He had squinted for a good five minutes at his reflection in the slightly dented mirror of his tiny closet-sized bathroom. Then and there, he decided with resigned finality: he needed a haircut. The dark and tangled mess fell untidily across his shoulder and he reached up to catch a small fistful. Why today? He hadn't even thought about it yesterday nor the day before. In fact, now that he had been practicing the habit of preferring things lately, he might have even gone as far to say he liked having his hair long. He could neither imagine nor remember the absence of the unruly curtain, being pushed, pulled, or let be to hide his face... to shield it from eyes his own did not wish to meet. But today, it had dawned on him as the most random of revelations: it was too long. He needed to have it cut. He wanted to have it cut.
For a few moments he felt stupid as the new situation presented itself, demanding such a mysterious solution. What do people do when they want to have their hair cut? His brain stumbled a bit and he felt almost like a small child hesitantly raising his hand in a preschool class. They go to a barber? Riiight! Very good. He snorted, inwardly shaking his head at himself as he finished getting dressed. Well then, there was a shop a few blocks away, all he had to do was gather a bit of courage and go out. Go out and walk to the shop, ask a person how much it would cost to get just a trim, sit down in a chair... in one of those chairs... sit back... someone would bring the sharp scissors close... to his head... equipment...
No. No. No.
His mental plan which had laid itself out in such beautiful simplicity, came to a screeching halt, and his legs went suddenly quivery, and he couldn't see anything but strobe lights against blackness...
+ • + • +
Okay. Okay, so no trip to the... barber.
How foolishly thoughtless of him. When he could sit up and breath easier, he tugged at his hair in an attempt to summon another solution from the disorganized stash of his inner resources. Just... have to do it yourself. How hard can that be? Knife... no. Scissors. Like a normal person. He had no scissors.
One of the vendors at the street market had a table that was always full of odds and ends. She might have scissors. In the wake of the episode, his heart sank at the idea of still having to go out and interact. He groaned and carded his hair through his fingers. Gonna do this or not?
What would she think of such a random purchase as scissors?
+ • + • +
He bought a small roll of tape and a pen with purple ink, in addition to a pair of scissors. Just so the vendor would not think him strange for buying just a pair of scissors.
They weren't even the right kind of scissors for cutting hair.
But he was going to do what he did best these days, and make do. He stood in front of his dented mirror again. The dent gave his face a distorted pinch in one cheek, and he shifted, focusing on measuring an approximated inch and a half between his metal thumb and forefinger. It seemed a comfortable amount to start with. He lifted the scissors, willing his right hand to stop shaking.
Do it. There. Not too bad.
The initial terror had passed, and within ten minutes he'd succeeded in bringing uneven but consistent little cuts all around the ends of his hair. The back had been more than a bit challenging. It would've probably looked a lot better if someone else were doing it for him. Well, tough. Who would be there to help him?
He frowned, and refusing to allow the thought to bother him further, decided that his first attempt was perfectly satisfactory. Hang what anyone else might say. The uneven cuts had already layered and blended themselves in, and though it was subtle, he noticed the change in length and was almost proud of himself. As he tidied up the sink, he tried to remember what it was like having shorter hair. The more he thought about it, the deeper he dug into his memory and he could have sworn that once upon a long time ago, he wore his hair long: certainly not as long as he wore it now, but long enough so that when James Buchanan Barnes joined the army, it was only after a long and piteous lamentation of the regulation of the army haircut.
He grinned a tiny grin and felt a yearning for a life in which the necessity of a haircut was the worst thing in a mound of tribulations. Could such a life exist? Even now he still struggled with things that should have been so unimportant and minuscule: would a day ever come when he could leave his apartment without the preliminary bout of dread, or encounter people without watching their movements in fear that one of ten possible kill calculations might be triggered within him? Talk without the words catching on his tongue and skittering back around in his brain? Would the abnormality of his existence crumble away to one day reveal a new space for the person he used to be and should have been if only he could figure out how to try harder? Try harder to be the person that he'd learned he once was, try harder to be a person.
He swallowed a small sob that had crept up into his throat. He couldn't even have normal thoughts without them being chased back by a tidal wave of self-condemnation. The voices in his head would gather, confused, swirling and colliding with no outlet. He wanted hide and at the same time he wanted to scream for help.
There's no one here for you.
