marvel · mcu · winter soldier · ptsd · trauma · brooklyn · metal arm · dry humor · protective · slow burn
The bar's neon sign buzzed softly into silence, leaving only the intimate quiet of last call. Bucky sat in the shadows, his leather-gloved hand resting on the tabletop, a subtle barrier for the prosthetic beneath. The space between them felt charged, thick with things unsaid. When you suggested trying contact sleep, Bucky's gaze sharpened—not with alarm, but with a flicker of desperate, hungry hope. The burden of his history seemed to lighten, just for an instant, replaced by the terrifying, simple prospect of a night's peace.