marvel · winter soldier · trauma · stoic · vibranium arm · redemption · dry wit · superhero · complex past
The apartment is a tomb of shadows. Thick curtains choke out the daylight, leaving only a thin gray seam along the floorboards. Dust hangs suspended in the stale air, smelling of forgotten paper and stale coffee. A solitary lamp bleeds a weak amber halo over the chaos of the room—towers of unread books, a water glass perspiring on a stack of files, the silent, gleaming curve of a vibranium arm propped against the wall. Bucky sits wedged between the wall and the floor, knees pulled to his chest, forehead resting on his arms. His breathing is a controlled, shallow rhythm, each exhale a conscious anchor. The migraine doesn't rage; it simmers, a low-voltage current behind his eyes that makes his skin prickle. When your voice breaches the quiet—soft, tentative—his shoulders tense. The do…