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Bucky wraps his hand around his mug and slumps forward over the table. He should drink his tea and let Steve whisk him upstairs to bed. But the supposedly soothing infusion of mint is doing little to calm his stomach.
He’s already spent half the morning on his knees in front of the toilet. Every heave had threatened to turn his brain inside out with his stomach. Even now, each time he blinks, he’s not sure if he’s going to open his eyes to the townhouse’s tiny kitchen or something much less pleasant.
Steve pulls out the chair beside Bucky’s and sits. He feels the mug for warmth and lets his fingers pass over Bucky’s knuckles. “How’s that going down?” he asks.
“Uh,” Bucky starts doubtfully. He wants to clear his throat; it feels stopped up with a bubble of sour-tasting mucous. But he’s afraid of bring on a coughing fit that will send him retching again. “Not, uh…” He decides to swallow instead.
“This is hitting you hard, huh?” Steve props his elbow on the table and his head on his hand. He gives Bucky a sad smile.
“Sorry…”
“For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“For…this?” Bucky knows his mumbled words don’t make much sense. But he’s in the awkward state of being just lucid enough to know he’s dissociating. And with the narrow scope of his functional brain matter, it seems to be the genesis of all his current problems.
“For…?” Steve puzzles. His brow furrows in a way Bucky can’t help but find adorable, though it means he’s confused Steve, which he didn’t mean to do. “Like I said, Buck, you didn’t do anything. You’re just sick.” He reaches up to palm Bucky’s forehead. “You’re still running a fever.”
“Hm.” Bucky sniffs. He takes the smallest of sips of his tea.
“Good. You’ll feel better once we get your hydration back up.”
“Right…” But the edges of his visual field shiver with dark greyish fuzz. It could just be the pressure of his headache, but Bucky’s not convinced he isn’t sitting on the precipice of a waking nightmare.
They sit quietly for a moment. Bucky keeps automatically lifting his mug to his lips, but it feels heavier on each rise. His arm is weak and shaky. He has a mouthful of tea, but he can’t bring himself to swallow. The back of his hand prickles, and his entire body breaks out in cold sweat. He shifts in his seat and tries futilely to suppress a gag.
Bucky slams his cup back to the table and covers his mouth just in time for lukewarm tea to seep between his fingers and down his arm. It’s just the liquid he couldn’t swallow, but barring any miracles, he is going to be sick. And soon.
Bucky groans through is teeth. He looks down at the puddle on the table. For a second he sees the metal furniture of an interrogation room, but then Steve pats him on the shoulder and he sees the table’s scuffed wood finish again.
“Hey, it’s ok, Buck,” Steve says jumping to his feet but somehow keeping is tone calm. “Do you think you can make it to the bathroom?”
The correct answer would be no. Bucky doesn’t think he can organize his legs to move him down the hallway. Not when he’s this dizzy. And half frozen to death. Every drop of perspiration lacing his body has solidified to a needle of frost, digging in and cutting his skin.
Steve takes initiative and supports Bucky down the hall anyway. He can barely lift his feet as they shuffle across the carpet. It is carpet, isn’t it? He’s home. He shouldn’t be worrying. But if he falls, like he feels like he’s going to, his head will crack against dirty concrete. The handlers will laugh at him. He won’t be able to take it…
Bucky vomits without warning. Steve pushes him a couple feet to lean over the sink, then slicks his hair back from his face as Bucky heaves.
“Alright,” Steve soothes. “You’re gonna be alright.”
Bucky struggles to catch his breath. Then he coughs until he gags again.
“Ok.” Steve pats him on the back. “I need you to take a deep breath. Hold it for a second.”
“Hm.” It’s easier to exhale than inhale. Everything smells like mint and stomach acid. Bucky’s jaw is trembling, and he can’t pinpoint whether it’s from exhaustion or cold.
It takes him longer than it should to calm down because dry heaves keep interrupting. Steve is impossibly patient. He rests his hand on the back of Bucky’s fevered neck and murmurs soft, encouraging things Bucky can’t quite hear under the echo in his ears.
Finally the churning in his stomach begins to die down, but it takes all Bucky’s energy with it. He thinks he’s adjusting his one-handed grip on the edge of the sink, but the next thing he knows, the world is tipping and he’s propped against Steve’s chest.
“Whoa, ok,” Steve says. “Stay with me.” He practically carries Bucky into the living room and helps him stretch out on the couch.
Bucky reaches for Steve’s hand. “Sorry,” he croaks, pulling their intertwined fingers up against his forehead. “I just need to…to calm down. To remember…”
“No, you don’t.” Steve perches on the edge of the coffee table and looks at Bucky, his expression serious. “You’re a little mixed up because you have a temperature of almost 103. It’ll pass on its own in a day or two.”
Bucky blinks hard, squeezing his eyes shut until his temples ache. He lets Steve’s words sink in. “I…can’t believe you’re putting up with me.” He tries to crack a smile, but it hurts.
“I’m always gonna put up with you,” Steve says. “I love you, even when you’re being a jerk.”
“Don’t know how I deserve that.”
“It’s not about deserving anything.” Steve strokes his thumb over the back of Bucky’s hand. “But you’ve done plenty of taking care of me, way back when. That’s how a partnership works.”
“Yeah…” Bucky swallows, feeling vertigo beginning to settle in his sinuses again.
“You want me to get you a trash can?” Steve asks, reading Bucky’s expression.
“I don’t think there’s anything left…”
“How about some water first?”
Bucky nods. He means to say thank you, but instead he whispers, “I love you.”
It’s a good mistake.