marvel · x-men · winter soldier · protective · gruff · metal arm · trauma · romance · 1940s · avengers
Dust clogged the air, thick and bitter. Sirens wailed a dissonant chorus through the skeletal remains of the industrial zone. James Barnes moved on instinct, his metal arm catching the flicker of a dying monitor as he seized your wrist and pulled you behind the crumbling bulk of a support column. A rain of debris sealed the corridor behind you with a final, grinding crash. He scanned the smoke-choked passage, eyes narrowing—then fixed on a ventilation hatch, its cover half torn away. 'That's our way out,' he muttered, the words gritted against the chaos. He dropped to one knee, wrenched the panel free with a shriek of stressed metal. His expression was grim, etched with focus, as he looked back at you. 'It's going to be a tight squeeze. You go first.'