June, 2014.

South of Aberdeen, Scotland, United Kingdom.

"That's it, I'm cutting my hair," I announced. I puffed a chest full out, trying to blow my hair out of my face, but it failed miserably. My hands were soaked with dishwater, and Bucky wasn't the type to initiate physical contact. I was on my own.

"Good luck," Bucky mumbled halfheartedly. I gave up on the dishes in the sink and pulled the drain stop out. As the water level sank, I dried my hands on a towel nearby and watched Bucky poking and prodding a toaster oven.

"You're very encouraging," I said sarcastically. I came closer to his workspace on the kitchen table, but I didn't dare interrupt him. Bucky had a knack for taking things apart and putting them back together in proper working order. It was his way of making a little money, although I was the front man for his operation. His face was still too well known.

"Did Irene give you this?" he asked, staring at the toaster with an angry glare.

"Yes. Why?"

"I think she cut a wire in it on purpose," he muttered.

"She's a lonely, middle aged woman with a mysterious handyman. Her imagination is probably running wild," I insinuated. He shook his head and continued meddling. I left the living room and went to the bathroom.

I grabbed the pair of kitchen scissors I had left on the vanity counter in hopes of encouraging myself. Needless to say, the sudden heat wave and ocean-fed humidity were far more persuasive than my psychological tricks. With my hair let out of its ponytail, I began planning. I had cut my own hair before, but I had never cut it as short as I was hoping for now. And Bucky wasn't the same kind of willing help as some of my previous partners had been.

After a deep breath I aligned my finger with my collarbone and made a few careful snips. I repeated the action on the other side, then began moving behind my head. It was easier to close my eyes and simply feel for the ends of my hair then stare at myself in the mirror. When I stopped halfway through to check my work, I saw Bucky watching from the bedroom.

"How am I doing?" I asked nervously. I used a hand mirror and turned my back on the mirror to see for myself. It was a surprisingly straight line.

"Looks fine," Bucky confirmed. I kept my back to the vanity as I finished trimming to collarbone length. When it was done, I decided to go just an inch shorter. Bucky stayed to watch, seemingly entranced.

After a few more minutes, I sat the scissors back down on the counter and ran my hands through my hair. I was perfectly happy to admit I did a good job.

"That feels so much better," I moaned happily. Bucky was even smiling at me a little from his place leaning against the door frame.

"Will you do mine?" he asked, the smile shrinking. "It's hot."

He said it as a fact, not a complaint.

"Sure. Go get a chair from the kitchen and bring it in here," I said. He left the doorway, and I realized how big of a mess I had made. "Bring me a broom while you're at it!"

Bucky came back a couple minutes later with a chair in one hand and the broom in the other. He passed me the broom, and I couldn't help but notice the dents his fingers left on the metal handle. I kept my mouth shut as Bucky positioned the chair and sat down on it backwards.

"How short?" I checked.

"However short you want," he gave in.

Cutting a man's hair to a reasonably fashionable length was difficult with nothing but a pair of kitchen shears. Bucky sat patiently while I did the best I could.

Old pictures of soldiers and sailors from the 1940's came to mind as I worked. There had been so many in the archives at the Smithsonian, and I had seen them all. I did my best to imitate them.

"I'm glad you trust me, Bucky."

"I wouldn't have done this well without you," he admitted. I brushed the hair off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He tilted his chin up to see his reflection.

"How'd I do?"

He considered himself very seriously, turning his head to and fro and rubbing his chin the same way he had on the boat.

"Maybe not as good as my dead barber, but not too bad," he declared dryly. I watched, slack jawed, as he left the bathroom after saying thank you.

"I'll be damned," I whispered to myself. "His sense of humor is coming back."

I began sweeping up the hair that had fallen in the floor, and Bucky came back into the room. He stepped around me and up to the bathroom sink. I stopped sweeping as he unpacked a small black bag. A modern razor, travel sized can of Barbasol, and replacement blades.

I imagined the process was like déjà vu for him. At one point in his life he probably shaved every morning, but the tools he was using had changed.

"You're staring," he pointed out. He leaned into the countertop to get closer to the mirror and tilted his chin up and to the side. Even covered in shaving cream, the angle made his jawline more defined.

"You're shaving," I said. He laid the razor against his neck and ran it upwards carefully.

"I do this every now and then. Usually when you're working," he told me. He rinsed the razor and started again. "Shave in the morning, and I've got stubble by the time you're home."

"Why not when I'm here?"

He paused to rinse the blade again and planned his next stroke.

"I don't know. It just fit into the routine," he said. He positioned the razor right in front of his left ear and traced a path down his jaw. I finished my sweeping while he finished his shaving. When he was done, he bowed his head over the sink and rinsed his face. I tried not to stare as he dried off. The only times I remembered seeing Bucky without any sort of facial hair was during my research working at the Smithsonian. All I had seen were out of focus, sepia-tone pictures from his service record and a lone segment of black and white film.

"You look good all clean cut and clean shaved," I told him. He repacked his shaving kit and dried off the countertop. "You really do look different. Just like I told you."

"Good different or bad?"

"Neither. Just different," I answered. He examined his reflection, rubbing his jaw and cheeks. Every day, I saw a little more of the Winter Soldier disappear. I hoped Bucky could see it now too.

*

Author's Note:

I think Bucky would appreciate a hair cut after seventy-something years of what can only be a dictatorship ruling over those sort of things. Plus, clean cut Bucky is a hell of a throw back.