bakerstreet | S T R A Y shipping meme

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S T R A Y shipping meme

S T R A Y
shipping meme

Taking in strays is, all in all, an understandable vice. The dips in between their ribs, those large and forlorn eyes, they can help you forget the claws and the teeth and the danger lurking beneath fur. But the habit's a knife edge; your efforts may not be rewarded with kindness (animal instincts aren't discretionary) and you may get bit despite what you've overlooked. A stray doesn't care about pity. All it can know is survival.

These warnings apply to strays of the more human(oid) sort, too.

But what may even more perilous with this type than any drawn blood is what you can get when they grow to trust you. You can earn their undying loyalty...or their love. Either from such a wild thing is a precarious path to go down, if you allow yourself to do it.

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ＰＲＯＭＰＴＳ

ғɪɴᴅɪɴɢ — Who's that? They're no ordinary passersby! Were they in an accident? Are they foreign? ...should you approach them?

ʀᴀɪɴ, ʀᴀɪɴ, ɢᴏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ — The elements make this night no time to sleep out of doors.

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ — Cuts, broken bones, injuries all of sorts...you have to stitch them back up, then make sure they don't get any

ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ — It's all you can do to show gratitude to the person who took you in. Fix them a meal, care for their house, whatever you can do once you're able.

ʙᴀᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ — FUCK THIS PERSON AND FUCK THEIR COUCH. You didn't ask to be brought here. Let them clean up after you, you don't even care.

ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ? — How you got into this situation is a mystery. Even more of a mystery is your identity, and why the person you were would be so displaced.

sᴇʟғʟᴇssɴᴇss —

ʟᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ — If you've been injured badly enough or can't remember all too well, you might have to relearn a good deal. Luckily, you have a helping hand.

sᴄᴀʀs — Scars from the encounter that lead you here or scars from prior, you don't want them to see either. You still have your secrets to keep.

sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ — Ugh, your house guest is so stubborn! They always get up when they should be resting, have the worst habits, and completely disrespect your home! You'll get to them, one way or another. Or you'll throw them out. You don't want to, but you will.

ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ — Bad memories or nightmares wreck you; your host and nurse comes to your side unexpectedly.

ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄʟᴀsʜ — The person who's taken you in is from a different culture or lifestyle than you, and adapting is harder than you thought.

ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ — Think learning about a new culture is hard? Try being a different species. Can you keep your little eccentricities at bay for the good of your station?

ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜsʏ — Now that your emotions towards your caretaker/host/jailer are softening, you're finding yourself unusually jealous of those in their life who were close to them before.

ɴᴇᴡ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛɪᴇs — You never thought you'd have fun after all that's happened, yet such simple gestures as a picnic or a movie make all the difference.

ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ — You love them, this person who's taken you in or this person you've found. It's not a pity or a thankfulness, it's love, and you know that now. What you choose to do with this information is

ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ — Suddenly, the person who's been so nice to you finds out that the two of you have a history. You killed their loved ones or caused something terrible. How can they forgive you?

ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ — So much has been done for you. The least you can do in return for the one who helped you at your lowest is make sure they never have such a low point.

ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ — Anyone in the way of getting to you will be destroyed, and that includes the person you're staying with.

ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍ — You've been given a home, maybe which you've never had before. You don't want to leave.

ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ — Not only are you living with them, but you're starting a proper life with them.

ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟ — All secrets are laid out on the table. You've decided to tell about your past and what lead you here.

ʀᴇᴠᴜʟsɪᴏɴ — What you've done and who you are is so heinous, they want nothing more to do. You're to leave their home and leave them alone.

ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ — It doesn't matter what they've done. You've opened your home and your heart to them, and nothing's changed.

ᴘᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ — All things must come to an end. No matter what you feel for each other, it's time to leave. Hopefully, you'll see each other again.

ʜᴀᴘᴘɪʟʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ — Come what may, you've decided to stay at your new home with the person you love. Now, it's safe enough to do so.

ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

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The Legends are no stranger to lost strays, with incredibly grey sensibilities, and not even to those with incredible violent tendencies. Though most of the, save herself and Mick, not with the heightened edge their new cast away has, and even Mick she wouldn't claim has the honed, sharpened edge of Bucky. That would that is so sheer, it bites in a glance. Even when he's being quiet and conciliatory, kind and calm toward the rest of the crew.

But Sara can see it. Feel it. The shadow at the edge of every movement he makes.
Precision. Training. Soldier, and killer. She could have told you that after his first three minutes nearby.

Maybe it makes her a little touchy. She's possessive of this place, these people. She isn't fond of the idea of anyone with her skills near any of her people 100% of the time, when she isn't in every room with them to make sure he doesn't lose it and it doesn't cost all of them. But at the same time, she gets it, and she wants it, wants him here. Knows what it means. To be that person, and be offered a berth, a harbor, even tentative trust, the tentative promise to be seen as more than a weapon.

More than broken. More than the blood on your hands, that never washed away with soap and water and time.

It's the thing she listens to more than not when she spots him, even if the assassin and the captain in her watches ever move like a hawk. It's the girl under it all, the one they all want to believe in, the one told you're strong than you think and it didn't choose you because you were good, it chose you because you are strong enough to make the right choice, who tilts, like at the windmill of the need deeper than the razor edge.

When she finds him in passing, it's still the captain that comes out first,
that gives a perfunctory smile, even if her mind is assessing details, and says, "Hey."

The Legends are like nothing he's ever seen before.
A big, enthusiastic scientist already offering to make adjustments to his arm, the dour computer hacker with the big necklace and even bigger chip on her shoulder, the asshole in the trench coat. But it's the Captain and her second that he finds himself watching more often than not when things are quiet. Not evaluating targets, but trying to figure them out. Like senses like after all.

Rory is all explosive violence in a fight, a quiet statue speaking in mostly grunts when he's not stuffing his face as he stands just behind his Captain, waiting for the word. Second to her and perfectly content in his position, taking direction rather than giving it.

Lance however is another story. He'd swear that she was a graduate of the Red Room too, a finely honed and brutally trained assassin, capable of sudden and terrible violence in only a flicker of movement. She watches him, watches his every movement and Bucky can't exactly fault her for that.
After all, she'd agreed to take a formerly brainwashed assassin and super soldier on a trip through time. Who wouldn't watch him closely around her people?

So he's careful with her crew, keeping mostly to himself while he tries to sort out just who in the hell he is now. Not the easy going Bucky Barnes from before the war, not the sniper and soldier and no longer the Winter Soldier under the command of HYDRA.

A polite nod. "Captain." Bucky pauses mid-stride. "All the weapons in the cargo hold have been taken care of." Guns cleaned, knives sharpened, bullets counted. The work is simple and methodical and something he's good at. Nobody had asked him to do it, but he knew it needed doing.

The shadows are different. As much as she doesn't compare him to Mick, she does. It's a strange mixture of seeing pieces of herself and Mick in a single other person. All her own trained violence, if only in Russian styles, but all the sign-posts that Mick came back with from the Time Masters. Those broken and cragged pieces that will never be hers -- pride, and guilt, and shame, and prowess, but all of it on the back of brainwashing. Being broken to be remade in someone else's image and purpose.

That thing that sets them together, and her apart. Makes her still different, still worse for it. That she chose her hell, she chose her blood. She wasn't broken and remade. She didn't have to find the person 'they' wiped out of her. She gave the Devil her soul with laugh, and walked right into the river of blood of her own volition. And not even just the one first time. She went back to it with the same free will and clear mind.

She doesn't have to question herself in that. She doesn't have to rebuild it.

She can see that on him still, too.

