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Sam shouldered open the door, kicked it shut, and dropped two giant bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. "Okay, I got like three boxes of those nasty-ass protein bars you like for some reason, so I don't want to hear any bitching if you—"
Bucky walked into the kitchen and Sam completely forgot whatever he was going to say next.
Bucky had cut his hair.
No, he hadn't just cut his hair. He'd gotten it cut and styled and he'd trimmed up his hobo scruff (that Sam liked, okay, but it never stopped him from giving Bucky shit about it) so that he no longer looked like he'd spent half a year on the run from ninety percent of the world's law enforcement agencies. It was the closest Sam had ever seen him looking like he had in the pictures in the museum exhibit.
"Uh," Sam said, because that was about as articulate as he could get right now.
Bucky self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck. "What do you think?"
Sam was still waiting for his brain to come back online. "You cut your hair."
"Oh, so you noticed," Bucky said dryly.
Sam crossed the kitchen so he could get his hands into Bucky's hair. "Man, don't even act like that. When was the last time you had your hair that short? 1943?"
Bucky's cheeks actually turned pink. "Probably."
Sam trailed his fingers through the dark strands, then down to the nape of Bucky's neck, where the hair was shorter and more bristly than he'd ever felt it.
Bucky turned a darker red. "So, uh, do you like it?"
"I'm thinking," Sam said.
"Is my hair straining your ability to think?" Bucky muttered.
"Mm. You know, I think a lot better in bed."
Bucky slowly grinned. "Oh, do you, now?"
Sam grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back down the hallway. The groceries could wait. "Yup. Lots better. Let's go."
***
"So I take it that means you like the haircut?" Bucky asked breathlessly an hour later.
Sam flopped onto the bed beside him and carded his fingers through Bucky's sweaty hair. "Yeah. I think I can learn to live with it."