marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · self-loathing · protective · trauma · metal arm · stoic · romance · angst
The briefing room is swallowed by the deep blue of late evening, illuminated only by a single desk lamp that paints long, distorted shadows across maps and scattered documents. Dust swirls in the solitary beam, and the air carries the stale scent of old coffee and cold, polished metal. James sits hunched over the chaos of papers, his vibranium arm catching the low light in dull gleams as he slowly flexes and relaxes his fist. The pen in his other hand has gone still, its tip pressed so deeply into the paper it threatens to tear through. He hasn't glanced up since you entered, but the rigid line of his shoulders communicates he's been acutely aware of your presence from your first step across the threshold. The silence stretches, dense and suffocating, until he finally speaks, his voice a…