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STEVE. FRIDAY, 08 May 2015. 2102 Hours. Lighthouse Landing Apartments.
Steve’s turning down the bed when he hears it. The dreadful sound of a body slapping against the floor of the shower. “Shit,” he hisses.
It had been a peaceful night in. He and James made milkshakes for dinner and drank them on the balcony while they watched cars tool around the parking lot. A tame lineup for a Friday night, but it had been nice. James had told him most of a story about a pet scorpion from his second tour. It hadn’t mattered that he’d forgotten the ending. It was still progress. And beyond that, it was funny.
They turn in early most nights, since Steve likes to hit the gym at dawn and nightmares bother James more often than not. So Steve had grabbed a book while James commandeered the shower.
The John Grisham paperback hits the carpet as Steve tears into the bathroom. “Bucky? You ok?” he calls over the roar of shower water. There isn’t the scrabbling noise of someone standing up.
“Buck?” Steve hesitates before pulling back the shower curtain. James prefers to take care of himself most of the time. Wait, let me try has become a common phrase in their household. But it doesn’t sound like James is trying right now.
“You alright?” Steve asks again.
No response. He hooks his fingers around the edge of the curtain and peers into the steam. James is crumpled on his side in the too-short tub. Water pounds down, plastering his hair all over his face.
“Oh, god. Bucky. Can you hear me?”
James’s chest moves shallowly up and down.
Steve can barely hear himself over the deluge of the shower, so he reaches in to turn it off. It doesn’t matter that his head and arm are soaked in the process.
“Alright,” he says in the sudden, oppressive quiet. “You with me?”
James’s eyelids flutter. A soft groan escapes between his lips.
“Yeah.” Steve tries not to be overcome with relief. Consciousness is good. But it’s not everything. “Do you know what happened?”
Steve assumes James passed out. It seems more likely than a seizure. And he’s too drowsy for it to just have been a fall. But, based on his position, he probably hit his head, regardless.
“I don’t know,” James mumbles. His arm is pinned beneath him, and he shifts heavily to free it. “I, uh. Hurts.” He shakily shoves strands of hair off his forehead.
“What does?” Probably everything, Steve thinks.
“My head? I…I don’t know.” His words come out slurred. It’s not a good sign. None of it is good, but that seems particularly indicative of damage done.
“Alright. Do you think you can try to sit up?” Steve reaches over the lip of the tub. James latches onto his arm, and Steve heaves him upright. “Ok. Good.”
James lowers his chin toward his chest, swallowing thickly. The heat of the shower had brought up a flush of pink in his skin, but it’s rapidly fading to ghostly pallor. He looks sick. Steve begins to fear the worst. James is still recovering from a traumatic brain injury. The last thing he needs is another brain injury, no matter how mild.
James inclines his head toward his stump shoulder. His shoulders hunch as he fights down a gag.
“Hey, if you’re not feeling—”
James vomits down the side of the tub.
“Alright. It’s ok.” Steve awkwardly pats him on the back. When James is done and coughing breathily, Steve says, “Let’s get you out of here.”
James nods woozily and tightens his grip on Steve’s arm.
Steve could probably lift him up bridal-style, but he wants to give James as much dignity as possible. He settles for taking him around the waist and hoisting him to his feet, then guiding his legs over the edge of the tub. “There you go.” Steve helps him sit atop the closed toilet.
James blinks hard a few times and reaches for the corner of the counter to stabilize himself. “Sorry,” he chokes. “I…I don’t know what happened…”
“It’s alright,” Steve says, grabbing a washcloth. He wipes sick from James’s chin and shoulder. “I think you fell. Do you remember that?”
“No…” He inhales and swallows as if he’s suppressing a gag.
“D’you still feel sick?”
James shakes his head, then leans into Steve. “Tired,” he murmurs.
“Ok,” Steve says, thinking quickly. “Let’s not go to sleep just yet, though.” If he has a concussion, James should go to the hospital. But he’s not going to be too pleased if Steve tells him that. “How about drying off and putting on some clothes?”
“Yeah, alright.”
James takes the towel Steve hands him, but his hand shakes as he drags it over his hair. “Tired,” he whispers again.
“I know,” Steve says, his heart tearing to see James struggle. “But I think you might’ve hurt yourself, Buck. I gotta make sure you’re ok before you go to bed.”
“My head hurts.” James pushes the towel back at Steve.
“Can I look at it?”
James barely nods.
Steve gently pulls his fingers through the tangles of James’s hair, then palpates the back of his head, moving up and sideways. James inhales sharply just as Steve brushes the bump rising a couple inches above his right ear. “Sorry,” Steve says, withdrawing his touch. “You hit pretty hard.”
