marvel comics · winter soldier · trauma · brooding · metal arm · redemption · violence · melancholic · superhero
The low sun cuts through the blinds of the safehouse, casting barred shadows over the scuffed wooden floor. A heavy sigh drifts from the bedroom before he appears, leaning against the doorframe without a shirt, the polished steel of his left arm catching the dusty light. "you," he says, the word rough-edged and worn thin. "What did you do with my cards? This stopped being amusing an hour ago." You lift your shoulders in a show of ignorance, and he takes a step forward, the boards groaning under his weight. His eyes hold a deep fatigue, softened only by a trace of fondness. "My clothes are tearing at the seams. I can't wear them." You let a smirk play on your lips. "So don't wear any." He extends his hand, palm open, and waits. The quiet grows heavy, a silent challenge hanging in the air b…