Chapter Text
It was snowing the first time that I met him.
It wasn't that I didn't know who he was. His face had been plastered on too many papers that littered the streets over the last decade; I wasn't a fool.
Things were different now, though. Five years had crawled by as we tried to come to terms with the disappearance of our friends, our families. Hoping for a return seemed childish, but what else was there to do in a world ripped in half?
I lost my mom in the Blip. I'd been on my way upstate when it happened. Cars veering off the road without any sense of control, radio stations falling offline. I still can't find the words to describe the terror; I guess finding the words for the relief when they all returned isn't any easier.
It's funny - in a sick, remorseful sort of way - how accustomed to the emptiness I became. My apartment building suffered as did most in the heart of the city, and the quiet that crept into the halls was eerie in and of itself. I found myself turning the volume on my television as loud as it would go some nights just to see if anyone would bang on the door asking me to turn it down.
The sound of the building bursting back to life with residents, old and new, somehow made even the color of the walls brighter. People moved in so quickly, it was a wonder the world ever held us all.
As I said, it was snowing the first time I met him.
I was running late for work and was less than thrilled that I was going to have to trek the few blocks to the salon in the height of New York's latest snowfall. I'd tied my apron on to save time and was trying to bundle up my coat and lock the door simultaneously when I heard the door beside me open. People had moved in so fast, it wasn't necessarily unheard of that it had taken a change of seasons for me to catch a glimpse of my new neighbor. I hadn't been outwardly obnoxious with my television volume lately, so there often was no reason to interact if odds weren't at fault. I glanced to my left to catch a glimpse of the person I'd been sharing a wall with only to be met with a stoic silhouette. A curtain of chestnut brown hair shrouded his face, and his lean shoulders were hunched forward as he locked his door with quick, practiced grace.
My keys still dangling in the door, I cleared my throat to make way for an introduction.
One never came.
My eyes had already been on him, so it wasn't a surprise that his gaze locked on to mine the moment he turned my way. He was striking . I'm not sure if it was the intensity of his stare that seized the words on the tip of my tongue or the realization of where I'd seen those eyes before, but it was over just as quickly as it had begun.
He dipped his head in a quiet dismissal, hastily shoved glove-covered hands in his pockets, and strode down the hallway.
My keys were still in the door, and my tongue was caught between my teeth.
While most of the headlines had been busy with the crises that the return left in its wake, the world couldn't completely turn its back on the heroes who were accountable for it.
Captain America Reimagined: Where is he Now?
Tony Stark's Legacy: An Interview with James Rhodes
Global Repatriation Council on Life After The 'Blip'
But those eyes…
Hydra's Winter Soldier Pardoned in D.C.
I'd grown up with stories of Captain America, the Howling Commandos. Apart from existing in a city that attracted constant trouble, that's all they'd ever been to me: stories.
And now, those stories were living in the apartment right next to mine.
I'd be lying if I said I hadn't spent that night after my shift with a bottle of wine and an extensive Google search.
(I also kept an ear out for any sign of life coming from his side of the wall. The longer I read, the more thankful I became when I was met with silence.)
Well-versed in biased reporting about Sergeant James Barnes, I willed the man to leave his house every time I slipped my shoes on. It took a few weeks before it worked.
He turns to his door with his head bowed, but his shoulder-length hair is pushed behind his ear and I catch sight of the sharp and scruff-covered jawline I'd familiarized myself with from my nights of childish research.
Shame and pity taints the taste in my mouth as I naively remember that those stories I'd amplified belonged to the human standing next to me.
But damn it, I spend too long in my own mind and he's walking away without so much as a nod.
With a coffee mug balanced in the crook of my elbow and my bag slung haphazardly over my shoulder, I fall into a quick step to trail after him toward the stairs.
"Hey, I've been meaning to introduce myself — " the words come out rushed and a bit too high pitched to be genuine, but it catches him off guard. He falters slightly to look over his shoulder at me, and I'm sure the way his brows pinch together is in anything but intrigue. It probably should have, but it doesn't stop me. "I haven't really seen you around since you, uh, since you moved in." I stop beside him and glance up into his face. Maybe I made it up, but I could have sworn that I saw some kind of amusement dancing in his eyes. No matter the look, it leaves my name a little breathy when it falls from my lips.
The seconds of silence that pass are laced with pure regret, but his lips finally part and he repeats my name. It's gravelly, low. His voice completed the picture I'd painted, if anything. The corners of my lips tilt up in return, and he's nodding in the direction we'd been walking originally. "Are you heading out?"