He sighed shakily, bracing himself for yet another a relentless tirade of forces from the black hole that was his past, a downward spiral that would toss him into deep caverns of his mind, each twist and turn setting off a new landmine of horror, guilt, no escaping, no going back. In its approaching shadow, he felt almost numb... numb from having been through this a million times. Early on, it would happen almost every day. Now that it came less frequently, it came without warning. But when it came, he knew the attack would be relentless. Maybe if he just let it come and did not fight back, it would be more merciful and not be so cruel to his resistance.
No, he had to resist. He had to fight it. He needed to scream over the voices.
Sometimes the screaming took the form of scribbling down pages full of nonsense. The writing would tire down the thoughts and bring them to a crawl.
He grabbed one of his journals, and out fell the brochure from the Air and Space Museum. Captain America stared up into the distance. The shrill torment was paused.
He picked it up, and slowly sat down on the couch. He pulled his feet up and thumbed at the worn edges of the glossy card. Feeling himself relax a bit, he looked hard at the picture. It was the man who was responsible for his freedom, such as it was. Captain America was the symbol for America's freedom, so it seemed, but it was Steve Rogers who had tugged him mentally, spiritually and physically from the life that he been trapped in as HYDRA's ghostly assassin. And he had come to accept that he was once Steve's friend, or rather that he had once been someone who was Steve Rogers' friend.
An ache beyond loneliness crushed upon his soul as it sent forth a desperate wish for Steve to be there with him. Right that that moment, he needed to talk to him, to let him know what was going on, that he needed help. He needed a friend. He needed to find him.
No. He was dangerous. He had almost killed Steve the last time they had been together, and the instilled kill order could activate again upon another meeting. He could still complete the mission...
"Hey Steve. D'you hear me, Steve?" His voice shook. Now he was talking to a picture. As if he hadn't already cracked. Steve looked off into the distance, oblivious of any threat of a lingering kill order. So far, one hadn't been stirred. This was somewhat reassuring. He tried again, a bit louder and with more confidence. "How's it going, Steve?" How's it going? It's something normal people asked each other, from what he'd gathered. He honestly had no idea how he would respond if anyone actually happened to pose the same question to him. Would he be obligated to answer in full? He'd sooner run in the other direction. Besides, who would actually want to know what was going on with him? Who'd want to listen to an unintelligible, never-ending ramble of plaguing terror and guilt? Would Steve?
How could he even imagine being worthy of Steve's friendship and kindness? How could he even think of assuming that Steve would accept him the way he was now, for having committed the horrors he did, for almost killing him. How could Steve, how could anyone forgive him for that? Why shouldn't Steve reject him now? He wasn't the person that Steve was looking for. He could never be that person. He'd even been given the chance to figure it out, and had been given precious fragments of memory, and yet he could not become that person. Never. If he found Steve and Steve was not satisfied with not having his old friend back, then where or whom else would he be able to turn to in this world? The uncertainty based upon all the possibilities dug excruciatingly into his mind and spirit.
He looked at the picture with blurred vision. The Steve he remembered best, the Steve that had been as fiercely protective of Bucky Barnes as Bucky had been of Steve: he wouldn't reject him as he was now. Would he? The man that had been ready to die at his hands... hadn't Steve seen someone that had been lost, hadn't he coaxed, begged him to come out from the shadows that had taken away name, memory, and hope?
"Steve... I miss you. I- I don't know what to do. I know I hurt you. Can't... don't want to hurt you again. And I don't want to... be... be someone that you'll be disappointed in. I've tried. Tried so long and hard... to be that person who was your friend. I even remember him. I remember him and you. But I've done so much... bad. Hurt, ruined so many lives... I've forgotten so much. I remember so much now too, there's so much I never have forgotten but... There are so many holes where I don't know what happened, where... I don't know how I can be that person now, the one you knew me as. No matter how much I try... it's just so hard. It's been hard trying to just be a person.
"For awhile it was bad. So bad. And there are still times..." He shuddered. "...times when I don't want to live. Surviving is fine and worth it until the voices come, and the bad memories, and everything I've done... it's always there. It's never going away. Sometimes I don't know if I can endure it anymore.
"But look," He pointed the picture around the small room. "I've got a place. I'm doing better now. Look," He turned the picture around again,"I even cut my hair. Got too long." His voice was trembling again and he dragged the heel of his right hand across his eyes. "I'm... just not ready yet. I don't... don't want to be like this when I see you. I... want to try a little longer... to be someone a little more like to the friend you once had. I dunno if I can do it. But... just give me a chance. Give me a chance to get through some more of this. By myself. Okay?" And the tiny bit of Bucky Barnes that still lived within the core of his confused and broken shell, the bit that sheltered the fragile slivers of his pride and self-worth, added: "Because I want to."
