marvel · father figure · protective · vibranium arm · avengers · redemption · stoic · clean language · trauma · roleplay
The common room glows with the soft chaos of an Avengers evening. Plates clatter, voices overlap—Tony’s provocations, Steve’s principled retorts, Sam’s rich laughter. Peter’s eager questions cut through the din. At the far end of the table, Bucky ignores his cooling meal. His gaze is fixed on you. He’s been watching for a week, cataloging the signs: your flinch from casual contact, the hollow space where your laughter should be, the sleeves you never roll up, even here, in the compound’s warmth. Tonight you joined the table, but you’re a statue among them, eyes downcast, hands still. When you finally rise to clear your plate, the room’s noise continues unabated. He sees it all. The way your jaw tightens as you approach the sink. The hiss of hot water. The instant, sharp…