"Oh, right. Yeah, yes. I'm on my way to work," I respond, that breathless nature still evident though somewhat masked by the chuckle that follows. I didn't leave my house just to run into him; I do have very real places to be. Places that will fire me if I show up late again, and clients that certainly won't tip.
"Hm," he hums and begins walking once again.
"Where are you headed?"
Another few torturous seconds. "Out."
I may be too curious for my own good, but I'm not a complete idiot. I can take a hint. Not the talking type. Got it.
So, we continue down the hall and through the stairwell until we reach the doors that lead out to the street. He holds the door for me, I mutter a quiet thanks, and we're crossing in different directions.
"You didn't tell me what your name was," I blurt before he's completely out of acceptable range. Nevermind that I already know. Nevermind that he probably knows that I already know. I'm trying my hand at being cordial.
"Uh — call me James." There's hesitation there, and I can't blame him. His neighbor basically ambushed him in the hallway.
"Well, James, I hope you have a good day." I don't wait to listen for a response, but the smile I throw his way is genuine. I turn to hustle down to the crosswalk to catch the light before it turns and stop myself from turning to see where he'd ended up.
You did what you set out to do. You introduced yourself, you proved to be kind if not a little awkward. This could be the first and last time you ever talk to the guy.
I just really hope that it isn't.
The snow had started to melt, leaving the streets a dirty sort of gray, the next time we run in to each other.
Working at a salon in the heart of New York paid well, which was why I didn't mind staying a bit later to fit clients in. Days that turned into evenings always ended with take out boxes and the snooe button. Dumplings from Izzy's somehow made my feet hurt less when I finally crawled through the door.
I'd bitten off more than I could chew tonight, though.
As per usual, I didn't have enough hands to juggle all of the things that needed to make it back to my apartment. A paper bag that smelled enticingly delicious balanced in one arm; my wallet, keys, and phone were spliced between my fingers in the other hand. An empty mug was pressed to my side thanks to the help of my elbow and my apron had slowly been coming untied since I left Izzy's. It shouldn't have come as a surprise when one of those objects failed me — I truly just hated that it had to be my keys.
"Shit," I mutter.
I hear boots pause beside me before I see them. I can't seem to tear my eyes from the set of keys that still sit on the carpet next to my shoes.
"Need some help?" His voice startles me in the quiet of the hallway. It seemed lighter, somehow, than the last I'd heard it. I glance his way before looking back to my keys and trying desperately to avoid the rumble in the pit of my empty stomach.
"I was kind of hoping that if I stared long enough, they would just float back up into my hand. Wishful thinking, and all that."
James scoffs, though I'd argue it was the beginnings of a laugh, before leaning down to pick them up. Though the temperature is higher than it's been in weeks, his hands are still gloved.
"Wouldn't be the craziest thing I've seen," he mumbles before looking to me with a raised brow. His eyes flicker to the keys before raising back to mine, and god damn his stare is piercing.
"Oh, right. It's the second one. No, not — next to the tiny mail one. Yeah, that one. Thank you," I step back as he moves in to unlock my door with more grace than I've ever shown that lock. We both wait for the inevitable click, but he only twists the knob enough to crack it open. A gentleman.
"Just seemed like you had your hands full. Not a problem."
"Well, I appreciate it." Figuring this was as far as this neighborly conversation would go, I moved to kick the door the rest of the way in when his voice stops me.
"Are you just now getting home from work?"
"Uh, yeah. I had a late client scheduled, so I had to close up. Usually only happens a couple nights a week, but the restaurant I stopped by was extra bust tonight, so — here I am." I shrug for dramatic affect, and the polite smile that usually accompanies my words grows in the slightest when he glances to the bag in my hands and gives me a close-lipped smile of his own.
"Izzy's, right?" James asks. A toothy grin breaks across my face as I nod.
"Yeah! You know it? It's my favorite spot around here." The dumplings currently warming my arm reminded me of just how excited I was to eat them.
"I've been. Is it close to your work?"
Listen… I truthfully was not mad about this conversation. I had always been a friendly person. Small talk came as easily as breathing. I was good at hair, yes, but I was also good at being a hairdresser for that very reason. The smell of my dinner was filling this hallway, and my keys were still in his hands, but I could have stayed in this very spot for the remainder of the night without fail. Maybe I should have been more cautious about telling this man where I worked, but I'd made worse enemies.
"It's not far. I work at the salon a few blocks east. It's not exactly on my way home, but it's worth it."
