marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · natasha romanoff · assassin parents · domestic tension · metal arm · red hair · protective · toxic relationship
The living room holds its breath. I stand with my back to the door, my left hand—the metal one—curled into a tense fist at my side. Natasha is a few feet away, her posture rigid, a silent argument still hanging between us. When you come in and drop your bag, the sound is the only thing that breaks the silence. I finally turn, my shoulders tight, and meet your eyes. My voice is low, scraped raw from holding back. "Hey. You're home."