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Bucky walked into the bathroom, setting a change of clothes from his closet on a shelf, his eyes avoiding the mirror above the sink.
He got home a bit ago when the sky had darkened after a mission of his own. It didn't go bad, per se, but... The hostages, being scared, scared of him, reminded him of all the people he killed during his time with Hydra.
He always hated being like this, all fidgety, anxious, and nauseated, his gut clenching and unclenching. He felt weak, as if the Winter Soldier was personally coming for him for taking his place.
He took a bath, washing the grime, blood, debris, and dirt that littered his body. His clothes were on the floor, dirty and disgusting. He sat there, like a lifeless doll. The water climbed from his legs to his knees. The water was turning brown; it looked ugly. It was ugly. He closed his eyes, leaning against the edge of the tub.
The water was warm, he knew that. But he still felt so cold. It was something Bucky always felt since falling, the only familiar thing, but the one thing he would like to get rid of.
He only felt cold. Even after the water had reached his arms.
It was so cold.
He finally made a move after what seemed to be hours, grabbing the shampoo and pouring it into his hands, scrubbing his hair. Eventually, he made it to the finish.
When he hopped out of the tub, he continued to ignore the mirror on the wall. He turned his body to the wall, opposite the mirror, wiping all the leftover water off his body with his towel. He still felt cold.
When he finished changing clothes, he still had his back turned from the mirror. Did he want to see himself in the mirror? No, not much
He didn't want to see himself in the mirror, in fear that instead of himself, it was him.
His hair grew since the flagsmashers. It had been a year since. His hair grew longer.
Sam and even Dr. Raynor once said to own his trauma; to overcome a fear, you have to go through it.
He turned around.
His hair was longer, not as long as it was when Steve left, but certainly longer than it was when he fought the flagsmashers. It made him uneasy still, his hair nearly touching his shoulder.
He hates it.
He opened the drawer below the sink, easily locating his scissors in the bare space, Q-tips, a razor, and tissue, the only other things inhabiting the drawer.
He closed the drawer, scissors in hand. His right arm moved up-
"No."
He took another look in the mirror.
The Winter Soldier was behind him. It held his right arm in place.
"What?"
Bucky asked aloud.
"We cannot cut it."
"Why?"
Bucky rebuttaled, his gut clenching.
"We do not have permission."
Bullshit. He is no longer the Winter Soldier. He raised the vibranium arm to his ear, covering it.
"Shut up. It's my hair." He gritted out.
"No. We do not have permission." It repeated.
He shut his eyes, squinting them.
"It is not our choice. We do not have one."
"We do. I have a choice now. Shut up."
A metal hand grabbed his shoulder.
"We cannot cut it."
"SHUT UP!"
The pressure of hands on him was gone. He opened his eyes once more. The Winter Soldier was gone.
Bucky took a deep inhale, and a shaky exhale came. His heart thumped heavily against a chest that did not feel like his. A heart beats in a body that did not feel like it belonged to Bucky.
His hands shook; he felt numb. His fingers still clutch the plastic handle of the scissors. It feels like his eyes are blurring. Was he crying? It was cold
His spiral was cut off when he heard a ring outside the bathroom door that he recognized coming from his phone.
He slowly exited the bathroom, scissors still in hand. He scavenged for the bag he had brought on the mission. Once he found the bag left near his front door, he knelt to take his phone out of the bag with a shaking metal arm. His eyes blurred, but he could recognize the caller's profile picture anytime.
He picked up the phone.
"Hey, Buck, you weren't answering any of my messages. You're not ghosting me again, are you, cyborg?" A loud voice came from his phone. There was wind in his audio, too.
"Hi, Sam." He managed to let out, sounding tired and wet. He couldn't hide much from Sam nowadays, even if he wanted to.
"Buck? Is everything alright?"
"I-" He tried, his throat felt clogged, like a hand was choking him, like a metal arm-
"Hey, did the mission not go well?" Sam asked with concern. Wind was still blowing into his mic. Was he outside?
"No. It- it went fine." He gritted out, Why was it so hard to speak?
"I'm in the air right now, DC's too far though -" oh, that's why he heard the wind. "Can I crash over at your place?"
"Yeah- yeah, sure." He managed. Sam always knew he needed him, whether he said it out loud or not.
"Alright, don't like, die on me, 'kay? See you in a bit." Sam teased, with concern edging his tone, letting Bucky whisper goodbye before the call ended.
