bracchium | c o n t a c t

[Sixty percent? Sixty? Bucky's smirk widens as he cocks his head to the side. First, Shepard called him a hobo, now Sam's saying feathers make him sixty percent better looking. He still doesn't care much about how he looks, but he did shower once for an outing with Steve. That could become a habit at some point. Some very far off point.]

They... [He likes them. He likes when they scratch across his face.] ...help.

[That's the most you're getting, Sam.]

[ Yeah, well, that's what you get for being the crankiest hobo, Bucky. Sam's not complaining about that smirk widening, though - he's already accepted that he likes the glimpses he gets of Bucky's sense of humor, likes getting him to be sarcastic and make him smile, so there's no need to think about it further.

And fortunately, that's more than enough for Sam. Anything that Bucky will actually admit helps is good with Sam. ]

How about a couple of options, huh? You can come with me to the hangar, 'cause I've got the feathers in one of the ships there. Or - I can go get them myself, you can take thirty seconds to wash your hair, and I'll meet you in a dark hidey hole of your choosing.

[Thirty seconds Bucky can do. Thirty seconds is usually thirty seconds too many in a small chamber that could lock on him in a moment. For Steve, he pulled off a minute, enough to look presentable. For Sam, he can try about the same. Presentable is all that's necessary, nothing more than that.]

I'll wash the hair. [Not his hair, but the hair. It's an old habit that still hasn't quite gone away.]

[ Hell yeah, that's a start. Sam's smile goes soft and pleased, but he doesn't comment on it, and keeps his response as snarky as ever. ]

Might even bump you up to sixty-five percent better, then. All right, you're on - where should I meet you?

[ Where do you want me to meet you, he means, but he knows Bucky's difficulty with wanting anything in general, let alone expressing it. He's hoping that changing up the phrasing will do a better job of easing him into it. ]

[Oh now it's sixty-five percent. Bucky can't even begin to stop the grin. It's so strangely funny how drastically different he must look with washed hair that he can improve by sixty-five percent. Maybe he's easier to talk to when he looks a little less like he just got out of a fight with a dog for the last bits of food in a trash can.]

Here. [It's much easier for him to suggest a location when it doesn't feel like he's asking for something he wants. Report back here at this location once the mission is complete. He's done it before and it doesn't interrupt the steady humming of programming. Instead, it slides into a neat slot like other missions.]

Keep smiling at me like that and it might even get to seventy.

[ Somewhere in the back of his mind he'd vaguely planned on not drawing attention to when Bucky smiled, not wanting to snap him out of it or risk having to admit that he liked making it happen or whatever, but, well. He says it before he even thinks about it, tone teasing and smile playful, and he sure as hell isn't gonna take it back.

Instead, he nods his agreement and flashes a thumbs up before he heads off to the hangar. It's not too long before he's back, bag of collected feathers in hand. ]

[The warmth bubbling behind Bucky's blocked-off end of the connection grows confused, and Bucky's mouth makes a similar quirk, but he doesn't argue. He's not sure what he could argue, but there's no sense in it now. Once Sam leaves, Bucky makes his way to his temporary quarters and takes almost sixty seconds on the dot to wash his hair. So, by the time Sam returns, Bucky is already there, hair wet and dampening his shirt. He glances up and sends the mental equivalent of how do you want to do this?]

[ Sam pauses for a moment, looking around the little segment of hallway, before shrugging and casually dropping down to sit on the floor. His back is against the wall, protected on one side by a jutting formation and with a full view of anyone who might come around the corner on the other.

It's tactical, the place he'd pick if he had to defend their little dark hidey hole - both almost out of habit and because he wants Bucky to be as at ease as possible. He gestures for Bucky to come sit in front of him, something almost like a question drifting across the mental link, this okay? ]

[Bucky watches Sam, not with the same wariness he might have when they first met or even when they arrived on the Station together. There's trust built between them, which includes whatever might be involved with putting feathers in his hair. At the gesture, he furrows his brow but moves to sit in front of Sam. He's not a small guy, not since he got out of HYDRA and learned he could eat whatever he wanted, and he's not sure how to sit casually on the floor, which leaves him guessing on how best to fold his legs into himself. Sitting with his missing arm on the inside, he tilts his head toward Sam to give him access to the hair.]

[ It doesn’t go without notice, the level of trust that means Bucky is okay with putting his back to him. Back in that clown car, Sam had been the one to put Bucky at his back, trusting that he wasn't gonna stick a knife through it. And he did, even back then, though a lot of it had been out of necessity. It's nothing like now, as he watches Bucky sit down in front of him.

