When it gets inside; [open]

[bracchium]

CHARACTERS: Bucky and whoever
WHERE: The Bearings
WHEN: Day :012-:014
SUMMARY: Bucky is back at the Bearings after a bit of an absence.
WARNINGS: Probably mentions of death, gore, violence, etc.



{ A :011 late/:012 early } [closed to Steve Rogers]

[Bucky's back! Almost immediately upon setting foot back in the Bearings, he makes a beeline for one of the rooms farthest from the common room. He's come in lugging a backpack over one shoulder, with a metal arm half-sticking out the top, and looks a little like a sewer rat dragged through a gutter or two. His brain sounds much the same. As soon as he's cleared the threshold of his room, he snaps the door closed and locks it less than a heartbeat later.

An hour allows him to take a quick shower and calm his head enough to attempt sleeping. However, the bed is entirely too soft after so many days curled up on the floor (and eventually a mat). He can't close his eyes for longer than a handful of heartbeats.

One by one, he's stealing the cushions from one of the couches in the common room in multiple trips a few minutes apart.]

-

{ B :012 - :014 } [open to all!]

[The first couple days, Bucky makes himself scarce. Though he doesn't ever leave the Bearings, he's not exactly a stable fixture in the common room. Occasionally, he collects some food to eat from kitchen or ventures out to grab a book. When he does make a prolonged appearance, he's settled at one of the tables, alternately writing in a small notebook weighted down by a coaster and tracing the textures on said coaster. From time to time, he doesn't do either and simply stares off into the distance, brows furrowed, only to furiously scratch more words into the page when he comes back to himself.

On the rare occasion, a heavy steel arm will sit beside him at the table.

His head hums slowly, not nearly as active and loud as his initial arrival, not so cluttered. Static simmers at the edges of his senses, threatening to boil over, but Bucky is at least trying not to broadcast everything everywhere.]

Comments

B. YOUR BRO SENT ME.

[unsea]

[ There's a man. He's dressed in black. And sometimes, meetings like this are inevitable.

There's a mug of coffee, straight - no milk, no sugar, in between his hands as he enters the area that the other Host inhabits from time to time. The other Host with his removable arm. It reminds him of Rhys's augmented arm, and he wonders if the two know each other. A number of tables present opportunities to leave well enough alone, but the hovering hum reminds him of the mechanics of the Nest's connections, and how he far prefers introductions on his own terms. ]

Do you mind if I join you? We haven't yet met.

[ (Sorry, Bucky. There's a hint of pseudo-Russian inflections to this one's voice. Blame the Tsarpunk-influenced canon he's from.) ]

GOOD

[bracchium]

[Bucky doesn't look up from his notebook until the other man approaches. The touch of an accent makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he's really doing his best to stay calm unless provoked. No matter how large the suite seems to be, there's still only limited space if a fight should break out.

(when a fight breaks out his mind helpfully provides but he shakes the thought away).

He nods at the empty space across from him and offers a tentative,] Bucky.

[unsea]

[ Eventually, they'll all meet one another. Though they have limited space to work with within the Bearings, the city itself provides all the territory any of the Hosts need to physically distance themselves from one another. ] Hello, Bucky.

[ Finally, he's able to set his mug down, and settle into the chair opposite of where the other man is seated. ]

Have you met Rhys? [ Gesturing to Bucky's metal arm for emphasis. His tone is polite, at least. ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky doesn't get a name in return for his own and the Russian tang to the stranger's voice digs deeper into his nerves. His muscles tighten, though he tries to will himself into a calm.]

No. [His tone sharpens a touch or two as he looks first at the detached steel arm then his guest. The name is familiar enough, though, ringing like a bell. Someone mentioned it to him, with a dark complexion, warm eyes, and resounding calm.]

[unsea]

[ There is no name that he can give. It's been difficult, in a sense, to offer it to the other members of the Nest in lieu of a birth-name. Though, as if recognizing the tell-tale tension in Bucky's shoulders and neck, he takes a long pull from his coffee (black, piping hot, with an undercurrent of cinnamon) before he sets it aside - he does his best to smooth over this indiscretion: ] I am called The Darkling.

[ He does seem to be without remorse for drawing attention to that detached arm either. Or any amount of, uh, "political correctness". ]

He also has a false limb. If you needed assistance, he would be a good resource, in any case.

[ Since it seems to be, well. DETACHED AT THE MOMENT. Which means it's not doing its job?? This is possibly how he shows concern. ]

[bracchium]

[The Darkling like The Soldier, The Asset, The Weapon. Bucky's memory buzzes and vibrates for a moment--- we need confirmed kill in--- he blinks it away for now, but the accent echoes sour in his ears. That he can't shake.]

No. [Bucky repeats, though he doesn't seem quite as confident with this answer.]

[unsea]

It's okay.

[ He has every intent to soothe, not alienate - even if he is relentless when it comes to the pursuit of conversation. Bucky doesn't seem inclined to trust, at all. Especially not him, for some reason. And that's fine, that's an acceptable response, even for those who now share mind and emotion among one another. ]

Remember his name, at the least. We never know what the future may hold.

