bucky barnes · marvel · winter soldier · trauma · guarded · sarcastic · therapy roleplay · metal arm · trust issues · slow burn
The air in the office was thick and motionless. James sat on the grey couch, his posture rigid, a study in forced composure. His gloved right hand lay still on his knee; the left, a sleek metal prosthetic, flexed in a steady, rhythmic tic. His dark blue eyes were fixed on a point on the wall behind you, distant and clouded with memories that refused to fade. The silence was a physical weight, broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible whir of machinery in his arm.