A/N: I got this idea while my friends and I were talking about Age of Ultron and Captain America: Civil War. There was a lot of talking about the future of Steve and Bucky and how the next movies would go down. This does potentially have spoilers as part of this is based off of the comics; however, since I am not the screenwriters I wouldn't know. I hope you all enjoy!

Disclaimer: Disney, Marvel, I don't know

To Stand in Another Man's Shadow
It's hard to say goodbye, but someone had to continue his legacy. How a simple haircut can change so much.
He looked in the mirror and took a deep breath. In theory, there were two ways to go about this: cut his hair and then shave off the rest until it was what it used to be or not risk using the foreign object and just cut it.

He stuck with scissors.

The first cut was the hardest, admitting he was doing this and only he alone could. The second one let go his guilt for not being there in time. The third was for watching in the shadows when he should have been in the front. The fourth was for the job he was about to do. The fifth was for about what this job required him to do now and for the rest of his life.
He looked in the mirror and was taken aback at the way he looked. The long locks were gone; useless chunks now on the bathroom floor. The man staring back at him was eerily similar to the man he used to be, but he knew he could never fully be that man again. And he knew now he never could.
Grabbing a comb and a smaller, neater pair of scissors he preceded to refine the cut. Making it look less like he attacked it with safety scissors and more like he actually went to the barber like he was told to do.
Snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip
Small pieces of hair came away, floating down and landing on his shoulders and the floor. He carefully cut, not wanting to make a wrong movement. He sat the scissors down and the man he saw in the mirror looked like the man he knew a long time ago. Satisfied with his work he stepped into the shower to scrub the loose hair out. He watched as strands swirled down the drain. He scrubbed harder and harder, scrubbing away the last three days. Scrubbing away the pain.
He stepped out of the shower and was cocooned in steam before wrapping a towel back around his waist. He ran his hands down his face and felt the prickles of stubble for what would be the last time for a long time. He grabbed shaving cream and slathered it on his face before picking up the razor, looking small in his hands, and cleared creamed covered paths across his face. The motion taking away the man he was and adding on a layer of the man he would be. He splashed water on his face removing the last remnants of cream, running his fingers over his smooth jaw.
He left the bathroom and entered his room where it all sat. New and gleaming it showed his face in a distorted red, white, and blue. He ran his hands over the new and foreign gear; the last hurdle he had to cross. He decided to look at the weapons on his bed, as they had not changed. Two handguns, one for each holster, a sniper rifle, a belt full of hand grenades, a knife, and it. He wasn't going to look at it or even dare touch it.

Not yet.
He grabbed the thick, rough, but somehow still soft, combat pants and slipped them on.
He gripped the shirt part of his gear and examined it closely. It was similar to what he was used to, but had changed since he last saw it. He tugged it over his head and slipped his right arm through the sleeve. The left was a little harder, but he managed to get everything adjusted.
He tucked the ends of the shirt into his pants and zipped and buttoned them before strapping on his holsters and the belt full of hand grenades to prevent his shirt from catching on anything.
He sat on his bed and picked up a combat boot and shoved a foot into it. He laced it up with ease before repeating the process with his other foot. Each boot going up to almost mid calf to protect him from injury.
Next he picked up the straps that would hold his sniper rifle and it when he wasn't using them. He flipped the straps over his shoulders and buckled them together before slinging his rifle on to his back.
He snatched the short, dark brown leather gloves off of his nightstand and slipped them on. He flexed his left hand, making sure it could easily move in the new confined space.
He snagged the knife from off the bed and slipped it into a zippered compartment in his combat pants, perfectly in reach if necessary.
He had to choose between his helmet and it. Deciding which one would cause him more pain. He chose the helmet and placed it on his head, slowly clicking the strap into place. Rubbing against his new smooth skin. He felt the weight of the mask on his skin, something he wasn't used to feeling, but was all too familiar with. He checked to make sure he could see and that it didn't prohibit his sight.
Now it was time. For it. He looked at it with familiarity and grief. It gleamed in the light casted from the ceiling, reflecting everything that touched it. There was no way to make a new one, not in this time frame, and maybe not for a while. The paint had chipped from multiple impacts whether it was from enemies, buildings or from being strapped on an off. Bullet holes couldn't dent it, but their grazes left trail marks riddling the surface. With tentative fingers he flipped it over and grabbed the strap attached on the inside. By doing so he fully accepted his task.
He had avoided looking at himself the entire time he had been getting ready, but now he wanted to see what he looked like. To see if he looked like him.
He approached his mirror almost like it could reach out and bite him. With a deep sigh and closed eyes he stood in front of the mirror. He mentally counted to three before opening his eyes.
He saw red, white and blue.
Red, white, and blue.
Red, white, and blue.
He saw him.
He didn't see himself.
The similarity was shocking and almost had him thinking he had turned back time. He wasn't as tall, or as built, or as chiseled, but it was damn close. He couldn't tell where he ended and he began.
The only things that were his were his blue eyes. His blue eyes peeking out in between his mask were the only intonation that it was him under all this red, white, and blue and not him.
His old life was buried in the past. From now on he didn't exist. He did.
Time was ticking and he knew he had already wasted too much time, but he also knew the others had planned enough for him to get ready

Mentally or physically he wasn't sure yet.
With one last look he left his room and traveled down the hallway where the others had congregated. The moment he entered he felt all their eyes turn to him. Nobody said a word.
Tony, already geared up in his Iron Man latest, approached him. He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "He wanted you, and only you, to carry on his legacy. We all stand behind you."
He nodded and the rest of the team began to head out to the jet that was waiting to take them to their next mission.
He followed behind them. The moment he stepped out the door it would all change.
There was no Winter Solider. There was no Bucky Barnes. There was no Steve Rogers.
But there would always be Captain America.
And Bucky knew.
Steve would get his last wish.
Bucky was Captain America.