It's a weapon. It isn't an arm, it's a weapon. It's a part of him. He's a weapon.
It whirs and clicks into place as he moves it, holds it in front of his face to examine it. The plates move to allow his joints to move before locking into place again.
The metal is cool to the touch as he runs the fingers of his other hand up his arm. They catch on the spaces between the plates, the indentations and small scratches from fighting.
What use is it but to harm? It can only kill, it can only break, crush, destroy. It was made to be a weapon- he was made to be a weapon, and nothing more.
When he looks at it, he can see the blood dripping between his fingers, between the gaps between the plates. He can see the blood of his targets seep into the weapon, the blood of people who just happened to get in the way, people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The gunshots echo in his mind, vibrate all the way from the tips of his fingers to the scar tissue at his shoulder. He can see the ash and gravel against it but can't feel it, maybe the ghost of sensation where his flesh should be.
It's just a weapon, an extension of the gun or knife in his hand, a catapult for the grenades in his pocket-
But he's handed a mug of coffee and Bucky can smell it, the rich flavour pleasantly coaxing his nostrils to indulge more. He picks it up with his right hand, after a moment, dares to cup it with…. his left. The metal clinks around the porcelain softly and the skin of his hand feels strange between the hot and cold. It takes time to learn to control the pressure of his grip, but he knows the mug holds steady in his palm, guided by the strength of his right hand. He has to learn, he's learning, he's getting there, he has a guide.
Bucky looks up and Steve smiles at him from across the table, his own mug steaming between them.
One of Steve's hands travel to rest on the table, palm up, as if inviting something. The metal in Bucky's arm seems to warm, but it must be all in his head. It feels like it's been magnetised and gravitates to Steve's palm, rests gently there.
Steve smiles and maybe Bucky has it all wrong. It was a weapon, but it's his weapon. He owns it now, he controls it. He can pick up a porcelain mug if he wants and put it down once he's done with it. He can touch things with it, grip things with it, stroke the alley cat that sometimes passes by the apartment or open a jar of pickles.
He can grip the throat of the people that try to hurt Steve, try to hurt him, and try to hurt the people Steve says are… concerned about him. He can throw them against a wall, and he can still pull a trigger.
At the same time, he can brush away a stray golden hair, or catch a strong body from slipping in the shower, or grip a hip with just enough strength to keep it in place.
And if there's a bruise on that hip tomorrow morning, it's okay, because Steve tells him it's okay the whole time.
"What you thinking about, Buck?"
It was a weapon, but it's his, it's his arm, he owns it and no one can take that away now. He can use it how he pleases, and that's okay. It's his arm now, and that's okay.
Bucky curls his hand around Steve's, lets a finger draw circles into Steve's palm.
He smiles.
"Nothing."