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Bucky had never liked his reflection after waking up from HYDRA’s control. The face staring back at him in the mirror felt like a stranger’s—something foreign, something built rather than born. A construct of violence and obedience. He wasn’t sure when exactly the sight of himself had become a wound, but it was there, aching beneath the surface, an ugly reminder of the monster they had made him into. Of the blood on his hands.
Some days, looking at himself felt like a jump scare, like catching sight of something that shouldn’t be there—something lurking just beneath the surface of his skin, waiting. The Soldier stared back at him through the strands of long, unkempt hair hanging over his face, casting shadows over his sharp features, distorting him just enough that he could almost pretend it wasn’t him at all. Almost.
Bucky took to tying it back more often than not—pulling it into a tight bun, a knot at the nape of his neck, something to keep it contained. It helped, in small ways, kept the Soldier from creeping into his vision every time he caught his own reflection. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
He wanted to cut it. Not because it was inconvenient, not because it got in his way—but because he needed it gone. Needed the weight of it off his shoulders, needed to strip away the parts of himself that still felt like theirs. Like HYDRA. Like history carved into flesh, growing heavier with each passing day. He didn’t know if cutting it would make a difference. Didn’t know if he would feel any less like a specter walking through someone else’s life. But the thought lingered anyway, pressed tight against his ribs, waiting.
He had talked to Percy about it before—mentioned, in quiet moments, how he didn’t like his long hair, how it weighed on him in ways that weren’t physical. How every time he caught sight of his own reflection, it pulled him back, dragged him into memories he’d spent years clawing his way out of.
His boyfriend—gods, he loved that he could say that now—had suggested bringing him to the Aphrodite cabin, letting one of them cut his hair however he wanted. He’d said no at the time, brushed it off with something vague, something noncommittal, because it didn’t feel right. He wasn’t ready, not then. The thought of someone else wielding the scissors, of surrendering control of something so strangely significant, had felt too close, too much.
But now—now he felt ready. The weight of it had settled into him differently this time, not as a burden but as a decision. He wanted it gone. Wanted the strands that had been tangled in his worst memories severed, wanted to look at himself and see something that belonged to him—not them. Not HYDRA.
“Cy-Cy,” Bucky calls, his voice soft but sure as he pushes open the door to Percy’s room.
Percy pauses mid-motion, smoothing out the blankets on his bed, his hands stilling against the fabric as he tilts his head slightly. Bucky can feel the shift—Percy’s attention settling on him, weighing just slightly on his shoulders, grounding him in the moment.
“Yes?”
Bucky hesitates, just for a breath, fingers curling slightly at his sides before he exhales. “Remember when you offered to take me to the Aphrodite cabin to get my hair cut?” His voice is steady, but there’s something in it—something deliberate, something not quite casual, no matter how lightly he tries to say it.
Percy straightens fully, turning to face him, his expression open, easy, but laced with quiet understanding.
“Do you think we could do that sometime soon?” Bucky finishes, his tone controlled, but carrying just enough weight to betray the significance of the request.
Percy doesn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
“Of course,” he agrees immediately, a smile spreading across his face—warm, unwavering, like there had never been any question about it. “We could go today if you’d like.”
The certainty in Percy’s response settles something inside Bucky, something tight that had been lingering beneath the surface. He exhales slowly, nodding, feeling the decision solidify in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. “Today sounds good.”
Percy grins, tossing his blanket on his bed with an utter lack of precision, the fabric landing in a heap rather than anything remotely orderly. He straightens fully, his energy already shifting, buzzing with anticipation. “Alright! Let’s go now.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow, amused by the sudden urgency. “Right now?”
“Right now,” Percy confirms without hesitation, like the decision had already been made five minutes ago. He moves with purpose, excitement threading through his voice. “Mrs. O’Leary can take us. She wants to see Neeks anyway.”
He doesn’t need to do much to summon her. A short, sharp whistle is all it takes before the shadows beneath Percy’s desk ripple, bending in on themselves, deepening until the massive black hellhound emerges, bounding forward with eager, thudding steps. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, dark eyes shining with unrestrained joy as she practically vibrates with the prospect of an impromptu trip.