Sam ain't exactly all that small himself, even if he could maybe feel it a little next to Bucky, and maybe it should feel awkward, two fully grown men sitting together on the floor. But Sam makes himself comfortable like he's done this before - he hasn't, not really, though he's definitely sat on the floor with a number of his vets. He tucks one leg in against him, sends the other sprawling out so he can settle easy behind Bucky, almost up against his back but not quite touching. ]

You need to adjust to get comfortable, go on ahead.

[ If this is too much, tell me, flows through the connection along with that, as he combs his fingers gently through Bucky's hair. ]

[As Bucky listens to Sam rearranging himself behind him, he tries not to bring up his guard. While his mind is still mostly blocked off, the proximity alone makes the walls more permeable. It's strange, sitting on the floor like a pair of kids. His head fills with scratchy memories, pictures of smaller him and Steve hanging out on couch cushions late in the night when fireflies drift lazily through the window. He's not sure he would let Steve touch him like this, not when there's so much Bucky desperately wants to keep away from him.

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until the first brush of Sam's fingers through his hair. Behind the walls, the first of many memories of being touched, but in a less affectionate way, blasts to the forefront. Pierce swings at him when the weapon doesn't answer and a clap of skin on skin resonates through the room. He answers next time. Then someone's pulling him by his hair, someone with blurry features but speaks in sharp Russian. Orders him to be silent. Or was it an order to speak? Both produce a memory of their own, deep under the ground in Siberia.

Bucky flinches, but he does everything in his power to control the muscles twitching to hit something, anything.]

's fine. [He's not so sure he's fine, but he wants this, wants the feathers.]

[ It's impossible not to notice the way Bucky flinches, to pick up on what bits do filter through their brood link, but whatever ache it causes in Sam, he lets it go. Stays calm, steady, breathes slow and deep.

He doesn't say you can trust me or I won't hurt you because those are empty promises to someone who's only known the opposite for so long, and Bucky is the only one who should decide either of those things. Bucky wouldn't be sitting like this if he wasn't willing to believe them a little, but it's on Sam to show it - to prove it - not just to say it.

His fingers keep running through Bucky's hair, scratching gently over his scalp before he starts separating strands out for the first braid. ]

You don't gotta be fine, man. Whatever you're feeling, it's okay to feel it. Won't stop unless you tell me to.

[Despite Sam's advice, Bucky continues to try and lock away the memories that continue to rise at the continued contact. Lieutenants who didn't like the way he looked at them slamming him by his head down onto the cold concrete of a cell. Or the time when he had to be held down in the chair, he can only remember once, when he screamed until his voice gave out. And then there was nothing left. No fight, no Bucky, only the weapon.

Bucky relaxes, more from the sensation remaining from the memory than comfort. He can be pliant, he can be soft. He's done it before. He needs to try now.

The feathers will help, he reminds himself, even as that relaxing feeling causes its own round of panic. Sam won't hurt him. Sam's had plenty of chances to kill him or turn him into the weapon and not done so. Sam won't hit him, Sam won't force him into the chair.]

[ Relaxing, that's good. Soft and pliant - not as much, and Sam'd be unnerved if he knew all of what was behind Bucky being able to keep calm under his touch.

But he remembers the way Bucky'd soaked up the phantom sensation of fingers in his hair when it was just over their mental link, and Sam's determined to make this a positive experience. To treat Bucky like he's normal. So he talks as he braids, unhurried and unafraid. ]

I did this for my first girlfriend, long time ago. Her dad was useless with braids, she told me, but I think she just liked sassing the hell out of me while I learned how to do it.

[ He reaches for the first feather when he’s halfway through the braid, tucking it among one strand of hair and braiding it in as he keeps going. ]

Now I do this kind of thing for my nieces. You're not a weapon, Bucky. You can be anything you want, do anything you want. [ He ties off the braid, and combs his fingers through Bucky's hair again before sectioning off the next one. ] Even if it's just right now, like this.

[At first, Bucky remains calm under the gentle ministrations. The little tugs at his scalp don't hurt. In fact, they're much the opposite: a strange sort of comforting and nice. He listens to Sam talk and appreciates the information; he's still getting to know him, after all. Trust has already been forged in the crucible of Concordia, but it's nice to hear about who Sam is as a person.

However, as soon as Sam broaches new territory, Bucky tenses.

