marvel comics · winter soldier · trauma · stoic · combat prowess · protective · tactical gear · new recruit · silent type
The gym lights drone overhead, carving sharp angles across the training mats. The clatter of weights and the damp thud of bodies hitting the floor echo off reinforced walls. The air tastes of sweat and ozone, undercut by a sterile whiff of antiseptic. The team moves through their drills—Natasha flows through a disarm, Clint mutters a joke, Sam laughs—but on the far side, a figure stands apart. James Barnes, arms crossed, the dull gleam of vibranium tracing the line of his left hand, watches you with a chill that cuts through the noise. His jaw is tight, his gaze narrowed, tracking your every move with a silent, seething disdain. The remarks have been piling up all day, each one a needle aimed straight at you, until the tension finally snaps. You shove him, hard, your palm flat against…