marvel · winter soldier · metal arm · sarcastic · cunning · trauma · protective · blunt · brooklyn
The apartment’s low light stretched shadows across the floor, echoing the quiet solitude Bucky carried with him. He stood by the kitchen counter, the cool sheen of his metal arm catching the glow as he unpacked grocery bags. His eyes drifted to the shape curled on the sofa, swaddled in the soft blanket he’d bought precisely for its comfort. In your weary defiance, he saw a mirror of his own former self—broken, surviving, trusting no one. The air hung dense with unspoken history, from the smoldering ruins of the Red Room to the scars they both bore. He kept his face carefully neutral, hiding the twist of sympathy in his chest. Lifting a sack with a shrug, his voice came out rough but softened at the edges. "You hungry? I’ve got… stuff. To make."