Bucky exhales softly, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips as Mrs. O’Leary presses into his side, leaning her considerable weight against him like she’s never quite aware of how enormous she actually is. He doesn’t mind. He just runs his fingers gently through her thick fur, dragging his hand down her back in slow, familiar motions, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence.
Percy watches them with a smirk, hands on his hips. “See? Told you she wanted to come.”
Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”
Shadow travel felt weird. No matter how many times Bucky had crossed the void between destinations—jumping between worlds in the span of a single breath, the darkness swallowing him whole—he never quite got used to it. It left him feeling off, like parts of him hadn’t settled back into place yet. Disoriented, like he was standing in a room with the floor shifting beneath his feet. Cold.
He hated feeling cold. The chill clawed at his skin, seeping through muscle, sinking into bone, awakening memories that lurked beneath the surface—ones he would rather leave buried. Cryo. The biting freeze of metal against flesh, the suffocating stillness, the way time seemed to stretch and collapse around him, an endless cycle of waking up just to be someone else.
Shadow travel wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a coffin of ice, wasn’t years stolen out from under him. But the cold was still there, waiting for him on the other side, clinging to him even after they arrived at camp.
Percy made it better, though. Because, somehow, he always knew. Always sensed his discomfort like it was something tangible, something written into the way Bucky held himself after they landed. Percy never said anything about it, never made a show of asking if he was okay—he just acted. He just reached for him, pressed himself close, wrapped Bucky up in his warmth like a human heater with zero regard for personal space.
It didn’t take long for the chill to fade. Percy ran unnaturally hot, the kind of warmth that seeped into Bucky’s skin, chased away the lingering freeze, settled deep enough to make the remnants of cryo feel like nothing more than a distant thought.
Stepping out of the shadows—read: stumbled—Percy barely caught himself before gravity could turn the landing into something decidedly less graceful. Without missing a beat, he threw an arm over Bucky’s shoulder, draping himself with the ease of someone who had made this exact move a thousand times before. His weight settled against Bucky like a casual anchor, warm and familiar, grounding after the disorienting cold of the void.
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, his tone dry but amused as he muttered, “You’re gonna be annoyed with yourself when you get home and your bed isn’t made.”
Percy shrugged, completely unbothered, waving off the concern like it was a non-issue. “Eh, it’ll be fine.”
Bucky arched a brow, lips twitching in something close to a smirk. “You think that now.”
Percy turned his head slightly, clearly unconcerned, his grip on Bucky remaining steady. “Yeah, well, that’s Future Percy’s problem.”
Bucky snorted, shaking his head as they continued walking, the camp stretching out before them, alive with movement and voices. He didn’t push the subject. He didn’t need to. Because they both knew—without question—that Future Percy would, in fact, be thoroughly annoyed.
“Don’t make it Future Bucky’s problem,” Bucky huffs, leaning more of his weight into Percy’s side as they walk. The warmth of Percy against him is grounding, solid, the easiest way to chase off the lingering chill of shadow travel.
Percy gasps—dramatic, exaggerated—like the very suggestion is an affront to his honor. “I would never!” he exclaims, his tone dripping with scandalized innocence.
Bucky side-eyes him, unimpressed. “You would. Don’t lie.”
Percy tilts his chin up, feigning indignation, though the smirk twitching at the corner of his lips gives him away. “I am deeply offended that you think so little of me.”
“You should be deeply offended by your own lack of foresight,” Bucky counters dryly, but there’s humor in his voice, an easy warmth threading through the teasing.
Percy laughs, unapologetic, the sound bright and unbothered. “That sounds like a Future Percy problem.”
Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn’t let go of Percy’s hand. “You’re ridiculous.”
Percy grins, giving his fingers a quick, reassuring squeeze. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Bucky huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Unfortunately.”
Percy nudges him with his shoulder, eyes glinting with playful challenge. “You love it.”
“Shut up.” Bucky exhales through his nose, looking ahead as Camp Half-Blood stretches fully into view.
Percy’s smirk widens. “Never.”
The sunlight filtered through the trees in golden streaks, casting long shadows across the worn dirt paths of Camp Half-Blood. Despite it being close to Christmas, the air was warm, carrying the familiar scent of pine and the distant salt of the Long Island Sound. It was quiet, calmer than usual—the absence of most campers during the school year leaving the grounds feeling expansive, unhurried.