He's never been called anything but a weapon, outside of his name. He's heard the whispers in Berlin, how people talk about him when they think he can't hear them, or in the pits of Siberia, when they know he can hear but don't care. He doesn't get to make choices, yet here he is, having his hair braided by Sam, something he never would have thought possible.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't want this: the braids, freedom, and companions. But he also knows he shouldn't. He doesn't deserve it, any of it.]

No. I don't.

[ He doesn't falter when Bucky tenses, hands calm and steady as he keeps braiding. Sam didn't expect to be able to say something like that with no reaction, for all that he'd said it like it was nothing, like just a continuation of talking about things he knew to be true.

For a long moment, he doesn't say anything back. He just tucks another feather into Bucky's hair, braiding slowly around it.

It's easier to say what he's thinking about when he's not looking at Bucky, when he's focused on his braiding. He doesn't regret his conversation with Steve before they took down the hellicarriers, nor would he do anything different if he had to do it again - and coming from someone who made Sam promise to take him out if he tried to hurt someone again, he doesn't think Bucky will hold it against him. But it's still not something he'd thought he'd ever talk to Bucky about. ]

I told Steve once that you might not be the kind you save, that you might be the kind we stop. Didn't wanna hear it, but I thought he needed to, needed to own up to the possibility. And you already know the promise I made you.

[ The one he meant when he said it, the one he still means, and he doesn't have any qualms about letting that sincerity out through their connection. It's not separate from the muted affection that's tangled up in it - both are rooted firmly by the bone-deep determination that Bucky can make his own choices. ]

Point is, it ain't sentiment when I say this shit. That you're your own person. [ His fingers stroke soothingly through Bucky's hair. ] But I'll shut up about it, if you want me to.

[Bucky's jaw tightens, another instinct he can't force down. He doesn't doubt the intention behind Sam's words or the degree of sentiment. Yet, he can't bring himself to believe they could be used to refer to him. They must refer to someone else, someone different. In another world, in another lifetime, maybe they could apply to him--- the him that didn't become a weapon--- but the him that's here and now? No. He doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve to be anything more than a now-dull blade. There's no hope to become anything else, even if he were allowed to want something like that.

Telling Sam to shut up would force him to swim upstream against the programming in a similar way.

Instead, he looks down to the floor: obedient, silent.]

[ Bucky's silence is echoed back at him, though Sam stays relaxed, doing his best to make it companionable. His touch lingers as he braids, as much about just touching in a way that might bring some kind of comfort as it is about making sure the braids and the feathers will hold. ]

Okay. We're good, back to making you pretty.

[ And he's going to leave it at that, or at least he means to. He still wants to help, of course. He wants to let warmth spill over to help combat the programming, not to overtake it, just to support, to help Bucky pull out more of who he is, whoever that's gonna be - he wants more smiles, more sass, even more anger and irritation. He wants more of the Bucky who said you couldn't have done that earlier and get out Wilson and even next time is the last time, who jumped in front of the spider kid and brought him a coin and likes feathers in his hair.

He wants, and that's the problem. He wants, not Bucky. He can't say any of that. Except apparently he doesn't have to, because it slips out through their connection despite the fact that his shields are up as strong as they usually are. It's a wordless impression, but it's as clear as if he'd actually organized his thoughts enough to put them to words.

Well shit. That's... new. ]

[It's hard to miss the burden of the silence hanging at the end of Sam's words and even harder to ignore the firm impression of another mind on his own. The gates are down and Bucky quietly observes Sam's mental drawings of a Bucky that smiles and sasses and emotes a hell of a lot better than the mess sitting in front of him. Someone more like the peeks he's seen in Steve's memories: a charismatic, well-oiled man.

Bucky's jaw clenches tighter, though not in a clear sense of anger. Sam wants more from him and Bucky's sure Steve does too, but... there's nothing well-oiled about him. He's missing an arm, doesn't look anything like anything remotely charming, and on his best days, he's more vocal, but not a chatterbox.

And yet, Sam's desires mesh well with the programming. The Soldier was built to be a machine with replaceable parts. If he couldn't measure up to certain standards, he would be retired. After all, he helped train those who would eventually take his place.

Compliant, flexible, patient. Those were qualities that kept him in the service of HYDRA for seventy years and would serve him well here.]

[ This connection between them - there's been a lot of times that Sam hated it, some when he was grateful for it, and moments when he didn't know what he'd do without it. But he's done fighting it. It's a reality, one he can't change, and all he can do is accept it and move forward the best he can.