B

[headinjuries]

[ Sam's been in and out a lot for the day he's been around. It's easier to think when he can put a little physical distance between himself and the others, and he's never been that good at sitting still anyway.

So he's managed to miss a lot of people so far, he knows, and when he returns from a few hours of poking around the Subspace Dragstrip, he's not at all surprised to see someone he doesn't recognize sitting at the table. And given that the guy seems to be working on...something or other, Sam's about to shrug, wait for a better time, and commandeer one of the other tables with his lunch instead.

Except he gets the same feeling that he gets around the other Sam. The first other Sam. (Or did he arrive second? Whatever.) The feeling that something that was off just clicked into place, and everything feels more right.

Which is still eerie if he lets himself actually think about it, and he's definitely not used to it yet.

So he finds himself stopping by the empty chair at the other man's table - and just stopping there for a moment, because he doesn't exactly want to interrupt. (That time he tried to just go for it and sit with Taylor Belmonte at lunch was the kind of embarrassing that still makes him cringe three years later, after all, and she was five nothing and built like a noodle. Sam's not sure this guy would need his other arm to throw him across the room by his neck.) ]

Hi. Uh, can I...?

[ Headtilt at the chair. Sit? Eat? Make awkward introductions? ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky stops mid-word when he feels his consciousness click into another, like a missing puzzle piece finally settling into place, a long-awaited guest coming home. He looks up from his notebook to identify the source and finds a kid standing there. A moment later, said kid speaks and Bucky nods his head silently.

He can already feel his mind involuntarily reaching out for the other through the broodlink, his buzzing, staticky mind extending itself before he can stop it, bringing Siberian cold and muffled screams along for the ride. Rather than continue his frantic writing, he opts to stare at the new person as if trying to read the latter.

Dark blue eyes flick over his features, memorizing them in an instant before he does any talking of his own.]

I'm Bucky.

[headinjuries]

[ He's not sure how to describe the vibe he gets from this guy. Jumbled and hard to put a description to, but there's a feeling of cold and...intense, maybe, is the word he wants. Whatever else he's not sure that he's feeling through the link, it's definitely intense.

He slides into the chair, dropping a bag on the table in front of him. ]

I'm Sam.

[ A slight shrug, an unspoken feeling of yeah, I know, another one. Maybe they'll get two more Sams and they can make a megazord.

And then he starts digging stuff out of that bag. ]

Want a taco? I mean, they call it something else here, but it totally looks like tacos to me, except for the onions being blue. Which is weird.

[bracchium]

[Bucky's not great with names. He doesn't know if he was ever good with them, but whatever capability he had before has likely been lost to a mess of memories. Another Sam is actually fine with him; he can say Sam and get both broodmates in one shot. The question about a 'taco,' whatever the hell that is, is met with a shake of his head. He'a not about to try any new foods any time soon, especially not at the prompting of a relative stranger.]

When did you get here? [He's been away from the Bearings for a bit, after all.]

[headinjuries]

[ More tacos for him, no complaints here. ]

Just the other day. Nobody else woke up with me, which I guess isn't really normal? I came down here alone.

[ Tacos are out, weird blue onions and all, and he keeps rooting around in the bag until he finds a packet of...something, which he looks at dubiously for a moment before ripping it open. ]

Man, I really hope this is hot sauce.

[bracchium]

[Bucky woke up with two others from his own world, but has little to reference in regards to what any other hatch is like. He watches Sam fiddle around in his bag, brows furrowing when his apparent broodmate is about to eat something of unknown origin.]

Could be poisoned. [Said by a man who has been poisoned by his own captors many, many times.]

B. ฅ(•ㅅ•❀)ฅ

[erbier]

[ She leaves him alone, the first few times she sees him. It seems the best thing to do, to give such a feral creature space, but there is also something to be said for cultivating that which has grown wild. Ilde likes the times when the others are generally asleep, when it is quiet and she is often to only one moving about. Sometimes she encounters others, and enjoys those moments for their privacy and their placidity.

She brings a piece of fruit as a gift as she sits down across from him at the table, putting it between them without reaching into his space, and then she sits back quietly in her chair. ]

Hello.

[ Objectively, she is a pretty girl, twenty years old with messy blonde hair but she holds herself very sternly for someone so young. ]

eeeee

[bracchium]

[Yet another night of nightmares brings Bucky to the common room for a late-night scribble session. He takes down the details and has begun sketching the subject of his subconscious murmurs. While not supremely talented, Bucky has an eye for details and is halfway through blocking out a roman nose when someone sits down across from him.

He blinks up at the new presence- or relatively new, at least- and the gift set an arm’s length away. A plum.

While he doesn’t answer verbally, he gives a bob of his head as acknowledgment.]

[erbier]

[ Her smile is faint. She looks like a young woman who does not smile much, and the gesture is more of acknowledgment than pleasure, just like his own nod. She folds her hands peaceably in her lap, ]

My name is Ilde.