Percy walked beside Bucky, their strides easy, their movements unhurried. There was no rush, no urgency, just the simple comfort of shared space, of quiet companionship. Percy’s fingers brushed against Bucky’s every so often as they walked, not quite linked but never far, like gravity was subtly working to pull them together. Bucky didn’t pull away.
The camp felt different with fewer people around—less chaotic, less full of training drills and wild energy. The usual background noise of swords clashing, laughter ringing across the fields, and shouts of strategy from sparring campers had faded, replaced by the soft rustling of wind through the trees, the distant lapping of waves against the shore. It was peaceful. A rarity.
Percy sighed contentedly, shifting his gaze toward Bucky. “We don’t get days like this often.”
Bucky hummed in agreement, eyes flicking toward the cabins they passed, taking in their unique architecture, their differences. He had been to Camp Half-Blood enough times by now, but there was always something new to notice, something small that stood out more when the place wasn’t bursting with life.
Percy let his fingers finally hook around Bucky’s, a small, absent gesture, the kind that carried familiarity without requiring thought. Bucky didn’t comment, just squeezed lightly in return, his gaze lingering on the distant Aphrodite cabin.
“You still sure about this?” Percy asked, voice light but sincere.
Bucky exhaled slowly, glancing at him, considering for only a fraction of a second before he nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
Percy grinned, wide and reassuring. “Then let’s do this.”
The Aphrodite Cabin was undeniably beautiful—an architectural masterpiece that embodied elegance and allure in a way that seemed effortless. It stood out among the other cabins at Camp Half-Blood, less utilitarian and more like something plucked straight from an old myth, touched by divine aesthetic sensibilities.
The exterior shimmered slightly in the sunlight, as if enchanted to always look pristine. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings—delicate floral patterns woven between depictions of love stories, famous and infamous, each etched with breathtaking precision. Ivy and roses crept up the sides, winding around polished marble columns that framed the entrance, their scent lingering in the warm air.
Percy raps his knuckles against the Aphrodite cabin door, then steps back, waiting with easy patience.
The door swings open—fast, almost recklessly so, as if whoever was inside hadn’t anticipated just how much force they’d used. It nearly smashes against the wall, but before disaster can strike, a small hand shoots out, catching it just in time.
Fletcher, a boy no older than seven, stands in the doorway, wide-eyed and sheepish, his fingers still curled around the edge of the door like he’s bracing for scolding. He glances over his shoulder into the cabin, uncertainty flickering across his face, something hesitant, something cautious. The light spilling from inside is warm, inviting, filled with the quiet hum of conversation, but there’s tension in the air—something that suggests not everything inside is peaceful.
Percy grins, amused by the near mishap but unbothered. “Hey Fletcher,” he greets, his voice easy, familiar, carrying the effortless warmth that comes with knowing someone well. “I heard Drew was here.”
“She doesn’t want to be bothered.” Fletcher leans in slightly, shifting his weight like he’s debating whether or not to even let Percy into this particular battle. Then, in a whisper, he says, ”She’s in a mood today.”
Percy lifts a brow, tilting his head slightly. “What kind of mood?”
Fletcher shakes his head, his expression solemn, like he’s seen things he can never unsee. “The bad kind.”
Percy exhales, then nods, accepting the challenge. “Tell her I’m here, and that she owes me a favor.”
Fletcher straightens, nodding quickly before raising a hand in a dramatic salute, sharp and full of exaggerated energy. Percy snorts at the action, shaking his head in amusement, watching as the kid spins on his heel and darts back inside to deliver the message.
Silence settles between them, stretching for just a moment as Bucky glances into the cabin, eyes sweeping over the space beyond the threshold. He hadn’t stepped inside yet, hadn’t crossed that invisible line between the familiar and the unknown. He’d been to Camp Half-Blood plenty of times, had wandered its paths, had sat beside Percy as he rattled off stories of quests, prophecies, and the occasional near-apocalypse—but even so, there were still corners of this place untouched by him, pieces of Percy’s world that weren’t yet his own.
