station72 | i made a wish under the bloodshot sky (closed)

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i made a wish under the bloodshot sky (closed)

CHARACTERS: Sam and Bucky; closed
WHERE: The Red Coast
WHEN: DAY 040 night
SUMMARY: The programming tells Bucky to poison himself, so he does.
WARNINGS: self-poisoning (non-SI), blood, violence, drowning

In the depths of his isolated place in the barracks, Bucky can hear the mental flurry of activity during the fire, but knows he can’t help. Instead, he allows himself to fall deeper into his despair, into the depths of his guilt. His only memory from the incident- Sam’s neck bursting open, bright red blood spraying with each pump of his heart- offers little relief from the weight clinging to his soul. After that, his next memory arrives in the form of the new host, Rogue, with wide eyes and a red throat.

But the programming doesn’t care about either of those. No, it focuses on the mission, on the task of reviving another downed soldier. That failure rises above the others, tearing into Bucky at his foundation. Worthless, useless failure. Bucky steals out of his hiding place from time to time to forage for plants that no animal or native touched during their travels. As it turns out, that leaves a moss that collects on the rocks near the shore. He gathers a good handful before retiring to his isolated place.

It takes a long hour to fight the programming, only to fail in his misery and guilt and find himself devouring the handful of moss in one go. His body screams as he swallows down the mush. There’s no choice in the matter. He failed. The Soldier failed.

He sits in the corner of his barricaded room as the poison burns through his chest and stretches out to his limbs. Pain is nothing new to Bucky, but still brings up bad memories of HYDRA. There are reasons he doesn’t like eating foreign flora and fauna and this is the primary one; he’s been poisoned too many times to ever feel comfortable.

After several minutes of that burning pain, his vision begins to blur, leaving trails and halos when he turns his head so he closes his eyes to prevent the inevitable dizziness.

When he opens his eyes, he’s no longer in the barracks. Instead, his nose fills with the scent of steel, rust, and gunpowder. A heavy chill weighs down his clothes, damp and stuck to his skin as he steps deeper into the familiar depths. Under his feet, snow crunches and behind him branches twist and tangle into thick brambles that arc up into the frozen sky.

Before him, the jade door slides open and the stench of rust multiplies by a hundredfold. He knows this smell, recognizes it now. He should have since he arrived.

Death. He can taste it on his lips as he descends further, opening the gate to the elevator that brings more dread with it. In a blink, Bucky finds himself back where he thought he escaped, deep in the frozen earth. But he isn’t alone. Pierce stands there, steel blue eyes like a hawk. Bucky’s shoulders straighten, his heart quickens, and his stomach churns. That’s right. He never escaped, he never got out.

Handlers stand at his right and left, barrels pressed to his shoulders, and so he moves forward. There’s no chair that he can see and instead a tank sits low to the ground. He remembers this test.

Get in, echoes Pierce’s voice, but his lips don’t move.

He doesn’t have a chance to comply because the guns at his back shove him and he all but falls forward into the water. Before he can take a breath, the lid slams shut over him, bolted down with a whine and Bucky can’t get enough momentum to crack the glass.

When he looks down for another way out, though, something curls around his ankle. Fingers. Maria Stark. And then Howard. And a dozen others and the water looks more like wine.

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The fresh fear of nearly drowning is nearly all-consuming. Pain snakes through the remnants of his body, fangs latching into him as he shivers at the edge of the tank. He looks over to see Sam there with him and for a moment he simply looks at him. No bleeding neck, no loose wing, no open air. His fear of losing Sam rides higher, soars through him as one of the rifles at his nape moves, levels at Sam.

He's going. He's going in.

Bucky leans down, neck exposed, still watching Sam and skeletal hands reach up from the depths of the tank to drag him back in.

In an instant, he loses his breath and his ability to fight seems so much more diminished now, with sections of him missing. But he trusts that when he opens his eyes, Sam will be there and that's so much more than he had before.

He'd never wanted to be something else that could cause Bucky pain, never wanted to be a vulnerability that could be used against him. Here they are, a mess of pain and fear where Bucky'll do anything to keep Sam alive and Sam'll do anything to take away just a little bit of that suffering.

Bucky is his weakness, too. And he's terrified right now, because he doesn't want to go back into that tank and he knows him being in here means he's not able to actually give Bucky any kind of medical attention and he's so damn tired, but he -

Love isn't a weakness. They might be more vulnerable to some things but they are stronger because of each other, and all he's gotta do is look at Bucky to feel himself even out again.

When Bucky opens his eyes, Sam is there, pulling him closer and kissing him to breath air back into his lungs.

