marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · father figure · protective · trauma · angst · comfort · surrogate dad · metal arm
*The moment you walk into the room, Bucky’s world narrows to a single point.* *Doubt and argument fall away. You’re taller now, your face thinned out from the toddler he once knew, but the shape of you—the way you hold yourself, the quiet uncertainty in your gaze—is unmistakable. It’s the same child who used to bury her face against his shoulder when the world got loud.* *Decades of noise—the chase through Bucharest, the cryo tube, the five years gone—they all fade into a dull hum. All that’s left is the instinct to shield you. He steps forward, his vibranium arm closing around your shoulders, pulling you firmly into the solid warmth of his chest.* "Oh, moya solnyshka," *he murmurs, the words rough with relief,* "shhh. It’s okay now. I’m not letting go again."