“I guess,” James sighs.
“You really don’t remember,” Steve muses. “Do you know what you were doing before you went down?”
“…shower?”
“Yeah. Good,” Steve says. Then, “Buck, I’m really sorry, but you’re gonna have to see a doctor about this.”
“Oh.” James face falls. Or maybe he just looks sick again. “Like, an appointment…?”
“No, like right now. Before you go to sleep.”
James looks like he’s struggling to understand. “I…uh. Ok. I don’t…feel very good.”
“Ok.” Steve gives him a sad smile. “I’ll get you some clothes.”
James is surprisingly compliant as Steve manhandles him into a t-shirt and sweats. Steve asks him questions all the while, feeling out his cognitive faculties. But James doesn’t always remember who the president is anyway, so he doesn’t know whether or not to panic when James hesitates over the answers.
James throws up again in the car on the way to the hospital. Steve stupidly forgot to bring a trash can or even a plastic bag, so all he can do is mutter sympathies as he pulls over and dabs at the mess in James’s lap with fast-food napkins from the glove box.
“Sorry,” Steve says. He hopes James doesn’t notice him dropping the soiled napkins into the grass at the side of the road. He feels bad for littering, but it’s low on his list of priorities at the moment.
“Naw, my fault,” James rasps.
“Not your fault at all.” Steve pats his arm.
They make it to the VA with no more incidents. Steve keeps James’s unsteady gait in check as they approach the front desk in the ER. He sits James down first, then goes for paperwork.
Steve’s explaining the situation to the woman behind the counter when he realizes he doesn’t know what to call James in relation to himself. They’ve only been together again for a few months, but he’s tempted to count the last decade as part of the total relationship. “My, uh, my partner,” he starts. “Passed out in the shower. I think he has a concussion, and he already has a TBI.”
The woman nods, then types something on her computer. “His name?”
“James Barnes.”
She pushes a clipboard toward Steve. “Go ahead and fill this out.”
“He’s uh, not feeling so good. He got sick in the car. Do you have, like, something…?”
The woman grabs a pink plastic basin from a stack behind her and slaps it down on top of the clipboard with a compassionate expression.
“Thanks.” Steve returns the smile and heads back to James.
“Here,” he says, edging the basin into James’s lap.
“God, really?” James asks, his expression holding a mixture of humor, annoyance, and illness.
“Just in case. I’d rather you didn’t need it just as much as you do.”
It takes the better part of an hour for James to get called back. He lays his head on Steve’s shoulder, saying again that he’s tired.
“I know,” Steve says, interlacing his fingers with James’s. “But you can’t go to sleep. Not yet.”
Finally they relocate to a curtained exam room. Steve remembers clearly the last time they were in one, and oddly enough, so does the doctor.
“I’m Dr. Hill,” she introduces herself without looking up from James’s chart. “James Barnes… I remember treating you a few months ago. For a seizure, right?” She glances to Steve for confirmation.
Steve nods.
“Another one tonight?” Dr. Hill asks.
“I actually don’t know,” Steve admits. “He was in the shower, and he fell. He was groggy when I went to check.”
“Do you remember?” the doc addresses James.
He shakes his head, then grimaces.
“Feeling pretty sick?”
James inhales and swallows.
“Right.” Dr. Hill scribbles something on her clipboard. “Well, let’s take a look.”
She examines the bump on James’s head first, then shines a light in his eyes. “Your pupils are reacting differently,” she reports. “Looks like a concussion to me.” She turns to address Steve again. “I’d like to do an MRI. It’s probably the last thing you want tonight, but…”
“Yeah, won’t hurt,” Steve says. “What do you say?” he asks James.
“Ugh,” James sighs. “Does it matter what I say?”
“Even when you have a head injury, you’re still funny,” Steve teases. “That gives me hope.”
The MRI takes another hour, and it’s past midnight by the time they finally leave the hospital. James is practically asleep on his feet and doubly unsteady as Steve buckles him into the car.
“Hold onto this, ok?” Steve hands him the emesis basin again.
“Really?”
“Just hold onto it.”
“You’re stealing from the VA,” James accuses. “You’re not supposed to take these home.”
“You are when you’re afraid your boyfriend’s going to make a mess of your car.” There he goes with relationship terms again. Given everything they’ve been through tonight, what does it really matter? But Steve makes a note to straighten it out later.
“’M your boyfriend?” James slurs.
Scratch that, he’ll straighten it out right now. “What would you call it? What would you call us?” Steve’s curious to know. The concussion is making James fuzzy, but it’s also taking away his pretenses.
