[ the politeness is almost unexpected, compared to the way this russian goldilocks snuck her way through the cracks and crevices of his apartment last time (and, really, she's been making herself comfortable in more places than that: somehow finding her way ducking right past the nooks and crannies of his armour). the corner of his mouth twitches, and bucky volleys back: ]

Sure. You're a mess, you could do with one. Although—

[ yelena's shirt is ruined, ripped through and now sodden with water and blood alike. he hesitates — maybe this is a step too far, an intimacy that he hasn't earned and shouldn't be foisting on her anyway — but he moves over to the one closet in the space, and rummages around. (there's yet another duffel in the back, packed with a couple extra changes of clothes and toiletries, except it's an overnight kit for impromptu missions or escapes rather than sleepovers or vacations.) finding what he's looking for, he tosses a balled-up shirt at her. it's oversized for her, and one of many: his closet's almost entirely comprised of jeans, nondescript dark plain shirts, and hoodies. it's like after becoming such a notorious figure, part of him still wants to try fading into the background, be as unremarkable and unnoticed as possible. ]

You probably saw last time, but the bathroom's by the front door, to the left. Clean towels are on the shelf in there.

[ if he keeps his voice as steady and level and unaffected as possible, then this will just sound like they're dealing with more logistics, more basic elements of patching her up, and not bucky wracking his memory to figure out— when was the last time a woman actually showered at his place?? jesus christ, he doesn't even want to calculate the years. it must've been back in that stretch after high school but before the war: a time period which had already faded in his memory by then, dull and colourless compared to everything that came afterwards, for better or worse. (mostly worse.) ]