Everyone who lived or worked with James Buchanan Barnes knew he wasn't a fan of physical contact. He didn't do hugs or pats on the back, the most he'd ever done is shake Tony's hand when he let him live in the tower with us. He wasn't even affectionate with Steve as much as he used to be in the forties.
When Steve had found Bucky curled up on my lap whilst we both slept, he was stumped to say the least. He rested his elbows on the breakfast bar and observed the sight ahead of him. His best friend had his head in the crook of my neck, his arms wrapped around my stomach, our legs tangled together. The fingers of my left hand were tangled in his hair, my right arm holding him closer to me as I slept. Bucky would snuffle occasionally, his chest rising twice and then sinking once more, and from where Steve was, it looked like Bucky was gripping onto the back of my shirt as if to keep me right there.
Steve never mentioned it again, to us, or to anyone, but his heart was slightly warmed at the sigh of his two best friends finally happy after so many years of pain.