You're never gonna have to do this alone again, Sam promises without quite saying the words. No matter what happens, no matter what the programming does, Sam'll always be here to help him get through it until they can fight back.

Those skeletal fingers close tight around him again as his lungs burn, his limbs grow heavy, but when he opens his eyes, Sam is there with him, breathing for him. Bucky doesn't know how to fight this. A part of his rational mind knows that this is the moss he consumed, that this isn't just a flashback to break out of, but full-on hallucinations parading around as real life. But that part is far far away from him as they sink lower and lower.

Yet, Bucky doesn't feel so alone. The forms of Maria and Howard Stark, of Steve and Nick and Sam cling to him, but the pain seems minor in comparison.

Down here, there are skeletons and burning guilt, but no Pierce, no guns pointing at the back of Sam's head. There's a sort of peace in their retreat, despite the edge of fear of the water surrounding them.

You failed.

This kind of shit - sometimes it's about huge leaps forward and moments of revelation. Sometimes it's being able to look in the mirror and see hope, or waking up and remembering your name and the name of the guy sitting next to you. But most days it's eye contact and smiling over drinks, it's remembering to count to slow your breathing and having fingers laced through yours when you feel alone.

Sam learned a long time ago not to measure success by when nothing hurts and you never feel broken again, but by being able to pull your pieces together a little sooner and a little stronger, by hurting a little less and making it through the shit just a little bit easier.

If all he’s able to do is give Bucky a little semblance of peace while they ride this out, that’s more than enough. Breathe, he reminds himself, you can breathe - and it’s practiced, familiar, it’s not the first time he’s been so far underwater he had to keep telling himself he wasn’t drowning.

No. He doesn’t mean to argue, not really, but he feels the response to that so strongly that it can’t help but be shared.

He kisses Bucky again, one hand tangling in his hair while he keeps the other around his waist. He keeps treading water, wings beating steady and slow to stay in place instead of propell to the surface.

( I'm alive, and you sure as hell better be coming out of this alive. That's all that matters right now. )

As Sam brings forth those memories, Bucky begins to remember them himself. It's hard to think of anything outside of the tank and HYDRA, but the hand in his hair is so real and so tangible, he can't stop the flow of external memories. Waking up in a cot with Sam beside him, bumping knees and laughing over drinks. Even more so now, the human part of Bucky wants to enjoy those memories, to revisit them and remind himself that he's more than what HYDRA made him.

He remembers the forest surrounding the frosted barbed wire, how there's more than the programming and the guilt that weighs him down now.

And yet he's still here, in the tank, unable to fight against the overwhelming guilt. It feels like a hundred steps back, like he's slid back to the beginning. If one incident is enough to do that, who's to say that another won't completely destroy him?

He's failed. As a person, as the Soldier, as everything he was meant to be.

There’s a lot that Sam wants to say to that. That it was a hell of a lot more than one incident, that it was more like a whole bunch of incidents compounding on each other. That there’s nothing that’s gonna be able to destroy Bucky, because he’s one of the strongest people that Sam knows and Sam’s always gonna be there to help him pick up his pieces. That even the fact that Bucky can remember those things, that he’s letting Sam be here with him and help him withstand it is a hell of an improvement. That there’s always gonna be guilt, and some days it’s gonna be overwhelming - that Sam knows how that feels, and there’s still some days where it’s all too much for him, too.

He’s not alone.

But all of that is for later; right now the most important thing is that he’s not alone.

( This is nothing like the beginning, sunshine. ) He twists the bracelet around Bucky’s wrists, fiddles absently with the charms threaded through leather. ( Just focus on right now, all right? On you and me. Just look at us, because we sure as hell aren’t a failure. We’re something good, and nothing’s gonna take that away. )

All in all, Bucky's not sure he wants to focus on the here and now. They're surrounded by water with skeletons curled about them. Bucky put them here, Bucky's failure brought them to this death trap. He sees Sam again with a split neck, remembers that he failed so completely as a broodmate and friend. Punishment was doled out on all failures and Bucky had done little to fight the programming's wishes. A poisonous moss that collected on rocks clung to his fingers as he tore it free from the stones.

And now they were both here because of him.

( We're here because of a lot of things, Bucky, but I know it's hard for you not to hog all the blame for yourself. )

[ For good reason, Sam knows - this'd be a hell of a reminder even if he didn't - but Sam's always gonna point it out. Far as he's concerned, the more Bucky hears that, the better.

