It's a difficult thing just then to look back at the memory of so much as that bombed out bar in Switzerland, the sound of Peggy's voice, salt and whiskey and smoke on his tongue as he had attempted to drink away the loss of the one person who had meant more to him than the rest of the whole world. Even in the understanding that the had not lost Bucky then entirely, that so much of what he had known in that moment where his whole body had ached down to his bones in sorrow and confusion had been lies, the memory was still too raw to touch.

He doesn't know this woman from Adam, knows nothing of her other than what had been shared in a few minutes in generalities that had not so much as given names beyond that of a much less known man whose death had been a lie. While something of that allows him to speak around the tightness of his chest without choking, he isn't fool enough to share his every waking thought on the subject with a stranger.

He can see that lift of hope in her eyes, in the lift of her chin and the straightening of her shoulders and wants to do anything but crush that again when he speaks. "I thought he'd died," he told her, his voice scraping a moment harsh around the thought before the tone settles once more. "I guess I need to start doubting those reports a little more now."