If he's trying to deter her, frighten her away, or warn her of further trauma she would gain in his company - he's not doing a very good job. Or, maybe he is, he would be if she was any other girl, but... Birdie's too gentle of a soul to turn away someone who might need her, too lost in her own existence to turn down the opportunity to be useful. And so his warnings - they don't fall upon deaf ears as much as they fall on ears that cannot be bothered to be disturbed by it, because Birdie might not have seen wounds like he's warning her of - but she's seen animals after grievous accidents, she's sewn up knife and other wounds on her beloved Frank... And she thinks she can handle this, knows that even if she can't at first, she will be able to with time.
"I've wrapped up compound fractures on hiking trails," It's the most gruesome kind of wound she thinks she's ever taken care of personally, something that the injured party did live from, and wasn't an animal hit by a car. "It's not a bullet, or a severe burn, but it is a traumatic injury... I think I will be fine. Anything I don't understand, I'm -" She ducks her head for a moment, then looks back up (and up) at him. "I'm a quick learner, Boga. I promise."
If he hasn't picked up on her need to be - needed already, there's little doubt that he wouldn't have picked it up in the moment. If not because of her insistence on medical help, then by the way her expression brightens at the mention of cooking - a skill she knows she's perfected. All the time spent at home finally coming to some kind of use outside of providing for merely herself.
"I'm sorry, I can't say I do - but I have an excellent memory, and anything you show me, I will be able to mimic in no time." As long as it didn't have anything to do with baking. The chemistry of baking was still something that eluded her most days, and unless it was cookies or a simple kind of bread or cake... Well, she tended to make a mess of things. Things being herself, the oven, and sometimes the entire kitchen she was in. A fact she makes no effort to mention - already afraid of being dismissed because of her lack of gruesome medical experience.
And where he goes, Birdie almost follows. Taking two steps forward on the small balcony before sinking to the cold concrete near the both of them. Arms wrapping around her legs, keeping her skirt in place, as she leans forward to rest her chin on her knees. And for a moment, that's it. There's peace, there's quiet.
There's a little Bird, and two murderers on a balcony in the middle of a warzone, quietly watching each other. Krueger shifting his weight to kick a foot onto the arm Bogdan's chair like he owned it. Birdie watching the Russian like he was going to give her an order - with an attentiveness that's only dropped, when Krueger crushes one cigarette (smoked to the filter), and produces and lights another one. Bright eyes watching as he takes two, absurdly long drags of the cigarette, before holding it out to Nikto, even waving his hand a little big mockingly, an action that has her mouth quirking into something amused.
"Can I ask you another question?" There's a gentleness this time to her voice, as she watches them. That faintly amused look of hers turning into something genuine and gentle. Curious - although probably not for the reason he might think - "The armor - the body armor - is it heavy?" She can remember how lightweight her mother's police vest had been, but it had been Kevlar woven only to take small rounds, what he wears... She racks her brain for the proper terminology, but cannot find it in amongst all her knowledge of flowers and books, rifles and wound dressing.
In truth, she is curious about the continued wear of the armor (and his mask) even in the comforts of her temporary home - but that's not a question she dare broach, nor would removing it all a suggestion she would make. If he was comfortable, then that was all that mattered.