Work Text:
When Steve left for work, Bucky was still in bed. Now, as he navigates his bike back home through the traffic of the evening commute, he wonders what he’s going to find.
A lump under the covers seems most likely. Bucky’s barely been out of bed in the past week. The first couple days, Steve had stayed home with him, worried that he was sick with something besides clinical depression. He’d looked headachy and pale, but after Steve had taken his temperature for the fourth time and conceded again that it was normal, he’d backed off. Given him space to sleep 18 hours a day.
At least sleep is healing, Steve thinks. He changes lanes and takes the turn toward home. Bucky’s going to bounce back. He always does. There have always been ups and downs, even back before the war.
But he can’t keep from worrying. What if today was the day the drowsiness faded? What if Bucky decided to get up, go somewhere, do something? What if he tried to hurt himself?
Steve had gone out of his way to clean up the house. He’d rearranged the kitchen and the bathrooms, putting everything sharp in a new place and securing the safety caps back on all the medications. It breaks Steve’s heart to have such a lack of trust. But if it’s what’s going to keep Bucky safe, every second of it is worth it.
Steve parks in the garage and tries to open the creaking door quietly. He sheds his shoes and jacket, then glances around for signs of life. There aren’t any, so he sighs and creeps up the stairs.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar, just as Steve had left it this morning. “Hey, Buck,” he whispers, gingerly pushing it open.
Little’s changed since 7am. Bucky’s curled on Steve’s side of the mattress. He looks almost peaceful. Save the tremor wracking through his shoulders.
Steve strides across the room and squats beside the bed. He’s not sure if Bucky’s awake or if he wants to be touched. “Hey,” he murmurs again.
Bucky stirs slightly. He pulls his face out of Steve’s pillow, long unkempt hair clinging to his forehead. He opens his red-rimmed eyes and takes a deep breath.
He looks worse. Exhausted and teary on top of everything else. “How’re you feeling?” It’s become Bucky’s least favorite question, but it’s the only one Steve knows how to ask.
Bucky shrugs.
“Yeah,” Steve sighs. He slowly extends his arm and rests his hand on Bucky’s stump shoulder. He doesn’t flinch at the touch, and Steve takes it as a positive sign.
He wants to ask if Bucky’s done anything today. Been downstairs. Used the bathroom. Gotten out of bed. But it all feels judgmental and intrusive. Steve shifts so he’s seated on the edge of the bed and moves his hand up to Bucky’s jaw to feel his temperature again, as if noting a fever would somehow make the whole situation better.
Bucky’s skin is clammy, but not over-warm. It reminds Steve that even if he isn’t running hot, he’s still sick.
“How about a shower,” Steve suggests. “Want to give that a shot?” He runs his fingers through Bucky’s greasy hair. He’s not going to pretend that it’ll actually make a difference, that cleaning up is going to have any effect on Bucky’s outlook. But if he scrapes himself off the mattress, at least he’ll have accomplished something today.
Bucky sighs. He looks resigned as he rubs at the purplish bags under his eyes. He nods.
“Ok. Good.” Steve stands up slowly to keep the bed from moving. He feels like he should watch Bucky get up, to make sure he’s ok. But he doesn’t want to be smothering. He heads into the bathroom to make sure there are clean towels.
A minute later, Bucky shuffles in. He looks small. Tired. He slouches as if the air pressure is a heaviness on his shoulders. His body seems less solid. Steve supposes he’s lost weight, staying in bed.
He looks at Steve looking at him. Stoic embarrassment crosses Bucky’s face. Steve offers him a smile in return.
Once Bucky disappears behind the shower curtain and steam begins to fill the room, Steve goes back into the bedroom. He wants to stay close. But if all he does is wait for Bucky to do anything, he’ll be doing them both a disservice. He decides to change the sheets on the bed. They’re not actually dirty, but with Bucky spending so much time between them, he supposes it’ll make a nice change.
As he strips the blankets and pillowcases, Steve can’t stop thinking. This rut’s lasted almost five days. Bucky’s had longer. But never so long this low. If the look on his face is anything to go by, he feels bad about feeling bad. Steve doesn’t know whether it points to progress or a new depth of despair.
