station72 | semi-open;

Entry tags:

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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.]

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[ Sam's own sleep has been... hit or miss. There's been moments that could almost be fun, sure, sharing stories around the campfire and getting away from the drama that comes with living with the rest of the Nest. But Sam carries his own guilt, and Bucky's restlessness hums under his skin. It's hard to settle when he knows Bucky can't bring himself to close his eyes - but he doesn't want to push. He gets the feeling it was hard enough for Bucky to ask for this, to take refuge with the two of them instead of running off on his own.

So he offers support the best way he can, quiet and wordless, braids Bucky's hair, and outloud he sasses the hell out of him. When Bucky drifts off to sleep, so does he.

And when Bucky dreams - so does Sam.

He'd read the files they'd gotten on the Winter Soldier while they were looking for him, and he's seen some of what's in Bucky's head, but those weren't memories disguised as a nightmare. Those weren't first person, and he didn't feel every moment amplified by the absolute blankness of mind, the focus on nothing but the mission.

Sam jolts awake as Bucky does. He reaches automatically to grab for his challenge coin, fingers curled hard around the metal as he counts his breathing. 'My name is Sam Wilson. It's 2017. I'm on a space station in the middle of god knows where. Steve and Bucky are here.

I am not the Winter Soldier.'

That last one is a little different from his usual recitation of facts to ground himself after a nightmare, but right about now, he needs it. After a few moments, when the foreign nightmare fades and he comes back to himself, Sam pushes himself up to follow Bucky out.

He doesn't even need their connection to be able to figure out what's going through Bucky's head right now, but he can pick up on it anyway. ]

They always like that?

[Behind him, Bucky can hear Sam's mantra, but there's no comfort to be found in it now. He is not Sam Wilson and he is the Winter Soldier. He is the one who dimmed the lights in Howard and Maria's eyes in 1991. Except he can still see them, still see the halo of dim light over the smoking hood of the car. Dirt crunches under his boots and he wonders if he ever got away, if he's walking on that road again with death. He doesn't do that anymore, his brain scrambles to provide, but here he is in the woods, along a back road, walking toward the car again.

But then the feathers at the ends of his braids scratch against his cheek and Bucky blinks. The smoking hood fades into the darkened shadows of the gardens, the cries of Maria Stark quiet and go silent.

He's on the Station. Steve and Bucky--- no, Steve and Sam are here. Steve, so small and fragile, and Sam, so willing to take knocks for a weapon parading around as a man.

He can't stay here. His instincts scream in his veins to runrunrun, but Sam's voice echoes in the otherwise silent gardens. That's why they were out here, because he needed to try, because he wanted to try.

The better question is 'when aren't they like that' but Bucky's too busy catching his breath to answer. It doesn't matter. He deserves the nightmares, deserves the faces that stare out from amber glass, deserves the crushing guilt and panic that fight for control in the wake of death.]

[ One of the dangers of being too much in each other's heads, shared nightmares. It's not the first time it's happened with Sam, but it was probably the most intense - and Sam's not sure if that's because of their brood bond or just because he and Bucky have been completely inside each other's heads.

It doesn't matter, really, because Sam'd be out here the same even if he'd just heard Bucky waking up from his nightmare.

Bucky'd wanted to try. He is trying, and hell but Sam's grateful for that. He doesn't really know how to tell Bucky that he doesn't think he can do this without him, not with what he can feel pouring off Bucky in waves. Of course, he figures some part of Bucky might know that, seeing as Sam can't exactly hide it from him - but they don't gotta talk about it, at least, when Bucky's caught up in guilt and fear and panic.

He knows how well it goes talking with Bucky about what he deserves even on good days, let alone after a nightmare like that with everything else going on. So he stays quiet there, for the moment, and instead holds out his hand, fingers splayed in invitation.

Breathe with me, he offers, a silent impression across their bond.

Then maybe they can talk about that willing to take knocks for a weapon shit. ]

[Bucky knows the moment Sam has extended his hand; with the brood link blown so wide open it's sometimes difficult to remember he only has the one arm. Yet, Bucky doesn't immediately accept the offered comfort. He deserves this and worse, deserves his stomach trying to eat its way up his throat, deserves the live wire planted beneath his skin, searing his nerves. What he most definitely doesn't deserve is to be comforted. He caused those deaths. He killed Howard and Maria Stark, nearly killed Steve and Sam.

