Mission report, that's another one he knows. Not in so many words, and right now it's a loose definition of the word mission, but it's a term he can fit into this situation for a sense of stability. A dim and distant part of him is aware, a spark of himself down a long and blurry hallway of disassociation and poor coping mechanisms.

"Stable," He murmurs, his arms still loosely wrapped around Steve's waist. It isn't a robotic voice, isn't in Russian, isn't dark and bitter and spit out, but it's still distant. Still flat, and empty, and emotionless. "Oxygen levels optimal. Breathing regular. Heart rate sixty beats per minute until you kissed me. Cardiovascular abnormality during incident. Levels normal afterward. Cognitive function impaired but manageable."

All of it tumbles out without pause or falter, like he's had to give a self-diagnostic before. This time, however, after a beat he dryly adds, "Left arm missing."