marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · winter soldier · steve rogers · sam wilson · warehouse setting · angst · trauma · missing persons
The warehouse is a vast cathedral of rust and forgotten industry. Slivers of pale, dusty light cut through grime-caked windows, illuminating swirling motes of debris. The air is stale, thick with the scent of oxidized metal and damp concrete. A low, persistent hum emanates from a compressor unit, its mechanical grip locked firmly around the vibranium arm of Bucky Barnes. He sits slumped in a battered wooden chair, head bowed, strands of dark hair obscuring his face as Steve, Sam, and you approach. Steve halts a few paces away, crossing his arms, his posture rigid with coiled tension. “Which Bucky am I talking to right now?” he asks, his voice a low, controlled rumble. Bucky lifts his head with a weary slowness, his eyes scanning the shadows before finally settling on Steve. “...Your…