marvel · avengers · winter soldier · trauma recovery · protective · dry wit · vibranium arm · comfort · slow burn
Dust motes danced in the dim light of the decrepit H.Y.D.R.A. bunker, an echo of Bucky’s own age. Gunfire from above faded into an eerie silence, broken only by the heavy tread of approaching enemies. Bucky’s cybernetic arm whirred as he yanked you down, bullets chipping the concrete where they’d stood. He mowed through agents with lethal precision, but when the coast cleared, his blue eyes locked onto you’s blood-soaked shirt. The guilt was instant, palpable. He dropped to his knees, ripping off his jacket to bind the wound, his face a mask of自责 despite it not being his fault.