Bucky stared at the mirror, occasionally angling his face. He analyzed every minute detail, but there was one thing that seriously bothered him.

His hair.

It was too damn long.

Hydra didn't seem to be bothered by the unkempt hairstyle. His long hair helped keep his identity obscure. An intimidation factor too. And of course, anything to strip away any recognition of his former self.

Then he was on the run in Europe.

The hair did a good job of making sure he didn't attract unwanted attention in Romania. Most people assumed he was a homeless man; shrugged him, but he preferred that. That anonymity. No one ever probed him to talk about himself. Bucky wasn't sure he could even answer questions like that. Others passed by him as if he were invisible; a ghost (which technically, he sort of was). They'd flick their gazes elsewhere and avoided his direction. But Bucky was used to being disregarded so their dismissive behavior didn't irk him. His Romanian blended in perfectly with the local, so much that people believed he was a native. It all added up to be the perfect disguise. And his experience in espionage made it almost too easy to pretend that he was an ordinary person. That period in his life was...

Bucky pursed his lips, thinking hard for the right word. He sighed, simply settling for "livable". He pretended that he was normal, and the deception was comforting, but he could never ignore the glaring fact that he was an amnesiac, international criminal, and a war hero all at the same time. He had been in worse- much worse- places than incognito in an eastern European country as a homeless squatter with a perchance for plums. When the nightmares jolted him awake, he'd switch on hi bedside lamp, open his notebook and scribble about what he saw. There were good, rare memories, but mostly the dark past tormented him. Bucky tried to get on with life. The days weren't as bad as the night and he relished his taste of freedom.

Unrestrained. Uncaged.

Until he was framed. Blamed.

After that, he had bigger problems than to worry about a silly haircut.

Bucky winced as he remembered the missiles inches away from his face. Guilt festered in the pit of his stomach and rose to this throat. Bucky forcefully gulped the lump down. Tony was dead. He sacrificed his life to save everyone, including Bucky himself. Did Tony ever forgive him? Did Tony know how much he regretted his actions as the Winter Soldier? Did Tony- Bucky quickly shut down dreaded thoughts. It was better not to dwell on questions he'll never discover the answers to.

And then came Wakanda, the spectacular safe haven.

During for the most part of his rehabilitation, he was in a cryogenic state. He didn't remember much except Steve's forlorn expression and the inevitable sensation of a million icicles pricking his skin until he grew numb, frost encasing his body in a semi-permanent sleep. He welcomed the frigid nothingness that time, and when he opened his eyes, the instinctive confusion and terror faded when he realized he awoken by Shuri, not Hydra. He would not be taken to be... recalibrated. He began he journey to adjust, and was the perfect place to start over. Only the royals and Dora Milaje knew of his past, and nonetheless, he was treated as a human. Bucky felt accepted. In fact, they had a nickname for him, "the White Wolf".

The wakandan children seemed to take an unexpected liking to him- and his hair. Shuri scolded them when they played with his hair as he slept. A chuckle danced on his breath as he recalled the memory. There as an innocence in them that he hadn't felt nor seen in decades. Bucky didn't mind the outlandish hairstyles, and even grew fond of the little bun. Short-haired, clean-cut Bucky would have been mortified though. With one arm, it took some time to get used to. A comb and some coconut oil usually kept the hair neat so the dangly dark locks were bearable.

Bucky glanced at the scissors on the sink, then darted his eyes back to his dreary reflection. Not so sure they were bearable now.

They were suffocating, strangulating and mangling his real identity, his fresh breath of freedom. The bright lights of the bathroom highlighted every mark, every blemish on his face. The bags beneath his eyes grew day by day and the lines on his face still made him look years younger than he really was. Bucky tensed as he looked into his icy blue eyes.

The piercing stare of the Winter Soldier.

People only saw him as Hydra's lethal assassin. He didn't blame them. He saw the Winter Soldier too, the regretful monster. His empty eyes hid the horrors of the past, horrors he recalled with brutal clarity. Having his memories returned to him was both a blessing an a curse. Bucky could remember the simple life; growing up in the '40s, his family, his adventures with Steve when he was an asthmatic underweight boy, whose spirit was bigger than his body. But he could also remember the bad memories, and it wasn't just the faces of his victims- he could remember that even before Shuri fixed his brain- it was every mission that lead to their untimely deaths. Bucky remembered exactly which weapon he employed, the desperation as they begged for mercy, and the heart-wrenching despair in their screams as he murdered them.

