day 49ish am; {open after initial waking}

[bracchium]

{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.]

Comments

[decommission]

One a day keeps the doctor away.

[ With a short huff he starts to stand, which mostly consists of him sliding his back up the wall with how close they've gotten bunched up. ] But I guess we'll settle for hot dog-like.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ There's a soft, vaguely amused snort as he shoots a look at Bucky. ] Harlem born and raised, you don't gotta tell me about the nutritional value of New York's hot dogs.

[ By which he means practically zero, except now with all this talk about them, well. He kind of wants one, too, damn it. But Concordia's equivalent isn't close enough to satisfy the desire - or maybe Sam's gotten pickier these days - so he just rolls his eyes as he copies Steve, pushing himself up. He clasps a hand briefly on Steve's shoulder, warm and affectionate, before he starts moving towards the door. ] Lord save me from 1940s boys, I gotta broaden both your horizons.

[bracchium]

[Harlem? Well there's another reason to make fun of Sam, on top of being Air Force. Bucky watches Steve for another beat longer before climbing to his feet with the measured caution of a man unsure of his strength. His legs hold him well enough, but the feathers swing into his vision even as he reaches up to tuck them behind his ear.]

No tacos. [He remembers watching little Sam trying to eat what he called a 'taco' with revulsion.]

[decommission]

Harlem? [ A look at Bucky like did you know about that as he playfully shrugs Sam's hand away with a surprised huff, heading out into the hallway. ]

Tacos?

[ ?? ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Watch yourself, Barnes, those might be fighting words. But when he catches sight of Bucky tucking the feathers behind his ears, he has to duck his head a little to hide the smile twitching at his lips. ]

Mexican food. Not a worry there, man, I'm not touching what passes for it here. [ He shoots them both a sly look, the image of a certain breakfast dish served every where from boot camp to out in the field drifting over the mental link. ] Could always go traditional with some SOS.

[bracchium]

[Bucky returns Steve's question with the confirmation that no he honestly didn't know that Sam hailed from Harlem. The thought of eating anything, traditional or not, doesn't sound particularly appetizing.]

We ever had it? [The question is directed to Steve, since Bucky himself doesn't know if he's had SOS or not.]

[decommission]

Yup. [ He's pretty sure there was a year they were having it for breakfast almost every other day. A wry edge to his tone: ] I wouldn't so no to it.

[ His sense of taste has always been questionable at best. ]