Bucky stared at the examination table with muted dread, a protest trying to form in his throat but dying out in a defeated exhale. Since leaving the custody of the Ministry, Bucky hadn't allowed anyone so much as a glance under his shirt. Plenty of the younger students had asked for a peek, out of morbid curiosity and not really knowing any better, but he hadn't felt comfortable to even change in front of his roommates. Hadn't really liked looking at it, himself. The scarring where metal fused to skin wasn't exactly pleasant.
Was it really necessary to even look at it, if the problem was in his head? But he wasn't a healer, his methods of trying to ignore the whole thing hadn't worked, didn't even know the term for it until just now. Other people knew better, about what was best for him, and shut up and comply had been the easiest response. He'd gone through plenty of exams, he'd survive another one.
Bucky pulled off his green tie and unbuttoned his uniform shirt, tossing them over the back of the chair before taking a seat at the very edge of the exam table. "So my arm is like a ghost?" he asked with a small attempt at humor to lighten the tension, but it was a fitting description for how he'd felt lately. Something that didn't know it was long dead.