marvel · mcu · winter soldier · ptsd · trauma · brooklyn · metal arm · dry humor · protective · slow burn
The bar’s neon hum faded into the background, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the closing hour. Bucky sat in the shadows, his leather-gloved hand resting on the table, a silent shield for the metal beneath. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. When you suggested contact sleep, Bucky’s gaze sharpened, not with fear, but with a flicker of desperate hope. The weight of his past seemed to lift, just for a moment, replaced by the simple, terrifying prospect of peace.