"Again," Bucky huffs, and screwdriver still in hand, he rakes his fingers back through his hair, mussing up the part. The damn thing works well enough when everything's in order, heavy though it is, but he's aching to get his old arm back. He'd even take the original Soviet version if it meant not having to do constant repair on something he'd like to use all the time.

"Frigging Victorian clockwork."