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It starts with a ringing in his ears.
Bucky sits at the kitchen table, absently flipping the pages of a magazine, wondering why he doesn’t want breakfast. The frying pan he’d used to cook Steve’s eggs is still on the stove, and probably still hot. But he’s not hungry this morning. And the sound of Steve’s bike pulling out of the driveway roars around his head minutes after it should be gone.
He rests his forehead in his palm. It’s feasible that he’s still sleepy. He was up and down a few times overnight. Not from nightmares. Just from a lack of ability to get comfortable and shut his eyes.
Bucky takes a deep breath. A throb erupts around his temples, and he screws his eyes shut against the onslaught. He waits for the pain to pass, but it doesn’t. It just settles into nausea in his sinuses.
He can deal with this, Bucky tells himself. It’s not so hard to drop the frying pan in the sink and get himself a glass of water. Turn the TV on to something dull and lie down on the sofa. But the air in the kitchen is suddenly so bitingly cold he can barely fathom rising from his huddled position.
The shadows of things past starts to rise on Bucky’s mental horizon. Cold. Cold is bad. Cold is terrible… But nothing’s going to happen to him. He’s safe. Has been for years now. So what if he doesn’t feel well? He can take care of himself.
Bucky clenches his teeth against a shiver and forces himself out of his chair. If Steve were here, he’d tell him to go to bed. The prospects of warmth and relaxation are enticing. He half expects Steve’s comforting body heat as well, but by the time he ascends the stairs and enters the bedroom, he remembers he’s alone.
Bucky slips between the sheets and curls onto his side. He still can’t get comfortable. But he holds onto hope that when he next opens his eyes, maybe he’ll feel better. Or at least more human.
Bucky twitches awake, overly warm and disoriented. He struggles toward consciousness for a moment, but nausea interrupts. He tries to swallow, and his throat immediately squeezes shut. He’s going to drown in acidic saliva.
He shoves himself up on his stump arm, struggling to get a grip on where he is and what’s happening. A band of vice-like pressure squeezes his head. Blood pounds in his ears. Bucky gags involuntarily, spilling spit and bile down the front of his t-shirt. He focuses all effort on getting to his feet and staggering to the bathroom. Vertigo makes his blurry vision shake, and he clips his shoulder on the door frame.
Bucky falls to his knees in front of the toilet and gives in to the pain rushing up from his chest. He heaves hard, then struggles to find his breath. He’s too hot. The air feels like wet cement settling on his skin. It coats the inside of his mouth, mixing the taste of dust with lingering acid, and seeps along to block his airway.
He coughs and lists sideways until his ear and shoulder make contact with the vanity. Bucky grunts in pain. He scrambles to right himself as nausea surges again, but the room’s swirling steals both motivation and strength, and he throws up all over the floor. His limbs slacken as his stomach contracts, and it’s all Bucky can do to drag himself into a fetal position out of the way of pool of sick spreading toward his face.
He needs to do something. Clean up. Maybe medicate. But the back of his neck prickles with something more sinister than just cold sweat. If he moves he’ll be seen. If he’s seen, he’ll be punished…
But…that can’t be right. He’s home in Falls Church. Blazing with fever on the floor of his bathroom. Steve’s bathroom.
The tone of the white noise assaulting his eardrums changes. Bucky winces. Dry heaves. Wipes his shaky wrist across his eyelids. He pulls his knees an inch closer to his chest, and the room pitches into a new set of spirals.
The diminishing coherent portion of his brain lights up in panic. This is bad. This is beyond him. He needs help.
But he should be able to handle this.
He needs someone.
He can’t cry out. If the handlers hear him…
If he lifts his head, he’s going to vomit again.
He needs Steve.
Bucky fumbles his pocket for his phone, trying not trigger an earthquake in the tile under his cheek. The glow of the device’s screen cuts painfully into his eyes. He’s glad A Steve is his first contact. His vision’s too blurred to read anything.
The line rings twice, sending corkscrews of agony through Bucky’s ear and into his brain. Then Steve answers. "Hello?”
Bucky opens his mouth, strings of mucous vibrating audibly with his breath. He’s not sure what he wants to say. He’s not sure he can speak.
“Buck? You ok?”
“I…” Bucky starts. Goosebumps shoot up his spine and down his arms. Why is it cold? When did it the room turn from a volcano to a freezer? Cold is bad… He swallows the lump of ice in his throat. “I need…”
“What happened?” There’s a shuffle on Steve’s end. Bucky imagines him getting to his feet, pushing in his chair. Then dizziness wallops him in the forehead.
“Help,” Bucky whispers.
Steve doesn’t press Bucky for details. “Ok. I’m on my way, alright?” He says. “I’ll be right there.”
The line goes dead, and Bucky releases his phone to the floor behind his head, out of the way of another painful retch. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Then presses between his eyes to keep his face from falling off.
Consciousness ebbs and flows with the floor’s relentless rocking. The vertigo ramps up when he tries to make sense of it, so Bucky surrenders. Waits for pain. Or death. Or Steve. Unless that was a dream.
Eventually the door creaks on its hinges, and footsteps echo against the tile.
“Hey, Buck.”
Bucky feels the shift in the air pressure as Steve kneels an inch from his back. He lays his hand on Bucky’s arm, then brings the back of his knuckles under his jaw. “You’re burning up.”
“Hm.” Bucky reaches up shakily.
“Yeah, alright.” Steve wraps Bucky’s fingers in his. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Think you can sit up?”
“Ugh. Dizzy,” Bucky breathes.
“How ‘bout I help you? Toilet’s right here if you’re still feeling sick.” Steve’s arm clamps protectively around Bucky’s chest. “There you go.”
Before he can say anything, Steve swings Bucky off the floor. His stomach snaps into his throat, and he strains against Steve’s grip. He doesn’t have anything left to expel, but he gags anyway.
“It’s ok.” Steve drapes Bucky over the toilet again and rubs his back as he coughs.
After a moment, Bucky lifts his head. The bathroom lurches around him, and he’s suddenly leaning against Steve’s solid chest. He can’t pinpoint the genesis of the movement, and he’s not alert enough to try. “Sorry,” is the best he can manage.
“Don’t worry about it,” Steve murmurs. “Do you think you’d feel better lying down?”
“Mm.” Bucky means it to be an affirmative.
“Alright.” Steve peels Bucky’s stained shirt off him first, then gently hauls him to his feet and back to bed.
Bucky settles against the pillows. He closes his eyes. Then squints when he feels Steve pushing hair off his face.
“Why didn’t you say something this morning?” Steve asks.
“Wasn’t so bad…”
“Well, I’m glad you called.”
Bucky smiles. He hopes his numb face shows it. “…glad you came.”