He’d only seen the inside of a handful of cabins—Poseidon’s, of course, because Percy; Athena’s, after striking up regular conversations with a sharp-eyed kid named Judd, whose love for books rivaled Bucky’s own; Hephaestus’s, because they were absolutely obsessed with his arm, always asking questions about its mechanics, its structure, its potential; and Hades’s, because Nico, Hazel, and him had a habit of drifting into long conversations there, their voices threading through the quiet shadows like they belonged.
Each cabin had carried its own weight, its own atmosphere.
Poseidon’s had smelled like salt and storm, the walls seeming to hum with the pulse of the ocean, a space built for Percy but strangely welcoming to Bucky, too. Athena’s had been packed with books and scrolls, an organized chaos of knowledge, everything perfectly placed but somehow still full of restless energy—like the thoughts inside were constantly shifting, reforming, seeking new angles. Hephaestus’s had felt alive in its own way, the scent of metal and heat wrapping around him, sparks flying, gears clicking, hands always working on something, always creating. And Hades’s—Hades’s had been quiet. Not the suffocating kind, but the steady, grounding kind. Cool air, smooth stone, the weight of history pressed into its walls, Nico and Hazel making it feel less like a space of the dead and more like a place where lost things found purpose again.
Now, standing at the entrance to the Aphrodite cabin, Bucky found himself facing another corner of camp—another space that carried its own presence, its own breath.
Drew emerges from the cabin with all the elegance of someone who knows exactly how much power they wield and is thoroughly unimpressed with the world around them. Her expression is sharp, calculating, but most importantly—annoyed.
She levels Percy with a look, arms crossed, stance exuding impatience. “What do you want desperately enough to call in your favor?”
Percy exhales, already rolling his eyes before he even responds. “James wants a haircut, and I trust you to get it right.”
Drew stares at him, blinking once, slow, deliberate. Then again. The disbelief radiating from her could have melted steel. “That’s such a stupid thing to use your favor for.”
Percy shrugs, entirely unaffected by her judgment. “I don’t really care.”
Drew huffs, shaking her head, muttering something about wasted opportunities before turning her attention to Bucky, finally taking him in properly. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty in her gaze—just assessment, cool and critical, as if deciding exactly what to do with him before he’s even spoken a word.
“I’ll do that for free,” she declares, waving Percy’s favor off like it’s beneath her. “Keep it. Use it on something actually worth my time.”
Drew didn’t spare them another glance, just turned on her heel and strode into the cabin, her movements smooth, effortless, as if she had already dismissed the conversation from her mind. She shot a quick, careless “Come on in” over her shoulder, the words tossed back like an afterthought rather than an invitation.
Stepping inside, the space was immediately arresting—spacious and bathed in soft, natural lighting that somehow always flattered whoever walked through the door. The air carried a warmth that felt intentional, wrapping around them like a carefully curated welcome, the scent subtle but undeniably rich—floral notes mingling with something clean, fresh, shifting ever so slightly as if adjusting itself to best complement their presence.
Silken drapes framed the tall windows, shifting with the breeze, catching the sunlight just enough to send golden ripples across plush seating and the ornate vanities that lined the walls. The room hummed with quiet activity, soft voices drifting from different corners, the space carrying the kind of energy that spoke to transformation—not rushed or frantic, but precise, purposeful.
The mirrors were the most striking part—large, gilded, undeniably enchanted. They didn’t just reflect a person; they seemed to elevate them, subtly enhancing the things that made them unique, radiant. It wasn’t about vanity, about perfection—it was about confidence, about revealing the best version of oneself. The kind of magic that didn’t erase flaws but recontextualized them, turned them into something worth celebrating rather than hiding.
Along one side, shelves stretched high, stacked with beauty products, fabrics, accessories—the tools of self-expression, the means to redefine or reclaim one’s image however one saw fit. Hairbrushes, combs, delicate silver scissors gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers, arranged with the kind of care that suggested ritual rather than routine.
It wasn’t just a place to shape appearances. It was a place that understood beauty in all its forms—not just in polished exteriors but in the quiet art of self-acceptance. The children of Aphrodite didn’t just create attractiveness; they cultivated self-worth, reinforcing the idea that beauty was not a standard to be met, but a truth to be recognized.
Drew strides through the cabin with effortless confidence, weaving past plush seating and gilded mirrors until she stops in front of a section that stands apart from the rest of the opulent space. It’s smaller than a full salon, tucked neatly into one corner, but unmistakably intentional—a space dedicated to transformation.
