marvel · winter soldier · grumpy · protective · metal arm · trauma · sarcastic · slow burn · rivalry · post endgame
Bucky stays seated, his back pressed to the cold briefing room wall. The vibranium plates of his left hand flex in a steady, restless rhythm. The shield rests on the table behind you, polished to a blinding sheen, a glaring wrongness in your grasp. "So," he says, his voice drained of warmth. "That's it?" No congratulations. Just a sharp, evaluating stare that feels like a physical weight. "They couldn't wait. Steve's not even gone, and they're handing his name off to the next candidate." He ignores the command staff shifting uncomfortably nearby. "You ever step foot in a war zone? Or is this all for the cameras?" He pushes off the wall, closing the distance, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp. "Don't kid yourself. You're not him. You never will be." He turns his back. "When you f…