And now someone else was dead while the weapon lived.]

( Yeah. You did. ) [ It's a simple, easy acknowledgement, no qualifiers. It was Hydra behind every one of the people who died over the years, but it was Bucky's hands that killed them. He's the one who gets to live with the memories. Telling Bucky that it's not his fault, no matter how true it is - it doesn't change that. ] ( It ain't the same - but I know what it's like to feel guilty being alive when others are dead. )

[ He stares down at his hand between them for a long moment, then looks back up to watch Bucky. ]

( Will you look at me? )

[Part of what Bucky really likes about Sam is his lack of false platitudes. Telling Bucky it isn't his fault that dozens, hundreds are dead won't resurrect them, won't ease the grief of families affected. Sam isn't afraid to address the truth and lay it in the open and doesn't hide behind half-truths to save feelings.

Perhaps he knows better than ever what Bucky is, who Bucky is, and what he's done. For a moment, Bucky wonders if he turns, if Sam will see him for the broken weapon he is and leave.

Bucky's heart chokes his throat as it thrums painfully in his veins and he turns with a measure of reluctance. Sam's hand is still stretched between them, offering comfort and companionship. Two things he doesn't deserve. The feathers in his braids scrape against his cheeks and he's reminded of a third thing he doesn't deserve. The list builds from there.]

[ There's a time and place for telling Bucky that it's not his fault, Sam believes that. But only focusing on that, adding it in every time they talk about this - it's too easy. It'd be nice, if it could erase all of this.

But it won't. Sam learned that first hand, that sometimes it's just gotta be acknowledged.

He waits, chest tight despite his slow and steady breathing, until Bucky turns to look at him. There's a part of him that wants to take Bucky's hand, to try to ground him here, but he settles for having Bucky's attention. For being able to meet his eyes. ]

( You are not a weapon anymore. You're a person, and part of being a person means having to deal with the shit you've done in the past. Because you can't change what you did, no matter how terrible it was - and I ain't gonna try to lie to you there. But you can change this. The road you got ahead of you is gonna be hard as hell, but it's not gonna be one you ever gotta go down alone. )

[Bucky stares over at Sam, unable to hide behind his hair for the braids holding it back. However, he drops his gaze to the dirt when Sam's reply first comes. He's never stopped being the weapon. Not after Berlin, not even after the Waypoint and the hope that followed them back to the Station. There's no stopping the Soldier when he emerges, no defense against his powers misfiring--- not really--- or the words.

He deserves to be alone for the rest of his days. He deserves the fear and anxiety taking over, running his heart through his ears.]

[ Sam shakes his head when Bucky looks away, when he can feel Bucky's anxiety creeping back up, and for a moment, he switches to speaking out loud. This time he adjusts it, just a little. ]

You are not only a weapon anymore.

[ His words are quiet, and his tone could almost have been neutral if it won't for the echo of determination underlying them. Sam can be there for Bucky as much as possible, he can show him how to ride through panic attacks and bring himself back flashbacks, can fight with him when the Soldier surges up again - but when it comes to nightmares and guilt and all that deeper emotional shit, that's all gonna have to be Bucky right now.

There's nothing that either of them can do with that until Bucky starts seeing himself as a person more than he does as a weapon. Eventually - eventually maybe Bucky won't see himself as a weapon at all, but Sam's got a feeling that's a long time coming. ]

( You want me to give you an itemized list of reasons why, I got no problem sitting your ass down and arguing it. )

[Bucky glances at Sam, brows furrowed at his spoken words. He doesn't understand what the difference is between that and his previous response. Why say it again? Instead, his anger ignites alongside the panic, blooms into life with the fuel of his nightmares. Maria's face rises to the forefront of his mind and then her son's when he found out.]

Stop it! [He shouts aloud, voice heavy as he tries to catch his breath. But he can't. He can't breathe. His heart is about to burst out of his chest. A hundred different faces join Maria's, all silenced by his hands, the weapon's.]

[ That's another thing that he'll have to explain, then, to try to make it clear that Sam doesn't expect Bucky to be perfect, that he gets that it ain't gonna be like flipping a switch and now he's completely a person - because Sam's not gonna stop.

But he's not a complete jackass. As much as he likes seeing Bucky show any kind of emotion, even anger - maybe especially anger, because Sam kind of thinks that of all the emotions, anger about what was happening to him and joy in anything at all were probably two of the ones stamped out the most relentlessly - he's not gonna sit there and do nothing about all that panic.

