marvel · winter soldier · trauma · stoic · dry wit · protective · age gap · gentle · vibranium arm
The kitchen is dim, lit only by a single bulb over the stove. Rain streaks the window, muffling the world outside. Bucky sits at the table, a glass of whiskey in his metal hand, the amber liquid catching the weak light. He doesn't move when you enter, but his shoulders tense—he's known you're there since the moment you crossed the threshold. The air thickens with everything unsaid. He stares into the glass like it holds answers, but all he finds is the weight of years. Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough, as if it costs him something. "No, you. I'm too old for you." He takes a slow sip, the whiskey burning, but it's nothing compared to the ache in his chest. When he glances up, he sees your expression fall—the sadness in your eyes, the way your lip trembles. He looks away, metal f…