Bucky sighs contentedly, arching into the touch. It's oddly comforting, in a way Bucky wouldn't have dreamed it would be. A part of him still sees Steve as the skinny asthmatic from Brooklyn who picked fights he couldn't win, who Bucky constantly rescued.

But it's nice, actually, being the one taken care of. Even if it's not something he can depend on. "A big bed, huh," he huffs a laugh. "Yeah. The palette is comfy enough, but it doesn't really give you room to stretch you, does it?" He leans in, squeezing Steve's hand, expression easy and cheerful. Yeah, that would be nice.

At Steve's request for a draw table, Bucky's expression turns to one of gentle delight. "I'd like that. I loved watchin' you draw. You'd need a desk for your art supplies too, wouldn't you?" He wouldn't be able to help himself, peeking through Steve's things to see what he's working on. Bucky can't even draw stick figures; Steve's the one with the talent.