The setup is pristine. A sleek, high-backed chair sits in the center, positioned in front of a beautifully framed mirror that reflects more than just an image—it refines, enhances, subtly sharpening the details of whoever sits before it. Along the counter beside it, tools are arranged with meticulous care: silver scissors gleaming under the soft glow of a chandelier, combs and brushes lined up like an artist’s carefully curated supplies, bottles of hair treatments and styling products standing in neat rows, their labels elegant, understated.
A hint of perfume lingers in the air—not overwhelming, just enough to add to the ambiance, threading through the space like another layer of carefully cultivated beauty. Soft golden light filters through the draped windows, illuminating everything with a glow that feels warmer, more intimate than the grandiosity of the rest of the cabin. This space wasn’t about indulgence—it was about precision, about crafting identity, about stripping away the old to make room for something new.
Drew turns with a practiced ease, not looking at Bucky. “Sit,” she orders—not unkind, but firm, already slipping into the role of transformationist rather than casual acquaintance. There is no room for hesitation.
Then, shifting her weight, she looks Bucky over once more, eyes narrowing slightly. “What would you like, Barnes?”
It’s not an offer. Not really. It’s more like a challenge—a dare to articulate exactly what he wants, because once he does, Drew will make it happen flawlessly. And if there’s one thing she will not tolerate, it’s indecision.
Bucky holds Drew’s gaze steadily, considering the question—not just the practicality of it, but the weight of what this means, of what he’s choosing to let go.
“Short,” he says finally, voice even, deliberate. “Clean. Nothing fancy.”
Drew exhales sharply through her nose, unimpressed by his lack of specificity. “That tells me absolutely nothing, Barnes.” She tilts her head slightly, eyes scanning his face with careful precision. “Are we talking military short? Casual short? Something with texture? Fade? Layers? Do you want a side part? Or do you not care enough to make a choice, in which case I will make one for you, and you will deal with it?”
Bucky blinks, momentarily thrown by the sheer intensity of the interrogation. Percy snorts, clearly enjoying this far too much.
“Just short,” Bucky repeats, but then, thinking better of it, he exhales, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off some lingering hesitation. “Nothing too extreme. I don’t need a fade or anything. Just enough to not constantly be in my face.”
Drew sighs like this is some great burden, like making a man look effortlessly good is the most exhausting task of her entire life. But then she nods once, decisive. “Fine. Sit down.”
Bucky hesitates—just for a second—but Percy nudges him toward the chair before he can rethink it. “Come on, soldier,” Percy teases lightly. “You’ve faced worse.”
Bucky huffs, shaking his head, but he steps forward, lowering himself into the chair with a quiet exhale. Drew wastes no time—she gathers the tools she needs with expert precision, fingers nimble, movements assured, like she already knows exactly how this is going to turn out.
Percy settles into the space beside him, leaning against the counter, watching with an easy grin. “You’re gonna look good,” he says, confident, like it’s an undeniable fact.
Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s something warm settling in his chest. “Just don’t let her shave my head.”
Drew scoffs, positioning herself behind him. “Please. I have taste.”
And with that, she gets to work.
Bucky’s pretty sure he disassociates while Drew works—her movements swift, precise, the scissors gliding through his hair with effortless ease. He watches absently, his gaze fixed on the mirror, but he’s not really seeing himself. Not really. The reflection feels distant, almost like it belongs to someone else, someone caught mid-transition.
Drew flits around him with the practiced grace of someone who has done this a thousand times before, her expression unreadable but focused, her hands sure, her precision undeniable. She doesn’t waste time, doesn’t hesitate, just moves, weaving through the motions like she’s sculpting rather than cutting, like she’s stripping away something heavier than strands of hair.
And somehow—it’s calming. With every smooth snip, with every lock of hair that falls away, Bucky feels something uncoil inside him. A weight, slow and steady, peeling off his shoulders. The tension that had lingered in his body—not tight, not overwhelming, but always present—starts to ebb, replaced by something quieter. Something lighter.
He exhales, not realizing he had been holding his breath. The mirror reflects the changes in real time, each cut shaping something cleaner, neater, sharper—but it’s more than that. It’s not just a change in style. It’s a reclamation. A choice. And for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky watches his own reflection and doesn’t feel like a stranger is staring back.