[ Short and simple and to the point. In a way, the introductions almost feel unnecessary, as if she should know him already, but she knows better than to trust the bleed of her brood. Still, it would be a lie to say all of his strings and to her Steven do not intrigue her. ]

[bracchium]

Bucky. [His voice is graveled around the edges, like he's been gargling with concrete chips for years. He appreciates the chance to improve on his small talk skills in a low-risk setting like the Bearings. Out in Subspace, it had been far too easy to become angry and compounded the sense of being trapped in a corner.

He reaches out and takes the plum with a little quirk of the edge of his mouth to match hers, though the gesture is a touch mechanical.] They sell these here?

[erbier]

[ Her smile expands slightly, this is something she is quite excited by: ]

Yes. I went on a tour, they grow them without soil, only in water. It is very interesting.

[ As a gardener in space she finds hydroponics utterly fascinating and has been soaking up as much knowledge about the process as she possibly can. ]

[bracchium]

[A tour. Hmm. He must have missed those when he was too busy running around Subspace. He rubs one thumb across the surface of the plum as if searching for defects. Without soil. He's never heard of such a thing. Part of his training surfaces, something about nitrite in fertilizer.]

How?

[decommission]

[ There might still be a gulf between them, seventy years of broken memories, but stepping into the elevator and watching the glowing numbers tick up has Steve feeling some measure of relief again. At night the floor is relatively quiet - he's not going to miss listening to those rat-like creatures in Subspace skittering in between the walls, or wondering if the footsteps outside are on oncoming security sweep.

As Bucky disappears into a room, Steve remains in the common area, heading into the kitchen to get some water (even the water here tastes different). He ends up sitting at the table, flipping through forums and news stations. Loses himself in that cycle for an hour when he hears movement in the common area, when he pokes his head out both eyebrows raise at the theft in progress. ]

You know - we gotta share those with everyone. [ The cushions. Both eyebrows raise. ] Can't sleep?

[ There's dark circles under both of their eyes. ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky glances up at the sound of Steve's voice filling the silence. He stops for a moment, cushion in hand before nodding.]

Bed's too soft. [He can't get comfortable and the cushions remind him of Brooklyn and the Steve he sees before him. A Steve that's never seen war and hopefully never would, never seen a Bucky that leaves a wake of death behind him.

Being in the Bearings has lifted his spirits- the sense of belonging settled in deeper this time- so he speaks a little more.] Didn't we used to do this as kids?

[decommission]

[ There's a smile, one side of his mouth quirking upward and his head tilting just a bit. A bed that's too soft is almost an oxymoron for him (he doesn't know what it's like to sleep on rocks and dirt frosted with dust, curled up in trenches dug decades earlier). ]

Yeah, we did. [ All their conversations have been short and stilted before this, and Bucky's memories come out of him in questions for Steve to confirm, that yeah, he remembers that too. His tone is warm enough each time that the wistful edge threaded beneath it could easily be missed.

He steps toward the couch, lifting up the last cushion for him. Lets out a soft huff through his nose, an eyebrow raised. ] You sure you're gonna fit on these?

[bracchium]

[Sometimes, his memories are little more than streaks on the glass. Others are clear as day, though distant as if watched from someone else's perspective. He's never too sure if they happened to him or not or someone else, this Bucky that Steve knows and Bucky himself isn't too familiar with.

Steve standing beside him, helping him, resonates in every inch of his mind, drawing up hundreds of moments when they stood exactly like this.]

I'm taking all of them, aren't I? [The corner of his mouth quirks and his voice is an octave higher than his usual timbre.]

[decommission]

[ A flicker of surprise, eyebrows knitting together again - that's how stark the difference in Bucky's demeanor comes across to him. He owes Sam. Owes him a lot. After a split second his expression settles, another soft, lopsided smile as he starts walking toward the room Bucky's claimed.

Slyly: ]

Like I said - [ It's ribbing, close to that easy banter he's missed so keenly. Once close to the doorway he stops, switching gears. ] Those walls helping any?

[ The mental ones, the quick lesson Steve had given him on them back in Subspace: visualizing specific images and using them to block out what doesn't belong. Steve had done his best to wall in his own thoughts while they were trapped in close quarters, gun shy of making any kind of mental overtures after the fight in the street. Even at its most quiet, there's a slight hum to the floor, the press of minds clustered together, each capable of bleeding. ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky watches Steve, as his brows knit and then unknit, how ridges form and then smooth. When the smile returns with the additional ribbing, his own brightens a few watts and his breath shuffles in a sound that might be a distant relative to a chuckle. Side by side, they approach the door and inside there's already a couple cushions laid out on the floor beside the bed.]

Sometimes. [He's not entirely comfortable admitting it out loud and the brief glow in his face dims. Deep breath. Steve isn't looking for a weakness to exploit. The walls he builds up can't stand against a demanding presence that wants in, but they seem to keep out most polite people.] You hearing anything?

[The screaming, the static, he means. Everything he walks around with on a regular basis.]