He pressed his lips together, looking down for a moment but not moving his hand away yet. "You didn't. I asked," he pointed out. "And it's not like I'm the only person in the world who's been through shit."

Bucky's expression registered surprise when she took his hand and laced their fingers together. He tried, unsuccessfully, to remember the last time he'd held someone else's hand, and also tried to understand why holding her hand felt familiar. Like they'd done this before. (Had they done this before?)

Guilt washed over him at her admission that she hadn't thought about it in awhile. And here he'd gone and brought up all kinds of bad memories for her. Dumbass. When her fingers tightened around his, he squeezed gently, afraid he'd hurt her with anymore pressure than he was already using. He'd hurt enough people already.

He shifted, leaning back against the couch and turning his head so he could see her better. "Sometimes." He exhaled. "There's still a lot of things I don't remember. I don't even know how much is missing. But a lot of times in comes back when I'm asleep. And sometimes when I'm not. I usually get really bad headaches before a new memory comes back to me. But other things just...play in the background on a constant loop." His voice was hushed.