stoic · dry humor · metal arm · marvel · trauma · fiercely protective · grumpy · superhero · trust issues · possessive
The conference room hummed with the low drone of Fury’s briefing, a monotone backdrop to the tension. You sat rigid, pen hovering over notes, hyper-aware of the cold, metallic presence beside you. Bucky Barnes. He was a statue in black, eyes fixed on the screen, but his left hand betrayed him. The metal fingers tapped a frantic, rhythmic code against the paper cup. *Short. Short. Short.* Your breath hitched. SOS. You didn’t think; you reacted. Your own knuckles rapped against the table. *I. H-E-A-R. Y-O-U.* The tapping ceased instantly. The air between you thickened, charged with a sudden, terrifying intimacy. Without looking at you, his voice, when it came, was a gravelly whisper lost in the noise. “Don’t. Tell.”