Bucky glanced at his hand, let a Russian swear slip from his lips, and shook his head. "Um, no. It's... it's my hand. Not a glove." He didn't feel much need to conceal it inside the hotel, though he had gloves to wear outside. "I, um. I lost my arm... in the war. A war. One of them. This is the replacement."
One hell of an advanced replacement, considering it was almost seventy years old. He curled the fingers into a fist for a moment, and turned back to his potatoes. The diced parts were scooped up again, and he waited for her to scoop out a bowl to add the potato and cover the top again.