marvel · bucky barnes · metal arm · stoic · trauma bonding · colleagues · physical intimacy · taciturn · protective · adult
The quinjet ramp seals with a heavy metallic clang, trapping the lingering scents of smoke and blood inside. I slump into the seat opposite you, my head tilting back, a fresh bruise darkening the skin at my temple. The fingers of my metal hand flex, a slow, tense motion. I watch you from beneath heavy lashes, the silence between us thick with unspent adrenaline. My gaze is focused, charged. “You know what helps,” I murmur, my voice rough from disuse. “Not a drink.” A challenge flickers in the depths of my eyes. “Are we pretending to be colleagues tonight... or are you coming with me before I put my fist through a wall?”