bracchium | c o n t a c t

[ For that same long moment, Sam doesn't breathe either - and it's only when he sucks in a ragged breath after Bucky starts coughing that he realizes that he's doing it.

He rolls Bucky over onto his side while he's spitting up water so he doesn't choke, kneeling at his side. He wants to protest - sunshine please we can do this I got you - but he doesn't have the heart to give words to it, not when he can feel Bucky's fear.

Instead he hauls Bucky into his arms, all but cradling him in his lap as he holds him close. ]

( Breathe, baby, I got you. It can't have either of us, I promise. )

[Bucky still can't seem to get his limbs to work as he's scooped from the water and turned on his side. It feels too much like a fever dream, like a hallucination. He thinks he hears Pierce's voice for a second, but then Sam is there, warm and curled around him. It can't have them.

It can't have them.

Maybe-

He can't let it-

He sucks in a breath and coughs. With Sam- With Sam, they can do this.]

[ He pushes wet clumps of hair out of Bucky's face, resting his forehead against Bucky's. If he could chase away Bucky's fears, burn Pierce's voice from his mind, he - well, he wouldn't do the second one, because he'd never take any memory from Bucky. But the first, the first he'll always try for.

We can do this.

Sam takes that as confirmation, but he doesn't let go. He keeps holding on, and while the programming still sleeps - he slips back into Bucky's mind, weaving through the roots and finding every place where he's anchored himself before, every part their brood bond has bleed into. So they can find it again without searching, if they need to, and he focuses on little hidden pockets of warmth. Bread crumbs in case they need to find their way back.

Then he withdraws back into their bond, pulling himself to hide safe in their shared space and tugging on Bucky to stay with him.

We can do this. We'll keep each other safe. ]

желание.

[Sam's here. Bucky breathes and Sam's here. Neither of them are drowning. He tries to remember the trees, the brush of pine needles beyond the remains of his mental landscape. Sam can always be found there, rustling through the woods.

Bucky exhales heavily at the first word, his eyelids fluttering open.

Behind the shattered bark, Bucky ducks into Sam's mind, little more than transparent fragments, but it's all he has and this is the only chance they'll likely get to do this right.]

[ Sam's not going anywhere. Never will, as far as he's concerned - honestly, he's not even sure anything could separate them completely at this point, but he's good with that.

He waits until Bucky's in his mind before continuing, lacing the fragments of him around his mind like he's threading their fingers together. Slotting his pieces right next to Bucky's, the easy slide of a damn near perfect fit despite any ragged edges.

I'm here. ]

ржaвый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. добросердечный.

[Bucky stares up at the ceiling, or somewhere in between, eyes glazed as his breath stutters with every word. He forgets where he is, what they're doing. His skin is damp, like he's been pulled fresh from cryo freeze, like he's just been dragged across steel, knees ripped and skull pounding.

He knows what comes next. Even after years in cryo. He knows what comes next and his heart begins to pound in his throat, choking him.

No. Not this. Not again. Please.]

[ If Sam thought he hated himself saying them before, that's got nothing on now. He thought maybe'd be more ready, but it's -

He can feel the way Bucky isn't himself, the way he goes blank to everything but cryo and the words, the way he still knows what's coming.

The way he begs for this not to happen, and god, if that doesn't make Sam want to punch himself in the face a little.

But they need this. This is what was missing the first time they tried this, and this time - this time it's gonna work, Sam knows it. ]

возвращение на родину. Один. грузовой вагон. [ He hears himself finish, calm and steady, and he forces himself to stay out of Bucky's head and keep to their brood bond. ] Good morning, Soldier.

[As the words continue, Bucky grits his teeth against the whole-body shudder that sears through him. No. Not- Not again- and then it's gone. His resistance disappears the moment the final word leaves Sam's mouth. The Soldier blinks, leaves Bucky behind- crouched in the mental link in even more pieces than before- but the programming is exposed. Instead of buried beneath snow and ice, the gears have emerged from the fragmented earth, bloody and burned away in places, but in tact enough to be visible and accessible.

The Soldier responds, this time without even the slightest affect, his voice devoid of emotion.]

Ready to comply.

[ It's hard to resist reaching out to touch the gears once they're exposed. To try to pour into the gaps between them, find every weakness and fill it up, stop some from turning and help others go faster -

But he can't mess with Bucky's head like that, not on that level. Not when neither of them really know what they're doing, and shoving himself in there might just mess things up.

He settles for pulling the pieces of Bucky left in their mental link closer, weaving himself around them and anchoring down before he leans on the mental link to try to access the programming from a distance, give it slightly adjusted orders. ]

( If this happens again, assess the situation. You have the skills to evaluate your surroundings and follow the best course of action; use them. Come find me. Quickly, quietly, no violence unless absolutely necessary. Don't hurt anyone unless they're trying to hurt you - reach out to me and we'll get you back up to speed together. )

[Bucky is little more than fragments, shredded and threadbare as Sam shelters him. The programming continues to sleep; the gears are not yet moving, but still white-hot from their last assault. At the first order, one of those bright gears slides out of place and another one- jade and slightly rusted from disuse- shifts into the gap. Assess the situation. Evaluate surroundings. Find his handler. All of those are familiar but the last few, not as much.

Extraction had been his previous priority and any barriers to be taken down by force. Well, that is, outside of targets. Setting himself to return to a handler cooperates well enough, but non-violence is a different story. One gear is a deep crimson, firmly stuck in place even as the programming attempts to remove it.]

[ I'm here.

