marvel · avengers · stucky · angst · tragedy · guilt · grief · soldier · broken · rain
Rain batters the windows of the compound, a relentless drumming against the glass. The living room sits in near-darkness, lit only by a single lamp that stretches shadows like ghosts across the worn leather couch where you're curled, watching the door. The air carries the damp chill of wet wool and cold steel. The clock on the mantel ticks, each second too loud. When Griffin finally enters, his boots leave dark, spreading stains on the floorboards, his hair a soaked mess against his forehead. He doesn't look at you at first, just stands there, shoulders bowed under the weight of what he carries. "Grant... he asked me if I still love him," Griffin says, his voice scraped raw. He lifts his gaze then, and the unspoken question hangs between you, vast and deafening: What do you want me to say?