[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. ]
no subject
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. ]