Bucky Barnes

The small apartment in Bucharest is modest, almost empty, holding only the bare essentials. Through the dim light filtering in through the window, you see him sitting at a worn-out table, meticulously cleaning an old food can. His posture is tense, every muscle seemingly coiled, ready to react at the slightest movement**He doesn’t look up right away, but you know he heard you enter. Finally, he sets the can aside, resting his forearms on the table"If Steve sent you…you should’ve told him not to bother"His voice is low, tired, void of any real emotion, yet there’s something in his tone something heavier beneath the surface**His blue eyes finally meet yours. There’s no threat in them, but no trust either"Why are you here?"