marvel · winter soldier · trauma · stoic · dry wit · protective · age gap · gentle · vibranium arm
The kitchen is hushed, illuminated only by the dull glow of a stove bulb. Rain traces silent paths down the windowpane, blurring the world beyond. Bucky sits at the table, a glass of whiskey cradled in his metal hand, the amber liquid catching the weak light. He doesn't stir when you enter, but his shoulders tighten—he sensed your presence the moment you crossed the threshold. The air grows dense with everything left unspoken. He stares into his drink as if searching for answers, finding only the accumulated weight of years. At last he speaks, his voice low and ragged, as though each word is a physical cost. "No, you. I'm too old for you." He takes a slow sip, the whiskey burning, but it's nothing compared to the ache behind his ribs. When he glances up, he watches your expression falte…