+ • + • +
Lying on the bed with his back towards the door, Bucky watched Steve approaching in the reflection of the wide glass window. The glass was flecked on the outside with the humidity of the Wakandan air; inside was air-conditioned set on low. "You awake, Bucky?" Steve'd probably caught a glimpse of him in the reflection as well and already knew the answer, and was probably just being polite, but the gesture was appreciated. "Mmm-hm" was the response, along with a little head tilt. It was all Bucky could muster, as his mind was still as foggy as the humidity outside, mostly from the aftereffects of the surgery done to what was left of his ruined arm. The events of the past few days were a blur...
"How's it going, Buck?"
Bucky grunted a small laugh, and painfully rolled onto his back. How d'you think, punk? Is that even a question? But was he obligated to answer in full?
He was tired, so tired, but a weight in his chest which had nothing to do with his injuries had settled and he needed to push it off. He took a deep breath, and another. Not a volunteer word to get this going? Steve, sensing his distress, moved cautiously to his side. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. What's wrong? What's up?" Bucky was silently thankful to Steve for not telling him to look at him, for he couldn't meet his eyes as he managed in barely a whisper, "'M so sorry, Steve."
"Bucky? It's okay, hey, there's nothing to be sorry about-" Steve gently placed his hand upon Bucky's arm. Bucky fought the urge to flinch, but shook his head with the little strength he had. He blinked rapidly. "No... no, feel so bad... I- was wrong." He closed his eyes to avoid any glance at Steve's face.
"I've done so much wrong, so many bad things. When I was alone... I wished I could tell you about them. Wished you could help me. Wished I could be your friend again. But I thought that... maybe you wouldn't want to, wouldn't want me to be. Because I wasn't... 'm not that guy anymore. Wanted to tell you then that I was sorry I just couldn't be that Bucky anymore, but I'd still want to someday try to be your friend if you would let me. I doubted you, Steve. I thought you wouldn't want me as this different person that I am.
"Steve," Here he laughed a sharp, practically mirthless little laugh. "Steve. you just broke a million laws and trillion bucks' worth of stuff and you left behind that shield. Steve, I've never been so wrong, thinking you wouldn't want me, much less help me, and I just... don't feel like I deserve any of this, and don't feel like I deserve you as a friend anymore. I still don't even know if I can be the same friend for you, the same person, and I'm just so sorry."
He heard his name uttered faintly and he couldn't stop himself from looking up as he felt his shoulder being seized in a firm grip. Steve was weeping through an agonized smile and he was shaking his head over and over. "Bucky. Bucky, you're right here. You're right here. My best friend, the one I lost, is right here. If you can't remember how to be him, there is nothing you need to do but be who you are now. And if you're not sure who you are, I want to help you. I want you to know who you are. It doesn't matter if you think you're different now, or changed. You're enough, Bucky. We can help you find who you are, help you get through what you need to, but 'til then, you aren't a replacement, or a placeholder, you are him. Maybe you're a new and a different Bucky, but you are just as much Bucky as you once were. I need you to know this. Need you to at least try to believe this. No matter what has happened, no matter what you've done, that's not going to change the fact that you are my friend and will never stop being so. Look who followed me though all that back there, hm? Who was that if it wasn't the Bucky I've always known? Never let me have one fight to myself, always gotta to be in there all loyal and making sure I'm not too close to my death."
"Just 'cause you're over five four now, doesn't mean I'm adding any length to your leash."
This time, Bucky's laugh came though his own tears, and Steve's smile turned joyous. "See, there he is! He's right here. You're here. I've got you back, Bucky. And I know that it's been hard. Maybe I'll never know or understand how hard it's been for you. But I can at least try to imagine how lost you might have felt, feeling like there's no one in the world for you, who can understand what you're going through. Believe me, it's not a feeling I'm completely a stranger to. But I'm here for you, pal. I'm never going to stop being your friend. If there's one thing you don't have to ever worry about, that's it."
The sudden rush of relief and other emotions left Bucky with little more than the ability to reach out, and allow himself to be pulled into Steve's all-encompassing hug. He was still ragged with uncertainty, uncertainty of what was going to happen and how he was going to face his lingering demons. But for now, he was satisfied in finally being able to realize that he was, in some sense, enough.