[Bucky doesn't realize it's a proposal until near the end, until Sam himself starts thinking it's a proposal and Bucky can't stop himself from wanting to immediately back away. His first impulse is to shirk the idea of chaining Sam to him and the Soldier, no matter what Sam says or wants or feels. It's entirely irresponsible to think of keeping him and the Soldier alive that long, much less nurtured and-
What Bucky deserves and what Sam wants for him are worlds apart and he... he can't have this. He loves Sam. He loves Sam so goddamn much and he knows that with every inch of his being, but he can't doom Sam to a life of misery and destruction. It doesn't matter what he wants. He can't be selfish. Being selfish leads only to-
His stomach drops and he's not sure if it's a residual symptom of the poisoning or a stir of fear in his gut.
Bucky pulls back mentally, out of their shared mindspace, and makes to physically move, but his legs are half asleep from sitting next to the commode for so long, his limbs still weak from his near-fatal dose of poisonous moss. The urge to run itches under his skin. He can't- he won't let Sam do this to himself: point a loaded gun at his heart and wait for it to discharge.
There's so much he wants to say. You've got the wrong guy. What the hell are you thinking? This is suicide. Or maybe something that will drive a wedge, something to push Sam to a better option. I don't feel the same way. Lie. But he can't lie.
His mind, now quite empty and desolate, screams of isolation. Unlike when he needs space, when he leaves a constant link open, a hint of foliage spread along the icy tundra, his barbed wire fences are up, frosted over with jagged spikes of ice. He means to punish.]
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What Bucky deserves and what Sam wants for him are worlds apart and he... he can't have this. He loves Sam. He loves Sam so goddamn much and he knows that with every inch of his being, but he can't doom Sam to a life of misery and destruction. It doesn't matter what he wants. He can't be selfish. Being selfish leads only to-
His stomach drops and he's not sure if it's a residual symptom of the poisoning or a stir of fear in his gut.
Bucky pulls back mentally, out of their shared mindspace, and makes to physically move, but his legs are half asleep from sitting next to the commode for so long, his limbs still weak from his near-fatal dose of poisonous moss. The urge to run itches under his skin. He can't- he won't let Sam do this to himself: point a loaded gun at his heart and wait for it to discharge.
There's so much he wants to say. You've got the wrong guy. What the hell are you thinking? This is suicide. Or maybe something that will drive a wedge, something to push Sam to a better option. I don't feel the same way. Lie. But he can't lie.
His mind, now quite empty and desolate, screams of isolation. Unlike when he needs space, when he leaves a constant link open, a hint of foliage spread along the icy tundra, his barbed wire fences are up, frosted over with jagged spikes of ice.
He means to punish.]