You saying we're not still a little stupid? [Steve can't quite hide the flicker of pain--he's made some tremendous mistakes, of late--but he lets it go a moment later, in light of pancakes and Bucky's touch.

And Bucky's proposition. If anyone can heal the two of them, it's one another, and Steve gives him an unintentionally coy glance in his peripheral vision, smiling awkwardly. Hopefully.]

Can we do it right, then? Flowers, dancing, all that kinda goofy shit? I mean, you can still chase me down with limericks, too. I'll count that as love poetry.