Things start to spiral quickly, from good to great to terrifying to bad. He doesn't need the bond to feel what Tony's feeling, because he's carrying it there on his face and in his body language so powerful it's like that pulse he sends from his hand. It thuds through Bucky's chest, it overwhelms him in its intensity.

He doesn't reel back from it.

His hand shoots out, gripping the wrist Tony'd been pressing his chest with, and drags it instead to his own. Above tattoo, but mostly above his heart which is hammering a god damn mile a minute.

"I want it-" He implores, shifting forward -- but there's only so much space on the floor of a car, and Tony's occupying most of it. Another six feet of muscle can't fit, so it leaves his back sloping in as deeply as he can manage while still pushing that palm against his chest. "Jesus, do I want it."

It, the bond. You.

"That wasn't-"

Intentional, a choice. He didn't peel back of his own accord so much as a knee-jerk reaction like a starving dog who's been kicked too often to take food without tucking tail and bolting.

You're breaking his heart, looking at him like that. That probably makes them even, so lowly he impresses, "We can try it again."

And again, and again, until he gets it right, sweetheart, he's just a little bit broken is all.