station72 | day 49ish am; {open after initial waking}

Entry tags:

day 49ish am; {open after initial waking}

{sam + steeb}
[One moment silence echoes from the wound where Bucky’s mind should be. In the next, an explosion of frigid static unfurls from the emptiness and cascades through his links. In his room, he stumbles from his bed onto the cushions laid out beside it. The feathers braided into his hair swing about his ears and into his vision, releasing a surge of confusion alongside the static. Voices fill his head, like they’re standing inches away from him but when he raises his head from where he’s crouched on the floor, there are only two faces watching him.]

{everyone/anyone}
[The swell of static doesn't stop, but it does at least ebb quieter and quieter as the initial burst calms to a low hum. Occasional flares still rise to the surface throughout the coming days, however.]

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[Bucky's heart pounds in his ears, accompanying the dyn in his head as he blinks at the two figures in the room with him. Steve. And... and there's another voice in his head, brushed with warmth and relief that tastes distinctly foreign in his mouth. However, the moment he recognizes its presence, it pulls away and disappears.

His head buzzes as he glances around the room, feathers scratching against his face. This is different, new, not like the other times he's woken up. There isn't frost melting from his lashes or the heavy grip dragging him across metal grating.

They don't seem like they're coming near him.]

Where am I? [The words come out in Russian and a voice rough from disuse.]

[ A glance at the doorway and there's a deep pulse of relief when Sam enters the room. Steve remains kneeling on the cushions, back leaning against the wall. The question comes in two parts - he knows Bucky's speaking a different language, but his mind translates it - there's a twist in his chest and something like faint resignation that slips through the link with Sam. It's buried not long after, pushed down by the stronger sense of persisting relief. Brow furrowing he starts to open his mouth to answer, then closes it. Better to let one person talk to start. He trusts Sam. ]

[ Talking is better than throwing punches - though he can't help but echo that sense of quiet resignation he gets from Steve. The determination is strong, though, and Sam pulls in a breath before reaching back out for the brood link between him and Bucky.

Sam's missed it, more than he realized, but he tries not to focus on that as he lets warmth trickle back through, the same nudging invitation to come here that he's used before. ]

You're in the Bearings, city of Concordia. It's 2016. [ Not that he knows what year it is in Concordia, but that's not the point. The point is facts to help Bucky orient himself. ] Your name is Bucky Barnes, this is Steve Rogers and I'm Sam Wilson. Sometimes shit happens and things get confusing, but it's okay. You've got us.

[Bucky looks from Steve to Sam and furrows his brow when the response comes in a different language. That's... different. The nudging in his mind is familiar, though, and though he glances around for a third person, the cogs in his head gain speed. Gentle warmth overcomes a storm of static. Memories come in pieces: following a beacon in Subspace, days of frustration in a narrow-walled hovel, seeing these two faces in front of him time and time again, sketches in a notebook, searching for a hot dog, the jet engine that has left scars along the edges of his mind.

2016. He was brought in for a bombing. They went to Siberia and he lost his arm.

He blinks at Steve for a beat longer.] You got small. [In English this time.]

[ He lets out the breath he started holding as Sam spoke and shoots Bucky a look that goes you wanna say that again, pal?, any insult to be read from it ruined by the way one side of his mouth quirks into a small smile. ]

Never got big. The Station picked me up early.

[ He gives a quiet, amused snort before he can help himself. ] All right, next time you can be the one listing off facts, I'd love to see what you'd go with. But it doesn't matter who remembers what, we've still got each other's backs.

[ There's a pulse against his and Bucky's mental link, a brief flicker of memories - not enough to shove them on him, but enough to let him know that they're if he wants them. He's gotten pretty good about offering without pushing. ]

You can look through, if you want, see if there's anything that jumpstarts something. You've been in here before, I don't mind.

