c o n t a c t

[bracchium]

желание I know you are the answer, but I forgot the question.	печь There will always be a lie in believe.
один Whatever is static is dead.	рассвет The world is too quiet.

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

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lmk if this isn't ok!

[bracchium]

[Bucky feels as if he's spread between two bodies, both laying on cold tile and curling around the one on the floor. For a moment, he can feel the fingers on his left arm where there should be none. He stretches them, reaches out, but then the sensation fades and he's left back in the cold, coated in a mixture of his own blood and snow as someone yanks him along the ice by the tattered remains of his vest.

Someone had finally come, but they speak in a language he doesn't understand. He wants to tell them he's American, that he fell- dammit he fell- that his best friend might still be trying to find them- but his mouth is frozen shut.

Before he can tell them no, before he can fight them, bone saws cut away at the remains of his arm and he screams, he screams and attempts to fight but-

It's okay to say no. It's okay to want.

He tells the spectacled men above him no but they inject him with something and his veins burn. Once again, he's screaming, swinging wildly- you are a weapon, you do not say no.]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Bucky's screams echo in Sam's mind, and all Sam can do is watch - that's all he can ever do when it's the ones who matter the most what good is - no. He lets the feeling go before it's fully formed, and reaches out with his free hand to tangle his fingers in Bucky's hair.

Even without the programming still active, Bucky would have learned not to say no, not to want. Over and over they proved that what Bucky wanted would never matter, and even though Sam's always known that they had a long road ahead of them to prove that it didn't have to be that way anymore - seeing it still makes him want to go back and put a bullet in every one of their heads.

But he doesn't try to push the memory away, doesn't try to pull Bucky from it. This isn't his to make go away, and no matter how angry it makes him, no matter how much it makes his heart hurt, makes him want take out every last person who ever looked at Bucky and saw a weapon to be controlled - he won't. This is Bucky's. They burned away every memory he had that was inconvenient, and despite saying the words, Sam will never, ever be like them. He stays with it, stays with Bucky, lets it unfold around them and tries to give Bucky something to anchor onto. ]

( I'm here. ) [ He forms the words in their mind, and it echoes - they're gone, they're gone and I'm here. ] ( You can say no. You can let me know what you want. )

[bracchium]

[Bucky's screams are cut silent by a hand in his hair and he flinches away. He remembers hands like those, when one pulled on his hair and the other his jaw, forcing a piece of rubber between his lips. He remembers they got frustrated when he kept giving his name, kept giving his number. He thought that's what they wanted, but they became more angry with him, even when he stopped saying no.

That's when the first drug him from the cold, his knees loose underneath him, eyes rolling around in his head as fingers yank him up by his hair and pull open his mouth.

The chair. He can't remember it being built, or how they decided to use it, but his memory gets worse here, the fragments more powderized, more uneven. The first time... the first time they were still angry. Once, twice, three times he screamed until his voice gave out, until he had nothing left to give, but they wanted something more, something else.

They must have figured it out because that's where Bucky's foggiest memories end and only faces remain. Faces like Maria and Howard Stark. Like Nicholas Fury. Like Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson.

He doesn't tell the hand in his hair no. He knows what's coming.]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ There's the ghost sensation of someone pulling his own hair, despite the fact that it's been a long time since it was long enough to get yanked on, but Sam shakes himself free of it. Instead, he focuses on his hand in Bucky's hair, keeping his touch gentle, fingertips scratching gently over his scalp. It' always been about changing the experience a little, taking something expected and making it new - creating a dissonance to keep Bucky here with him, open things up and let him see there's more out there.

When the memories strain, become vaguer, and the faces start surfacing - he knows, this should be the place where they're pushed away, where everything is cleared.

Not this time. There's no wipe coming, no punishment, no orders for the next mission, no more people to kill.

Just the two of them. ]

( Your memories are your own, Bucky, you can have them. ) [ He untangles his fingers from Bucky's hair to press his palm over Bucky's heart, a mirror of how he's holding Bucky's own hand to Sam's chest. The last time they did this it'd been too hard to keep themselves separate, but that -

That doesn't matter now. There's no need for them to be separate while they do this. ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky waits to be pulled up by his hair, to be shoved into the chair. He's wet, his clothes weighed down by what he can only think to be the remnants of cryo, and his heart pounds furiously in his chest as he waits for the expected to happen.

But it doesn't.

Bucky's eyelids flutter open, pupils wild as he casts his gaze around. It takes only a matter of heartbeats to establish that they aren't in Siberia, that there is no chair waiting for him.

The fingers in his hair loosen and release and Bucky blinks. Someone is here with him, but not his usual handler. He steadies his eyes and looks at Sam long and hard. His handler. Sam. Sam Wilson. If things went South, Bucky would find him first.

He's exhausted, as if he's been on a long journey with the sun leeching his energy, and the beginnings of a headache coil beneath his temples.]

Sam?

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ He lets out a slow exhale as he feels the way that Bucky's waiting for something to happen - for the chair, for the way they erased everything - and it never comes.

The programming is still laid bare and vulnerable in Bucky's mind, and it's tempting to try to dig deeper into it, to tell it that Bucky is a person and not a weapon - but he knows how risky that is, knows how ingrained a lot of the programming is and how much it'd reject a sudden change like that. It's better to go slower.

So he smoothes a hand over the cogs of the programming, a mix of gentle and commanding. Buries it back underneath the snow, strong and confident, at the same time as he knows that their broodbond has been buried just as deep. The next time the Soldier surfaces - and Sam's not naive enough to believe that it'll never happen again - they'll be written in there so deep that it'll be easier, he has to believe that. The Solider will know him. ]

I'm here, love, I'm here.

[ The term of endearment slips from his lips before he's even able to process it, but it doesn't really matter. The feelings are already there - they've been there for a long, long time. Him saying it doesn't change anything. ]

I've got you.

[bracchium]

[Bucky's first wild glance around the room does little to ease his disorientation. He doesn't remember how he got here or where 'here' is. Neither are a good sign. Sam re-buries the open gears in his head, but he can't recall why they were laid bare in the first place. His head tingles with what feels like the remains of a wipe and that is worst of all.

He shuts his eyes and swallows, afraid of the answer to the question he's about to ask.]

What did I do?

[Please tell him he didn't hurt someone. Please tell him he didn't hurt Sam. Bucky forces his eyes back open to get a better look at his broodmate, to check for open wounds.]