. Natasha had found a way to steal it back from Thaddeus Ross. She dropped it off on his bed a few visits ago, Bucky didn’t even realize what it was until he opened it. He wants to ask her how she managed to get it, where it was, but he knows she wouldn’t tell him.
Now that he has most of his memory back, he’s been reading through it, crossing out things he remembered wrong, adding more detail to vague memories, as if his past self could read the additions and remember along with him.
He stares at almost every single item tucked away in his hut before even considering taking a look at himself. He doesn’t have a mirror in here and for once, he’s thankful for that. He doesn’t know why he’s stalling or why he’s so scared— he knows what it looks like, he got to see it right after the surgery. It looked okay, he recalls, though he was doped up on super-soldier level anesthesia and pain medication, that might have skewed how he saw it.
Steve said that he had cried. Bucky likes to think that he didn’t but he knows that he probably did.
He contemplates looking around once more, anything but having to face his fears. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, once, twice, already able to feel the difference, the lack of weight on his chest.
Finally, he looks at his chest.
Everything is still a little puffy and swollen, but he can already see how much better, how much more fitting it looks. Bucky smiles gently. He winces as he throws on one of his more loose fitting kangas, a red one, draping a blue one around his limbless shoulder and neck.
The sun is shining now, he can see it peaking through the curtains that act as a door to his hut. The children are still outside, he can hear that they’re still playing, he thinks Shuri might be out there with them, but he knows she’s probably not.
He ducks coming out of the hut, squinting at the sunlight he had yet to see today. Off to his left, the children are running around, playing, having fun with each other. One of the older kids waves to him and a few others follow suit, shouting greetings in Xhosa. Bucky waves back, nodding his head towards them.
He watches as they go back to playing, before turning to face the river in front of him. He walks ahead, continuing just until he’s wading shin-deep in the water. The kids run out to join him in a shallower section of the river, some of them call out “Bucky!” and it’s accented heavily from their years of speaking Xhosa.
And for the first time in 73 years, he was just that; he was just Bucky.
He chuckles and smiles, watching them toss water onto one another and yell in delight. He faces the open river once more, feeling the sediment and stones under his bare feet. The end of his kanga is getting wet, but he doesn’t mind. He’s more focused on the pressure he no longer feels with every breath he takes. Though it still aches, Bucky can’t help but breathe even deeper than he ever has before.
As his chest rises and falls, he thinks it may be his new favorite feeling.
He’s content.
He’s starting to remember who he was, all the things he had read about himself in museums. He’s starting to remember who he wants to be, who he always saw himself becoming when he was younger. He thinks his younger self wouldn’t have guessed that any of this would have ever happened.
He thinks he’ll get a cat once he’s fully recovered. He remembers how much he wanted to take in the stray cat that lived in the alleyway by his and Steve’s apartment back in the forties. He has a feeling he named her, but he can’t seem to recall what it was. Bucky smiles thinking back on the memory. He’ll ask Sam and Steve what they think about it when they next visit.