[At first, Bucky remains calm under the gentle ministrations. The little tugs at his scalp don't hurt. In fact, they're much the opposite: a strange sort of comforting and nice. He listens to Sam talk and appreciates the information; he's still getting to know him, after all. Trust has already been forged in the crucible of Concordia, but it's nice to hear about who Sam is as a person.
However, as soon as Sam broaches new territory, Bucky tenses.
He's never been called anything but a weapon, outside of his name. He's heard the whispers in Berlin, how people talk about him when they think he can't hear them, or in the pits of Siberia, when they know he can hear but don't care. He doesn't get to make choices, yet here he is, having his hair braided by Sam, something he never would have thought possible.
He'd be lying if he said he didn't want this: the braids, freedom, and companions. But he also knows he shouldn't. He doesn't deserve it, any of it.]
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However, as soon as Sam broaches new territory, Bucky tenses.
He's never been called anything but a weapon, outside of his name. He's heard the whispers in Berlin, how people talk about him when they think he can't hear them, or in the pits of Siberia, when they know he can hear but don't care. He doesn't get to make choices, yet here he is, having his hair braided by Sam, something he never would have thought possible.
He'd be lying if he said he didn't want this: the braids, freedom, and companions. But he also knows he shouldn't. He doesn't deserve it, any of it.]
No. I don't.