Steve doesn't respond with anything more than a frown for a few long seconds. He's never cared for chance, even if someone could argue that's what made him who he is today. It's also what made him a skinny, sickly kid for the first two decades of his life. Cards, dice, fate, whatever you want to call it may be indiscriminate, but that doesn't make up for the people it overlooks. Good people.

The corner of his mouth tics briefly when she calls this a 'therapy session', and he drops his head just a little, focusing on his hands.

"He's -- guarded, tortured," he begins, as if the words are painful. "He can't remember huge sections of his life. He says they-- they caught him, during the war. Tortured him, turned him into this... I don't know. He has a prosthetic, talks like he's not good for anything but killing. That's not the Bucky I knew. Whatever they did to him..."

The last few words are spat, like a threat is about to follow on their heels. But Steve just shakes his head, looks angry and then emotional, and ends up pulling his hand through his hair again and letting it rest there. He clenches his free hand into a fist.

"He's strong. Too strong. I think they experimented on him, tried to make him into a soldier like me," he eventually says. And then he pauses, dragging his eyes back up to Natasha's face. "Like us."