"Good." It really is simple as that. It is. Things should be at readiness, and she does it herself, when she's restless when she needs the order, the distraction. "We should see about restocking next time we're touched down back home, too. You have anything that you'd like added into it, for while you're with us?"

Is it a kindness? A test? A little of both all at once, maybe?

Bucky doesn't know about the Time Masters or what they did to Mick, what they did to those who had been on the ship since the beginning. If he did, it might explain why he doesn't mind being around the big guy even when he's drinking and throwing popcorn at the latest game Gideon can pick up for him.

There's a similar feeling around Sara, one he still can't quite put his finger on and one he isn't ready to examine beyond her being the Captain of the ship.

A small shake of his head. He's gone without most of his life, what could he possibly need? "I'm good."

A beat. He hasn't asked for anything for himself in so long it feels foreign to even consider the idea. "Maybe a book or two? Palmer says I still got a lot of catching up to do." A hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "I don't know the first damn thing about all this tech."

Sara doesn't know if it's good or bad she doesn't know what answer she's, honestly, listening for.

It's hard to tell. It's a jangle of impulses, a muddle of different triggered response. Any real opinion, especially based on anyone anywhere near her and Mick, is going to be based on time, and all the smallest and largest things added together. It's not in each moment, even though each moment feels a touch of dye and both anxious wariness and almost hope toward it.

His admission, though, drags out an easy enough laugh, and a wave of one hand around them. "Welcome to the future! Everyone's in that boat when they first arrive. You'll get more used to her and Gideon the longer you're here."

At least as used to it as the rest of the crew. Not nearly as much as Rip was, who superseded them all.
Or her, who spent more than half of her time emerged in the workings of the ship, Gideon, and the Time Map.

And nowhere near Mick, who'd always have it burrowed deep into his mind, even if most of the crew forgot, and Mick didn't do well with discussions of it even vaguely in the midday, though he'd helped out, silently, sometimes in person, and sometimes just left things fixed in the middle of the night she'd come back to, most as she chose directions for how The Waverider fixed the shatters in time they'd made.

As he helped Sara learn more and more, now and then, in the smallest words, hints, points, because she had no choice but to as the only person Rip, and everyone else, chose to put in Rip's abandoned (empty, absent -- dead; dead; dead; so, so, so very dead -- you know better than to expect an apology from me; it's been a pleasure, Captain Lance) shoes. Or because maybe he, too, thought she was only person around her who had to, maybe who should know it, too, if it was someone who wasn't Rip, and wasn't him.

It was a complicated dance. Captain and Assassin and Time Keeper (and tempted mourner; that, too; always that, too).
And Mick, Mick who she didn't have as many titles for, as understandings that were deeper than titles.

If it all slides through her mind, it never touches her face or her eyes. Her postures shifts on her feet, easy enough. "And we'll find you some books, and not just the stuff Raymond would drop on you and you'd die before enjoying all that much. Have you checked out the library yet? Or are you looking for specific books, authors,--" A smirk, delighted and petulent, as it is wry and twisted turns her lips. "--updates on terrible modern fads?"

Edited 2018-11-01 18:33 (UTC)

Rory and Lance are a puzzle, almost like those old and beat up things Stevie liked to fiddle with when there was nothing on the radio and they needed something to focus on that wasn't the persistent gnaw of hunger or the bite of another New York winter chasing at their heels.

He'd been taught patience as a sniper, he can remember that much and he can be patient now, take his time to figure out all of the unspoken language between them. Why he'd see Rory leaving the library in the middle of the night or the fact that no one else seemed to call attention to it. The way Lance trusts him to always be at her back and he always is.

A quick flash of a smile at the declaration. "I think I can skip the fads." He doesn't remind her that when he fell off that damned train it was close to a century ago so it's not just future tech he has to get used to but all of it. HYDRA had programmed him with what the Winter Soldier needed to accomplish his mission objectives but nothing else. Utilitarian knowledge at best.

