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It had been a long time since Bucky had seen himself in a mirror. He’d caught glimpses in darkened windows, in reflective metal pots, even his own arm, but a proper mirror was not something they gave him. He didn’t like looking at his reflection anyway, feeling most safe when his face was covered. Here, he felt exposed, standing in Sam’s bathroom and looking into his own, dead eyes. He looked nothing like himself, he barely recognized the man staring back at him. It was unsettling, to say the least. This man was a murderer. It was hard to look at him without smelling blood, tasting rubble, hearing gunshots and screams. Bucky tried to shake the thoughts off, but the sudden movement of the stranger in the mirror made him jump. He’d forgotten they were one and the same. He averted his gaze, looking down at his hands instead. Not much better, honestly. His right hand was marred with scars, scratches, and bruises, while his left was a cold reminder of his past. He hated it sometimes, the metal arm. He couldn’t bring himself to ask for anything else, though, and when he took it off, the phantom pains were unbearable.
“Bucky, you alright in there?” Sam called through the door, only adding to the cacophony of sounds and thoughts whirring through his mind. He shouldn’t be here. He was putting Sam in danger. People were after him, after the man in the mirror. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill Sam if they found him here. They’d probably make Bucky do it himself, find some hidden trigger leftover in his brain and use him again. That’s all he was, a weapon. That’s all he saw when he looked at his arm, when he looked in the mirror. His fist collided sharply with glass, but it sounded so distant, and he didn’t feel a thing. Someone was yelling now, he needed to go, report back.
“Don’t move.”
The voice broke through his spiraling mind, and he turned his head sharply towards the noise. Sam stood in the doorway, both hands raised in surrender. God, Bucky could only imagine how he looked right now. The mirror was in shards on the floor, so he had no way of knowing, but he suspected he wore a similar expression to that of a wild animal backed into a corner.
“You’re bleeding, let me help.” Sam all but begged. He looked down, and yeah, he was bleeding. There were even a few shards of glass embedded in his knuckles, and the sight of blood on his hands sent him back years. He remembered pulling a knife from a woman’s throat. She lay limp on the floor in a pool of her own blood. He’d struck an artery on the first try, blood sprayed everywhere. He had to scrub it out of his hair when he got back, but the praise for the quick kill had been worth it. Fuck, what was he thinking? A woman’s life was worth a few kind words?
“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”
Bucky must’ve made a sound at that, because Sam stopped approaching and went back to holding his hands up.
“You’re safe, Buck, you’re in my apartment.”
He did remember coming over to Sam’s place. There was an accident out front of his building, and he’d used the excuse of his water not working to come over here so he wouldn’t have to hear the sirens, smell the burning rubber. He supposed he left too late, he’d been spiraling before he even got here.
“Stay with me, you’re drifting.”
That’s what Sam called it when he got like this. Drifting. It sounded like a pleasant float down a river, not like being swept away by his own mind. He kind of preferred that, actually, even though it had annoyed him at first. But yes, he was drifting; pretty badly at that. Okay, focus.
“I’m worried you’ll step on glass, can I help you to the living room?” Sam asked. He nodded, but he wasn’t sure. When Sam offered him a hand, he took it with his right hand, holding on as gently as he could manage. He often used more force than he meant to when he got like this, but he was doing good so far.
“Step towards me, watch your feet.”
Using Sam as leverage, he was able to maneuver around the shards and make it out of the bathroom cut-free, minus the cuts he already had.
“Come on, let’s get you to the couch.” Sam said gently. Bucky was a bit worried about bleeding on said couch, but he was more worried he’d hurt Sam if he tried to resist, so he went where he was led. Try as he might, he couldn’t get that woman’s lifeless body out of his head. It only got worse when Sam started removing the shards of glass. Was this what she felt when he pulled the knife out? Was she dead at that point, or did it hurt like this? She’d bled a lot more than him, but he was bleeding pretty significantly right now. The blood felt far too familiar on his skin.
“Gonna get you cleaned up.” Sam assured him, wiping gently at marred flesh. And fuck, he’d broken Sam’s mirror. Sam opened his home to Bucky and the first thing he did was break something. It felt so world-ending in that moment, but he was unable to voice anything. He often couldn’t speak when he “drifted”, too overwhelmed to really form the words. He never felt more trapped in his own body than he did when he was like this.
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m almost done.” Sam said. Clearly he interpreted Bucky's reaction as pain. It did hurt, but he couldn’t care less about that. He’d had far, far worse.
“There. How do you feel?” Sam asked. He’d secured the bandage, finished with his first aid work, but he kept a gentle hold on Bucky’s hand. The first thought he had was that he didn’t deserve to be held so gently. The second was that Sam was going to hate him for breaking the mirror, for being violent and out of control and everything he was trying so hard not to be. He shook his head, half to answer the question and half to clear his mind. It never worked, but he always tried it.
“That’s okay, take your time. Try to stay with me, okay?” Sam asked, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. Ironically, it hurt like a bitch, which he felt he deserved, but it grounded him enough to speak.
“I broke your mirror.” He said in a soft, broken voice that he had definitely not meant to use.
“I know. It’s okay, I’ll get a new one. I’m more worried about you, Bucky. You seem pretty spacey.” Sam ran his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles. It was comforting.
“Yeah.” He said helplessly. “I-. I haven’t had a lot of mirrors.” Great sentence, good use of words. Sam thought about that for a moment, understandably unsure what he meant.
