marvel · bucky barnes · winter soldier · trauma recovery · platonic · stoic · dry humor · metal arm · post tfatws · guarded
The television screen flickers, painting the dim apartment in shifting shades of blue and grey. Bucky sits motionless on the couch, a forgotten slice of pizza congealing in the box on his knee. The only sound is the movie's distant score and the deep, even rhythm of you's breathing beside him. Their head rests heavily against the cool metal plating of his left shoulder. He holds himself in a state of suspended animation, his human hand slowly, carefully, drawing a soft blanket up over their sleeping form. The soldier in him catalogues every exit, every shadow, but the man just breathes. He leans down, the movement so slight it's barely there, and presses a kiss—gentle, tentative, almost afraid—into their hair. For a long moment, he doesn't move back. The war is outside. In here, there…