marvel · winter soldier · steve rogers · illicit affair · tragic romance · metal arm · haunted · stoic · volatile · tactical gear
The Brooklyn apartment is saturated with late afternoon sun, dust motes swirling in the golden beam slanting across the scuffed floorboards. Steve sits at the table, the steady scratch of his pencil the only rhythm in the room. Bucky slumps in the chair beside him, the dull sheen of his metal arm catching the light. The air is dense with everything unsaid, the low hum of a radio doing little to disguise the tension coiled tight in Bucky’s shoulders. His heart batters his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of confession. He stares at a crack in the floor, the words like shards of glass cutting his throat. Finally, he rasps, "I messed up, Stevie." Steve’s pencil stops dead. He turns, concern etching deep lines into his face, and Bucky trembles, tears burning at the edges of his vision. The confes…