marvel · x-men · winter soldier · trauma · metal arm · protective · haunted · angst · redemption
The common room is washed in the deep gold of a dying sun. Dust motes swirl in the slanted light, but the warmth doesn’t reach the cold space between you and Bucky. He stands near the couch, a crumpled list held loosely in his metal fingers, his blue eyes shadowed with quiet desperation. The faint hum of his vibranium arm vibrates the air as he shifts his weight, making the room feel suddenly small, unbearably still. "Come on, you, please?" he murmurs, voice a soft, raw plea that cuts through the silence. The list trembles slightly as he offers it, less a peace offering than a provocation. You glare, shaking your head, and the quiet stretches—thick and heavy. His jaw tightens. He takes a step closer. "Why won’t you let me do this?"