May, 2014.

Somewhere in the Northern Atlantic.

After the first two days at sea, I knew Bucky was going stir-crazy. Although Ian knew the captain well enough to convince him to let two stowaways of questionable motive board the boat, the rest of the crew had little to no information about us. Bucky was stuck in our cabin when the crew was at work, meaning that I fetched our meals three times a day and snuck him to the upper decks whenever possible.

I carried two covered trays back to our room from the galley. The food was a step above black market MREs. Most of it wasn't rehydrated, although I was slightly nervous to eat the scrambled eggs. Balancing a bottle each of orange and apple juice and two half-pint cartons of milk on top of the trays, I made it to our door without seeing a single crew member.

"Hey, it's me," I announced. I knocked on the door with the toe of my boot since my hands were full. There wasn't an answer. "I'm coming in."

I opened the door easily, thankful Bucky hadn't barred it shut with a chair again. He wasn't in bed, and I didn't hear him in the bathroom. I sat down our breakfast on the folding table and turned the corner. And there was Bucky. He looked queasy. Elbows on his knees, and his head cradled delicately in his hands. He was seasick.

"You want something?" I offered. He didn't look up.

"Like what?"

"Dramamine. It'll knock you out, but at least you won't be seasick," I told him. I crossed the room to the locker in between the wall and the foot of the stacked bunks. My backpack was still in the floor under the table, but my extensive first-aid kit was tucked away for the journey. I took the canister of motion sickness tablets out and shook it gently.

"I'm not seasick," he argued weakly. "And I don't want you drugging me."

"You trust me to get your food, but not to give you over the counter motion sickness pills?" I asked. "Come on, if I wanted to poison you, I've had plenty of opportunities. You're still here, aren't you?"

He slowly raised his head, and I could see just how pale he was. I took the top tray of food and held it out for him, the bottle of poor man's sleeping pills on top.

"Eat something, drink something, take something. In that order," I told him. He took the tray and did as I said without a word. I sat down at the table and uncovered my own tray. I watched as he yawned and remembered him sitting in front of the door half the night. I took over at four a.m. after realizing he was standing watch. "Not sleeping much last night probably didn't help you."

Bucky ignored my scolding and went on eating. He ate like a soldier. I doubted he tasted anything on the plate in front of him. He simply moved the food from tray to mouth, one fork or spoon full at a time, until it was gone. It made me wonder what meals had been like for him in the past. Something cold and gray practically thrown at him once a day? Soviet rations while on a mission? Even though I had forced him back into the habit of at least two meals a day, he still shoveled them down.

"Can I ask how you got from army to SHIELD?"

I was rarely surprised, but Bucky initiating conversation was a big shock. I immediately swallowed the food in my mouth to answer.

"I had a particularly rough few weeks in Iraq and went to my CO about getting out when I got home. I wasn't hoping to get into another government agency, but this guy named Clint Barton showed up on base and offered me a job," I explained. "It sounded insane, but I did it."

He took in the new information and cracked open his orange juice. No matter what was put in front of him, he always finished his meal in ten minutes or less. I had broken that habit eventually, but not until after graduating from SHIELD Academy and starting more covert missions.

"So, I think I'm going to cut my hair," I announced. Bucky peered up at me through the hair covering his eyes. There was little chance he cared, but I kept talking anyway. "I've never liked to keep it very long, and if I have to dye it then I'd prefer there be less to work with. What do you think? Collarbone length or chin?"

He just stared at me. I cocked my head to the side, begging him to answer.

"Do you really want my opinion?" he asked. I nodded. "I have no idea."

"I think I'll just split the difference," I decided. "You should do something with yours too. Everyone knows the Winter Soldier with long hair and a major five o'clock shadow. If you changed that, you'd be unrecognizable."

He mulled over my advice quietly. I watched with a smirk as he rubbed his scruffy chin and even played with the ends of his hair.

"No, it's fine," he told me. He tossed his hair out of his eyes, only to have it fall right back in his face.

"Would you like a hair tie?"

"I wouldn't be able to use it," he admitted. "I don't know how you do a ponytail."

It was only after I split my sides did I realize it might have been rude to laugh so hard. I pushed my tray out of the way and stood up.

"Alright, come here," I told him. He followed me into the bathroom and knelt where I pointed. "It's not that hard."

"I'm trusting you," he said. I smiled at him in thanks and went to work.

Bucky watched my reflection while I tried to gently pull his hair back. He looked somewhat nervous to be in such a strange position, but he didn't say a word. Admittedly, playing with Bucky's hair was nice. He had taken a shower the night before, and it was surprisingly soft. Once it was tied into a small bun on the crown of his head, he examined my work in the mirror.

"Would it look weird if I shaved?" he checked. The Bucky of the 1940's was showing through as he rubbed the stubble on his chin.

"It would make your features a little sharper. Probably screw with facial recognition software," I babbled. That obviously wasn't the answer he wanted. "I think long hair looks better with a little bit of scruff. Short hair looks good with or without facial hair."

"You're not cutting my hair," he declared. He left the tiny bathroom and took a seat on my bunk.

"Not to be captain obvious or anything, but I don't think your old barber will be able to fit you in anytime soon. He's probably dead," I reminded him. He stared at me accusatorily, and I struggled not to laugh again. He had adjusted fairly quickly to my lack of filter and somewhat cynical sense of humor. There was no way he's survive any length of time with me if he couldn't handle those.

*

Author's Note:

We've now passed 100 reads for this story! I owe a big thank you to everyone who's read and voted. I really appreciate it.