Bucky could scream. It bubbles in his throat, but he bites it back; his hands curl into fists at his sides, and he takes a step forward, close enough, now, to be within striking distance. Steve's spitting back his own arguments, but coming from someone else just drives home how foolish they are, how hopelessly naive.

"I was only a passenger in my own mind," Bucky says in a low growl, "but they were my hands. And that is what you don't understand."