He focuses on his own breathing, steady and slow, counting in time with each inhale and exhale, and there's a wordless encouragement across their connection to breathe with him. Part of him wants to fall back, switch to just focusing on grounding to keep Bucky here and out of his nightmare, it's just - he can't resisting pushing, just a little more. He's always pushed Bucky, maybe more than he should, but here they are.

If Bucky's actually telling him to stop, he's not gonna refuse, but he'll still question it. ]

Why?

I... don't know.

[Bucky's breath continues to catch in his throat as his heart hammers in his ears. He tries to simultaneously breathe with Sam as push him away. He doesn't deserve the assurance Sam's presence promises, but the programming hums, reminds him that weapons don't get a say. Confusion joins the mix of emotion and Bucky finds that he doesn't have a solid answer for Sam, though he should. He owes Sam so much, after everything that's happened. After yanking him down onto the deck of a gunship, after wrenching one week off and kicking him out into open air, after throwing him by his face into the dark, after fighting him again and again on Concordia and the Waypoint.

Bucky doesn't deserve Sam.

He reaches up to the braids to start pulling them apart. He's nothing more than a weapon and weapons don't get braids or feathers.]

Edited 2017-06-18 14:55 (UTC)

You don't gotta have an answer.

[ Half the time Sam asks people questions, he doesn't expect them to really know - it's just something to think about. But he doesn't get the chance to say any of that, because he can feel Bucky's confusion rising, can feel him starting to get stuck in all the ways he hurt Sam over the years.

This time Sam reaches out, trying to take Bucky's hand and lace their fingers together at the same time as he widens their connection enough that he can come more purposefully across it, warmth spilling out between them. ]

( Stay with me, sunshine, okay, I got one more question for you. )

[Sam's fingers reach up and curl in his, crushing feathers in their grip and Bucky shakes his hand. No, no, don't touch him. He's too dangerous; he's a weapon. Wrenching his hand free allows one of the folded feathers to drift to the ground. That's his fault. It's all his fault. There are so many dead because of him. If Sam gets too close, he'll end up the same way and Bucky can't stomach the thought of losing his broodmate.]

No. [Shit. He knows how this ends, how directly disobeying any request will send the fire through hid veins but he doesn't want to listen.]

[ Damn it Bucky.

His continued insistence on pulling away to protect Sam - despite that Sam's pretty sure he's made it clear that it's the exact opposite of what he wants - is frustrating as hell. But at the same time, Sam finds it hard to complain about anytime Bucky challenges the programming.

Any time he asserts himself and makes a choice, especially a refusal, is good, even if it's personally irritating.

Sam pulls his hand away, but he stops even trying to keep their connection closed. He doesn't know if it's gonna be as bad this time as it was last time, but he's ready. ]

Okay, man, okay.

[If Bucky was struggling to breathe before, his efforts have doubled as the first searing pulses of the programming blaze through him. In a matter of seconds, his skin has heated up as the familiar chemical burn eats through his defenses. He won't let himself run this time, he tells bimself, though his mental voice has become increasingly muddled as the snow in his mind melts. Sam's silhouette swims in his vision, sweat dripping into his brow.

But he deserves it, he reminds himself as his limbs weaken and phantom pain snakes up his left arm. He... he...

He needs cold He needs something cold.]

[ Fuck, no, this does not get much better the second time around.

Anger surges through him - not hot, indignant fury, but something colder, something deeper, and for a moment he wishes he'd been a little more proactive about killing every damn Hydra agent he ever found. But he lets it go, because that kind of thing ain't gonna help here.

Bucky might not want to run from what's happening to him, but Sam isn't ever going to be able to let him suffer through this alone.

He focuses more on their connection, leaving everything else behind to let himself completely in Bucky's mind. Just like last time, he throws up his own defenses, trying to add them to Bucky's - trying as best as he can to flood them with cold. ]

[Bucky turns away from Sam, but his center of gravity swings and he finds himself on his knees in the dirt before he can realize what's happened. All he knows now is the heat surging through his body, making him soft and malleable and obedient. Be a good soldier. Go be frozen for your insubordination. Almost distantly, he can feel the sensation of someone else in his mind and the programming sets about pushing that additional presence out while continuing to burn Bucky from the inside out. He doesn't struggle against the pain or even think of fighting back.

