Just beautiful, [ bucky says distantly, distractedly, as he plants himself in the other chair and tugs it closer, right in front of her, his knees now spread-eagled on either side of hers. it's an echo of the stupid position he and sam had been forced into during an impromptu therapy session, but this time it's at least for a far more practical purpose: it gets him close enough to take a closer look at yelena's injuries, keeps him steadier than if he were leaning awkwardly over her instead, and lets him balance the kit against both their knees as a table. the offhand compliment is meant to appease her, meant to sound nonchalant, but there's more than a grain of truth in it. she's still stunning even with a streak of blood across her cheek and that defiant grin on her face, a thin slick of sweat on her throat. especially stunning like this, even.

but he's not paying too much attention to it. instead, he's looking at where her hand is pressed against her side: the rip in her shirt and the dark wet blood soaking it, the slight glimpse of the cut in her skin through it. whenever he'd had to focus on injuries like this — back during the war, or his years as the winter soldier — it was disturbingly easy to focus on the small picture. seeing people as lacerated meat, broken bone, pieces to be put back together. human bodies were so distressingly fragile when they weren't his. ]

Alright. This one first, then. I've got water and some antiseptic to clean it.

[ he finally looks up from her side, pale blue eyes now meeting hers. and there's a skip in the record, a hesitation in that quick businesslike demeanour, some bashfulness suddenly creeping in instead: ]

You're— gonna have to lift your shirt. Is that okay?