Bucky shuddered when she mentioned them trying to make more supersoldiers. Like Steve. Like Schmidt. "Did you ever see him? The Red Skull?" He remembered hearing whispers, while he'd still been strong enough to be put to work on that giant plane; just because the guards were Nazis, didn't mean they didn't gossip just like every other soldier bored while on duty. "He's like Steve, too. What..." Bucky chewed on his lip. What if that's what I turn into? Wouldn't it be better to be dead, than turn into something like that?

But Steve hadn't turned out like that. He had to remember that. And hope that he was closer to Steve's goodness, that his own outweighed the anger and rage and ruthless coldness that settled heavy in him at times. "You don't know that," he finally said softly; not angrily, but just stating a fact, almost like he was letting her down easily. Nobody knew. Not even the scientist who'd created the serum, according to Steve, had really known what the side-effects would be on each individual who was given it.

Finally, Bucky looked all the way at her, his eyes sweeping over her face quickly, but thoroughly. "Y're gonna be okay, too." He reached his own hand out, but let it hover over hers, clearly leaving the decision up to her. "You know that, right?"