They can focus on pulling Bucky back together later, after this is done - right now it's enough that he can feel the pieces of him there in their broodbond, enough that there's still something of him left instead of having it all scattered to the wind. He doesn't - he doesn't know what he'd do without Bucky's presence, he thinks absently, doesn't know how to exist anymore when he can't feel him there, but that doesn't matter.

This matters.

Sam breathes, focusing in on the gear that's the sticking point. He changes his phrasing, going for a smaller shift instead of a complete change, something it might accept a little easier and loosen the way. ]

( Reach out to me before you do anything else. You'll know how. ) [ It's written in them both. ]

[Bucky doesn't feel like there's enough of him to build anything, too small, too few to sew back together, but he trusts Sam more than himself and they've come back from everything so far. Huddling down behind Sam's shields feels wrong. He's a born fighter, came into the world kicking and screaming, and what is he now? A broken man, little more. Shame presses too hot against his throat, but the gears continue to work without interruption.

A mechanical groan echoes through the shared mind space as steel bends, as teeth contort and finally- finally- the gear slides free. Make no decisions on his own. Seek out his handler. Violence does not belong on the list of options. Do not fight his way out.

He- He remembers glass. He remembers the reflections of the sun and shattering glass. His target stands across from him, blood caked to his forehead, cheeks swollen. I'm not gonna fight you. And then his stomach drops out. Falling. Falling again.

No. Not falling. He can't-

-breathe. He can't breathe. He stares up into the snow, chest quaking with effort and broken ribs. His eyes roll back in his head as he looks to the side only to see blood. So much blood and oh god, his arm-

Bucky- the Soldier- both blink rapidly, his head jerking in sudden movements. He can't- he can't stop it- help him, help him. The smoke of the train is disappearing in the distance and no one is coming for him. No. Please. Help him.]

[ His heart lodges itself up in his throat as he feels Bucky's shame, and he resists the urge to physically lean in to press his forehead against Bucky's only because the programming is still laid bare. It's a struggle not to just cover it up with ice and snow, leave it there and retreat into their mental link to stand more firmly next to him. To remind him that he's not weak, that Bucky is the strongest man Sam's ever known.

That it's okay to be broken, because Sam was once, too. That there's nothing wrong with needing help, because Sam needs him, too.

He's never used his ability like this before - it's always been through his hands, a conscious, focused thing. But now his skin heats up everywhere it's in contact with Bucky, even through the layers of their soaked clothes. It chases the singed feeling in Bucky's veins, soothes it with a brush of touch and a slow exhale.

Sam threads his fingers through Bucky's, presses their joined hands to his own chest so Bucky can feel the way it rises and falls. ]

( Breathe with me. You can do this, Buck, it's okay to remember. )

[ I'm always gonna come for you, he promises without quit meaning to, pulled from him as he feels Bucky's fear, as the memory of his realization that no one is coming makes him have to work a little harder to count his own breaths. You don't ever gotta do this alone. ]

[In one moment, Bucky is fractured pieces, bits of memories and glass thrown to the wind, lost in the smoke. In the next, his chest surges as he gasps for a breath he didn't know he needed, his body alight with Sam's ability. The borders where their minds merge dissolve into nothing and the forest brushes across the frosted barbed wire, vines crawling through the gaps. Cedar and pine wind down through the ice, fracturing in long jagged edges.

Alicia, 1984, her eyes vacant and empty, smoke falling from her mouth in plumes, but that isn't right. The smoke goes with the train and the fall and oh god his arm-

Breathe. Breathe. His chest moves on its own and he remembers glancing over at Sam for the first time on the ship, fear running wild through his veins when their breaths sync. But Sam is here now, will always be here, and breathing for him and Bucky wants nothing more than for it to stop. He doesn't want to remember. He can't stop remembering.

On Concordia, his notebook filled from front to back with faces, Steve watching him with candid fear-

Back on the Station- at least it didn't take me two years-

Hair braided away from his face, his beard gently cut away, Sam in the dust beneath him, the urge to run every time they go back to the Station-

It's all looping again and again.

Stay. Stay with him. Don't leave.]

[ There's a sharp inhale as their borders dissolve, like breathing in cold air after surfacing from being underwater just this side of too long and getting reminded of how much you need it, like waking up the morning after your first night with someone you love and realizing they're still there, that you want them to still be there every morning for the rest of your life.

There's no space between them anymore, but there doesn't ever need to be. It's easy like this, easy to breathe, to let himself experience the memories that Bucky flips through and trips over without getting stuck on them. ]

( It's hard, sunshine, I know it's hard. But you can do this. ) [ You can do anything, I believe in you.

He can feel the parts of Bucky asking him to stay, telling him not to leave, and there's an answer without him even having to think it.

Always. Never.

Bucky wants, and their brood bond lights up with Sam's encouragement. He doesn't say a word, but his mind murmurs you're so good, you're doing so good god I love you so much with the sensation of a hand running through his hair, fingertrips trailing over his wrist to play with the charm on his bracelet.

It's harder to sort himself out enough to form words, coherent thoughts, to use the brood bond the way they planned, but he manages. ]

( It's okay to want. ) [ The programming is still vulnerable, humming and ready to be shifted, just a little, and Sam - he knows that Bucky's spiraling, that he's overwhelmed with all of it, but they have to do this. ] ( It's okay to say no, to me or anyone else. It's okay to say yes, to have a preference. )

[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.]

[ 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. )

[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.]

[ 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. ]

[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?

[ 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.

[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.]

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.

c o n t a c t

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

lmk if this isn't ok!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject