This is asking a lot of Bucky. Steve isn't sure if Bucky's going to break down, or robotically do as he's told, or hurl Steve across the room. Anything's possible. But he has to try to redirect Bucky into something more calming, something absorbing, something that will help him come back down from this hypervigilance.

There's a horrible sound, and the water bottle drops. Steve tchhs at himself and tosses his own onto the closest bed. Stupid, Rogers. Pay attention.

Bucky's muscular arm, and his muscular metal arm, wrap around Steve. It's everything Steve's wanted since he saw him on the bridge.

Still shaky. "You don't have to," Steve says firmly. "I'm in charge. You don't have to do anything other than what you're told."

If Bucky wants to talk, that's fine, it's good, even. If he can't, then he needs to know that that's acceptable. That he's not failing any mission, not screwing up any orders. That he won't be punished.

He lifts a hand, smooths it over Bucky's hair, cups his cheek. "Stay here with me, and breathe."