He laughed a little again at that; it was a joy to remember with Bucky, and hopelessly sad, too, and bittersweet. He wasn't sure which it was more than the others. "You used to say I liked being punched. You were usually the one knocking down the guys I couldn't finish." Hanging back long enough to let Steve fight his own fights, to let him hit and get hit back, let him get bruised and roughed up and do a little roughing up of his own. He'd understood Steve's need to prove himself, his need not to be made helpless. "I got into a lot of fights," he added reassuringly, to let Bucky know that those multiple memories weren't false or the same one played over and over in his mind.
His hand wandered up along Bucky's spine to the nape of his neck and curved there, gripping him gently; he was so close, his blue-gray eyes so near to Steve's, and he wanted to close the inches of distance and kiss him. Would Bucky welcome that, would he remember it and want it the way Steve did? He felt such a yearning for him that he was sure it must be opening him up, spilling out of him.
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His hand wandered up along Bucky's spine to the nape of his neck and curved there, gripping him gently; he was so close, his blue-gray eyes so near to Steve's, and he wanted to close the inches of distance and kiss him. Would Bucky welcome that, would he remember it and want it the way Steve did? He felt such a yearning for him that he was sure it must be opening him up, spilling out of him.