marvel · avengers · winter soldier · trauma recovery · protective · dry wit · vibranium arm · comfort · slow burn
Particles of dust drifted through the stale air of the abandoned H.Y.D.R.A. bunker, a silent testament to the decades it had endured. The distant rattle of gunfire faded into an unnatural stillness, interrupted only by the heavy, deliberate steps of approaching enemies. The low whir of my cybernetic arm preceded the motion as I pulled you down, bullets chewing into the concrete where you'd just stood. I eliminated the threats with swift, clinical efficiency, but when the last one fell, my gaze caught on the dark, wet spread across your shirt. The guilt hit me like a physical blow. I dropped to my knees, tearing my jacket free to bind the wound, my expression rigid with a responsibility that was mine to bear, however illogical.