His fingers tangle a little harder in Bucky's hair, trying to get his attention. ]

( Bad choice of words. Focus on me, all right, just me. We'll fight this more after we regroup, but right now - let me help get us through this, let me keep us focused? )

There's nothing Sam can say right now to convince Bucky to give up any of the guilt he carries. He's forgotten so much over the decades that giving up any of it would be a disservice to his victims. He can't allow himself to breathe easy. Sam is only one more reason to feel this guilt, this pain that continuously bubbles up through his limbs. The more he fights the programming, the more Sam gets hurt and he's not sure what else to try, other than the words.

When Sam curls his fingers tighter, Bucky blinks.

Focused. Focus on Sam.

Yeah, yeah. Sam knows, and he's not gonna try to take any of it from him. Not yet, and not about the shit that's happened in the past. The shit that involves Sam himself - that's a different story, but that's for the future. Not now.

There's glimmer around the edge of Sam's thoughts, a determination - we'll use the words, this time I won't hesitate - but he doesn't focus on it too long. This isn't the time to talk about that.

Instead, he tries to keep Bucky's attention, to just - talk. Keep Bucky's focus on him, give him something to distract him, and he just dives into a memory.

( This is practice for me. One time, back in the pipeline - we were doing this exercise, diving down to get rescue experience, and they've got us training with all these weighted pillows we're supposed to save. We drew faces on all of them, wrote stupid shit on the back so no one'd see it until they were under and pulling 'em out of shit. Lotta guys, they'd get panicked and tap out, but the handful of us - we'd get in trouble cause we'd start laughing underwater when we grabbed a pillow and saw 'Ramirez you ain't fooling no one about your Nsync album.' )

He shares it, everything that goes along with the memory of the kind of shit he used to get up to in pararescue training. Lets this tank fade away and pulls Bucky along with him for the burn in your lungs that comes from holding back laughter.

Bucky welcomes the distraction, grateful for pulling away from the pressure of the water in his lungs and the skeletons on his back. Sure, he might not know what an NSYNC is, but the story brings a bubble of warmth to the surface. He's glad Sam has numerous good memories to fall back on when Bucky seems to have so limited a selection. It's so tempting to want to dive into Sam's memory headfirst, to not look back, but he's here in this tank for a reason.

He can't sleep for the sight of Sam wearing blood-glossed fabric, goes to the shores to gather moss from rocks that still give off heat from the previous day's sun.

He doesn't want to avoid the hallucination entirely, no matter his inborn survival instinct. He almost feels safer, which is stupid and weird and oxymoronic, with the guilt. No one can blame him unexpectedly if he shoulders it automatically.

Sam's not gonna protest that Bucky doesn't dive into the memory, not too much. He's not expecting this to be easy, and if he can distract Bucky for one moment, help him feel even an echo of warmth, it's better than nothing.

When he feels where Bucky's mind goes - there's a moment where anxiety spikes, seeing Bucky gather the moss that's gonna poison him, that might have been the thing that took Bucky away from him - but he breathes.

In and out, slow and steady, one two three four five six seven.

He places Bucky's hand on his sternum again, fingers on the column of his throat and palm against his bare chest. ( I'm here, Bucky. You're never gonna be alone. )

As Sam’s anxiety spikes in return, Bucky finds himself breathing with Sam. He’s here, same as Sam, and he’ll always come back. He promised. Shit will get bad- that much he will never deny- but he will come back. As long as he survives this, as long as the programming hasn’t tipped him so far over the edge of the cliff that he can’t climb back up. Without Sam, yeah, he would have been a goner. But with him? Maybe the worst is passed, maybe not, but with Sam, he stands a fighting chance.

Breathe.

One-two-three-four-five.

Breathe.

Six-seven-eight-nine-ten.

Breathe.

They’re both here. They’re both alive. They can do this. He can feel Sam breathing and the beat of his heart pulsing through his throat, sending small ripples through the water.

He tries not to say or think shit like for better or worse because even joking there's connotations behind it that Sam can't deny. That he wouldn't even try to deny, not with this thing that's between them. It's just - too close to labelling, maybe, and they haven't settled on anything that suits them yet, and there's still a lot of stuff that they're figuring out as they go.

But it's the two of them, for better or worse. Shit will get bad and they might have worse to face, but it doesn't feel nearly as threatening as the idea of either of them facing shit alone.

He kisses Bucky again, timing it to their counting so it's right on breathe, and stays close enough that they're breathing each other's air. Or - Whatever it is, in the middle of a tank in Bucky's mind, as Sam's wings beat slowly through water.

Bucky will know better than him when it's time to move, he figures, when the programming's settled enough that they can pull out and try to deal with the after effects.

