Thanks, he hates this. Being tucked in by a teenager he hardly knows. Feeling so-- tired and vulnerable in a way he hasn't felt in as long as he can remember. His body refusing to cooperate with him is nothing new. He can live with that betrayal. But usually it isn't failing on him so spectacularly as it is now. Even if he wanted to go somewhere, he can barely leave the room. He's not safe here, but. He doesn't necessarily feel safe anywhere. He's about halfway regressed to wanting to crawl into a cryo chamber and shut the lid over himself, encase himself in the glass and metal coffin he's come to feel like his bed, his protection, his prison.

When Sokka returns, Bucky is lying on the floor, eyes closed, handle of his knife under his relaxed hand, chest rising and falling in a steady, slow rhythm. He doesn't want to talk about the doctor. He doesn't really want to talk about anything really. He doesn't even want to be babied by Sokka. His wrist will heal, even if it won't look like nothing happened in a few hours' time like his body used to be able to heal.

But he doesn't pull his arm back when Sokka takes his hand. And Bucky's head inches closer instinctively, like an abandoned, scarred dog too old to fight anymore, slow to trust but quietly seeking affection.