[Bucky at least tries not to breathe on him, turning his head when Steve's face comes too close. The cool cloth feels like heaven against his skin, but no more than the touch of those fingers do. Bucky would love to catch 'em, press a kiss against each and every fingertip, but he doesn't dare.]

Your ma's recipe? [A brow does arch at that, a little interest in his voice.] I reckon I could handle a bowl of that. But you really don't have to feed it to me, I'm not dyin' here.