“Yesh.” he slurred. “I am a hot fucking mess is the answer on both counts.” he grumbled. He went to bury his face against Bucky’s shoulder, but it was the unyielding metal one. “Faschonating… your arm. This plating is so intricate…” he mumbled, crossing his eyes to attempt to look at it. “The integration is really impressive…” he mumbled absently.
“If I had my way I wouldn’t have it,” Bucky said in a flat voice. The arm was a lingering symbol of what had happened to him, of what he had become infamous for throughout the world. He was a ghost, and that arm was a part of it. On more than one occasion, mainly when things were bad, he toyed with the idea of how difficult it would be to remove it or destroy it. He shook his head slightly trying to stay focused on the task of getting Tony into a bed or back to his room where there was a couch and not dropping him or accidentally banging his head against a wall.
