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“Sam.” Bucky stood in the doorway of Sam’s bedroom, “will you do me a favor.”
With a dramatic sigh, Sam looked up from his computer, “Depends. Is it illegal?”
Bucky paused for a second, weighing his options, “..yes?”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, turning his chair to face the other man fully, “We’re hiding out here because I did you an illegal favor,” he motioned to the room around him.
Heat prickled under Bucky’s skin in guilt, “Sorry. Never mind.” He turned to walk away, but Sam interrupted him with a sigh of defeat, “..Wait. What’s the favor?”
Bucky turned, positioning Sam just in his peripheral vision, “I.. need help cutting my hair.” He swallowed, not making eye contact with the other man.
Sam stuttered, “I- that’s not illegal… is it? I mean. I was thinking something a lot more.. Murdery. But, I can help you find a barber, man.”
“No,” Bucky gritted his teeth, “Already tried a barber.” Sam raised an eyebrow, eying his still-intact hair.
“I don't,” Bucky paused, collecting himself, “I don’t like it. Don’t trust ‘em. Makes me panic.” He sighed, looking up at Sam, who looked at him in understanding, not pity. “...I trust you. Not your cutting skills – but, I don’t think you’ll try n’brainwash me.” Sam snorted.
“Oh, and it's technically illegal to cut someone’s hair without a license, but I promise not to sue,” he shrugged.
Sam laughed a breath, “Okay, yeah. I can help. I mean, I’m already a wanted criminal, what’s a little unlicensed haircutting?”
“You still okay with this?” Sam asked.
Bucky’s breath hitched as Sam’s fingers ran through his hair; it was a small action, one that Sam didn’t seem to notice. Bucky swallowed, jaw tensing and untensing, “Yeah. Just get it over with.” He tried to relax as a glint of metal glinted in his periphery. He could do this.
The first snip of scissors echoed through the air, and Bucky had to restrain himself from flinching. Without thinking, he reached up to feel his hair; the strand that had been cut was shorter, just above his ear.
“It’ll be shorter, I just have to cut the bulk of it before we can shave it.” Sam had stepped back slightly, giving Bucky space, which he appreciated. After a second, he dropped his hand, his breath shakier than he’d like to admit. Silently, he nodded, keeping his eyes forward.
He heard Sam step closer and was distinctly aware of the man just out of his peripheral vision. If Sam noticed the tension in his shoulders, he didn’t mention it.
Gentle hands returned to his hair, grasping the next strands. Anticipation curled darkly in his stomach, waiting for the grip to become harsh, to tug his head backward, force him to bare his throat, at the mercy of– of Sam.
These were Sam’s hands.
Sam’s hands were gentle, not harsh, not corrective, not cruel. Sam was safe.
Sam was safe.
He took a deep breath. When had he stopped breathing?
Sam was on the opposite side of his head now, the floor littered with his hair.
His head felt lighter. Both from lack of hair and dissociation.
Cold metal on skin jerked him back to clarity. He couldn’t stop himself from flinching away, shrinking in on himself. His breath coming in silent gasps, he could feel the ghost of cool metal against his face, the blinding lights, the murmur of scientists, the-
Sam was talking.
“-cky? You okay?” His voice was calm, casual.
Bucky had closed his eyes, his head turned away from Sam, from where the scissors had been. He blinked his eyes open and forced his muscles to relax before turning back to Sam.
“..Yeah,” his voice came out unwavering, thank god, but there was an underlying rasp, a breathlessness to it, “sorry,” he said after a second.
Sam didn’t say anything for a second, studying him. Sometimes it feels like Sam could see right through his mask; it's one of the man’s most annoying traits. “All good,” he said, still searching for something. After a second, he set down the pair of scissors, leveling Bucky with a disbelieving look, “What was it?”
Bucky swallowed, breaking eye contact, “nothin'.”
