Steve cradled his friend closer as he felt Bucky relax against him, settling into his arms. It was a privilege to hold him, to be capable of cradling him the way Bucky might have done with him when he was younger and much, much smaller. There were only a few times that had happened, back then: when Steve was sick or drunk enough to need to be carried, when winter took a turn so cold that frost spread inside the windowpanes in their tenement in Brooklyn. He hadn't known then what it would be like to bind yourself to another, couldn't have imagined how it would feel, even with his best friend. This went beyond friendship. It was like taking back a missing piece of himself, holding the other half of his soul close to his heart. Steve closed his eyes and bent his head towards Bucky, letting his lips nuzzle his brow.

"We'll start there," he agreed. "First priority is taking care of you." Shelter, food, rest, that was what Bucky needed. And company. He would need Steve near him, he would need touch, skin to skin contact, all the things Steve recognized as essential to his own survival, impossible to live without. "We'll figure the rest out as we go along."

He opened his eyes to look at Bucky again, touching his face with gentle fingers, tracing his features: his brow, his temple and the corner of his eye, his cheek. He brushed some dark strands of hair back, tucking them behind his ear. There was a tender, unconscious pride in Steve's gaze, in his hand trailing down Bucky's throat to his shoulder where he gave him a firm squeeze.