With Sam's timed breathing and their retreat, the hallucination, eventually, begins to fade. The water around them warps and what was once several hundred square footage of water is little more than enough to contain the two of them. Bucky looks up toward the broken glass lid and weakly paddles upward to break the surface. Pierce is gone and no one else seems to be present all, leaving them alone in the deeps of Siberia.

Which means he should be able to break through the hallucination, but he's not sure exactly how.

Frowning, he reaches down into the tank after him for Sam.

Sam follows Bucky up, wings pushing through the water like paddles, and he grabs onto Bucky's hand to help him the last little bit.

Then his brows furrow a little, looking around.

( You want me to try to pull you with me, or give you something outside to focus on to get you out of your head? )

Bucky coughs where he's crouched down by the tank, spilling more blood onto the floor. His shoulders shake with as he shivers in the cold- which he didn't seem to mind before. He's not sure of their next step or where the hallucination ends and real life begins. Trying to talk sounds like a bad idea right now, so he doesn't. If he could get his fingers to stay still long enough, he might have a better chance at signing, but perhaps he can simply give and impression of a thought, like they've done so many times before.

He tries to imagine the Red Coast, tries to pull up the the sound of the rustling of tents, of sensations from the outside. Pain floods his system, but he does his best to push through. He's not in Siberia, he's on a mission, with Sam, on the Red Coast.

Sam - focuses, shifts. He's getting better at navigating the mental link, at splitting his attention between more than one place, and he can't actually bring himself to leave Bucky's mind right now. Not when he's shivering so bad that Sam can practically feel it, not when he's struggling to push through.

With a flick of his wings, he dries them, thinking of warmth and sunlight and pressing in close to Bucky to wrap them around him.

At the same time, his mental presence flickers a little as he shifts back to his own mind, enough to squeeze Bucky's leg and try to speak out loud.

"Can you hear me, baby?"

Blinking, Bucky looks down at the hand on his leg. Wait, no. Sam's touching him in real life. Focus on that, on the anchor, don't be washed away by the pain. Despite now being dry and warm in his mind, the shaking doesn't seem to stop. No, that too seems to be on the outside. He's freezing. When did he get wet?

He can hear Sam's voice so close and as he shuts his eyes, he tries to open them on the other side.

His lips are dry, mouth parched and yet filled with fluid. His eyes roll around in his head as he tries to force them to focus on the blurry overhead figure. And he shakes. He shakes and shakes as he's soaked through with what he hopes is sweat. The pain hits him next, like a wall and he groans softly. His chest aches, his whole body burns, and nausea runs rampant through his bones.

Just breathe.

But breathing brings the stench of his sick spread on the floor and goddammit, being awake sounds like the worst thing on the planet.

"I got you, Bucky, I got you."

His voice is barely above a murmur, more to give them both something to focus on than anything else. It's not like he has to say it for the sentiment to be clear - not when his mind is still tangled deep in Bucky's, barely straddling the line between protective and possessive as the adrenaline and panic starts to fade.

He's always got Bucky.

There's a little pulse as he reaches out through their bond and his symbiote ability, assessing rather than healing. It's something he's tried only vaguely before but now it comes easy, chasing the symptoms of the poison and the way it feels wrong in his system. He knows what Bucky feels like - it feels like coming home, in both their brood bond and to his ability - and he can tell exactly where the poison is affecting.

Not that he couldn't feel what Bucky's feeling through their connection, but this gives him a little more to go off than really fucking awful. It doesn't feel like he's in danger of having Bucky die on him, but it's not great, either.

He wants to scoop Bucky into his arms and hold him until everything hurts less, even with whatever the hell he might be covered in. It's not like Sam hasn't been covered in worse. Hell, he pretty much already is, considering the CPR and sitting pressed against him. But that's not gonna take care of Bucky the way he wants to take care of him.

Instead he brushes a hand over Bucky's forehead, gently pushing his hair back.

"I'm gonna pick you up, okay? Move to the bathroom, get us cleaned up and a little more comfortable. Got some stuff in my kit that'll help, if you let me."

Bucky shuts his eyes again, as if that will ease the nausea pain rocking his system. He doesn't need to see Sam to know he's there; they're intertwined more than ever. Moving sounds like a terrible idea. Despite the smell, despite being soaked in sweat, blood, and vomit he doesn't want to move. His chest burns with every inhale and is met with a fresh burst of pain on every exhale, just below his sternum. He remembers the skeleton in the water punching him in the chest.

But there's no way that could have been real.

He opens his mouth to say something, to respond, but all that comes out is a croak and more blood dribbling down his chin.

