Marvel x male reader One-Shots

BUCKY BARNES

Title: Photograph

Genre: Kinda angsty, kinda fluffy
Rating: Teen
Warning: Minor Injury
Words: 960
Square filled: C4 - Recovering Bucky
Summary: The biggest difference between Bucky from the fourties and the man he is now, is his hair. For Bucky. changing that seems like a big step towards recovery.

The scissors were cold in the palm of his hand. Bucky just stared down at them, stared and stared, until the picture of the silver metal burned itself through his eyes and into his memory. He clenched his fist around them until his knuckles went white, hesitating.

The thoughts racing in his head were unclear, like they were hidden behind thick fog, too far away for Bucky to catch them.

His gaze wandered over his left arm, that looked just like the material of the scissors, and then down to his hand. The hand held an old picture, black and white, edges yellow and wavy. The man in the middle of the picture stared at Bucky, or rather whoever had taken the picture such a long time ago. The smile on his lips lit up his whole face, mad his eyes crinkle and Bucky could almost hear the man laugh at something a person who wasn't in the picture had said.

But Bucky's eyes were always drawn to the man's hair. Short, definitely shorter than Bucky's that was already reaching his shoulders. If the picture weren't all grey, white and black, he could have sworn that the guy's hair was the same colour as his own.

It wasn't just the hair that looked similar to Bucky's. The whole face looked like people at HYDRA had put some of his blood in a damn test tube again and cloned the Winter Soldier. Just that the clone had short hair. Bucky was certain, that the man wasn't his clone. Though he didn't remember the picture being taken, people had told him that Bucky himself was the man. Maybe it was normal, that he didn't remember that particular photo, but it still concerned him, that he didn't remember much of his past after all those years.

He clenched his fist even tighter at the lost memories, the lost past, the lost life, until the metal cut into his palm and Bucky felt warm, thick blood run down his hand. Though it stung, Bucky ignored the cut as much as he could. The wound would heal fast and it wasn't too deep anyway.

When he finally stepped out of the bathroom, he had made a decision.

"I want you to cut my hair." Bucky's voice was small and quiet, but he was sure that you had heard him.
"What?"
"I want you to cut my hair," he repeated and added a soft 'please?' this time.
"Buck, I'm not a professional, it's gonna look horrible," you protested. Bucky only shook his head. "No, I'm serious! The last time I cut someone's hair it was my brother's and I actually cut into his ear, and-" Your friend stepped closer and offered you the pair of scissors.
"Please." This time, it was neither a question nor a plead, it was a command. Though phrased nicely, you could hear that Bucky was, indeed, serious. He wanted you, and only you, to cut his hair.

Sighing, you took the tool from him, not noticing the cut that was almost fully healed.

"What do you want it to look like?"

Bucky offered you his other hand with the picture. "Like this."

The scissors in your hand were shaking when you brought them anywhere near Bucky's hair. You had no clue where to begin, so you just started cutting. Bucky had closed his eyes, you weren't sure if he just wanted to prevent the hair from falling into his eyes, or if he wanted his new hair cut to be a surprise.

During the whole procedure, the two of you didn't say a word to one another. There was just the sound of the two sharp edges of the scissors meeting, cutting through hair, and parting again.

"Okay," you announced, "I think I'm done." You handed a small mirror to Bucky once he had opened his eyes again. For a few heartbeats, he stayed quiet, didn't even breath. And when you thought that he was going to tell you that he hated it, Bucky whispered, "Thank you so much," barely audible. A smile formed on his lips, and you thought to see his eyes watering, but he blinked the tears away too fast.

"I like it."
"So, should I become a professional, then?"
"You should consider it." Bucky chuckled warmly.

He looked like the man in the picture, well, almost. There were a few strands of hair you had totally messed up, but Bucky seemed to not care about that. The only things that looked different from the Bucky in the picture was the slightly sadder smile your Bucky wore, and the fine hair that sat on the skin of his face like freckles. They laid there like a small galaxy but vanished when Bucky ran over his cheeks with the palm of his hand.

"Why did you want to get your hair cut in the first place?"

Bucky's mouth opened and closed a few times, it seemed like all words he knew had fallen out of his mind.

"I-" a nervous chuckle, and he blinked his tears away again. "I think that I'm recovering." He sucked in a deep breath. "From everything. I'm recovering." A watery smile formed on his trembling lips.

"Oh, Bucky." In the next moment, your arms were wrapped around his torso, his chest pressing against yours as he quietly sobbed into your shoulder.

"I'm finally recovering."

Bucky pulled away after a few seconds. A hand swiped over his face and he forced the tears to disappear.

"That wasn't my only reason though," he admitted a little unsure.
"What's the other reason then?"
Bucky's steel blue eyes locked with yours through his long lashes.
"I thought that I should look pretty for our first date."