The sound of something hard hitting the floor carries in from the ensuite, and Steve drops the sheet in his hands. It’s the singular, hard thump of a bar of soap or bottle of shampoo, not the slap of a body against the bottom of the tub. But he can’t help from calling out, “Buck? You ok?” He fights the urge to go and check.
There’s no response. Just the quieter reverse-thud of whatever it was being picked up again.
Steve lets out his breath. It’s ok. Bucky’s dealing with it on his own. But the fact that this has become a victory makes him shake his head.
The running water cuts out as Steve finishes spreading the quilt back over the mattress. He glances toward the bathroom where he sees the edge of Bucky’s outline in the mirror, toweling himself off. If only the soaking downpour of errant emotions could be wiped away as easily as shower water.
The pillows are already in place, but Steve keeps playing with them as Bucky returns to the bedroom. He stands in front of the dresser and puts on underwear, then rummages in another drawer.
Bucky doesn’t need an audience for this. Steve should go downstairs. Fix something to eat. Maybe ask Bucky if he wants some orange juice. But he knows better than to expect an answer.
“Steve?” It’s the quietest whisper, but Steve’s head still shoots up at the sound. Bucky’s chalk-white and on the verge of collapse. He clutches pajama pants in his trembling hand and gazes at Steve with a look of such pain and helplessness it splits Steve’s heart.
“Oh god,” Steve says, rushing to him. “Ok.” Bucky crumples in his arms, and Steve lowers him to sit on the floor. “Here.” He pushes Bucky’s head down between his knees. His wet hair drips down his neck and stump arm.
Bucky jerks, retching hard. The muscles across his back tighten beneath Steve’s hand.
“It’s alright,” Steve murmurs. “You’re alright.” But it’s a lie. Nothing about this is alright. Bucky’s surpassed sick. There’s no getting around it anymore. He’s dying. All under Steve’s nose. And he stayed at arm’s length, let things get this bad. It’s miles from alright.
Bucky heaves again. He’s not bringing anything up, but his body still seems set on trying. “Ok, Buck.” Steve runs his fingers down the ridge of his spine. “Breathe through it. Breathe…”
He coughs and chokes through a ragged inhalation. “Ok,” Steve whispers. He wraps as much of his body around Bucky as he can, covering his shuddering shoulders and resting his cheek on the back of Bucky’s head. “I’m gonna fix this. I’m gonna fix it, ok?”
Tears run down Steve’s face, but he’s barely aware of them. The only sobs he hears are Bucky’s. “I’m not gonna let you keep hurting yourself. I’m gonna get you better.” He’s going to. He has to. Steve doesn’t like making Bucky’s choices for him, not anymore. They’d started butting heads over it, and it had been progress. But this isn’t a choice Steve can let Bucky make. And maybe it’s the answer Bucky’s been looking for all along.
It takes a while for Bucky’s shaky breaths to even out, but Steve continues to hold him. “Hey. Look at me,” he finally says.
Bucky sways as he sits up. His eyes are redder and puffy, but dry.
“When’s the last time you had something to drink?”
Bucky shakes his head. The motion looks like it hurts.
“Ok.” Steve’s disappointment is drowned in another wash of guilt. He should never have gone to work this morning. He should never have let things get this bad… “Come’ere.” He helps Bucky to his feet and dislodges the pajama pants still clutched in his hand. “Don’t worry about these. Let’s just get you back in bed…”
Steve rushes to get as much of the pantry as he can onto a tray. Water, juice, crackers, protein bars, whatever he can carry. He takes the stairs two at a time and slips around the bedroom door. Bucky’s back on his own side of the bed, head tipped back against the pillows and eyes closed.
He opens them as Steve sets the tray on the bedside table. “Here. Start with this,” Steve says, uncapping a water bottle and handing it over. Bucky takes a shaky sip. He swallows twice and rests the bottle in his lap.
“Alright. Good.” Steve says. He peels back the quilt and asks, “Ok if I sit with you?”
Bucky nods. As soon as Steve’s settled, he brings his head down to Steve’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” Bucky croaks.
“No, Buck,” Steve says, leaning into Bucky’s still-damp hair. “I’m sorry.”
They stay silent for a few minutes. Then Bucky whispers, “Thanks.”