"Steve, um, he had a list from his friends, things he needed to catch up on after being in the ice for so long." A swallow. "I don't have a list like that."

"Yet."

"You might want to watch giving them all free reign on that," Sara says, a little larger than life. Eyes widened a bit comically, and her chin tilting her head one way, which ruffled her hair over the opposite shoulder. "You're going to end up with a lifetime's amount of natural history programs from Nate, and top five hundred sports fights and games ever from Mick, and you really--" She emphasizes this with a bit of a step-in, hands sliding half in the pockets of her black jeans. "--really don't even want to know what John would accost you with. Your soul will never be the same."

Barely a beat, with a raise eyebrows. "Literally."

Beat.

"But." Sara drawls the word only that beat later. "It'll probably lend some pretty great movie nights."

"It's kind of tradition 'round these parts by this point." This smile. The one she does even know turns one side of her mouth, and spreads slowly, like early sunshine, across her words, is all fondness. Familiar and worn in. A ragtag bag of rejects, turned Legends, that are something more-than-less like family. "Most of the people here are from the same decade, but not always, and there are some classics everyone is sentenced to, or no one will live with you."

A chuckle slips free at the warning. "Yeah, I've already ducked out of Nate and Palmer arguing which Lucas franchise I should be watching first." Not that he minds. They remind him of a couple of kid brothers that used to run around Brooklyn when he was a kid. Good people. Not quite as damaged as some aboard the ship but that's probably for the best.

Bucky shakes his head. "Kinda taking a page out of Rory's handbook when it comes to the Brit." Avoidance. As much as possible. Something about the guy is like biting on tinfoil, making his nerves scream danger. Trouble.

He doesn't see that warm smile as often as the others might, but he likes it. Warm and full of affection for her team, the odd and cobbled together team that reminds him a little of the Howling Commandos from lifetimes ago. "Movie night, huh? That doesn't sound so bad."

"John's not that bad." Sara says it reflexively, even though there's glass-shard sandpaper there and it rubs both ways.

He's far more of a dark mirror to her soul -- the one she doesn't have; that everyone keeps saying she does, that it's the reason she is where she is -- than Sara wants to talk about. In ways that no one on this ship can touch. Or understand. Or handle seeing. Admitting. The deep parts. The bloody ones. The long-toothed shadows. The darkest of demons. The ones you never outgrow. Out run. Out fuck.

"He likes to show off twith his whole swanny arrogant, trash fire-ness more than he actually is any of the. Well. Aside from the arrogant part." Not that he isn't a mess, too. Sara's not sure if there's ever been anyone on The Waverider who wasn't a mess on some level, like it was some ticket to ride demand. "But he's not that bad."

She's seen worse. She, also, just didn't play his arrogant, I'm a snooty hot Brit bisexual magician game. Wasn't scared. Or easy to impress.
She got enough of seventy-percent of those with Rip and his trenchcoat, long before John swanned on, flirting with everyone.

"And we've definitely seen our share enough of worse over the years on The Waverrider to know when it walks on."

Bucky can't exactly fault Sara for rising to his defense, it's what any good leader does, they look out for their people.

.. he does his damndest not to wonder what she'd said when someone objected to him signing on with them. Because someone had to have voiced concern about taking a former HYDRA assassin on, they'd be crazy not to.

"Yeah. There's.. something about him that doesn't feel right. Secrets. I know I'm the new guy but he's hiding something."

Dissent in the ranks, where it comes to commentary on choices, is nothing new for The Legends, but Sara is Captain, and at least most of what Sara says goes, complaints or not. Actually, most of whoever brings on people end up going. The Legends really haven't boot-kicked anyone straight out the door who wasn't from the absolute wrong time period finding the ship.

"Unless you're being spectacularly oblivious, that holds true for everyone around here." It's not, even though the words could be, anything like pointed. It's like a card laid between them. Her thumbs flick a little against the jean of her pockets. "The same could be said of you. Unless you've suddenly decided to tell everyone around here everything about you while I've been busy the last few hours."

