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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[bracchium]

[The minefield is still present, always, beneath it all, but the claymores are easier to avoid some days. On others, the dust covering them is so fine, he can't help but stumble into one after the other. Today, he's lucky it's the former. Bits of the story play out unimpeded at first, the writer--- a blonde-haired fellow, thin and twiggy bearing a strong resemblence to another certain blonde--- and the amnesiac--- dark-haired, blank-eyed, and unintentionally causing pain every time he opens his mouth--- talk on a hillside. Illuminated by fireflies, they consider the immortality of a memory, or the writer's memory, at least. Then they sit side by side in a sterile waiting room, the blonde hunched over and wheezing.

But after that? The scenes skip and buzz and distort, interrupted by scattered blinks of gore and screams. No, those weren't part of the story. Like a tape rewound and played at random intervals, the images make no inherent sense.

He used to know. He remembers he cried at the end.

A man in a bloodied suit begged on his knees for his life.]

[decommission]

[ His mind goes quiet and still, it's as if he's sitting in the theater watching a show, only the screen goes deeper, the images vaguely familiar and taking more time to form. He gives another light huff, surprised by the resemblance when it becomes apparent, and then less surprised, his humor wry but warm.

His lungs tickle as the man wheezes - then a hard jerk pulls at his chest, the scene falling apart around him, a record scratching against the needle. ]

( Buck - ) [ The link shudders, but he doesn't try to reach across. His body - his presence grows larger on Steve's side of their thread, anchoring. There's blood on his knuckles and dripping down his nose, but it's asphalt heated from the humid summer heat where his hands touch, it's a rusted fire escape in his grip, it's the tall, dry grass of the rectangular field the neighbors try to grow tomatoes in scratching his ankles.

He anchors with his own memories. ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky tries to skip past it on his own once or twice, to force the mark--- Tobias, Germany, 1957--- away from the focus of the story. Steve's foundation bolster's his efforts, slots the pieces back together. Instead of the writer and the amnesiac, it's him and Steve sitting among the fireflies, grass brushing against his legs. The mental tape pauses on that moment, drawing it out and stretching it until Bucky can no longer hear the screams, until the picture stabilizes.

There. There.

They return to the sterile walls, to Steve and Bucky sitting there and past that glimpse into a warm apartment on a summer day in Brooklyn, drenched from head to toe with sweat as he climbs into the back of a freezer truck. A younger Bucky, a smoother, more suave person, more confident, more mellow.

A memory, immortalized by Steve.]

[decommission]

[ He swallows, eyes closing.

The details continue to sharpen as Bucky summons each image, and for a moment it's like they're painting on a shared canvas. The colors in the memories brighten, the scent of salt in the air, sweat and the sun baked into their skin. There's dozens of similar scenes he could pull from, but he keeps the focus specific, following Bucky's lead. ]

( Now all I want is another hot dog. )

[bracchium]

[It's all so real, for a heartbeat or two, like he never went to war--- like Steve, like half of Brooklyn, like he never killed dozens of people that he can only remember in bits and pieces--- but it's only temporary. Like the blink of an eye, though, it's here and all-encompassing and then gone.

But he does still want that hot dog.] ( You ever cook one on a camp stove? )

[decommission]

[ The images vanish, leaving a familiar warmth in their wake and threaded with wry humor that slips into his words. ]

( You're asking the guy that'd boil scrambled eggs and toast if he could. )

[ He gets his hot dogs one of two ways: from the pot or from the vendor. ] ( You know - they don't have the real deal here, but I bet we could find something close enough. )

[ Heresy, if they were anywhere else but an alien planet. ]

[bracchium]

[A warm breath of humor dances along his side of the link. Never change Steve. Still, a brief flash of Sam Alexander trying a "taco" only to recoil in disgust flits along the edges of his consciousness.

He doesn't want to deprive Steve of a simple joy like hot dogs, but he also doesn't want him to end up poisoned.]

( I'll find one. )

[decommission]

[ Poor kid - but Steve nudges back like a soft bump to the shoulder. ]

( Gotta be a street fair somewhere. )

[ He going with you. ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky's not entirely sure it'd be safe for them to be out among crowds, but he's done the pleasantly distant facade before in Bucharest. He just has to blend in. He can do that.]

( Lucky I got more than training money this time. )

[He's in.]

[decommission]

[ They can play to win a hundred stuffed bears with the money on their credit cards. ]

( I'll hold the elevator for you. ) [ Tossing his shoes and jacket on by the doors, he'll still have the ghost of a grin on his face whenever Bucky turns up. The distance between them and his concern for Bucky's fractured mind isn't gone in one step forward, but for now they aren't the weight on his shoulders that they were only a little while ago. ]

[bracchium]

[Bucky's a little slower to grab his things, but he's still at the elevator within a handful of minutes. His left sleeve is pinned up again, but this time it doesn't seem to bother him so much. He isn't quite so unbalanced this time around.

With a quirk of his lips, he spots Steve and heads over. Time to go get this little punk a hot dog.]