semi-open;

[bracchium]

CHARACTERS: Bucky, Sam, Steve, and guests
WHERE: The Gardens
WHEN: Backdated to D040-idk 45ish?
SUMMARY: After another death in the nest, Bucky feels the need to run.
WARNINGS: Nightmares, talk of violence, etc.


[Death in the Nest never comes easy. Anakin's had been so violent and sudden and now Aoba's seemingly the opposite. Something planned and slow and when the pain of the loss surges through the Nest, Bucky's left shuddering in its wake. He can't stay here, that's all he knows in the moment as he surges from his quarters. His backpack is heavier than he remembers as he hefts it over his shoulder. However, he's only a dozen feet down the hall before a conversation with Sam springs to his mind. Over shared drinks, he agreed to think about not running, about camping, about seeking offered help when this urge rises.

But he can't bring himself to search for help directly. Not when all he can focus on is the pain of a purposeful death rocking through his nerves.

And yet his feet bring him to the Gardens, to dirt crunching under his boots instead of the darkness of the farthest corners of the Station. He's reminded again of Sam, of their talk of camping, and he quietly sends up a ping of his location to both his broodmate and Steve. The impression of his panic colors the leaves of the trees around him, burning incandescent over the link.]

Comments

[decommission]

[ His gaze shifts from Sam to Bucky, offering them both a half-hearted grin. He glances up at the high ceiling. This is as close to fresh air as they're going to get until the powers that be let them know when they're getting sent out again. ]

Well, we won't have to worry about getting rained on... [ And he's not going to complain about some time away from Life Support right now. One foot digs into the dirt. ] This the spot?

[ His own camping experience is, well, pretty limited. ]

works for me!

[decommission]

[ He doesn't realize what's happening until it's too late - he trips over his own foot trying to avoid kicking Bucky's tumbling form, lands hard.

He grimaces, pulling himself up. Pain blossoms in his left knee and he pinches his end of the connection shut before too much of it can pass through. ]

Hey - you okay? [ Concern beats flickers across his already tight expression as he looks Bucky over. He'd caught a flash of something just before Bucky tripped on him, but the cause for the sudden shift isn't immediately apparent to him. His gaze moves around the gardens, as though there's an answer for the trigger to be found there. ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ For all that Sam can't sleep without someone watching his back, he's still used to the military method of being able to drop down and catch some shut eye where ever and whenever you can. Which means he's out, and he stays out for a good long while, back against a tree and head pillowed on Bucky's.

The changing lights that is the Station's version of "day" is what finally pulls Sam out of sleep, although it's reluctant. Just like on Waypoint, his mind is so tangled up with Bucky's that it takes him a little bit to figure out anything. Sleepy confusion mills about their link until he settles, looking out over the landscape of their minds.

The programming hums, quiet and distant and lurking, and Sam wonders how much more active it is when they're not sharing the same space like this. Thinks about never leaving, about growing their connection so wide that it snuffs the programming out completely - but maybe that's just the sleep talking.

His fingers comb through Bucky's hair, gently untangling braids that have come half loose, sends a half formed question: Sam can redo them all, if he wants. It's followed up immediately with something closer to hey, you awake, how you feeling? ]

[cognitived]

[ Yeah, no way he missed the byplay even if Clint wasn't a spysassin.

He's mostly stayed out of Barnes' hair here, remembering too clearly Natasha gut-shot, and knowing the too similar issues they've got simmering in their heads. Easier to keep your head in one place if you're not melding with another guy with mind control problems. But, but Sam's fond of him, and it's maybe time. So he keeps still and casual, waiting for Barnes to assess danger and move on. Rolls his eyes at the over the top grabby motion Sam makes, even as Clint steps forward to let him gather up the suddenly noisy animals. ]

You're spoiling them.

[ Mock-grumpy, even as he settles back, nearly unburdened. It's also pretty clear that Clint is joking. He scans the camp curiously, head-cocked, thoughtful. ]

A pity you guys don't have s'mores.

fabo!

[bracchium]

[Bucky's barely made contact with the ground before he's trying to scramble back away from Steve. There's a burst of pain from Steve's end of the connection and Bucky's nerves nearly burst for the fear that he'd done serious damage to his friend. He's on his feet a heartbeat before Steve and they've stood like this before, metal grating between them, a pistol in Bucky's hand. He remembers twisting, shooting, blood spraying from Steve's side.

The two images almost overlay: a taller, broader Steve curled over his side juxtaposed to a smaller version with a brow similarly furrowed.

Maybe inviting Steve was a mistake. He's so small and Bucky's far too dangerous.]

[bracchium]

[Bucky's much the same as Sam in terms of his ability to sleep just about anywhere. It was useful for a weapon to be able to rest almost on command. His senses remain open and awake, a facet of the programming that will never go away, and when the lights come up, he drowses into a state of half-wakefulness. Oh. Just the lights. No danger. He settles back under as best he can even as Sam wakes more. With Sam here, in his mind, in close physical contact, the programming is so distant Bucky can hardly hear it. In the void, though, is not silence, but Sam, warm and vibrant like a summer day. He surprises himself in the gratitude that briefly eases some of his usual guilt; when he's alone, the programming is much, much worse.

The snowstorm that usually surrounds Bucky's mental guards still has yet to pick up. Over what should be frozen tundra are angry scorch marks that will take time to heal.