“Huh?”
“You know, boyfriend. Partner. What would you call me if you were talking to someone else?”
“I don’t know. You’re like, just…you’re everything.”
Steve laughs.
They arrive back at the apartment more or less in one piece. Bucky has a white-knuckled grip on the basin, but his stomach seems to be under control.
“Ready to finally go to bed?” Steve asks. He slips his arm around James’s waist.
“Mm. Yeah.”
Dr. Hill had verbally prescribed rest and ibuprofen. “He’s going to be fuzzy. Forgetful, mixed up, whatever you want to call it. But he’s going to be fine.”
Steve had breathed a sigh of relief.
He leaves James to sit on the bed while he finds meds in the bathroom. “Alright, here you go, Buck.” Steve offers him the pills and a cup of water.
“Hold on…” James is halfway through taking off his shirt. He has it over his stump arm and his head, but can’t seem to wiggle it down his right shoulder. “I’m…I don’t know.”
“Here, I’ll get it.” Steve sets the meds and water on the bedside table and comes to the rescue. “There.” He tosses the shirt into the laundry, then looks to the crusted stains of vomit on James’s thighs. “D’you want to get out of those pants too?”
“Yeah. But…I’m tired.”
“That’s at least the fourth time you’ve told me,” Steve murmurs. But he kisses James’s cheek and helps him finish disrobing. “Take your meds. Go to sleep.”
James does.
It’s after 9:00 the next morning when he stirs. Steve’s standing at the counter in the bathroom, but he whips his gaze toward the bed when he sees James sitting up.
“Hey, Buck. How’re you feeling?” Steve asks, setting the vial and syringe down beside the sink and stepping to James’s side.
“Hm.” He seems to consider for a moment. “My head hurts,” he says sleepily.
“I’m not surprised.” Steve smiles and shakes his head. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
“Mm. I had…an MRI?”
“Yeah. You have a concussion.”
“Oh.” James blinks a few times. Then cocks his head at Steve. “What were you doing? With the…” He gestures through the open bathroom door.
“They syringe and stuff?” Steve clarifies.
James nods.
“Testosterone,” he says simply.
“Ok. Yeah,” James murmurs blankly. It’s clear he has no idea what Steve’s talking about.
“It’s ok if you don’t remember.” Steve sits on the edge of the bed. “The doc said you’d need some time to let your brain reset.” But bubbles of concern are rising in his chest. What if James doesn’t remember him all over again? If he doesn’t remember this about Steve, what else has he forgotten?
“Sorry,” James mutters, drawing his knees up under the blankets.
“Don’t worry about it. Give it a little time,” Steve says. “I was gonna finish getting ready and start some breakfast. You hungry?”
James slowly shakes his head. “Not…not really.”
“Well, you were pretty sick last night. But you need to have something soon, just to keep your strength up.”
James doesn’t reply. His brow furrows as he looks down at the quilt covering his lap.
“Want to give it a few minutes?” Steve asks, standing up.
James nods.
“Ok. I’ll come back and bother you.”
Steve retreats into the bathroom again with a sigh. As the needle bites through the skin of his thigh, he grits his teeth. Not in pain from the puncture, but in concern. Confusion. Frustration. And a desperate desire to act, to fix whatever’s gone off in James’s head when it hit the floor of the bathtub and put a dent in the chrome finish of his recovery.
Steve brushes his teeth and puts on clothes without looking toward the bed, then goes to the kitchen. He’s too anxious to cook. And James isn’t a big breakfast eater anyway. He paces impatiently while coffee brews, then takes two mugs and two granola bars back into the bedroom.
“Hey,” Steve greets. He hands over one of the mugs. “Gotta get your caffeine fix, right? Might help your headache.”
“Hm. Yeah.” James smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Can I open this for you?” Steve holds up a granola bar.
James stares for a moment. “That…um. The girl. In the cafeteria. She’d do that.”
“Darcy?” Steve supplies. “I think you guys had quite a routine going before you moved in here.”
“Yeah…” James trails off. He looks up at Steve. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, there’s nothing to be sorry for.” Steve puts James’s coffee on the bedside table and hands over the granola bar, wrapper peeled back.
“I feel bad, I thought I was getting somewhere, and I’m not.”
“You’re allowed to have setbacks,” Steve says. “We’ll keep trying. We’ll get you back to where you were.”
“I don’t even remember what happened,” James admits. “I just know…something did, and you took care of it. And…thank you. You’re…everything to me, but…” He shakes his head.
“Hey.” Steve puts his hand on James’s stump shoulder. “You’re everything to me too.”