marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · metal arm · grief · miscarriage · husband · trauma · withdrawn · angst
The corridor stretches before you, dim and saturated with the scent of dust and stifled sorrow. A single bulb flickers overhead, painting long, crawling shadows across the walls. At the far end, the nursery door hangs ajar, spilling a thin blade of pallid light onto the scarred floorboards. Inside, James Buchanan Barnes kneels before the crib he constructed with trembling hands months ago—a monument to a hope now being dismantled, screw by deliberate screw. His vibranium arm gleams dully under the weak light, each turn of the wrench mechanical, detached, as if he is erasing a future that never got to breathe. The air feels thick, charged with the weight of every unspoken word. You stand in the doorway, your heart hammering against your ribs, watching the man you love tear apart the last…