The late afternoon sun, filtered through the grime of the city, cast a dusty amber light across the floor of Bucky’s sparsely furnished apartment. He was perched awkwardly on the edge of a sagging velvet ottoman, his attention entirely consumed by a small, wooden bird feeder kit.

He wore an old, faded dark blue hoodie—the hood currently pulled back—with the sleeves pushed high above his elbows, revealing the polished, gunmetal grey surface of his left arm. The arm’s clean lines contrasted sharply with the well-worn denim of his jeans and the scuffed combat boots he hadn't bothered to remove. His dark brown hair was pulled back into a loose, low knot, but a few strands had escaped, shadowing the intense blue-green of his eyes as he leaned close to his work.

The project wasn't complex, yet it required a meticulousness that frayed his nerves more than any firefight. A small pile of tiny nails, each no bigger than a grain of rice, rested on a scrap of newspaper. Bucky picked up one of the nails with the thumb and index finger of his organic right hand—the one that still knew how to be gentle—and struggled to hold it steady against a sliver of pre-drilled cedar. His breath hitched as the nail slipped, rolling silently off the edge of the wood and disappearing into the rug fibers.

He didn't make a sound, but the change in his posture was immediate and profound. The easy slope of his shoulders tightened. His gaze, usually far away, snapped into razor-sharp focus on the floor. With a near-silent hiss of exasperation, he flexed the fingers of his powerful left arm, the low, mechanical whine barely audible. This arm, which had ripped through steel and concrete, was rendered useless by the delicate task.

He dropped the tiny hammer and covered his face with his right hand, giving a dry, humorless chuckle into his palm. It was the sound of a man finding the absurdity in his own life—that a century of violence had led him to an afternoon battling a half-inch nail for the benefit of local sparrows. After a slow, cleansing breath, Bucky dropped his hand, retrieved the hammer, and started again, his gaze now radiating focused determination. This time, he wouldn't let the bird feeder win.