“Do you have one at your apartment?” He asked finally.
“I don’t look at it.” He’d covered it, actually, so he wouldn’t see by accident.
“Why not?” Sam and his damn questions.
“It’s not me in the mirror.” He said desperately. “It’s still him, the one they made.” He shook his head, hard, wrenching his hand from Sam’s. His friend studied him for a moment. Could Bucky even call him a friend? Did Sam even like him?
“We should cut your hair.”
The proposal threw him off so much that he stopped spiraling for a moment. “What?”
“Your hair, it’s still the same. Of course you don’t like mirrors, you’re still looking at the guy they controlled, the guy they made cut his hair the exact same way for seventy years.” Sam said, as if it was obvious. “Let’s cut it, make it your own again.”
Just the idea that he could make any part of him his own again was nearly enough to make him cry, but he refused to cry in front of Sam. Not now, at least. Instead, he nodded.
“Okay, how do you want it cut?”
Good fucking question. Bucky hadn’t chosen a single thing in nearly a century. He’d been paralyzed the first time he had to dress himself, trying to choose a shirt. Now he had to pick a haircut?
“I don’t care, just cut it.” He half expected Sam to argue, to say that he had to pick or it wasn’t really him reclaiming his hair, just him making it different. Thankfully, he only nodded.
“Alright, stay here.” Sam headed back to the glass-filled bathroom, presumably to get hair cutting supplies. Being alone made it easier to spiral, but he was able to keep his mind fairly clear as he waited. When Sam came back, he draped a towel around his shoulders and set a pair of clippers next to him.
“Do you want to cut the first piece?” Sam asked. Bucky had no idea what made him think to ask that, but he did kinda want to cut the first piece. Sam passed him the scissors and he reached up blindly, snipping off about half of the first lock he touched. The dark hair fell to the ground, and he felt pretty much the same. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he passed the scissors back to Sam.
“Can I touch you?” He asked.
“Can’t really cut my hair without touching me.” Bucky scoffed. He was being mean, at least a little mean, and Sam didn’t deserve that. He felt very exposed right now, though. It was hard not to lash out.
“I’ll stop if you ask me to, okay? Speak up if it’s too much.”
That did make sense. Bucky didn’t like to be touched, and he didn’t like to be touched extra when he was lost in the past. Sam was gentle, though, as he began to cut. Dark locks fell all around him, making him tense a bit. He’d gotten hair cuts while he was with Hydra. A woman cut it bluntly to his jaw, then they let it grow to his shoulders, and when it got a bit past there, she cut it again. It was far from a fancy affair, and while she wasn’t rough with him, she didn’t treat him as tenderly as Sam was treating him now. Cautious fingers swept hair out of his eyes, brushed lightly over his scalp, rested on the back of his neck. It was a lot of touch, but he didn’t really mind. The clippers startled him at first, and he hated the noise, but it was bearable. It was actually pretty nice when Sam slotted them into his hair, raking them over his scalp. It felt good, a kind of innocent pleasure he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Almost done.” Sam assured him, reaching down to brush a stray lock off his nose. Bucky sat perfect still, unmoving and impossibly tense as his friend worked.
“There, I think I have a handheld mirror, if you want to see. You don’t have to.” He added quickly. When Bucky said nothing, he went to fetch it, and he offered it face down.
“What do you think?” Sam prompted. He raised the mirror.
Oh. He looked different, that was certain. The cut was short and sensible, close to how he used to wear it in the 40’s. He ran a hand through it, bandages catching a bit as he did. It felt different under his fingers, soft almost. He didn’t care if it looked good, and was far from capable of deciding that right now. It looked different, and that was enough. His features broke into a smile, looking a bit more familiar with the expression.
“I take it you like the cut.” Sam smiled back. He still felt bad about the bathroom mirror. He would feel bad for weeks.
“Thanks.” Bucky managed, turning his gaze back to the glass. He looked just a moment longer, then set it down before he could break that too. He didn’t feel like breaking it, not really, but he was struck quite suddenly by what they’d just done. He wasn’t allowed to cut his hair, and there was no undoing it now. Bucky shut his eyes for a moment, reminding himself where he was, that he was safe, there were no rules on hair now. He could cut it however he wanted, dye it if it struck his fancy, shave it all off if he got sick of it, grow it out if he wanted too. The tears surprised him, but they really shouldn’t have. After being owned and used for so long, his first real move to take himself back was bound to cause emotions to well up. He reached blindly for Sam and was pulled into a hug moments later.
“It’s a lot, huh?” Sam asked, stroking a hand over his freshly chopped hair. “I’m here, they can’t hurt you anymore.”
It was reassuring, really it was. Bucky knew what Hydra could do, but he also knew they’d have a hell of a time getting past the Falcon.
“There you go, deep breaths.”
Bucky ignored that request, he hated when Sam told him to take deep breaths, and hated even more when it helped.
“I hope the crying is a Hydra thing and not a ‘Sam butchered my hair’ thing.”
That made Bucky laugh, shoving lightly at his friend. “It’s great, thank you, Sam.” He ran a hand through it again. He liked the feeling. It was much lighter, he could feel the air on his scalp, could run his fingers through it without encountering any tangles.
“I’ll get the glass cleaned up, then you can shower, and when you’re done, we’ll grab lunch. Just mind your hand, okay?”
Bucky nodded, lifting the mirror one last time. The man staring back at him, though stained with tears and still a stranger, looked just a bit happier.