Percy had made himself comfortable in the way only he could—utterly unbothered, sprawled across one of the empty bunk beds behind Bucky, limbs loose, draped in lazy ease. He was lounging like he had nowhere to be, like this wasn’t just a casual stop at the Aphrodite cabin but a prime opportunity to nap.
Bucky could see him perfectly in the mirror’s reflection—Percy stretched out, one arm resting behind his head, the other draped across his stomach, his fingers idly tapping against the fabric of his shirt. His eyes weren’t closed, but they were half-lidded, giving the distinct impression that he was seconds away from dozing off if given the chance.
There was something about his presence that made the space feel less clinical, less like Bucky was sitting in the middle of a transformation process and more like he was just… existing. Just being. Percy radiated an easy kind of warmth, the kind that settled into the atmosphere without demanding attention, without intruding.
The strands of hair fell in quiet intervals, drifting down to the floor in soft, weightless curls, but to Bucky, it felt heavier than that—felt like shedding something tangible, something that had clung to him for far too long.
He had let his hair grow out for years, never quite thinking about why, never quite forcing himself to address it. It had been a lingering relic, a leftover piece of someone he wasn’t anymore. A ghost of the Winter Soldier staring back at him every time he caught his reflection, a shadow of something that had once been controlled, weaponized, unrecognizable as anything human.
And now—now he was finally cutting it away. It felt strange, standing still as Drew worked, watching his own face shift in the mirror as she moved around him, scissors gliding effortlessly through dark locks. The weight of it lifted with every cut, and yet, part of him still felt suspended, caught in the space between before and after.
This was the last remnant. The final thing tying him to the version of himself that had existed under HYDRA’s control. He had spent years reclaiming pieces of himself, rebuilding, patching together the parts that had been stolen, but somehow, this—this simple act of cutting his hair—felt like the most deliberate step yet. It was the end of something. An era closing.
And despite everything—despite knowing it was what he wanted, what he had chosen—it still felt odd. Unfamiliar. Because when the last strands finally hit the floor, when he looked up and saw himself—truly saw himself—there would be no excuse, no lingering shreds of the past to justify avoiding it. And that? That was something he wasn’t sure he knew how to deal with. But the scissors kept cutting. The weight kept falling away.
And soon, all that would be left was him. Just him.
Bucky sat still as Drew worked, the rhythmic snip of the scissors threading through the air, precise and deliberate. Each careful cut sent another lock of hair drifting to the floor, soft curls pooling around his boots like remnants of something long shed. It was strange—watching it fall, feeling the weight of it ease. Stranger still was how grounding it was, how it felt like something heavy inside him was slowly, methodically unraveling, stripped away with each careful movement.
Percy had abandoned the bunk somewhere along the way, moving to stand beside him, close but unobtrusive, a steady presence in his periphery. He couldn't see the transformation—not really—but Bucky knew he felt it. Felt the way his breath evened out, felt the subtle shift in his posture, the way the tension that had lingered beneath his skin for too long was finally beginning to settle.
Drew finished with a final, decisive snip, exhaling sharply through her nose before stepping back, surveying her work like an artist admiring a finished canvas. “Done,” she declared, her voice ringing with absolute certainty, as if perfection was an expectation rather than an aspiration. “You’re welcome.”
Bucky lifted a hand, dragging his fingers through his hair, feeling the unfamiliar absence of length, the way it no longer swept into his eyes or curled against his collar. It was strange. Lighter. More his.
Bucky’s hair is short now—clean, sharp, but not severe. It’s cropped just enough to keep it from falling into his eyes, the weight of it gone, but not so short that it looks military. The sides are neatly trimmed, tapering slightly toward the back, while the top holds just enough length for a bit of texture—something he can run his fingers through absentmindedly, something natural, effortless.
It suits him.
The harshness of the Winter Soldier is absent—no more long, unkempt strands shadowing his face, no more curtain to hide behind. Instead, what remains is distinctly him, unburdened, clearer, like he’s no longer wearing someone else’s skin. His jaw looks sharper, his features unobstructed, and when he looks at himself now, there’s nothing left of what he was forced to be.
