While he'd been living in Wakanda, Bucky had been given a lot of the help he needed in coming back from the horrors that haunted him during his time as the Winter Soldier. Not only had he been gifted with the services of Princess Shuri and her team working on healing the trauma his brain had endured over the course of so long, but he also had been generously given the help of a team of therapists who'd been trying to help him work through the emotional traumas that came along with years and years of violence and depravity, not to mention the PTSD he suffered. One of the most basic things that he'd been taught was that he needed to take things one step at a time, and to break those steps down into the smallest increments he needed in order to do so. One day at a time, one hour, one minute, one breath. Even to do the simplest things, it might take him longer because he needed to take those smaller steps, moments, breaths, but as long as he kept trying -- even if he had to stop briefly -- he'd get there.
The shower was one of those things that was taking him multiple steps. One might've thought he'd be glad to step in under the hot water, to cleanse himself and maybe feel physically more refreshed. But as he stood there looking at the running water, he stopped short from stepping in. It felt like standing under the running water would wash Steve away from him. His best friend's fingerprints were still on his skin, their kiss still on his lips. It felt silly, almost juvenile to think that the shower would take that all away but he couldn't help it. He had to break it down into smaller steps, smaller breaths.
Though he didn't want to wash the past away, he needed to. He needed to keep moving, keep trying, just as his therapists said. Hard as it was, he managed to take that first step, until he finally was under the spray and the water began to run through his hair and down his body. He'd made it that far, but he didn't feel better yet. He had no idea how much time had passed before Natasha appeared in the bathroom. He didn't look up, didn't move until she guided him into sitting on the edge of the tub so she could tend to his hair. There was a big difference between coddling and helping. Natasha was doing the latter, and that was what he needed. Her soft utterances in Russian, guiding him through what she was doing was what he needed. There was no trace of pity. It was just matter of fact -- this is what we're doing, this is how we're going to keep moving -- no coddling at all.
When they finished, he nodded once and took the towel. Bucky dried himself off and soon was dressed again in fresher clothing. His hair was wet but that was fine. It'd dry on its own. He walked with her back to the kitchen to join Clint. Physically, he guessed, he did feel better. Being around the two of them helped, even if it didn't necessarily show right now. You aren't alone -- not really. They're here, they want to be here with you. It's not pity; it's concern. You'd do the same for either of them. Those were thoughts running through his head as he sat at the table, taking the chair next to Clint.
"Dick cake," he said, kind of bluntly, and looked between them.