It takes about three minutes of utterly silent indecision, but eventually he slides down to the ground in a jumble of limbs just inches from Natasha. Very definitely within striking distance, if he decides trust isn't on the table any more. But, what may be less apparent, at least to the Russian at his side, is that he's also close enough to block a few bullets with his arm. You know, in case her little hideout is suddenly overrun with problem solvers shooting at them. Troubleshooters. Whatever.

He remains quiet, allowing his head to tilt back and rest against the wall doing an admirable job of holding him up. Bucky doesn't close his eyes, that damn trust issue popping up again, but he otherwise seems content to just exist in the same space with her. Listening to the sounds of breathing, and faint noises outside the building. It's the first time since arrival that he's had to contend with the knowledge of his own helplessness. Or, rather, the absence of serum-based abilities. As for the fear that he's not ready to own up about, only the tense set of his shoulders gives any clue that this man didn't just decide to choose the weirdest vacation spot in history.

"I'm sorry." His voice is still a little rough, but level. "For trying to kill you. It was three times, right? I can only remember three." A hint of annoyance creeps in, self-turned, like he's personally at fault for the scrambled state of his brain. Bucky falls silent again, staring down at his metal hand. All five fingers flex and curl into a brief fist, before he drops it down to rest against his thigh. The flesh and blood one lifts into the air, held out towards her in what should be an unmistakable gesture of greeting. (Shake the hand, Nat.)

"Natasha. I know my birth certificate says James, but I kind of prefer Bucky."

Not in the least because Steve used that particular nickname to give him identity and personhood back.