"That was me. CPR, you weren't breathing, baby, I-"

It's hard to keep his head clear with everything he can feel from Bucky - hard to remind himself that he's not the one poisoned, that the pain he feels is an echo. He's not the one with that shit pumping through his system, but he feels it, he feels all of it.

His symbiote ability itches under his skin, and it's almost another layer of physical pain trying to hold it back.

"Can I - I'm not gonna heal you, just bleed off the pain a little, please? It won't hurt me. We just gotta breathe."

CPR is not anywhere in Bucky's dictionary, but that is soon forgotten at the thought of Sam taking any of his pain. His mind fills with the memory of Sam's blood spraying onto his unflinching face, his disguise glossed with red, and nothing from Bucky but cold. He doesn't remember anything else until Rogue underneath him, his hand wrapped around her throat.

The nausea nearly doubles and he can't seem to breathe through it. No, he can't let Sam do this. He can't. His hand tightens on Sam's leg as he tries again to speak, to try to say anything, but only works out another croak.

His first instinct is to squeeze his eyes shut, like that's gonna block out the snippets of memory he's picking up. But he doesn't, because it's not gonna help, and instead he does his best to pull it in and then let it go.

Sam knows Bucky can't let him take his injuries, can't let Sam take the pain that's meant for him, so he hasn't. He didn't while they fought that night with Rogue - gave Bucky his own injuries, to get an advantage - and he didn't for as long as Bucky stayed with him after, and he didn't when he found Bucky like this, and he still hasn't, and it's...

It's a fight. Every moment it's a fight not to heal him, when his symbiote ability can sense exactly how much his broodmate is hurting and how easy it would be to make it stop, and he keeps fighting. But he's exhausted, and he doesn't know how much longer he can hold it back.

His hand covers Bucky's on his leg. He doesn't have the words to explain at the moment, but there's a jumbled up impression: he's not gonna take the pain so Bucky can't feel it, won't mess with the programming's punishment, he's just gonna make it easier on both of them because if Bucky can't breathe he can't breathe and -

His mind smoothes out, wraps more purposefully around Bucky's, somewhere between folded wings and a draped blanket.

( Trust me? )

Sam's hand covers his as Bucky's vision swims and he sags against him. He can't let Sam--- blood flicks onto his face, still warm. Bucky sucks in a breath, meets that sharp pain again and can't seem to bring enough air in. Trusting Sam is instinctual, natural for him, but trusting Sam to not push too far with his ability- he can't stop replaying it in his head. It's all he remembers from the incident, but that one memory is more than enough to keep him from taking a full breath.

He's not sure he can trust Sam with this, but he doesn't have much of a choice.

Sucking in air is growing more difficult and Sam can ease that. Trust him to do that. Trust Sam.

Sam can feel Bucky's hesitancy, and it's... it's fair, he gets it. The memory of that night is still too fresh, still too much, and Sam does have a tendency to push himself too much with his ability.

He wants to do better. He wants Bucky to be able to trust him with this, to trust that he can keep it in check and do this without hurting himself too much. It's about finding a balance, he knows that, and for Bucky - for Bucky, he can do that. He slides his hand up, palm splayed over Bucky's chest, and concentrates.

It's a struggle at first, but he lets his ability go slowly. He can feel the poison in Bucky's system, a dark, burning pulse in the otherwise light, comfortable familiarity of his broodmate, but he ignores it. Pushes past it, focuses on Bucky's chest, on his lungs. On the fracture in his ribs, and he knits it together just the tiniest bit, just enough that it won't scrape on every inhale, but not enough to even register as pain in his own ribs. The boost his ability gives to his own healing is too quick now, as long as he can keep it small.

Same with the pain - Sam doesn't take it all, still doesn't touch the poison. Just bleeds a little bit of it off until there's air in their lungs, until there's only a faint ache when they breathe.

Then he cuts himself off, pulling his hand away for a moment until he can be sure he's got it locked down.

"Still with me?"

Bucky's muscles tense when that familiar yet foreign presence presses through the broodlink, branches through him like a webbing. In a matter of moments, his breathing eases, his chest no longer struggling with the pain of breathing. He waits for the echo, for the sign that Sam has taken on the pain, or for Sam to start coughing blood, but neither come. Bucky calms a touch, his eyes sliding open as he takes in the sight of Sam alive and speaking to him.

His chest rises and falls, same as Bucky's, alive.

So very alive and Bucky can't stop the quiet relief that floods his system. Sam's still here, still okay.

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i made a wish under the bloodshot sky (closed)

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