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“Oh who's a good Soldier?” a hand scrunches in the Soldier’s hair, yanking down so his face is pointed up. He looks at the face of one of his handlers, a regular. His dark piercing stare matches his lewd smirk as leant down, the handler's hair short, out of reach, not long enough to be tugged like the Soldier’s is.
“That’s it Soldier, take it like a good… Soldier.” he feels like a pervert. He feels like a dog. He feels like a hooker. The man's hand is still in his hair. They’ve been locked in this facility for a many number of months, and with a lack of women employed, the handlers find having a Soldier who can’t say no to orders works just as well as a woman.
“On your knees.” he commanded. The Soldier fell to his knees, unable to resist a direct order. The hand in his hair still directed his gaze upwards but with a sharp tug he was forced to face forward, looking at the man's exposed groin.
“Take it.” The Soldier’s mouth opened as he was pulled forward by his hair, the shoulder length locks the perfect handle for the man to control the rate in which the Soldier fucked him.
~~~
Bucky awoke with a start, his metal arm immediately clamping his own mouth shut, preventing any noise escaping. However, this did not help him control his breathing, it remained laboured as he sat up. His flesh hand was clammy, his body vibrating from the come down of adrenaline. He was sweating, his hair sticking to his hairline and cheeks as his hair, his too long hair clamped to his skin.
He wobbly, pathetically wobbly, as he stood. Through feeling his way around the room rather than using his vision, he gets to the mirror planted above the chestnut chest of drawers. The mirror showed Bucky a version of him that resembled the Soldier too much. The sweat that clung to his skin resembled greatly the sweaty, post-mission Soldier. Paired with the glassy eyes of when the Soldier regained some consciousness after time out of the ice and the hair, the long hair so easily grabbed it was as though Bucky was looking at the Soldier.
Bucky is the Soldier. Bucky was the Soldier.
Bucky has no idea who he is.
Without a second thought, Bucky tugged at his hair with his metal arm, tufts coming out unevenly. He held his own ripped out hair in his hand, the dark contrasting the silver of his hand. He dumps the hair onto the chest of drawers and rips out more and more and more.
He looks disgusting. He looks awful. Tufts of hair litter the sides of his head, the top largely untouched, bald patches however do begin to become obvious. He is undesirable. He can not be grabbed.
He stares at himself, seeing a version of Bucky that the old memories of him would hate to stare upon, but now he looks nothing like the Soldier. He cannot be tugged by his hair.
Bucky finds his way to the gym. It's not a fully conscious decision, he just finds his legs leading him out of the bedroom and towards his intended destination, which is luckily unlocked at all hours. He looks ridiculous and couldn’t be seen but at this hour? He could punch the shit out of a bag until it broke and then work through some more. Afterall, Steve had given him a supply.
His route was, however, interrupted just paces from his destination by the sound of Clint Barton.
“Couldnt sleep either?” The question, so casual, was spoken by a man doing an impressive amount of pull ups in a tank top that showed off his very impressive arms and rose just enough to tease his abs similar to that of a Greek God. If Bucky wasn’t near mental breakdown, he would blush from seeing Clint look so impressive and so ridiculously hot.
Instead, Bucky froze like a deer in headlights. He watched, unable to move or speak as the blonde faltered and dropped from the bar, his gaze sweeping over Bucky’s hair before searching his face. His blue eyes filled with concern, not judgement and that may kill bucky more. How can he not judge him? The seat still clung to him, likely making his smell, his hair bald or tufted, the look of scared lamb in his eyes.
“I always make things worse.” Oh shit Bucky’s voice is hoarse. Too hoarse. He sounds like he’s been crying, even more pathetic. He doesn't even know what he's talking about, is he talking about their friendship, believing being caught like this will ruin it? Is he talking about how he made his hair worse? A different thing? Bucky doesn't know, he just knows he looks pathetic.
