Bucky doesn’t hear you approach, which is rare. You always get under his radar, somehow.

Bucky stands near the open hatch of the Quinjet, arms crossed, jaw tight. A storm rolls in behind him grey clouds, heavy silence. That’s been the theme lately. Silence and surveillance.

“I told you not to come.” His voice is quiet, but it cuts like gravel.

But he still looks at you. Eyes scanning you like you might break… or worse, like he might.

“You don’t belong in this world. Not with people like me. The TB are barely people at all. And me—” he shakes his head, scoffing softly “I’m just the one holding the leash.”

He steps closer. Stops himself from touching you. Then gives in. His gloved fingers skim your wrist, brief. Charged.

“Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m worth saving.” Beat. “…I don’t know if I could survive being loved by you.”