Silence followed. Bucky didn’t need to look up to know that Sam was raising an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“The metal,” Bucky breathed, eyes glued to the outdated, floral wallpaper. It reminded him of his Ma’s kitchen. “S’cold. On my face,” he grimaced, eyes moving to the floor.
Sam was silent for a second, “Would my hand be better?”
“What?” Bucky finally turned to look at him, confusion written all over his face.
“I could rest my free hand between you and the scissors. Just like- to add a barrier,” he gestured, miming scissors in one hand, “I mean- they shouldn’t really touch you, but the angle’s kinda tricky around the ear,” he shrugged, looking vaguely flustered, “I dunno, just a thought. Could use a napkin or something too, I guess.”
They lapsed into silence, Sam now leaning against the kitchen counter, waiting for an answer.
“S’fine,” Bucky muttered.
“What is?”
“Any of that,” Bucky shrugged, “Whatever’s easiest.”
He heard rather than saw, Sam step closer; his eyes had returned to the wall before him. The wallpaper was worn, tearing in places. Probably as old as him.
He heard Sam shift beside him, “Just my hand,” he quietly warned – then, warmth, hovering slightly against his ear. Seconds later, hair fell onto his shoulder. Sam’s hand shifted slightly, the back of his palm barely resting on Bucky’s cheekbone as he continued to the sideburn.
Sam’s hand was grounding, the warmth was a stark contrast to the cold metal echoing through his memories.
Before he knew it, Sam was pulling away, and Bucky had to fight not to chase after the warmth. “Alright. That part’s over. Just the clippers now.”
Bucky could only nod, his thoughts distant. He wished Sam’s hand would return.
The whir of the clippers clicking on made him freeze.
“Here,” Sam’s voice filtered over the intruding noise, “can I see your hand?”
Bucky looked up, distinctly aware of the lack of cover that his hair had given him. Sam’s hand was extended, palm up, asking, waiting. The clippers were in his other hand, positioned away from him. After a moment of sizing up the clippers, Bucky’s gaze met Sam’s, and slowly, he extended his flesh hand, resting it palm up in Sam’s.
He didn’t miss the slight smile on Sam’s face.
“It won’t hurt you, just sounds scary,” Sam kept his movements slow as he neared Bucky’s extended hand with the clippers. Bucky tensed but didn’t move away. He knew clippers were harmless, but he couldn’t shake the hint of fight or flight he felt near them.
He flinched as they made contact, but relaxed after a second. He felt like a child, but he didn’t care. The shame would come later, but for now, he appreciated Sam’s patience.
“Okay,” he breathed after a second.
In a silent understanding, Sam let Bucky's hand go, directing his focus to his hair. The clippers were louder near his head, but not nearly as loud as they were back in the day. His family hadn’t been able to afford a barber, so his sister would trim his hair for him. Did a pretty damn good job too. His chest ached thinking about her. Sam’s hands were bigger than hers, but just as gentle.
He suddenly felt very homesick.
He tilted his head downwards, studying his hands as Sam moved to the back of his head. He flexed his vibranium hand, tracing the grooves with a fingernail. He’s glad his family can’t see him like this.
The clippers on the back of his neck made him jumpy; he hadn't realized how tense he’d become until Sam rested his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, an action that seemed to be almost entirely subconscious. It was embarrassing how quickly his shoulders relaxed, how much easier it became to breathe. He had to fight not to lean into the warmth.
Eventually, Sam moved on to the side of his head, removing his hand, and Bucky had to resist shivering from the loss of warmth.
It was odd. He couldn’t remember ever wishing someone would touch him again. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time touch hadn’t been a punishment.
He was so lost in thought (and memories) that he didn’t notice when the clippers turned off and was only vaguely aware of Sam wordlessly sweeping the fallen hair off the ground.
He knew he was dissociating, a quiet voice in the back of his head urged him to fight it, but he didn’t. He knew he was safe. Distantly, he registered that Sam was cooking.
Bucky let himself drift, surrounded by the smells of food and Sam’s hummed melody.