"Sorry," she murmurs, although she's hardly sorry. She's distracted by touching his face lightly with her fingertips. They don't glow red, not that she particularly wants them to. If she can make up for the horrors she's been responsible for by somehow changing what she can sense in his metal arm, then she will. Bucky may not believe he deserves much, but this is something he can't take care of without her.

She gently touches the other side of his face with her other hand, gazing down to watch her fingertips glide along his jawline. Pressing her fingertips against his mouth, she traces the curve of his bottom lip with her thumb. She much prefers to touch like this, as though she can feel every little cell beneath his skin. And she supposes she could, if she wanted to, but there's nothing she wishes to change about Bucky's face other than to see his lips curve upward rather than down and imprint what makes him feel like him into her fingertips.

"I like your face," she says, then she laughs, doing her best to ignore the way her cheeks flush as scarlet as her power. But she likes his face; she's liked it since she first saw him, in his photographs when he seemed lighter and more boyish, and even now, despite everything that weighs him down.