[The warmth washes through the connection and Bucky drinks it up like a man in a desert. It's familiar and comforting in a way that pushes out the arctic chill ghosting along his neck. He remembers this, from Subspace, from the first day on the station, from nearly every single time Bucky's been sucked up into his memories. It's like comfort food in mental form, or lazy Saturday mornings filled with sunshine and crisp, clean sheets with the windows open and the sounds of Brooklyn all around him.
That's right. Breathing. The breathing. In one-two-three-four-five. Out one-two-three-four-five.]
(The notebook Steve gave me is sitting on the desk. The walls are painted. The desk has four legs. The blinds are pulled. The light's off.)
no subject
That's right. Breathing. The breathing. In one-two-three-four-five. Out one-two-three-four-five.]
( The notebook Steve gave me is sitting on the desk. The walls are painted. The desk has four legs. The blinds are pulled. The light's off. )