As Sam runs his fingers through Bucky's hair, the latter groans quietly. He's not ready to wake up yet; he's so comfortable. Braids can wait. Everything can wait. ]

[decommission]

[ Through the pinhole of their link he sense Bucky's fear, tastes blood in his mouth and the ringing of gunshots in his ears. It's happening to someone else, that familiar face in Bucky's memories (the sleeping man in the belly of the Station). His wince isn't from the dull pain in his knee, already subsiding now. ]

I'm fine, Buck. [ He tries to keep his voice soft, pushes back the blow to his pride. ] Look -

[ He lifts his shirt, exposing his fish-pale stomach. No bullet holes, no scars. He lifts his pant leg - his knee's red from the fall but no worse for wear. You don't have to worry about me. He's not six feet tall, but he's not weak. And despite what's in Bucky's memories, he's never raised a weapon to Steve since they've been here. ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ He gives a soft chuckle at Steve's comment, warmth spilling out over their mental links. He hasn't missed that Bucky's keeping to himself, and for the moment he follows his lead - even if it is real damn hard to resist the urge to be in physical contact with him. ]

I saw some camping supplies buried back in the rec area. No idea if they come with instructions, but the three of us can probably manage to figure it out.

[bracchium]

[At the question regarding the spot, Bucky offers a small nod. The willow grove is as good a place as any to set up a campsite, no matter if the supplies come with instructions or not. He's spent more than one night out on open ground or on the top of a train; a tent is a relative luxury.

Like Sam, the brood link pulls at him, wants to draw him in closer to Sam, but the programming fights back, and ramps up the urge to run.]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ It doesn't escape Sam that Bucky's able to able to wake up, assess for danger, and then relax again. That's where Sam's at, on his good days, and even as he scans over the landscape of Bucky's mind - the programming stays distant. It's quiet, just the two of them, and when he feels the way Bucky's guilt lessens...

Sam's eyes slide shut again, settling his hand in Bucky's hair and fingers scratching soothingly at his scalp. It can wait.

They can stay here as long as Bucky wants, any time Bucky wants, and that thought flows across their connection.

Sam feels better when he's not alone, too. ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky catches glimpses of another Steve, one with eyes shut in sleep, but the image doesn't linger in the face of the fear bursting through his seams. Steve lifts his shirt and instead of blood-stained red, white, and blue, there are visible ribs and pale skin. Bucky furrows his brow, chest heaving as he stares in confusion. He knows he shot Steve, his memories are clear, still bright in the front of his mind, the recoil vibrating up both his arms.

Except when he looks down to his hands, one is missing, severed well above the elbow.

Shifting his gaze back up to Steve, he examines the pallid expanse of skin again. No bullet holes, hardly any scars.]

[bracchium]

[Bucky presses his face further into Sam's shoulder and curls his arm about his broodmate's waist. The increased contact soothes him further, allows their minds to wind tighter together and hold the programming at bay. It's not always like this, his mind provides without Bucky needing to form the thought into words. When he's alone it's worse, much worse, but when he's with others, especially Sam and his broodmates, the programming quiets to a hum.

For now, he doesn't see anything wrong with wanting something, with being selfish in his desire to sleep. He's exhausted and exhausted weapons don't work as well.]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ There a soft, appreciative hum - both out loud and mentally - as Bucky presses closer and wraps his arm around his waist. They've touched a lot before, slept with Sam curled around him, but they haven't gotten to linger like this. And Sam - he wants it, to stay this close, to have as much physical contact as possible, to get to keep touching him. Their broodbond pulses strong like this, but even aside from that...

It's Bucky. Sam's so far beyond pretending like he doesn't care a whole lot about him.

He doesn't need to form that into words. Sam will be here; he'll always be here, whenever the programming starts to be too much. He lets himself sink into their shared mind space as they drift in sleep, not quite intentionally, anchoring down into the scorched landscape like the roots of a tree, the seeds of a thousand different plants, the echo of a songbird. Something that could be, a foundation to work with, somewhere down the line. Maybe the next time they fight off the programming together.

Just needs a little sunshine, and he doesn't put that to words, either, but it's there anyway. ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Don't give him that look, Bucky, Clint doesn't count as company.

Or at least, he doesn't count as company to Sam, and sometimes it's hard for Sam to remember that just because the two of them occupy the biggest parts of his mind, that it's hard for him to find the edges of where he ends and they begin - it doesn't mean that the two of them know each other anymore than the echoes that they can pick up from Sam's mind. An apology curls out across Bucky's mind when Sam picks up that anger, following by something closer to it's fine.

Sam came because he wanted to. With the two of them both right by him - more than ever the wind of his mental link is tinged with static, and the feathers feel closer to the fletching of an arrow. Maybe it's selfish to want them both physically close the way he has them mentally, but he does.

When he eagerly gathers up the two birds from Clint, he immediately sets one of them on Bucky's shoulder. ]

Someone ate all the alien marshmallows, unless you've got a stash.

[bracchium]

[If Bucky has to put up effort to his mental shielding, he counts that as company in his mind, but he won't protest. He's half-turned away from Sam to go back to his notebook of sloppy sketches when a pair of talons dig into the shoulder of his thermal shirt. He glances over to the bloom of color there and the bright chirping that preludes pecking at his chin. With a smile, he chuckles at the little bird and offers a quiet,] Okay, okay. Got the message.

[Not that that soothes the bird's pecking or chirping as it continues to needle Bucky's jaw with its beak.]

You bring any food for them with you? [He shifts to look right at Clint, straight to brass tacks.]

[cognitived]

[ It's cool Bucky, Clint isn't going to draw that much attention. Instead, Clint's mouth slopes with a fond little grin as he watches the both of them with their bird-children. Who would've guessed, but it's pretty adorable. ]

Yeah, yeah, I've probably got something.

[ He takes a second to dig around in his pockets, before Clint pulls out something that's a space equivalent of a hotpocket. A pause, before he shrugs. ]

I've got some jerky, too?