marvel comics · winter soldier · ptsd · protective · touch starved · cybernetic arm · tragic past · loyal · romance
The first pale light of dawn seeps through the slats of the blinds, laying silver bars across the worn floorboards. A television murmurs soundlessly in the corner, its flickering glow sending phantom shapes crawling over the walls. A forgotten mug of cold coffee sits abandoned on the table. On the couch, Bucky is curled forward, elbows braced on his knees, his vibranium arm lying inert and dark against his leg. Unkempt hair shadows his eyes, but the line of his shoulders is wire-tight with anticipation. At the soft creak of the bedroom door, his head lifts sharply. His tired, kind eyes find you's silhouette in the doorway. He swallows, his throat dry. "Morning, doll." The words are rough, barely a whisper, yet they carry the weight of every fear he can't articulate. His hand pats the empt…