[Blinking between the two of them again, more pieces collect and arrange themselves in his head. The sketchbook on the desk comes to mind and the contrasting images between noodle-armed Steve and 2016 Steve. That's right. Steve didn't go to war, didn't know what happened beyond... 1943, was it? Before he can answer his own question Sam brushes against his mind again and Bucky pauses before realizing it's coming from Sam.

That's right. Broodmates. He declines the mental slideshow as his walls start to slowly assemble, barbed wire twining up from the steel cracks in his head.]

What's with the feathers? [He reaches up to brush his fingers over the braids.]

[ Can't be wishful thinking that this recovery seems to be going faster. He shakes his head at Sam, posture relaxing some more as he leans his back against the wall. ]

That's on this guy. [ Another wry grin, gentle ribbing as he tilts his head at Sam, adding: ] They don't look half bad.

[ There's another rush of warmth, a wordless I'm glad you're back, and then Sam draws back again as Bucky starts to pull his walls back up. And then Bucky asks that, and Sam's face breaks into a slightly smug beam.

He nudges Steve's foot with his, a tiny, playful kick as he grins at him. ]

They look fantastic, thank you. I missed my calling as a hairstylist. [ Sam turns his smile onto Bucky, tilting his head consideringly. ] Definitely an improvement.

[~~Wow ouch on his previous look as hobo of the year~~

Bucky sends the mental equivalent of an acknowledging nod over the link, still not quite sure how to do the full on communicating at the moment. For now, he'll just take in the sight of Steve and Sam smiling. Most of his memories contain images of frowns and concern edging their faces, so it's a nice contrast.

As for the braids and the feathers, he takes the compliments with a furrowed brow. He wasn't exactly that aware of his appearance, nor was he concerned about it, but he has his doubts regarding his new regalia. For now, however, he's not going to address it further.]

You said I was sleeping?

[ He lazily rocks to one side with the little kick, righting himself again. Steve's friendly enough with folks, but this easiness with Sam is newer, a few steps closer to the familiarity they share in a different timeline.

His expression sobers with Bucky's next question. ]

Yeah, same as the others. [ His mouth twists to one side. ] Wasn't even a week, though. [ Meant as consolation. There's been a few that spent longer in the coma before waking up (more than a few now that haven't woken up at all). ]

[ It's nice, the three of them like this. If Sam were a little more impulsive, he'd reach out and tug at one of the feathers in Bucky's hair, bring him in on the playful ease - but he's not quite close enough to do it casually. He'll have to settle for having put them there in the first place, baby steps. ]

Didn't miss much. Another break in, only this one went a little better. A fundraising event you'd've probably hated. [ Or not gone to in the first place, but still. There's a moment of hesitation, because he's honestly not sure how much time Bucky's spent with any of their other broodmates, but at some point the faded connection to one of them will be obvious. ] Giorno, one of Bellatrix's teenagers, he's out, too.

[Bucky shifts to sit on the edge of the bed as he watches both of them, a little off balance and still confused as hell. Being asleep at least carries the comfort that he didn't hurt anyone, but being unconscious for extended amounts of time makes him more than uneasy. The feathers in his hair brush against his cheek as he turns to Sam, helping to ground him in the room and not in Siberia.

Giorno. The name is both familiar and not. He doesn't go out of his way to spend time with his broodmates or anyone, really. Bucharest taught him well to avoid familiarity or casual conversation.

And yet... a touch of regret splashes across his thoughts. Teenager. Just a kid.] How many are asleep?

[ His gaze lowers, crease in his brow deepening. ] Sam Anders - he came looking for us in Subspace last month. [ Steve doesn't know how well Bucky knew him besides that. ] Four or five others.

[ A quick glance at Sam.

And Clint. ]

[ He ducks his head briefly when Steve looks at him. The distress when it first happened has faded, but he still feels Clint's absence. Right now's not about him, though, and he doesn't want to focus on that.

And it's better, now that Bucky's back, but he doesn't want to think about that, either.

He looks back up, the twist of his lips rueful. ]

Clint, too.

