He wanted to believe her, but he remembered enough to know that it wasn't true. He'd killed... he'd killed so many, and he'd done it so... efficiently, as if the lives themselves didn't matter. He wanted to believe her, but he knew far better. He deserved everything they'd given him, everything they'd done to him, and more. He wouldn't go back to them - he didn't think it was even possible here, but even if it were, he wouldn't go back. But it wasn't because of the pain. It was because he knew if he did, he'd keep on murdering people who didn't deserve it. People like Steve Rogers.
His eyes had darkened deeply and dimmed. Her touch helped; her voice helped even more - but there was still so much darkness around him, then. And his head. His head felt like it was ready to split.
His removed clothing hung over his good arm, so when she reached for him, she took his metal hand. He didn't want her touching him there, but she'd done it with so little hesitation, that he could hardly feel ashamed by her bare skin on the metal. He went with her easily, but stopped and hesitated at the doorway to the guest bedroom.
"I should clean up first," he said, very well aware that he was in need of it. Still, it wasn't polite for him to step away without first offering her the option before him. "Would you like to go first?" he asked, gesturing to the bathroom across the hall.