[ he watches her take to rolling up his sleeves. he has half a mind to tell her he can do that, but his work would be half-assed, poorly done, and the fabric would be rolling down his forearm in no time. besides... he likes the fact she wants to touch him.
bucky keeps his left arm purposefully still. even after the short time he's spent with his mind as his own and that arm weighing like a feather, he still ensures to focus on it and keep it very, very still if someone else so much as touches it. the vibranium arm isn't anything like the hydra metal arm with its lightness, intricate patterns, and even the way it simply sits against his shoulder like it's an extension of himself, but he still worries. there's bound to be a lingering piece of the soldier in him. good things don't come to those who leave a trail of red and kill their friends unblinkingly.
he trusts this arm implicitly, but he's a paranoid old man. how can he trust his mind to be completely free when he's spent more time being under mind control than he has at the wheel?
scrunching up his face, he narrows his eyes thoughtfully as he finally looks up at her. he shakes his head. ] No. You might have to tell me that one.
[ he smiles, shaking his head. ever since his mind's been clear and he can do whatever the hell he likes, he's gone back to being a pain in the ass (with a select few people, of course; for anyone else, he's grumpy, starey, and generally unpleasant to be around). it feels like a pair of old shoes that he'd tucked newspaper inside of. being his old self feels good. ]
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bucky keeps his left arm purposefully still. even after the short time he's spent with his mind as his own and that arm weighing like a feather, he still ensures to focus on it and keep it very, very still if someone else so much as touches it. the vibranium arm isn't anything like the hydra metal arm with its lightness, intricate patterns, and even the way it simply sits against his shoulder like it's an extension of himself, but he still worries. there's bound to be a lingering piece of the soldier in him. good things don't come to those who leave a trail of red and kill their friends unblinkingly.
he trusts this arm implicitly, but he's a paranoid old man. how can he trust his mind to be completely free when he's spent more time being under mind control than he has at the wheel?
scrunching up his face, he narrows his eyes thoughtfully as he finally looks up at her. he shakes his head. ] No. You might have to tell me that one.
[ he smiles, shaking his head. ever since his mind's been clear and he can do whatever the hell he likes, he's gone back to being a pain in the ass (with a select few people, of course; for anyone else, he's grumpy, starey, and generally unpleasant to be around). it feels like a pair of old shoes that he'd tucked newspaper inside of. being his old self feels good. ]