"...you don't know- okay. Name, rank, serial number, phone number, write it down. I'm making calls in the morning." Because this? this sounds five kinds of fishy and Tony doesn't trust it, doesn't like it, and if Howard will deign to give him the time of day (and he will if he's poking about military anything), they'll get a clear answer, records, and something to help this guy.

"Because I get a feeling you got fucked six ways to Sunday and not in the fun way with whoever did this to you." Not built it for him, not helped him, did this TO him. Beause this? this is an affliction, not a cure.

Scan after scan and he wheels back to a screen laying flat on the table that he double taps and pulls upward- a holographic rendering of the arm and Bucky's torso lifting like it's pulled up by a string. "Rock, hard place, I kind of get it? Not as much as I should, born with silver spoon, yadda yadda, but I can get my head around it. And I'm going to fix it."