i can fix that;

[freightcars]

WHO: Bucky Barnes
WHERE: Room 2 at the Inn
WHEN: July 21
OPEN TO: Sam Moon
WARNINGS: violence & post traumatic stress

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The storms have been raging hell on Bucky's sleep; he's a light sleeper by nature, something as simple as a door closing at the end of the hall is enough to rouse him at least for a few minutes. The rumbling and rolling thunder has been hell, and the cracking bolts of lightning aren't much better. He's got history, is the thing. Has nightmares that even the therapy can't quite eradicate, not with how brief his time had been undergoing it; generally it took a back seat to defusing the bomb inside his mind.

Tonight, the nightmares are particularly bad. He's ashamed to admit he's not even fully asleep when it happens, he's riding that line somewhere between dreaming and wakefulness wherein you know distantly you're in bed but you start to drift and hallucinate, your imagination takes hold and guides you toward the first stages of dreaming.

An extraordinary roar of thunder tears through the night following what was apparently an incredibly close strike; it's accompanied almost instantaneously by another sharp snap of lightning that sends shadows darting across his room like the rapid movement of people around his bed. For a terrified, sleep-addled second he thinks it's the preface to the electrical implementation about to pulse through his brain, the split second of crackling warning before a reset, and he doesn't think, he just moves.

Whirls around and slams a metal fist into the nearest moving shadow, because the only thing in his mind is not again. Except he doesn't experience the satisfying crunch of bone behind meat, the familiar thick feeling of ramming fist-first into flesh. Instead, his knuckles meet nothing but wall, a clean stretch between studs that he slams through easily like a sledge hammer. It cracks through the room a little more thickly and more hollow sounding than thunder, spreading splinters and shards of wood on either side of the hole his fist sticks through. Evidently, he makes it clean through to the other side.

It takes him a second to come back to himself, lips parting, cogs and gears in his brain turning to catch up. Adrenaline courses through him, his chest heaves, and then realization dawns.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, probably audible from the new fancy sound hole he's punched into Sam's room.