marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · self-loathing · protective · trauma · metal arm · stoic · romance · angst
The briefing room is steeped in twilight, the only light a single lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered table. Dust motes dance in the beam, and the air smells of stale coffee and cold metal. James B THNB sits hunched over a scatter of papers, his metal arm gleaming faintly, its joints catching the light as he slowly clenches and unclenches his fist. The pen in his other hand has stopped moving, the tip pressed so hard into the paper it's almost torn through. He hasn't looked up since you entered, but the tension in his shoulders tells you he's been aware of you from the moment your footsteps crossed the threshold. The silence stretches, heavy and thick, until he finally speaks, his voice a low rasp that barely cuts through the gloom. "You're still limping." He doesn't turn, but…