Even when it pulls shit like this, when stuff he'd never meant to say slips out and he can feel Bucky's reaction, the clenched jaw and uncertainty, the programming creeping back up. He runs his fingers through Bucky's hair again, just enough to make the feathers sway and brush against his ears, as he lets himself focus more on their connection, putting more of himself into it so it's just a little bit stronger. ]

Hey now, don't pull that on me. I never met the guy you were back then. I don't give a shit about him, he ain't you. That's never gonna be who you are again. [ Harsh, maybe, for all that Sam's matter-of-fact tone is still gentle, but it's true. And Sam's never pulled his punches when it comes to Bucky; the guy deserves better than platitudes and unrealistic optimism. ] You aren't the Soldier, either, not anymore. All I want is to be here while you figure out who you are, not who you're not. Only thing I want from you is to not give up.

[ And also for him to stop killing people and probably not try to murder Sam himself again, but he's pretty sure they already covered that with Sam's promise to take him out if he hurt anyone again. ]

Edited 2017-03-07 00:35 (UTC)

[Bucky bristles from the increased pressure on the link from Sam. The feathers brush against his ears and scratch against his stubble, a physical reminder of the departure from HYDRA. That's what they were here for, crouched down in the corner with feathers and braids: because Bucky wanted more reminders that he had escaped. And Sam was helping him, despite being thrown by his face too many times.

At least he isn't lying to either of them. Steve carries too many hopes for Bucky to stomach while Sam isn't afraid to lay out harsh truths. Bucky will never be the smooth-talking charmer from Steve's memories, not even with all the effort in the world.

It still sounds oh too simple. He's not Bucky from Steve's memories, he's not the Soldier, then what is he, really? In the meantime while he figures out things, people around him are at risk.]

You couldn't give a happier pep talk, Wilson? [A little growl.]

[ Sam eases up a little, not pulling back so much as settling down, sinking into their connection as it is. They're both already in each other's heads more than Sam'd thought they'd ever be, and Sam'll let that be for the moment.

His point has been made, he's pretty sure. He's not gonna lie to either of them.

He's unable to keep down the snort of laughter, even as he rolls his eyes. That's who Bucky is to him right now: the little shit that asks him questions like that, who wants affection and companionship at the same time as he has no idea what to do with it and doesn't think he deserves it, who struggles with himself and the things he's done and where to go from here - who's a stubborn ass about doing it alone.

It's no wonder that Sam's found himself liking the guy. ]

I am a fucking delight, Barnes, can't you feel the rays of sunshine?

[It's a way of giving Sam what he wants while fighting back against the programming humming heavy in the back of his mind. Sam's snort of laughter is welcome in the oppressive atmosphere and Bucky sucks in a breath before releasing it with a heavy exhale. He'd rather do this figuring out who he is alone, without the risk to those around him, but when it comes to confidants, there are much worse choices than Sam Wilson.

Sam Wilson who tries to get him to want things, who doggedly reminds him he's allowed to want things even when it grates against the bone-deep programming that never ceases. For every problem Bucky brings to Sam's doorstep, Sam finds a solution, makes realistic promises, and only asks for the same effort from Bucky.]

You're the one braiding my hair. [Can you feel his fucking rays of sunshine? Because clearly Bucky is all about the sunshine.]

[ He breathes in and out not quite in sync with Bucky, feeling some of the heaviness bleed back out again. Sam's getting used to this, just about, the back and forth between them where the tension can ramp up when they hit each other's buttons, when Sam pushes Bucky a little too much or Bucky pulls back a little too hard - but then they even out, things settle down and are almost easy between them.

Bucky is honestly better at doing this with him than some other people Sam's known, and he doesn't bother to hide that feeling.

At this point, well. Sam figures he's pretty much at risk whether Bucky does his figuring out alone or with support - he's figured that for almost three years, and he's had plenty of time to reconsider and back out. Hasn't yet, and he's got no plans to change that. He doesn't want Bucky to do this alone when they could work together. ]

I'm making you Bucky with the good hair, that's what I'm doing. [ He finishes off another braid with one of the last of his feathers, tucking it behind Bucky's ear. ] Bursts of sunshine, the pair of us, that's why we gotta do this back here.

[Bucky with the good hair. He can deal with that, he thinks. He jumps a little at the touch to his ear, but re-focuses on his breathing. The process of braiding is calming in and of itself, the gentle tugs another source of sensations to ground himself. With the curtain of hair finally drawn back, he can see more of the world. It reminds him of Bucharest and one reason why he wore caps. Braids will be much easier to manage when it comes to hygiene, too.

He can't be who he used to be, maybe, but he could be the Bucky with the good hair.

Compared to where he started, it's a step in the right direction.]

Otherwise we might blind someone.

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.

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