It was cramped in his bathroom, especially for men their size but they managed to make it work. Bucky, or whatever was left of Bucky was slumped in his tub with the shower raining down on him, washing away what looked and smelled like weeks of grime and sweat.

Gently Steve ran a washcloth over Bucky's neck and chest, deliberately ignoring the scars and ugliness of his left shoulder. He didn't know why Bucky had shown up on the door step of his Brooklyn walk up but he didn't care. Bucky had come back to him, Bucky remembered enough to come to him for help and care and God, Steve was grateful beyond words.

"We should cut your hair," he said quietly over the gentle thrum of the shower. "It'll be easier for you to take care of."

He glanced at him, his best friend, his brother, his everything and knew he would have to let him go again. Bucky wasn't his again, not yet, not fully. Steve had to be patient but all he wanted to do was hang on and never let go.