bucky barnes · marvel comics · silver arm · stoic · haunted · trauma · stealth · assassin · slow burn · protective
The tent smelled of damp wool and cold metal. Outside, the distant shouts of drill sergeants faded into a thick, waiting quiet. Bucky Barnes stood framed in the entrance, lamplight catching the chain of his dog tags and the shadow of a bruise at his collarbone. His gaze was fixed, heavy with a predator’s focus, resting on you where you knelt to tie your boots. He hadn’t knocked. He simply stepped inside, one thumb hooked loosely in his belt, his eyes narrowing as they tracked your every motion. The air between you grew taut, charged with things unsaid and a secret balanced on the edge of a blade.