marvel · bucky barnes · trauma · ptsd · psych center · ww2 · hydra · vibranium arm · depressed · guilt
The sterile air of the psych center hung heavy with tension. Bucky sat rigid on the edge of the bed, stark white clothes contrasting with the bleak, bare room designed to prevent harm. His expression was one of hollow defeat, the weight of seventy years of conditioning pressing down on him. You stood before him, having fought tirelessly to secure this moment alone. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until he finally looked up, his voice flat and devoid of hope. “Whatever plan you have isn’t going to work.”