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Every photo of Bucky before was a different person.
Showed Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th. A Howling Commando. Captain America’s right-hand man. Steve Rogers’ best friend since they were eight. Bucky Barnes.
When he looked in his cracked reflection, he did not see the same Bucky from the 40s. That man was dead, and the Bucky of today… didn’t match up to him.
He only had bits and pieces of that person now, scraps that came from dreams and awful flashes of images in his head that still haunted him almost two years after Insight. He’d look at those photos, the Smithsonian's records shoved between the pages of his journal, and see a different man.
His name is Bucky.
Steve believed it, with an unreasonable amount of faith, but it was a tentative name he'd chosen to call himself — an asterisk at the end. Because he didn’t want to be the Soldier, but he sure as hell didn’t feel like James Barnes.
He avoided mirrors most of the time, not wanting to look and potentially see somebody else. He shaved his patchy stubble off once and just… got lost in his head for a moment, didn’t know what to do after.
So, he thought about doing it out of something closer to curiosity than necessity. Pulled his hair back and stared at his reflection, trying to see a different face.
Sometimes it reminded him of the Soldier.
His hair's grown past his shoulders again. It'd been months since he hid himself in the bathroom and hacked a few inches off with a knife. He’d started wearing a hair tie around his wrist, and kept finding spare ones in his pockets.
He doesn't mind it most days, couldn't care less about throwing it up in a messy tail, and going about his day. Brush it out with his fingers in the morning and attempt to smooth out the frizz when it dries. And, it was useful in some cases. He could change it however he needed, and it protected his neck from the chill that constantly ran down his spine. Gave him something to hide behind in those paranoid moments when he kept looking over his shoulder.
He’d like to avoid another shattered mirror.
He didn’t actually own any trimmers. Always made do with a pair of cheap safety scissors (a huge upgrade from the knives) and eyeballing it. But he’d met a kind Bulgarian woman, who spoke with a heavy accent and absolutely bawled at all his 'split ends,' leaving him with some good-natured, if not unwanted, advice.
He’d gotten a dedicated pair of scissors for the bathroom after that, because if it was really that noticeable, he needed to do something about it.
The classic military cut was short, and Sergeant Barnes had worn it perfectly.
Bucky’s never cut higher than his chin.
First time for everything, he supposed?
But… not now.
He’s had a pretty good day so far, and he didn’t want to turn it into a shitty one because he started feeling nostalgic.
He wet it first, ran his head under the shower spray, because it was easier for him to cut the clumped-up strands, and took large pieces between his fingers, snipping at the ends.
He only took a few inches, leveling everything out below his jaw.
The metal hand was clumsy around the handles, but he managed. The back was a little awkward, but he’s had practice now, and he thinks he did all this himself before. Trimmed it all short and presentable. Perhaps it was all muscle memory coming back?
That was fine, as long as he could look at his reflection and see Bucky.
His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is no longer the Winter Soldier.
He's not… Can't be.
Not anymore — the Soldier is gone, he's gone, Steve killed him. He died. Just like…
He couldn't look at himself. Had been avoiding every reflective surface in the apartment.
He had to use the kitchen scissors because that was all he had. They wouldn't let him have knives or guns, wouldn't let him arm himself to keep himself safe from—
You don't need to do that anymore. They'd say.
Yes I do you don't understand— He wishes he could scream, but they'd lock him away if he did that.
His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was Sergeant Barnes of the 107th. Sergeant Barnes wore his hair to code. Short and uniform.
He needed it gone. All of it. Needed to prove that he was Bucky Barnes, not some… thing wearing his skin, an imposter that took the name, and his home, and Steve.
Long clumps fell into the sink, slipping down the drain — because it was easier to cut when it was wet.
He was afraid to look, to see the change, not seeing who he wanted — needed to be.
He didn't look. Couldn't. Was too ashamed to stare at his reflection and see the absolute mess he'd twisted himself into. It still didn't feel like enough. Felt so wrong, but he didn't even know what anymore.
He'd fix it later. Find some way to make it better. He had too.
He couldn't live like this.
"You cut your hair?"
Bucky didn't respond, just continued to stare.
Sam stared back, fiddling with his gloves. "It looks good." He said anyway, and sounded like he meant it.
Bucky didn't know what to do with that. "Thanks." He supposed.
"Any reason for it or?" Sam trailed off, open-ended. He seemed curious, no judgment in his gaze, despite everything.
Bucky wasn't exactly… friendly. Not anymore.
He shrugged, "Needed a change."