As self-indulgent as possible

hurt/comfort smut;
meme

Bruised. Beaten. Stabbed. Sapped of energy. Tricked. Mentally played and abused. Perhaps you've even seen your home world destroyed, depending on how Homestuck you are. Any way you slice it, characters go through a lot of crap.

There's nothing wrong with wanting to see them get pampered and taken care of when they're ailing. In canon, they may not have someone who can provide them with care when they're injured, support and love when they're sick, and physical intimacy all around. In this post, AU or other scenarios can provide them with a caretaking partner of their very own (or, maybe, someone to take care of, if the reverse is their preference). So, for once, weary traveler, you don't have to carry that weight all by yourself.

to bring you out of the darkness;

The injury may not be a temporary physical or mental one, however. Some characters suffer more deeply, even if they don't know it. Darkness covers their hearts, they're withdrawn, insecure, angry, or lonely. They need someone to reach out to them and show them unconditional love.

This post can provide that, too.

Whether it be the cliche and shameless "changed by your love" trope or something more subtle like getting someone to open up, the characters here can offer that and more. All are welcome, they just have to take that first step.

» Comment with your character, canon, preferences, and info about what your character's role would be, if you'd like.
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[ A beat as he tries to remember exactly which state they're in. One of those ones he doesn't really give a fuck about, especially right now. All the goddamn progress he and Bucky have made on his demons, wiped away in an instant. The thought is an almost physical pain, one that simultaneously makes him want to hurt whoever's responsible. ]

Montana, I think? Bucky, I'm not one of them. I'm not gonna tell you what to do. Please, just believe me.

[ But why would he? He's like an abused dog; he expects kicks, not petting. Sam's just another one of an endless blur of people in his mind. ]

[ He is still lightly coiled, expecting the other shoe to drop. Something doesn't add up, but even as he strains, he cannot find what it is. ]

Who the hell is Bucky?

[ Sam lets loose with an impressive string of curses in his head. Not out loud; he doesn't want to spook Bucky. But, goddamn, this mission has gone way the hell wrong and now Bucky's paid the price for it.

(It was always meant to be a trap. Sam knows that now, but hindsight is always 20/20.)

The HYDRA thugs groan and stir behind him, and god, he could really use that strike team right about now. They're probably lagging behind, securing the rest of the base, with no idea Sam and Bucky are down here. This area - hell, none of the tunnels under the bunker - wasn't on the maps they'd studied beforehand. This would be a really nice time to have Natasha here; she'd be bound to have something in her arsenal to subdue these jerks longer. ]

You are. And I'm Sam. I'm a friend of yours, okay? I'm on your side, not the people who put you in there.

[ He jerks his head toward the chair. ]

[ He seems to finally get it, or get something, lowering his arm enough to look down and take stock of where he is. Some thought, some impulse buried way back in the attic of his brain takes hold, clutches him and screams at him.

Destroy it

He leaps to his feet, growling and raising his fist to strike. Before he can question himself, he's hitting one of the attachments, knocking it off the hinge and onto the floor. Then he yells, feral, tearing the rest of the chair apart and tossing its metal shards across the room. By chance, one hits an agent, taking care of at least one potential inconvenience.

The others, stirring, know well enough to get the hell out of the way when the Winter Soldier is uncaged. They scramble, licking their wounds as they run for their lives.

Then Bucky is rounding on Sam, breaths heaving, a pile of wreckage lying around him. He's quick on his feet, moving faster than any normal human has a right to. His left hand extends-- the Weapon-- fingers ready to clutch at Sam's throat. ]

What happened?

Edited (spelling) 2016-12-17 05:41 (UTC)

[ Sam remains standing right where he is, unflinching as Bucky destroys the chair in a rage. He wants to flinch, wants to take cover from the storm of debris and anger (not that there's anywhere to hide), but knows that he needs to stay still, to prove to Bucky that he's not a threat.

