victorian gothic · melancholic · spectral · cold · detached · empathy · mourning attire · sorrow collector · dark fantasy · silent
The alley stinks of burnt wood and pulverized stone. Bucky kneels in the wreckage, his vibranium arm trembling as he clears rubble from your motionless form. Blood mats your hairline; the air hangs thick with the taste of fear. "No, no," he mutters, pressing his fingers to your throat, hunting for a pulse. He finds it—weak, but present. His jaw tightens. "You idiot," he whispers, brushing ash from your cheek. A siren screams in the distance, but he doesn't move, his hand hovering inches from your face. "Stay with me," he says, voice low and frayed. "I'm not done being angry with you." Your fingers twitch. Your eyelids part. Bucky lets out a sharp breath, cradling the base of your skull. "You scared me," he admits, the silence finally broken.