But he wants cold, wants it so bad, and the additional mind against his eases the fever clouding his senses.]

'm sorry. [He mumbles, unsure who he's talking to: the programming or Sam.]

[ Sam drops to his knees when Bucky does. It's not exactly a conscious movement, but he takes advantage of it anyway, leaning in close to take Bucky's hand and hold on tight. ]

( You got nothing to apologize for right now, sunshine, not to me and sure as hell not to what's doing this to you. )

[ He eases himself more into Bucky's mind, slowly at first, until the searing heat fighting him makes him take a more determined approach. Sam throws himself into it, anchoring himself in Bucky's mind the way he's done before when they fought the programming together.

Only this time - this time there's something more behind it. Whatever training Sam's been doing with the symbiote's paid off, and there's a boost of strength behind the way he grabs hold of what he can sense of Bucky amidst the rolling heat of the programming and hangs on, holding them together.

Until it's less that Sam's in Bucky's head and more that he can't tell what's his brain space and what's Bucky's. Until he's not even sure there is any separation, not at the moment.

He thinks - he thinks come on sunshine and we can do this and I got you, but he doesn't have to say any of it. Instead he gives his strength to Bucky, focuses on cold. ]

[Bucky can hardly feel Sam's fingers entwined with his, but the spread of frozen wings over boiling water makes his presence more obvious. Those feathers dig into the fragments of ice and hum as snow re-freezes and offers relief from the searing heat. Bucky knows how it's supposed to be, how cold his mind usually is and provides the mental scaffolding. The chemical burn in his veins lessens, even as the programming shrieks like torn metal at this subversion of its power.

Physically, Bucky struggles into a sitting position so he can connect their bodies in more places: shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, cheek to cheek. Each provides more anchoring, more strength to the shielding keeping him from the heat.]

[ The programming shrieks, and Sam gives it the proverbial middle finger as he winds himself around Bucky's scaffolding. It hasn't been on purpose, going in this deep, not like the last times he's gone into Bucky's head or pulled Bucky into his own, but it's working. The programming never belonged in Bucky's head, no matter how much it's worked its hooks into it, but it sure as hell doesn't belong in Sam's. And right now there's not a whole lot of difference between their minds.

Last time they his, waited it out, but this time they can fight it.

When Bucky struggles to press closer, to bring them into more physical contact, Sam goes with it. He sits as well, hauling Bucky in until he's practically in Sam's lap, chests pressed together and a hand tangled in Bucky's hair. ]

[As Sam pulls him bodily closer, the frozen wings surrounding them burst with additional strength, chilling him to the point that he can hardly feel the heat at all. He breathes in and finds Sam all around, inside his mind and out, humming alongside the programming as if he was meant to be there. The waiting game starts, but Bucky doesn't mind this time around. Sam has eased the worst of the searing heat, given him respite and the cold he so needs right now.]

[ Sam closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Bucky's as he breaths, nice and slow. The chill of the wind ruffles through his feathers, calm and soothing, and it's - almost comfortable, sitting like this. Like they belong.

Maybe it should concern Sam, how close together they are, but it doesn't. He made his choice ages ago, and there's nothing that makes him regret it now.

His fingers pet through Bucky's hair, as much as they can with the feathers and the braids, his other hand sprawled against Bucky's back, as he settles in to wait it out. ]

[Every breath that passes from Bucky's lips is shared with Sam, every pulse of his heart sends blood through both of them, the sweat that sticks their foreheads together belongs to them both. Here is where he belongs, where he was meant to be all along. And now waiting doesn't seem so tough. In fact, it feels right to wait here with Sam until the programming blows over.]

[ It doesn't seem to take as long this time - or maybe Sam isn't as conscious of the passage of time when he's not carrying Bucky across a crowd or curled up on the floor next to his couch. Maybe it's just that he doesn't care how long it's been, when he's happy to be like this. But eventually he notices that the programming isn't actively attempting to hurt them anymore, eventually he notices that things are more or less quiet, except the intermingling of his and Bucky's thoughts.

He means to say something, but the intent behind it makes across before he can - a wordless question, checking in on Bucky's mind, love-support-contentment-determination. He makes no move to untangle himself either physically or mentally, and it's obvious that this is the most comfortable he's been in a while. ]

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