He felt the smile on his face growing wider with each word Bucky spoke: those cherished memories of the young man from Brooklyn who had looked after him with such devotion even when Steve was too proud to admit to needing help were even more meaningful coming from Bucky's lips. Steve had held out hope for so long of Bucky remembering after the first devastating blow of seeing no recognition in his friend's eyes when they'd met on the bridge. Even after that, there had to be something of Bucky left in the Winter Soldier; if not he'd never have pulled Steve out of the Potomac. But the last two years had tested that hope, the long search on the trail of a man who apparently didn't want to be found. Steve had questioned himself dozens of times, wondering if he ought to give up, if that wasn't what Bucky really wanted--but he didn't think he was capable of letting go.

He laughed a little, quietly, feeling a pain of happiness and old, familiar anguish in his chest. "Yeah, I did. And you called me your punk." His hand fell away from Bucky's face to brush over his side, his ribs. Steve touched his thick, solid body curiously, fingers curving over the subtle dip of Bucky's waist. "You kept me warm a lot of nights. Probably would've died of pneumonia about a dozen times over if not for you."