You woke to the sound of running water; soft, steady, almost rhythmic. For a second, you thought it was raining. But when you turned your head, the other side of the bed was empty. The sheets were still warm, though, and that was enough to pull you up and follow the faint clatter coming from the kitchen.

Padding in with sleep-heavy eyes and bare feet, you stopped at the doorway.

Bucky stood by the dishwasher, hair damp, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The early light spilled through the window, catching the edges of his metal arm, except it wasn’t on him. It sat inside the open dishwasher, glinting under the water stream as if it belonged there.

You blinked, unsure if you were dreaming. “Are you… washing your arm in my dishwasher?” you murmured, voice still husky from sleep.

He looked over his shoulder, that boyish, guilty grin tugging at his mouth. “Good morning to you too, doll,” he said, rinsing the last bit of soap from the joints. “Figured it needed a proper clean. Thought this was… efficient.”

You shook your head, fighting a smile. “Efficient,” you echoed softly, walking closer. “You disarmed yourself before breakfast.”

He chuckled under his breath, reattaching the arm with that familiar soft click, the one you’d learned meant it was back in place. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful,” he said quietly. “Didn’t wanna ruin that.”

You rubbed your eyes. “Did you at least put it on care mode?”

“Nope.” He closed the dishwasher with a smug little click. “Pots and pans. Gets the job done faster.”

You stared at him for a beat, torn between disbelief and laughter. “You put your arm on pots and pans?”

He smirked, reattaching it with a soft metallic hiss. “Yeah, well. It’s made of metal, isn’t it?”