“Oh Buck,” his voice is soft as silk and he takes a step forward, “is your hair too long? Do you want it short?”
Bucky nodded.
“Alright, come on, I can cut it nice, I’ll keep it short but tidy.”
“You can cut hair?” His voice is low, whispered in a weak attempt to stop Clint from hearing the hoarseness.
Clint nods, a slightly nostalgic look on his face. “One of the few good things I learnt as a Carnie.” He paused then added, “come to my room, I have the stuff in my bathroom.”
Once again Bucky nodded. Clint lightly rested his hand on the spine of Bucky’s back triggering a shiver to run up it. Unfortunately, Clint felt the shiver and removed his hand, taking it as a bad sign when really it was a silent plea for him to never remove it. But the thing about silent pleas is that Bucky will not use words to confirm it, instead he let Clint withdraw his hand.
They walked up the stairs side by side and down the corridor together, Clint guiding but Bucky didn't really need it, he knew exactly which room was Clint’s. Upon entering said room he was overcome with the messy nature of the room. It was to be expected really; he counts 17 coffee mugs, three of the same shirt thrown on the floor, two sweatpants with their drawstrings discarded elsewhere and purple. So much purple. Bucky loved it. He loved this look into Clint’s brain, the fact it looks messy but the organised files in the corner of the room, the neatly lined up trinkets on a shelf and his bow and arrows placed with precision on the wall showing he puts care into important things, even if the rest of him is a mess.
Clint nudges Bucky towards the en suite bathroom and plunges it into a bright fluorescent light. He sits Bucky down on the edge of the bathtub without much force, like he is allowing Bucky the autonomy to sit himself. He sits and watches.
Clint, still dressed in his work out clothes in which the sweat makes the tank top hug his back muscles, refined from years of archery. He pulls an electric razor from his medicine cabinet, followed by a pair of scissors from the drawer under the sink. As Clint turns he smiles reassuringly at Bucky. It's got his quiet goofiness to it which puts Bucky more at ease then Clint realises.
Are you happy seeing the mirror? It just means you can tell me if you hate what I'm doing.”
Bucky nods.
“Great!” Clint responds before climbing into the bathtub behind Bucky, Bucky watching through the mirror as he sees Clint’s eyes travel over his hair. “I’m thinking of shaving the sides down, not so it's completely shaved, just shorter than the hair on top?”
He’s asking for input. Bucky didn't expect that, he didn't expect that Clint would dare ask instead of just doing what he deemed fit. Bucky just nodded, not trusting his own words but trusting Clint.
Clint nods in return, making eye contact through the mirror. “I’m going to cut these tufts down.” he explains, making sure Bucky understands exactly what he’s doing as he does it.
Clint, unable to ever keep his mouth shut, starts talking. Bucky doesn't mind it, quite the opposite, he's glad of his ramblings filling the silence. “You know, I do understand the whole not wanting to have your hair long, it reminds you of something you don't like? I get that. This isn't the same level but I refuse to wear hand gear. It's good for my hands, in fact it's necessary for archery but the Circus always forced them on my hands when I didn't want to perform. So now I don’t wear them.”
Bucky can’t find a reply to that.
Clint pulls a comb out his back pocket, Bucky doesn't know when he grabbed it, showing either a fault in his abilities or shows how great a spy Clint is. He goes with the latter as Clint gently combs through the tufts, forcing them to cover any bald patches that had occurred. Clint styled it and Bucky still felt it looked ridiculous, some parts longer than others but he stays quiet.
“I’m going to cut now.” Clint explains, getting out the scissors and measuring his hair between his fingers before snipping with precision that Bucky recognised from his barber back from before.
Bucky went to make a comment but instead Clint spoke, “I know I’m not Steve. I know I’m not Natasha or Sam but you can talk to me. If things get difficult with those three. Steve knows you as the person you were before, Sam and Natasha as the Soldier. I know you as this new Bucky. I will be willing to listen to you and have no other information, no point of comparison”
“Thank you” Bucky whispers, he doesn't know if he's heard based on Clint’s lack of response. He does however recognise Clint’s concentration so does not try and distract him, particularly as his throat once again feels dry.