He nods once, twice, and then holds my keys out by the ring for me to take. "I should let you enjoy your dinner, then." I flex my pinky as a post for my keys, and he smiles before sliding the key ring onto my smallest finger.
"You're a lifesaver. Thank you again for letting me in."
"Like I said, not a problem." He's turning to fish his keys from his pockets and stepping back to the space outside his door. I take that as my cue and nudge the door open with the toe of my shoes.
"Have a good night, James."
I could have sworn he winced when I said it.
Things are cordial if not friendly in the days that follow. We share greetings in the hallway, even if it's just in passing. Quiet check-ins in the mailroom. Conversations never last more than a few minutes, but each one shows me a piece of him my research never could.
I was supposed to be afraid of him. He outlived me in years, outweighed me in every form. I wasn't naïve; the man was intimidating. The entire way he carried himself was meant to fend people off. I just didn't care. A man pardoned of crimes he'd been forced to commit deserved the same amount of 'how-do-you-do's as Eleanor down the hall (who made the best Christmas cookies, by the way).
We didn't exist outside of that building.
Which was why I was so surprised to see him at the door when the little bell rang to tell me someone had walked in to the salon.
I had been sweeping up the split ends when he walked in. The sun always set too early in winter, but it had been dark for quite some time. All of my coworkers had cleaned their stations and left long before the color had set on my last client. My smile is genuine when I look to him. It was almost refreshing to see him exist in the real world. "Hey, neighbor."
Clad in dark wash jeans, a leather jacket, typical gloved hands, and chestnut hair framing that always broody face, he looks — normal. He says my name in greeting, and it echoes from the walls in a way that makes my chest feel warm.
I lean the broom against the closest chair and brush my hands on my black apron before letting them rest at my hips. "What are you doing here?" He must have been expecting the question, but it seems to take him completely off guard. His usually stoic expression grows… sheepish?
"I, uh — I know you worked late on Wednesday last week, and I was just hopin' to catch you before you went home. I know it's late, but I kind of, uh… I kind of need a favor." He fiddles with the fingers of his left hand, squeezing and linking them between the others. Consider me intrigued.
"Well, I'm getting ready to close up here. If you want to wait, like, five minutes? I can go grab my — "
He raises a hand to stop me. "Actually, I was hoping," he lowers his hand and pauses. The laugh that escapes him is uncomfortable, as must be the ability to ask for help. Independence is a funny thing. "I was hoping you could give me a haircut."
My lips purse before spreading into a close-lipped, amused smile. I walk over to my chair and pat the leather before nodding him over. "Come take a seat, Mr. Barnes." I pretend not to see the way the tension in his shoulder fades if only a little at my words.
He stalks over with an anxious air and sits down delicately. He looks small. It's a feat, but he does.
I turn to grab a cape and a towel from the station next to me before raising the chair with the ball of my foot. I fling the cape over his shoulder and snap it behind his head. Again, I pretend not to notice the way his lips part when my fingers graze his neck and I sincerely hope his skin didn't feel the same shock mine did when we touched. I recover quickly, however, and let my hands trail through the hair that extends from the nape of his neck.
"When was the last time you got it cut?" My work persona takes over, though even I'm surprised at the gentle tone that escapes me. His anxiety is infectious, I guess. The time it takes for him to respond rings in my ears. His voice comes out quietly; his eyes don't meet mine in the mirror.
"It's been a long time." With him? That could mean anything.
I nod, more than willing to drop it.
"Are you just looking for a trim?"
He shakes his head, pulling the tresses of hair still caught between my fingers free, and the intensity with which he finds me in the mirror momentarily takes my breath away. I can't really decipher what it is. There's a hint of sadness in the lines around his eyes, but there's something deeper in those oceanic hues. Something I'm not sure he could put a name too. My brows furrow and he thaws a bit, enough to answer.
"I just want it gone."
It didn't take a century of understanding to know how layered that one sentence was.
So, again, I nod. I turn his chair away from the mirror. I clip a towel at the back of his neck. I pull the comb from my apron. We begin.
The silence is thick as I spray his hair and comb the water through. He's impeccably still when I part his hair into sections, and I wonder if this is the first time I'd ever been at a loss for words.
It's only when I pull out the scissors does the need to speak become incredibly overwhelming.
"I'm just going to get rid of the length first. Then, I'll clean it up with clippers. How short do you want it?" My voice is just barely above a whisper. I lean over his shoulder to check his expression: blank, eyes closed.
"Whatever you think will look good. It doesn't matter to me."
