In the early days, in the hospital, when Bucky couldn't even eat solid foods and his arm was a mess of infected tissue and strained muscle and he didn't speak to anyone but Steve, no one really noticed.
He was catheterized by the nurses when he first arrived and his system was a mess. No one thought to ask, really.
So, on discharge day, Bucky is wearing light hospital scrubs and sitting in a wheelchair, when suddenly he feels a dampness spreading across his lap and soaking into his bottom. He looks down and there's a large wet patch and the smell of urine and he stares.
Steve only freezes for a second, if that, then he's apologizing to Bucky that he should've asked if he needed to use the bathroom and let's get you cleaned up and a new wheelchair and I'm so sorry I didn't realize you needed to go.
Bucky doesn't mention that he hadn't realized either.
The nurses get him new scrubs and new underwear and Steve used a soft cloth to clean him when Bucky asks for help.
It becomes obvious though when, just two hours later, when they're in Steve's living room, and Bucky again feels the wet, warm feeling between his legs. This time he's standing, so he stares down as the wetness grows down his pants and then drips all the way to the floor. He stands there, like that, until Steve finds him.
After that, there had been more doctors and more tests and then diapers. And Steve's face had been pinched but his hands had been so gentle every time he cleaned Bucky up.
Bucky had vague memories of rough hands shoving cold tubes up his dick, of freezing water spraying his groin, rough cloths scraping at his most sensitive spots as faceless techs groaned and complained and cursed at him for being dirty, messy, smelly. Of sitting in cold, sticky filth until his skin burned and someone changed him with harsh, cold hands.
Steve was gentle, soft, warm. He never complained or glared. Bucky found that the times he felt most free from Hydra were the times when Steve was gently wiping him clean, smiling down at him from above.
The doctors said there wasn't any lasting damage. But the muscles hadn't been used in years and the brain had become adjusted to ignoring the signals. "It'll just be a matter of retraining," they said encouragingly. "Don't force it though. Wear protection until you're ready."
Bucky had stood in the bathroom that night and stared at the toilet. It looked cold and hard, clinical in the bright lights of the bathroom. He shuddered, rubbed his hands against the soft, warm plastic padding of the diaper Steve had put on him earlier.
"Don't force it," he whispered. A second later, he felt the warm rush of urine as his bladder released and he soaked his diaper. He stood in the bathroom a bit longer, feeling the pee cool around him, knowing Steve will change him whenever he asks.
"I didn't make it," he had told Steve when he had come out. There had been no shame.
Steve had looked up and smiled. "That's okay, Buck. The doctors said it could be awhile." He stood up, held out his hand.
Bucky nodded and had let himself be led away for a change.
Mini-Fill
He was catheterized by the nurses when he first arrived and his system was a mess. No one thought to ask, really.
So, on discharge day, Bucky is wearing light hospital scrubs and sitting in a wheelchair, when suddenly he feels a dampness spreading across his lap and soaking into his bottom. He looks down and there's a large wet patch and the smell of urine and he stares.
Steve only freezes for a second, if that, then he's apologizing to Bucky that he should've asked if he needed to use the bathroom and let's get you cleaned up and a new wheelchair and I'm so sorry I didn't realize you needed to go.
Bucky doesn't mention that he hadn't realized either.
The nurses get him new scrubs and new underwear and Steve used a soft cloth to clean him when Bucky asks for help.
It becomes obvious though when, just two hours later, when they're in Steve's living room, and Bucky again feels the wet, warm feeling between his legs. This time he's standing, so he stares down as the wetness grows down his pants and then drips all the way to the floor. He stands there, like that, until Steve finds him.
After that, there had been more doctors and more tests and then diapers. And Steve's face had been pinched but his hands had been so gentle every time he cleaned Bucky up.
Bucky had vague memories of rough hands shoving cold tubes up his dick, of freezing water spraying his groin, rough cloths scraping at his most sensitive spots as faceless techs groaned and complained and cursed at him for being dirty, messy, smelly. Of sitting in cold, sticky filth until his skin burned and someone changed him with harsh, cold hands.
Steve was gentle, soft, warm. He never complained or glared. Bucky found that the times he felt most free from Hydra were the times when Steve was gently wiping him clean, smiling down at him from above.
The doctors said there wasn't any lasting damage. But the muscles hadn't been used in years and the brain had become adjusted to ignoring the signals. "It'll just be a matter of retraining," they said encouragingly. "Don't force it though. Wear protection until you're ready."
Bucky had stood in the bathroom that night and stared at the toilet. It looked cold and hard, clinical in the bright lights of the bathroom. He shuddered, rubbed his hands against the soft, warm plastic padding of the diaper Steve had put on him earlier.
"Don't force it," he whispered. A second later, he felt the warm rush of urine as his bladder released and he soaked his diaper. He stood in the bathroom a bit longer, feeling the pee cool around him, knowing Steve will change him whenever he asks.
"I didn't make it," he had told Steve when he had come out. There had been no shame.
Steve had looked up and smiled. "That's okay, Buck. The doctors said it could be awhile." He stood up, held out his hand.
Bucky nodded and had let himself be led away for a change.