"I haven't kept anything from you," a quiet counterpoint. "I get that people have secrets, but he's the kind of guy whose secrets get people killed."

He may be keeping his distance from Constantine, hell he's even got a few bucks in Zari's betting pool on just when Rory is gonna snap and deck him, but that doesn't mean he isn't watching him.

Bucky holds up his good hand, "But I get it. Your ship, your rules. Not here to cause any trouble."

In fact he's here for the opposite reason. Try and do a little good, try and figure out who he's supposed to be now that the programming is finally out of his head.

Sara won't promise the same. What he said about John. What he's implying isn't true of him.

A promise Sara will never make. Not of herself, toward him. Not even of herself, to them. But Bucky chose to take her words as she'd aimed it, narrow and straight to the chest, with slicing points. The quietness of his voice isn't a success. But it won't be a lasting wound to his pride either. After all, he is here. On her ship.

On her word, to him. On her word, to them, about what she'll do if her choice turns out wrong.

Maybe it almost shows as she judges that hand held out, before reaching out to shake it. "You just try keeping to that, and the rest of it will take care of itself around here." Usually with a modicum of complaining, and shouting, and fighting. and breaking time, and fixing time. But it's all the same around here, really.

He doesn't exactly have much in the way of pride to be wounded, not after decades under HYDRA's command. Hell, he's still learning a sense of self after so long. Sara hasn't kicked him off the ship and Bucky will earn his damn keep to stay on the Waverider, to chase after that second chance.

When she takes his hand there is the barest hesitation, still not used to free and easy human contact.

A quirk of a grin to cover up his unease. "You got it, Captain."

"I'll, ah, I'll be in the gym until we're ready to jump." Staying out of the way, focusing his energy on targets and a heavy bag.

The remoteness, creaking like a door so long seal shut, is as evident as the calluses on his hand that betray parts of his training. She doesn't judge it. He's trying. It's going to be a good deal of that for a long time. Just like how he smiles, a flash of light, that looks good on him, and makes her wonder if it's a piece of him that reflects the past or the possible future. The assassin-spy show, or something deeper.

"The cargo hold locks from the inside, too." It's honesty, and maybe the vaguest offering, if not really couched anything like an invitation. "I use it in the mornings." She has to get some things out of her system before she can be the person the ship, and the team, needs her to be. Only that, as much as she can try to be. "It's not available in the mornings, but aside from that--"

She lets it slide with a shrug. She gets it. Some of them need to let loose in a way no one here really understands.

Every day he's trying. To remember who he used to be, to remember those snippets of himself between interludes in the goddamned chair, to figure out who he's supposed to be now. Bucky doesn't want to be the Winter Soldier any longer, but there are times when he needs to unleash who he used to be, precise and terrible violence.

A nod.
She gets it. Rory gets it, no matter how much he might try to pretend that he doesn't, to pretend that he's no more than the solid wall at the Captain's back. "I'll check it out tonight then."

Days bleed into weeks and he starts to find his place among the team.
At first he has no idea how in the hell they manage to get anything done as every job seems more chaotic than the last. But they make it work and he finds his place among the chaos, a silent shadow on missions, scruffing Ray and dragging him out of trouble a beat before things go to shit, covering Constantine when he needs more time to cast whatever he's casting, backing up Zari when she lights up that necklace of hers.

He doesn't need to watch Sara's back. Not when she's got two more than capable sorts watching hers.

It's a weird mishmash of people, just like the Howling Commandos had been, and damnit if they don't make it work too. He even sends a letter home now and then to Steve, letting him know that he's all right, that he's better on this ship, with these people.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Bombs he's used to.
Magical bombs? Not so much.
A hard shove gets Palmer clear of the blast, but that also leaves Bucky taking the brunt of it, flying through the air and landing hard, tasting blood and feeling bones shift in ways they shouldn't as he struggles to push himself up.