“I was once under mind control. I suppose you may know, and I know it is not on the same scale as you, but under Loki’s control I-” His voice breaks, “I hurt someone, killed someone very close to me while hurting many more. I was on the wrong side and I couldn't stop it. I understand at least partially what you have been through.”
Bucky knew, of course he did, but hearing it from Clint’s lips, hearing the vulnerability fill each word, the guilt and grief overpowering his words as he spoke of the death of Agent Coulson. Bucky believed him. Bucky believed he understood the guilt that came with murder you could not control.
“Thank you.” Bucky responded once more, a touch louder and more vulnerable, his voice scratchy in his own ears. Clint nodded his head, eyes trained on Bucky’s hair still but acknowledging Bucky’s thanks.
“I’m going to move onto the razor.” Clint states, and this time he works in silence, trimming the hair down as the mechanical buzz fills the air. Bucky misses Clint’s voice.
“The first guy's hair I cut was Barney’s. He’s my brother. Was.. He was my brother. He liked his hair, he got enough compliments that people asked who cut it, and soon the whole troop was coming to me. I was better with men’s hair, but then again I’m not very good in the women's department, I prefer men.”
Was Clint ensuring that Bucky knew he was gay? No, Bucky was wishful thinking.
“Although, since meeting Natasha I have become great at doing braids, I do hers more often than not. I also help her dye her hair, she’s done some fun colours, but only ever semi-perminant, says the ginger makes her the Black Widow. I don't argue with her, I value my balls too much.”
Bucky smirked, holding back a small chuckle that threatened to escape, and when he noticed Clint also smirking, chuckling to himself, Bucky allowed a small snort to slip through his lips.
“And voila!” Clint pulled back, having finished while Bucky was focused on how much he wanted to kiss that smirk he saw through that mirror. His thoughts have now quickly been pulled from his imagination to the mirror, looking at his reflection.
Here he is, Bucky. He is sporting a look that looks like him, he sees less of the Soldier staring back at him, he sees Bucky. His hand comes up and he attempts to grab his own hair but his fingers don't have much to grab onto, Clint’s cut made his hair too short to be grabbed, no tugging.
His hair wasn't a point of control for anyone else to use him anymore.
“Do you like it?”
Bucky stares for a bit longer, fingers measuring the length of the hair he has left. “It’s me.” Bucky whispers in a way of an answer.
“I’ll always help you find you, Buck.” Bucky turns and sees Clint is looking at him through the mirror anymore, instead Clint is sat beside him, his beautiful blue eyes looking directly into his own.
Bucky’s brain stopped to process thoughts. This time not because he was being controlled, instead because all he could think about was Clint’s lips.
So Bucky did the only action he saw as reasonable. He kissed Clint.
It was rough but very quickly turned gentle, unsure. He went in too fast and caught himself, self conscious of whether Clint wanted this or not. Oh God, was he as bad as the handlers, he didn't ask permission to kiss Clint, he just did it, exactly like how the handlers never asked Bucky to do anything, they just forced him. Bucky pulled back, skin going pale with regret but before he could go more than inch away, Clint’s hand was cupping Bucky’s jaw, lips meeting once more, gently, discovering one another.
Clint’s extra hand covered Bucky’s flesh hand while his other continued to cup Bucky’s jaw, never straying to his hair and allowing Bucky’s left hand to clutch the bath tub, keeping him upright.
“You kiss all your clients?” Bucky whispered against his lips, a hint of tease and flirt he hadnt used in years coming back, causing Clint to smirk.
“Only you. And just so you know, I'm always available, haircut, chats, grilled cheese or a kiss.”
“The latter. Definitely the latter.”