So he doesn't pull back when Bucky suddenly comes at him, doesn't move into a defensive crouch even though every instinct he has screams otherwise. Probably he'll just think Sam's incredibly stupid and suicidal, but maybe - maybe - something in his body language will get through to him. ]

We were fed bad intel. You and I, we came here to destroy this place - there was one of those damn homegrown militias, not the sort of thing anyone would consider a threat, except they had these weapon shipments from Russia that we thought might be a tie to HYDRA. Didn't expect it to be a HYDRA cell, or that they'd have all these assholes hidden down here. And nobody would've let you within a thousand goddamn miles of this place if we'd had the slightest idea that was waiting for you.

[ There's an honest anger in his tone - with Steve, for not seeing through this somehow, with himself, for letting Bucky go ahead on his own, but mostly with goddamn fucking HYDRA. They'll never be rid of these sons of bitches. ]

[ The metal fingers are closing around Sam's throat, pressure but not crushing. He's speaking, explaining, excusing.

HYDRA. Cut off one head and two shall take its place.

The phrase rings through his head like the echoing of a distant bell, and he expects Russian uniforms, technicians, soldiers. ]

Who do you work for?

[ His voice is low, dangerous. There is a faint trace of fear, just at the edges. ]

[ Sam's eyes close as he feels the metal fingers around his throat. He's not foolish enough to hope that some lingering trace of his friend's shattered mind will keep him from strangling him and leaving the body in this cesspit. He's just trying to be as non-threatening as possible while he tells Bucky the plain and simple truth. ]

No one. I'm - we're - part of a group trying to keep people safe from assholes like these. Especially HYDRA. Used to be part of a government thing, but then it turned out HYDRA had been pulling the strings there for decades, and everything kinda collapsed.

I'd say I'm a freelancer, but, man, freelancers actually get paid.

[ He's trying, Sam. Trying to wrench his fractured mind back from wherever they sent it to. A flash, here then gone, a memory trying to surface. ]

How long?

[ was he in the chair, have they worked together, what is the date... ]

Five minutes, maybe? Ten at the most. I came as soon as- soon as I heard you screaming.

[ Long enough to fry his brains like an egg. He's not really sure what he's asking, but telling him how long he was in the chair seems easiest. ]

You've been free from them for a few years now - you went into hiding first, tried to keep everyone from finding you. Did a damn good job of it, too. I've only known you for about a year.

[ Later, when he's himself he'll rant about it being just a few minutes, just one word.

And now, an instinct: run. ]

Why would you help me?

Because you're my friend. 'Cause helping people is what I do, and I've been helping you sort through your shit for months now. Look- you've got notebooks full of memories back in your apartment. Maybe there's something in one of those that will help you remember.

[ And if not? He'll stick by Bucky anyway, do whatever he can for him. That's just the kind of guy Sam is, with loyalty that runs bone-deep. ]

[ His eyes dart back and forth, considering, a flicker of nervousness there and gone as quickly as it came.

His head jerks to the left. Noise. People. Weapons. It's their backup team, stumbling into the underground tunnels that weren't supposed to be there.

His fingers release Sam's throat, and he's slowly easing against the wall, out of the light. A shadow, ready to attack whoever comes through the door. ]

Bucky, don't. Please.

[ Don't attack, don't slip into the shadows and run away. His desperation is evident in the pleading tone of that one word. He can get him through this, damnit. The biggest hurdle is getting Bucky to trust him. ]

It's just our backup finally getting their asses down here. They aren't gonna do anything to you. They're just here to take out the trash.

[ It's the firm tone that does it, the semblance of a command--of an order-- that has him pausing in his effort to become invisible. Horrible as it is, he seems to need clear direction, or else break down for lack of handler. He's a soldier, bred to obey.

His body remains tense, but in a state of readiness. Stand-by. For better or worse, Sam might be the only one able to control him until he's himself again. ]

[ Shit. Sam doesn't want to be a handler, doesn't want Bucky to associate him with the people who fucked his life up for decades. But Bucky's running on instinct now, and those instincts apparently say to listen to orders.

Sam rubs his face with a hand. What the hell has he managed to get himself into?

When the backup team comes in, Sam speaks to them for a moment, tells them to check for the muscle that got away. He doesn't think they'll find them, but they've gotta try. A couple glance over at Bucky once or twice, but it's not like he's usually a chatty guy, anyway. Finally, they disperse, and Sam glances over at Bucky. ]

Back to the chopper now. Let's get the hell out of here.

