iDK IM LEANING TOWARDS THE FOOTSIES???
okay FOOTSIES it is
////
James Buchanan Barnes, former assassin who had been credited with over dozens of kills, had done many more, stood in front of the mirror, looking at the... What had Natasha called them? Footsie pajamas, that covered his body. It was gray, with a hood with pointed ears.

It was warm, he guessed. Nice. Smooth against his skin. The Widow had slipped into his room at an unknown hour of the day, saw him sleeping in full gear, and had, apparently, left this. He had had to get Steve to help him put it on; he pretended to not have noticed the flush in his friend's face that he -somehow- knew went all the way to his chest, when he had finally stripped down.

Bucky lifted a foot, looked at the bottom. It was white with little circles protruding from it. He put his foot down, put pressure on it. It felt a little weird, as if the things were sinking back into his foot. Wasn't bad, though, he could deal with it.

He lifted the hood up, watched with a small smile. He looked like a gray -what was it, wolf?, yes, wolf- with his startlingly blue eyes and rakish looks. He decided that this was okay, and left the hood on. Bucky padded over to the bed, sat on the edge. It was somewhere near 11 at night. He didn't have to look at the alarm clock on the very edge on the bed stand; his internal clock was decent. Exceptional, at the least.

He laid down on his back, slowly, surely. His mind was fuzzy; white noise; that gray, messy screen that appeared on the TV sometimes. That was what his mind felt like. There weren't many things that cut through it; Steve's voice, gunfire. Those were the things that he knew of.

"Jarvis?" he asked quietly, a plea to nothingness.

"Yes, Mr. Barnes?"

"Can you... Can you tell Steve to come over here?" he asked, settling deeper into his bed. "Of course, Mr. Barnes." A pause. "Captain Rogers is on his way; he seems distressed," the thing- Jarvis, said. He sighed; it was stupid for him to do this. Steve probably thought something was wrong, that he had had a nightmare or had accidentally hurt himself or worse, someone else.

A quiet knock on the door.

"Come in," he called gently. It sounded nearly inaudible, but he knew Steve, with his enhanced hearing, would be able to hear it. The door opened, Steve's form evident in the doorway. He couldn't see his face until he stepped in, where the light hit half of his face.

His cerulean blue eyes were irritated, watery. His skin was blotchy.

"Steve?" he murmured, rising up from lying down. Steve lifted his hand, mouthing the word, "Don't," and steadily approaching him. Bucky did as he was told; although not completely, because he simply leaned against the headboard instead of laying back down. They didn't say anything else. Steve climbed into his bed, didn't have to ask. It wasn't like he would've said no.

They leaned on each-other in a half embrace, Bucky rubbing Steve's shoulder because 1. It seemed appropriate, and 2. He knew somewhere, deep down, that Steve calmed down during asthma attacks whenever Bucky rubbed his back, shoulders.

Later on, when Bucky had successfully fallen asleep, face peaceful in his own sort of way, Steve was still partially up. It fell out of his lips, clumsy, didn't mean to say it. "I love you, Buck," pressed a gentle kiss to his best friend's forehead, and fell into a deep slumber.
/////End
stucky till the end of the line amirite