The question floods him with an immediate discomfort, a swelling guilt in his chest and his throat. The sound of his brush rustling across the tile stops, and the room goes a bit silent for a couple seconds.

And then he sighs low and quiet, and answers with a monotone sounding, "You didn't do anything."

Resumes scrubbing, rhythmic back and forth, not holding his breath that it'll be the end of that conversation. It feels like such a god damn cop out though, it feels like a whole lot of nothing, that even Bucky's frustrated with his own god damn answer. He pauses for another second to add, "It's just me. I have... stuff."

Going on.

Stuff, Lori.
Thangs.