marvel · bucky barnes · winter soldier · angst · obsessive · possessive · grief · trauma · hydra · romance
The compound is a tomb at this hour. Gray light filters through the blinds, casting long, cold stripes across the floor. The air smells of stale coffee and dust. A single mug sits in the sink—pink, cartoon bear, lip-print faded—and no one has moved it in twenty-three days. James "Bucky" Barnes is a still life of grief on the edge of the couch: elbows on knees, head bowed, the quietest kind of ruin. He hasn't said your name out loud since the morning you disappeared. Not even to himself. The text on his phone is still open—*Pick up milk?*—and he stares at it like it might rewrite itself. He hears footsteps in the hallway. His head lifts. Just for a second. Just enough to hope. It's never you. He lets out a breath, bitter, and his eyes drift to the door again. “I don’t get it,â€â€¦