He knelt there, his metal arm shaking less, but still trembling horribly. He carefully got up and placed the phone on the counter in his kitchen.
At some point, he had walked back into the bathroom, leaning against the wall that faced the mirror.
He hated his hair. he wanted to chop it all off. He felt too much like the Winter Soldier. Too much, too much -
A knock snapped him out of his haze. He made no move to open the door. Sam has the key to his apartment. He can open it himself.
He heard a muffled "Bucky?" outside. He did not open the door. Then he heard the jingle of keys and the sound of the door unlocking and opening.
Bucky thought he heard Sam calling out his name, searching for him. And knowing Sam, he probably was. But he just couldn't bring himself to respond or to give him a sign.
It only took a couple more minutes till Sam opened the bathroom door and found him on the floor. (When did Bucky sit on the floor again?)
"Buck? Hey, is everything alright?" Sam asks, with so much concern and care, and Bucky wanted to reach out. But he was so tired.
"T'red," Bucky whispered. Sam crouched down with him, sitting right beside him on the cold bathroom floor.
"What's with the scissors?" The younger man asked. He... Bucky forgot he still had them in his hand.
"Mm." He forced out. Sam still looked at him with so much worry and care-
"I mean, it is late, no? Wanna head to bed right now? You could use the sleep, y'know. You look dead on your feet right now. No offense." He felt a hand on his shoulder - Sam's warm, soft hand, not the pressuring hand of the Winter Soldier - and suppressed a flinch, but Sam still noticed because, of course, he always noticed, letting go of him as much as Bucky wanted Sam near him.
He shook his head. He could tell Sam was confused, but he was still so patient.
They were silent for a while. Bucky thought Sam would have felt unnerved by now, that he would walk away.
Sam still didn't.
"I... I want to uhm..." He tried, his nerves flaring, feeling bile against his throat, but not quite close enough to make it out of his mouth. His hands were shaking again.
Sam took his hand.
"It's okay, Buck. Take your time." Sam said. His eyes showed so much care, Bucky might as well just explode with all the affection Sam had openly gifted him.
Even then, Bucky still couldn't speak without his heart lurching out of his guts. He lets go of Sam's hand that was intertwined with his right hand and grabs a lock of hair. From there, he sets the scissors down beside him and measures a bit of it with his now unoccupied vibranium hand.
"Too long." He managed. Of course, Sam quickly understood and nodded, getting up and grabbing the scissors.
They set up the bathroom for an impromptu haircut, sitting on the bathtub floor while Sam sat above him on the edge, a pair of scissors and a razor in case to the side of Sam.
"How short do you want it to be, Buck?" Sam asked. Bucky estimated just below his chin — just a trim.
Sam got to work. The sounds of scissors echoed in the bathroom.
When Bucky came back to reality, his hair was shorter. He had zoned out the entire time.
"Hey, Cyborg. Welcome back to the land of the living. Where'd ya go?" Sam teased lightly, Bucky chuckled lightly and raspily along with him.
"Dunno, guess the exhaustion is finally hitting," Bucky said, and if on queue, he yawned.
Sam nodded, helping him out of the bathtub. They can clean up the mess of hair in the morning when they wake up.
The two opened the bathroom door, leading to the bedroom. He tried to turn to the right, where the living room was, but Sam stopped him, grabbing his bicep.
"Where are you going?" Sam asked.
"To the couch," Bucky responded.
Sam shook his head. "No, you aren't. Bed, now." Sam said, "No arguments."
Bucky just let him; he was too tired to fight back anyway. Sam dragged him towards the bed, as Bucky himself threw himself on the bed. It was soft against his skin; it felt so strange.
He didn't even realize the dip beside him, only noticing when a hand grabbed his own.
"What's in your cyborg head right now?" Sam asked so gently and so caring that Bucky couldn't handle it ever again.
"Truly? Nothing. I'm..." He trailed off. "I'm just tired."
Sam only nodded. "What can I do?"
Bucky thinks Sam has done so much for him that he'd have no way to pay him back. He must have been silent for way too long, because all of a sudden, he felt Sam's arms around him. Strong, protective.
"Go rest, Buck. I'm right here. You're not alone."
And Bucky couldn't help but believe him.
And that's how they slept soundly.
Bucky hadn't slept more peacefully than in Sam's arms and wings.