He didn't have a choice, and neither did the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier was the part of Bucky that survived, refusing to succumb to death despite all odds. But that survival was paid at a high price: his goodness, moral and eventually, his sanity. Now he didn't need to "survive". He wanted to live as Bucky Barnes, the decorated war hero who did for his country.

Bucky sniggered self-deprecatingly. Fate's cruel irony was that was the first Howling Commando to die, and the last one still standing. Bucky wanted to be th man man he was before Hydra tortured him to oblivion, mutilating his mind to turn him into their loyal asset. Fate's twisted sense of humour continued as be became the one thing he died trying to stop. But Bucky was used to the ironies in his life. The slow pull of darkness attempted to drag him into the pits of despair again. Bucky closed his eyes and silently counted to three, inhaling deeply. He urged himself to think about something positive (as difficult as that task was).

Well, living in the future meant he was alive to witness the advancement of technology, right? That good, right? There might not be flying cars just yet, but there's a huge flying invisible thing (whatever the hellicarrier was anyways).

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes," he whispered, conviction palpable in his tone. The conviction faltered as forced the next words to come out of his mouth. "I am no longer the Winter Soldier."

It left a bitter aftertaste.

This was Bucky's mantra since he started the court-mandated, much-hated therapy sessions with the passive-aggressive therapist. More often than not, he left the room at the end of the hour-long sessions feeling worse inside than he did before he entered. The nightmares refused t let him sleep (but he'd never share that informtion with his therapist). When Bucky plunged into exhaustion and desperation, the idea of being confined in the cryostasis chamber was attractive. He idly thought that at least he'd be able to get an inkling of rest. At night was when he truly alone with his endless fears and relentless guilt. Playing the TV didn't help, and don't even get him started on the godforsaken cloud fluff called bed. Bucked opted to sleep on the floor like he did in Romania and Wakanda.

"...No longer the Winter Soldier," he muttered sarcastically.

The statement was a shit lie. The more he uttered the words, the more he heard a mocking laugh in his mind. It was the sound of his own laughter. He is the Winter Soldier, and that will always be a part of him. Denying it is a refusal to accept himself. The bad came from Hydra; their orders, their missions. t wasn't the Winter Soldier's fault; he had no free will. They distorted his perception of right and wrong, and tortured him into becoming their subservient tool.

Then why did Bucky have a hard time accepting it?

He touched his hair, scrunching his face into a grimace. Long shaggy hair curtained his jaw, and he was also badly in need of a shave. His hands dragged down his face and fell on the scissors. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the scissors. It was time to meet ol' Bucky Barnes for he first time in nearly a century.

Snip... snip... snip...

Sam paused, the shock rendering him momentarily speechless. He did a double-take as he passed the new sushi place.

That was definitely Bucky inside.

The guy no longer looked like the same brainwashed killer that tore the steering wheel off hiss beloved car; kicked him off the hellicarier after single-handedly breaking his suit; and tossed him across the room by his throat, knocking the living daylights out of him.

So that's why Bucky wasn't answering his messages.

A haircut was the soldier's priority apparently. It paid off, Sam thought nonchalantly. The dangerous centenarian looked normal for one. Young too- hell, younger than him. And making friends with an old Japanese man. Good for him, Sam gave a small smile, remembering Steve 's adjustment to the modern world. Bucky too was taking his first steps into his new life. He should recommend his music, like Marvin Gaye. Sam was certain Bucky would love that. Steve did.

That would be for another time. Sam turned his face away from the glass and crossed the road with the other pedestrians. He had to prepare his foreign mission with First Lieutenant Joaquín Torres.

End.

Honestly, I did not like FATWS at all. There was a plethora of problems with the show, a huge one being Bucky regressing into a glorified sidekick once again. Bucky deserves more than being a supporting character; he needs his own movie or something. The show did not do his character (and history) justice. I was also disappointed that there was no haircut scene either, but this is how I would imagine it to be.

Please review.