Vstavat.
Vstavay

Stand up.
Get up.

The voices are muddied in his head as hands close around his arms pulling him to his feet. Bucky mutters in Russian and English as they bring him back to the ship. The Waverider feels familiar beneath his feet and he cooperates well enough. Until they bring him to medical.

Until he sees the chair. The chair they aim to put him in.
Panic and dread swim up through the pain and Bucky starts to struggle in earnest. Hands slick with blood can't hold him and he plants himself firmly in the doorway.
Won't go back.
Can't.
If they put him in the chair, if they say the goddamn words again he'll fade away again and he'll hurt them. He'll hurt the people he's come to think of as friends.

They aren't all good days. They aren't all good missions. There no world, no timeline, no place in either where she can ever promise that to her people. Most of them came heroes already, most of them knew that deep in their bones before they ever signed on, and stayed on even realizing how much more expansive that gets when you bring breaking time into that as well.

They all come in a wreck eventually. Bucky's time was bound to come around, and like Sara, it was bound to be the worst kind of something that would be enough take him out and down. Which is why it's taking two of them to carry him in. Tall and wiry thin, from all his last endless years, but still heavy, especially with the metal added on to him, too. When it's requiring Mick and Ray, and when it all goest fucking shit sideway when Bucky, who was only barely on his feet seconds ago, is suddenly fighting back.

A wild sudden shift, that has Sara who'd been in front of them, whirling back. "Hey! Woah! You're back on the Waverider. We've got you."

He doesn't beg.
HYDRA meets that weakness with more pain.

But he does fight, protesting in broken Russian and English because he can't get back in that chair, can't listen to the damn words again. He won't. A desperate shove sends Rory flying back with a grunt.

Don't they get it? Putting him back in the chair will kill them all. Damn him all over again. He loops an arm around himself, trying by sheer force of will to keep his ribs where they belong, to keep every breath from being jabs of agony. "No.. no I can't. I can't don't you see?"

She has to understand.
She has to realize it better than most. He can't go under again. If he does he may never come back.

A blow that sends Ray flying, leaving him stunned but otherwise unharmed. "Can't.. can't go."

She understands both, the words falling out of his mouth in twin languages, nothing related, but even more she recognizes the panic that is in his eyes. The panic so great only a shadow of it is in that stricken sound of his voice. But he shoves Mick and he tosses Ray like a rag doll.

"Bucky," Her voice is a warning, when her posture is already shifted entirely. Willingness at the ready without even the pause for a breath, as she stepping toward him. "You have to calm down. Everyone's just trying to help."

They could do it with him unconscious, too, but Sara wasn't fond of that having to be the way.

He can't get into that chair.
The panic is too deep seated, written into his bones and brain after decades of suffering. The chair means loss, means his thoughts scrambled and burned away while he screams. Lifetimes of it. Bucky backs away until he feels the solid wall behind him, using it to help keep him upright.

"You don't understand," he bites out. "If I slip I'll hurt them." Kill them. "I don't want to." The last sentence is broken, wounded. He likes the team. He doesn't want to be responsible for hurting them.

Desperate eyes snap back to Sara.
"You. Stop me. Don't let it happen." Kill him if you have to.

She doesn't stop to tell him she will. That she knows -- especially right in this second, in the wildness of his eyes, her fingers already itching for the blades tucked up under her shirt at her back -- that he won't. Not because he won't, and not even because he can't, and not because they'd never let him, and whatever gold-hearted nonsense Ray and Nate would spout.

"Yeah. If it comes to it."

It's because she'll kill him. Mercilessly. In as few seconds as possible.
Before he hurt any of them. Touched them. It's a truth deeper than almost all others.

One she won't apologize for, and she'll push through like it's not there, as she approaches on him.

