station72 | semi-open;

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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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[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. ]

[Bucky is half-asleep from exhaustion once the programming finally quiets down. His body is drenched with sweat, his limbs heavy as Sam's presence pings in his mind. The frozen wings unfold from around them to reveal the scorched landscape, a sure sign that the programming has been through. Bucky lets his head sag onto Sam's shoulder, allowing the lead in his bones speak for itself. Nuzzling in closer to Sam's throat, Bucky silently asks to stay like this, to let him sleep.]

[ Sam shifts, just enough that he can prop himself up against the nearest tree and lean back a little. Yeah, yeah, he's good here, and there's a soft mental hum of contentment in response. He holds Bucky close, hand stroking soothingly - and breathes out, stretching his wings over that scorched landscape. Sam's not sure what part of it is Bucky and what's from the programming bleeding over into him and trying to leave scars - but he can shape his own mind enough, try to let its vibrancy pour out and linger.

Try to encourage growth in its wake, to give Bucky something lasting to hold onto. But Sam himself is exhausted, and he falls asleep with their minds still just as interconnected as they are. ]

[Bucky is quietly happy that Sam obliges him, that he doesn't have to move when his head feels like one gaping, raw wound. Growth will return in due time, the ground will re-freeze--- perhaps faster with Sam's presence--- but for now the necessary sleep rules over fostering that rebuilding.

Moments after Sam gives permission, Bucky falls into a deep slumber right then and there, not bothering to untangle them mentally or physically. That would take far too much effort that Bucky simply doesn't have the energy for.]

[ 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? ]

[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. ]

[ 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. ]

[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.]

[ 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. ]

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