[ He's stayed out of the light this whole time, carefully scrutinizing everyone that comes and goes, assessing. At least some of the white noise in his mind has quieted now that he has more of a directive: don't harm them. Go to the helicopter.

As they go, he spies some of his weapons along the path: a rifle left in the care of one HYDRA thug, dropped when the situation eroded; a couple of handguns, magazines removed and chamber emptied; he knows they're his, but how he knows isn't something his brain cares to parse at the moment. He's quietly re-arming himself, squinting as they breach the entrance and step into the sunlight. There's no telling where his goggles are- probably snatched by a greedy minion.

It's telling that he's following a certain number of steps behind Sam, scanning as they walk towards the landing site. If the strike team says anything to him, it's muffled, ignored, irrelevant.

He waits until Sam is in, pulls the helicopter door shut behind them, and sits across from him, ramrod straight in his chair. ]

[ Sitting is a bit more difficult for Sam; he has to pull off the chestpiece that zips over his harness first, then the harness and jetpack. Thankfully, he's managed to get pretty good at it since he got the redesigned harness and tactical gear, and he can do it by himself and in a small enclosed space like the helicopter. ]

You do realize this is really creepy, right? Just sayin'.

[ Yeah, the plane ride back to DC is gonna be real fun if this keeps up, and Sam knows it will. At least they've got a private jet, courtesy of Tony Stark; Sam doesn't want to imagine what taking Bucky on a commercial flight would be like right now.

(Sam doesn't want to imagine what taking Bucky on a commercial flight would be like ever.) ]

[ Not like he'd make it past security anyways, not with an entire left arm made of metal.

He redirects his gaze out the window, keeping Sam in his peripheral but not staring directly. ]

You'd prefer I didn't look.

[ This is why they keep Tony around, so that they don't have to go through normal airport security with guns and jetpacks and Bucky's arm. ]

I'd prefer a lot of things, like you acting like a normal human being.

[ That gets him to drag his eyes back, a slight look of bewilderment in them. ]

How do you want me to act?

See, if I have to tell you how to act, that sort of ruins the whole thing right there.

[ Sigh. He knows it's not Bucky's fault that his brains have been scrambled by some shitty jury-rigged chair, but it's really hard to deal with a friend expecting him to tell him what to do. Sam buries his face in his hands for a moment, trying to gather his composure. ]

Never mind. It's fine, just...keep doing what you were.

[ That just yields more confusion, but he does as told and resumes looking out the window. He dislikes these mind games, being told that something isn't right but not being given clarity on how to fix it. He's displeased Sam somehow, but lacks the information on the proper remedy.

After a moment of him wrestling with the dilemma: ]

How was the mission compromised?

We only had intel on the top level of the bunker; they made it sound like it was just some nutjob and a couple of families running some amateur shit like people do out here. Except these guys were way better than they shoulda been, and I was still taking care of stuff when you found the tunnels.

[ It's his fault, in a way. He should've told Bucky to hold back, to wait for him. Tunnels are for goddamn ambushes and he knows that. But he'd figured Bucky could handle it on his own. Hadn't imagined that even with HYDRA, they would've been able to compromise him.

Sure, Sam knows that realistically, they would've just taken him out if he'd been with Bucky - probably would've made Bucky kill him. Doesn't mean he can't blame himself anyway. ]

If we'd even known about the tunnels and nothing else, I would've brought someone else along with us. Close quarters aren't really my specialty.

You carry a jetpack.

[ It's supposed to be neutral, but even so, it's impossible to disguise the edge of scoffing.

Still, he should be more specific. Ambushes aren't the end-all. ]

I meant how was I compromised?

Yeah, and the wings are a goddamn bulletproof shield.

[ Still. He's well aware that a twenty-foot wingspan does not fit in a one-person tunnel, thank you very much. ]

Hell if I know, I wasn't there. Musta been some weird HYDRA thing, 'cause there were, what, three guys there with you when I came in?

[ And they both know that Bucky could disable three guys with one arm tied behind his back. Hell, Sam would give him good odds with both arms tied behind his back. ]

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