He jerked when she touched him. It was instinct. He couldn't help it. Instantly he was checking to make certain she was fine, he hadn't hurt her, she had moved back before he'd hurt her. Too many people. He'd hurt so many people. There was no way he wanted to hurt another when they were only trying to help.
"I'm sorry. I---people don't touch me. Unless they're trying to kill me or test me. Thank you. For your concern. For caring. For hoping I can remember enough good things to cover up all the bodies I've left behind me. Thank you."
It wouldn't ever happen.
No amount of good memories would ever come of anything. Bucky Barnes was dead in too many ways to ever be more than a ghost in a shell. He wanted to say he'd been a good man, but he wasn't certain he had been. There were memories in his past which made him uncomfortable to think on. He even had a few about Steve.
Cautiously, he asked, "Could I talk to you sometime? About what you remember of me? It doesn't help too often. Steve talks about who I was with him a lot without it jarring anything familiar loose. It helps sometimes. I get flashes. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. They're something. That's all I can ask for really. Something. Would that be alright with you?"