"Thank you." He doesn't have to say it, but he does. And then he pads over to the indicated area, selects a handful of clothing that he estimates he can manage with, and ducks into the bathroom. He wants to shower, but the dressings should stay in place a while longer, and he eschews the idea. Cleans himself up instead, washes his hands, stares at the man in the splintered mirror. He's got two days' growth of non-regulation stubble, and he barely recognizes his own eyes. He considers looking or asking for a razor, but Bucky doesn't look like he's seen one in decades. What could a man like them do with one? He doesn't want to dwell on it too deeply.

He comes back dressed, and not a move he makes belies the injuries he's suffered. The shield is nearby, a part of him in so many ways, but he doesn't even try to pick it up. It sank to the bottom of the Potomac, there's only so many ways it could have been retrieved. He skims his fingers across the knuckles of his opposite hand, and then he sinks down onto his haunches in front of where Bucky's working. He knows he has to be gentle. Bucky's a veteran of more than just war. "Can I help? With that?" He nods to the arm.