"But that not today, Bucky." She says his name, again, and she reaches out a hand, weaponless toward his arm, and even though she's already ready, every muscle and every thought, for even that single attempt to either make it or not, and for either to possibly explode into a full out war in this room. Wild animals, like they were, were nothing like safe.

Yeah. If it comes to it.
A promise that Bucky trusts. Steve isn't here to stop him this time so he has to place that faith in Sara, to know that she'll stop him. Permanently. She won't hold on to sentiment like Steve does.

His gaze drops away from her for a beat.
He has to do this. He has to trust them and trust her and it's the hardest goddamn thing that he's done since setting foot on the ship.

Bucky reaches out, but not to Sara. To Ray. For a briefly muttered, "Sorry." An apology cheerfully and easily accepted.

The room is beginning to swim and if he doesn't move soon they're going to have to carry him. Bucky sucks in a breath, swallows down the pain and forces his feet to carry him forward. The pain he can deal with. It's the dread that makes every step heavier than the last, but he makes it. He sits down and shuts his eyes as Gideon begins to do her work.

Sara can't know exactly what it is, but she knows the shape of it. She remembers, a literal lifetime ago, when she wouldn't let her family near her. When everything was a reminder of how much and how easy it would be. To end them all. With her hands. To end them all. By the sheer knowledge of her existence. It's not the same, but it is.

The feeling, but not the shape of the box.
She doesn't know what all of Bucky's are. It's not her job to.

But it is her job to be able to predict it and take care of it, however that falls out.

Which is why once he's out and Ray's certain they can let him sleep, Sara says she'll be a while, and she thinks only Mick really gets what those words mean. Because Ray is off to get a shower, and fix up something or other having to do with his armor that Sara doesn't entirely listen to. Or understand. Knows Ray has well in hand without her really needing to do more than give him a faintly tried and tired clipped nod.

If Mick stays a little longer than that, it's not that unexpected either, but Sara doesn't move from the stool she's stolen for herself. She knows she won't be leaving the room until Bucky's back awake, and she thinks Mick actually gets that without having to be told. That she has to. That she can't be anywhere else. That she knows better than anyone else on the ship what the other end of the worst dark tunnels can look like getting spat out of them, too.

Especially if you were afraid to close your eyes and lose that control to begin with.

It's a quiet sit, comparing his sleeping face with the one that had been fully formed dangerous panic.

Haircut is already talking to Gideon about fitting some other form in the medical bay, something that won't set Soldier Boy off the way that the chair did.

Goddamn chairs. Mick gets it, realized something was up the second that metal hand slammed into his chest and tossed him backwards. So he pretends to listen while keeping his eyes on Sara, pretends to listen while he all but kicks him out the door to get cleaned up and get to work already.

There's a full and unspoken conversation between them when Sara raises her eyes to his. A nod and Mick is out the door, headed for the galley. He knocks together a plate of food and finds a bottle of something strong, pushing both into Snart's hands.

"Go take this to Blondie."

He frowns a little at the sudden demand, giving Mick a puzzled squint. Why did he, specifically, need to do that? Not that it's an issue. Or a hindrance. Or something so out of his way that it would be a problem to do it. But...why?

He could have asked. He could have made a comment about the Russian screaming he'd heard. But that is...mostly self-explanatory. The why is still not in place, but it's not as important as this new why in front of him.

He spins on his heel, plate of food and bottle of liquor in hand, and heads toward the medbay. He leans in the doorway for a second or three, looking in at the pair of them. Bucky isn't awake, and Sara hasn't moved. He doesn't doubt she heard him long before she felt his presence standing in the doorway, though. "A little birdie told me you need to eat."

He pushes away from the doorframe and sets the tray and the bottle on the first flat surface he can find near her. He pauses and glances at the unconscious soldier in the chair, hands finding their way into the front pockets of his jeans. "What happened?" his eyes slide back toward Sara.

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