Just Bucky.
Bucky barely has time to process the shift before Percy is there—close, familiar, warm, grounding. His fingers slip into Bucky’s hair, slow and deliberate, exploring the change with a kind of quiet intensity that makes something tighten deep in Bucky’s chest.
Percy’s touch is careful, reverent, fingertips threading through the newly cut strands like he’s memorizing the shape of it, mapping out what’s different, what’s lighter. He moves without hesitation, without second-guessing, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for despite never having seen it.
Then, his hand drifts lower, his fingers trailing down before settling against Bucky’s jaw, his palm warm where it rests, his thumb brushing soft over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. Bucky exhales, instinct kicking in before thought, and he leans into it—leans into Percy’s presence like it’s second nature, like it’s the most familiar thing in the world.
Percy hums under his breath, something quiet, something pleased, tilting his head slightly before leaning in, his breath fanning warm against Bucky’s skin. Then—soft, steady—he presses a lingering kiss against Bucky’s temple.
“It feels good,” he murmurs, voice quiet but certain, a truth shaped from touch rather than sight, an affirmation meant to be felt rather than simply heard.
And just like that, Bucky felt it—the shift, the certainty, the knowledge that whatever had lingered before, whatever ghosts had clung to him, were finally, irreversibly gone.
Bucky exhales, slow and steady, letting the warmth of the moment settle into him, threading through the spaces that had once felt hollow. The sharp bite of shadow travel, the lingering echoes of cryo, the remnants of too many years spent as someone he hadn’t chosen to be—they all felt muted now. Distant.
Percy stays close, his hand lingering against Bucky’s jaw, thumb still brushing absent-mindedly against his cheek, like he’s tracing the shape of something familiar, something steady. He can’t see the change, but he doesn’t need to—he knows Bucky, knows him beyond sight, beyond appearances.
Bucky shifts slightly, turning into the touch, his own hand lifting to catch Percy’s wrist, not tightly, just enough to anchor the moment. His fingers settle over the pulse point beneath Percy’s skin, feeling the steady rhythm, the quiet assurance that he is here, that this is his.
Percy grins, a little crooked, a little pleased, and though he doesn’t need to, he still asks—soft, teasing, but threaded with something real. “You like it?”
Bucky huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “I think you like it more than I do.”
Percy hums thoughtfully, considering. “That might be true,” he concedes, fingers threading through the shorter strands again, testing the shape, relearning what’s changed. Then, with complete certainty, he adds, “But you do like it.”
Bucky doesn’t argue—not because Percy’s wrong, but because, for once, he doesn’t want to argue. Instead, he lets his grip on Percy’s wrist tighten just slightly, grounding himself in the steady warmth, the familiarity, the quiet intimacy that lingers between them like something known, something safe.
“I do,” he murmurs finally, and the words feel strange but right. Honest in a way he’s still learning to be.
Percy presses another small, fleeting kiss against his jaw, then smirks. “Then we’re keeping it.”
Bucky huffs another laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t protest.
Because, yeah.
They’re keeping it.
Bucky stands, brushing off the stray strands of hair that cling to his shirt, the last remnants of what was just cut away. He glances in the mirror once more, as if to confirm that it’s real—that the weight is truly gone, that the reflection staring back at him is undeniably his.
Percy squeezes his wrist once, a small, fleeting gesture, then turns toward Drew, offering a half-grin. “Thanks, Drew. You did good work.”
Drew scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “Obviously. I don’t do bad work.”
Bucky smirks faintly, shaking his head. “Still. Thanks.”
Drew eyes him for a moment, then gives a small nod, like she’s acknowledging something without actually saying it aloud. “It suits you,” she says simply.
Percy nudges Bucky toward the exit, sensing it’s time to go, and with one last glance at the cabin—at the space that had, for a moment, held something significant—they step out into the afternoon sun.
The air outside is warm despite the season, golden light washing over them, threading between the trees. Bucky lifts a hand, absently running his fingers through his hair again, still adjusting, still settling into this new version of himself.
Percy watches him for a beat, then grins. “Feels different, huh?”
Bucky exhales, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But good.”
Percy hums, pleased, before throwing an arm over Bucky’s shoulder as they walk.
“Then it was worth it.”