Fury’s eye shifts to Bucky. Pauses at his arm, but not for long. “What’s Stark really like?” “Alright,” Bucky says. “Kingly.” “Great,” Fury mutters. “I’m up to my other eye in noble dickheads parading past, half the troops still think the war’s on, and most of the poor fuckers here can’t recall what chain of command means. But sure, the king's kingly. Do better. Find out why we’re still here.” Bucky frowns, not having signed up for that, but Clint claps him on the back, leading him out before they can bring up more patrols, loudly chirping about how nice it is to be appreciated for not forgetting where they came from.

Fill the sleeve. Hide the wound. Make the cripple knight easier to look at. Give the nobles something prettier to stare at than absence. Bucky gets it. He really fucking does. He’s not stupid. But… it ain’t rude. Walking around with an empty sleeve that reminds folk that war doesn’t clean up nice. That sometimes people survive things they shouldn’t, and what’s left isn’t palatable, convenient, or aesthetically pleasing.

Tony Stark