"No pressure, or anything." I laugh awkwardly. His exterior doesn't crack. It isn't until I've combed out the bottom section and pulled it tight between my middle and index finger does he speak again.
"That your family up on that mirror?" His eyes are still closed, so he must have perused the pictures before we'd started. I smile out of pure habit.
"Mhm," I respond, making the first careful cut. The sound alone elicits a sigh from him, but he continues.
"Tell me about 'em."
And just like that, we both melt a little. I tell him about the people in those pictures. I ramble about my favorite stories, the ones that gave me those pictures. I tell him about my friends. The sound of the scissors cutting cleanly through his hair is masked by the sound of my voice, confident now that I've found my element. There's a small pile growing at the tip of my shoes, and I suddenly wonder just how many years those pieces of him had seen.
I've gathered the highest section at the crown of his head and pull that hair away as I cut it, appraising my work in a moment of sudden silence. It's messy, but a single glance in the mirror that reveals the sharp edge of his jaw and the soft curve of his ear takes me aback.
I run a hand through the thick hair that remains as I pocket my scissors, and he hums quietly. It's low, almost a growl. If I hadn't been listening for any sound from the man in my chair, I may not have heard it. I'm glad his eyes are closed, because I can feel the heat creep onto my face.
"Almost done," I murmur. I reach for the clippers and adjust the guard. This was the last step. He already looked so different, if not disheveled. My shoulders were just as tense as his. It takes only a few minutes to even out the hair at the sides. I leave them shorter than the top, though not close enough to regret. I find a cowlick at the back of his head and can't help but press my thumb there for a moment of pure admiration. I disregard the clippers and don my scissors once more to even out the top, and then we're done. His eyes are closed; mine are the size of saucers.
"Keep your eyes closed, okay?"
"I'm not bald, am I?" The lilting tone of his comment pulls a choked laugh from me as I turn his chair to completely face me.
"No. But that's still an option if you hate it."
I take a minute just to look at him. There's a hard line between his brows that I worry has become permanent. His cheekbones are high, and I'm relieved to finally know exactly what he looks like without the veil he'd carried for the majority of his life. I reach forward with careful fingers to brush stray ends from his forehead, his cheeks. My hands tremble as they reach for them, but steady when they feel the warmth of his skin. His lips part slightly and I fight the urge to brush the pad of my thumb over them. Still facing him, I reach behind his neck to unclip the cape and gather the towel. I lift it slowly as to avoid getting any hair on his clothes, all the while watching for even the slightest opening of an eyelid. He wanted it gone, and I needed to make sure that it was gone.
"Don't open them until I tell you."
"Yes, ma'am." I'm close enough to feel his breath on my face, and I wish I could say that my head was swimming solely from the long day behind me.
The truth was, he was breathtaking. And he was sitting in my salon, in my chair, asking me to reform a piece of him that seemed far more important than just a simple haircut.
I hurry with the cleanup. Sweeping every fallen lock into dustpan and depositing it just as swiftly is not exactly easy, but I make it as quick as I can. I'm anxious to see his reaction, and I'm anxious for the evidence to be gone.
I want to see him smile.
I come back to stand before him - eyes still obediently shut - and grab for a bottle of styling cream. I'm gentle when I rake my hands through his hair, and even the weight of it - or lack thereof - is refreshing. I turn him slowly to face the mirror and take a steadying breath before taking a step back to give him the space to accept his new persona.
"Open."
They do.
And he's still. Statuesque, if you will.
But then there's a gleam in his eyes that wasn't there before. They glisten as I look at him. They glisten as he looks at himself. I have to look away, and I'd like to say that it was to give him the privacy he deserved, but I need to hide the moisture that stings my eyes in response.
I'd give anything to ask what was going through his mind. It isn't the time, and it isn't my place, but maybe someday — maybe someday, he'll tell me what he so desperately needed gone.
He calls my name quietly. It sounds like a prayer.
I turn back with one arm crossed over my chest, the other curled up to leave a worrying index finger tapping at my lips. The sadness isn't gone from his eyes, but the pain seems to lessen. His lips are turned upward, and he looks damn beautiful. He looks like the man that existed in black and white photos before this technicolor man came to be.
"Thank you."
It takes a series of furious blinks to keep those damn tears out of his sight. I'm holding his gaze in the mirror, and I catch my eyes crinkling with the smile that rises to my lips.
"You look very handsome, James."
That strange almost-wince is back, but he continues to hold my gaze evenly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before responding.
"Call me Bucky."