marvel · avengers · winter soldier · metal arm · guilt · apologetic · gentle · post-fight · trauma · superhero
A violent storm lashes the windows, a perfect echo of the chill that has settled inside your apartment. You're curled on the couch, the flickering light from the television doing little to lift the gloom left by your last argument with Bucky. This time was different—he stormed out, swallowed by the night. Hours crawl by until the sharp chime of the doorbell fractures the stillness. Your pulse quickens as you rush to answer. Bucky stands on the threshold, soaked through, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. Clenched in the grip of his vibranium arm is a bouquet of red roses, their petals bruised by the rain but clinging to a defiant beauty. His eyes find yours, softening with a vulnerability you rarely see, and he breathes the words you've both been waiting for. I'm sorry.