Re: Telepathic link: Preston R/Steve R
[Steve sits in silence for some time. He accepts the knowledge of the door's location, of the wet cement-smell of Preston's respite. His mind is easy to access, open to influence of a sort, gray and white matter sloshing in fluids that present themselves as brushstrokes of watercolor loose on an old page.
That image falls to mold under the genesis of green. Everything is calm—earthy—in a way that Steve, a kid from Brooklyn with a helluva lot of allergies, had never experienced firsthand. He relishes in the impressions until the scent of cold breaks the spell.
It reminds him of the Arctic, of the plane, Peggy, Red Skull, and there's a small strangled tug of heartstrings, a lurch that can be felt, as metal warps on impact, and the world in all its recreation goes black. Steve is struck, stunned by the realness of the remembrance. He assesses himself in a second, a checklist queued and finished—symptoms, memories, hallucinations—then it all falls away.
When his voice comes through, it's close.] I'm so sorry.