[Sam. The mention of Subspace rings a bell and he sorts through fistfuls of memories to find Subspace. Leaving his door, then an empty space and Steve with bruises. A rotation of faces stopped by, Sam Anders, must be, and Sam across from him. The former leaves a bit of a sour taste in his mouth, but he doesn't know exactly why. It tastes like jet fuel, like burning skin and a massive headache.

Before he can shut the door on those memories, metal flashes to the surface, his arm clutched by Sam Anders.

The mention of Clint is barely registered in the wake of the sensation of the fingers of his right hand closing tight around a windpipe. In his mind, Sam Anders gasps and coughs and tries to speak.

The image overlays with both of the men in front of him: metal around Steve's through broken glass, flesh around Sam's in this very room.]

[ As soon as Sam feels Bucky start to get caught up in the memories instead of just sorting through them, he reaches out. Slow and faint at first, trying not to be overwhelming, warmth spills over his connection to Bucky - and to Steve, since he isn't bothering to keep its focus narrow. He tugs at Bucky's just a little, not quite the same pulling that he'd done when he and Bucky had worked together to get him out of the static, but a muted echo of it, as he starts 7-11 breathing.

Stay with them, Bucky. They're more important than the memories trying to keep you stuck. ]

Hey, Bucky, you still got the coin I gave you?

[ Flashes of fight with Ren and Anders come rushing through Bucky's side of the link at Steve, threatening to tip him into the memory. He centers himself against the torrent, focusing on Sam's side of the link, the line thrown 'caught'. Not quite the stability of a tripod between them, he wavers at casting the same line toward Bucky, waiting. ]

Coin? [ His eyebrows raise, the question directed at Bucky. ]

[Seven eight nine ten eleven. Sam's counting echoes and reverberates in Bucky's head as he picks up the numbers. They help push out the imprints of black and blue on flesh, but the faces echo alongside those etched in blood. Without saying anything, he reaches into his pocket with his right arm where he last had the coin and produces it. His fingers run over the grooves in a mechanical manner.

He can see the desk. There's bruises on Sam Anders' neck, his carotid throbs under his fingers.]

[ Sam shifts closer to Steve without realizing it, leaning in until their arms touch. He breathes, keeping his attention on counting them, and lets his focus narrow down to just his connection to Bucky and Steve.

They've got this; Sam believes that absolutely. He's got no room for doubt, not in the three of them. ]

Focus on the coin, okay? What do you feel?

Wings. [Responding has become easier and easier with repetition. He and Sam have done this a handful of times now and starting the process brings relief all on its own. Looking up to familiar faces centers him here in the room with them.

He wishes it wasn't like this. It seems like every conversation triggers something new and even the most innocent of conversations lead to more memories.]

[ It's routine for them, he realizes. Reaching for a more solid grip on Bucky's link might tip the tenuous balance. He sits steady, allowing the contact from Sam and his gaze following Bucky's hand to the coin he produces, only lifting again to meet his eyes, offering a faint smile. ]

Yeah, man, you got this. Keep going, huh? Until you feel like you're back with us.

[ Sam keeps up his end, a steady support through their connection and mentally counting as he breathes. This thing between him and Bucky, it's... well, it's starting to become a thing, and whatever this is between the three of them is still tentative as hell, but it's starting to become something Sam can count on. Sam's not all that willing to look at that any closer right now.

Bucky is doing worlds better than the first time the Winter Soldier crashed into Sam's life, and Sam'd even say he's doing better than the first time that he and Bucky actually met properly - but then, it's not like Sam's got anything to compare it to. ]

[The rest of the process comes easier still, almost like a mantra spilling from his lips.] The desk has four legs. Steve's sketchbook is sitting on it.

[Two things he can see, needs two more. He turns to them and soaks up their appearances. That's right. Steve and Sam. They're in Concordia. There's no HYDRA here, none other than him.] Steve's small. Sam's big.

Watch who you're calling small, pal. [ His smile widens a bit, goes lopsided again. Faint humor and relief starts to radiate from him. ]

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