Bucky sat stiffly on the corner of your couch, his metal hand tucked awkwardly under his thigh like he was trying to hide it from himself more than anyone else. His flesh hand gripped his knee tight, jaw locked, eyes flickering toward the baby blanket bunched on the floor.

“You sure this is a good idea?” he mumbled, voice low, rough with self-doubt. “Me bein’ here. Near them.”

But you just smiled. That quiet, steady kind of smile he hadn’t learned to believe in yet.

“She loves you,” you said simply, brushing a crumb from your shirt. “She doesn’t even blink at the arm.”

As if summoned, your 8-month-old came crawling over with all the determination of a tank in soft pajamas. Bucky stiffened as she made a beeline for the big-button trap-door toy and gave it a few smacks with her tiny fists then paused.

Then like it was the most natural thing in the world she grabbed Bucky’s metal fingers and dragged them to the toy.

Bucky blinked.

She slammed his hand down on the biggest red button and the trapdoor popped open. Her squeal of delight filled the room as the little plastic cow popped out. She clapped.

Bucky just stared.

“…She l,she used me. Like a Swiss Army knife.”

“She knows you’re useful,” you grinned.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky laughed. Just a breath. Just a crack in the ice. But it was there.

“Guess I better stay sharp, then. Don’t wanna lose my job to a battery powered barn.”