Bucky has thought about the way his left arm looked for years and years. His hand had a scar between two knuckles where he'd dropped a wrench and went blindly reaching into the chassis of a car to feel for it. His fingers were long and slim, the grip strong.

As he gets the idea in his mind, he says his sister's name. It's soft and small, almost as if he doesn't trust it'll work, and he's damned shocked when it does.

"Hey...that's pretty damn perfect."