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Bucky pours himself a second cup of coffee and settles at the kitchen table. He pulls up the newspaper on his laptop, but he can only half-focus on the articles. It’s Saturday morning, and Bucky’s yet to make any plans.
It’s not like there’s any pressure to be out and about. Steve had left an hour ago to go for a run with Sam. He’d kissed Bucky’s cheek and said they’d figure out their weekend schedule when he got back.
Bucky minimizes the news site and pulls up a list of things to do in DC instead. It’s long and imposing and full of outdoor concerts and other sure-to-be-crowded summer essentials. He’s overcome with a desire to curl up and swear off recreational outings for the rest of his life. He’s been so much better about leaving the house lately. Bucky wonders if Steve will be disappointed.
He reaches for his coffee, but his phone chirps, and he picks it up instead.
Sam: Just a heads up. I sent ur boy home.
Bucky frowns and taps a message back. Why? Everything ok?
Sam: IDK if he got overheated or something, but he does not look good.
Bucky: K thanks.
Bucky drains his coffee in one gulp. Steve’s hardly ever sick. And he looked fine when he left.
Bucky shuts his laptop. He doesn’t know what Steve will want, so he loads bottled water and Gatorade from the pantry into the fridge and moves a stack of TV guides off the end of the sofa. He’s a little relieved he’s off the hook for making plans. But now he’s worried.
Even though Bucky’s expecting it, the sound of the front door opening makes him jump. He sets down his third cup of coffee as Steve rounds the corner into the kitchen. “Hey. You alright?” he asks.
Steve’s nearly as pale as his white t-shirt. Patches of sweat ring his neck and extend under his arms. “Yeah, I’m ok,” he says, though his voice is thin.
“Sam was right. You don’t look so good.”
“What, he texted you?” Steve shakes his head and wipes perspiration from his brow. “I’m fine. Just…got tired.”
Alarm bells go off in Bucky’s head. He tries to keep his tone normal. “You never get tired.”
Steve shrugs. “Eh. I don’t know.”
“You want some breakfast, maybe?” Bucky offers. He gestures to Steve’s usual seat at the table. He wishes Steve would sit down. He looks ready to drop.
“No, thanks,” Steve says. “I’m…not hungry.”
“You sure you’re ok?” Bucky’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “You’re never like this.”
“I know. I’m alright.” Steve steps around Bucky and opens the refrigerator. He pauses before reaching for a water bottle. “It’s hot out, though.”
“Well, it’s summer,” Bucky says lamely, taking in the fine tremor wracking Steve’s hand as he uncaps the water and takes a sip.
“Yeah. I guess.” Steve shuts the fridge, but doesn’t let go of the handle.
“Go sit down,” Bucky urges. “We’ll wait a little and see if you get hungry, I guess.” He means at the table, but Steve passes him again and heads for the couch.
“You really sure?” Bucky can’t stop himself from asking again. “You don’t seem all that ok.”
“Yeah…” Steve sinks gingerly into the cushions. “I just want to rest a minute.”
“Ok,” Bucky says quietly, doubt creeping into his voice. He thinks about topping off his coffee again, but the last thing he needs are more jitters. He abandons his mug beside the sink and joins Steve in the living room.
Bucky turns to ask him if he wants to watch TV, but Steve’s breathing evenly with his elbow on the armrest and his head in his hand. Sweat still glistens on his upper lip and around his hairline. Bucky hovers his hand over the back of Steve’s neck, and heat radiates off him. “Jesus Christ, Stevie,” he mutters.
Bucky doesn’t want to disturb him when he’s dozing, so he turns the TV on low volume and watches If Walls Could Talk with one eye while he keeps the other on Steve. His shoulders rise and fall slightly with each breath. Bucky wonders if has the flu.
That would be odd, though. It’s the wrong season, and Steve never gets sick anyway. And this came on suddenly. Steve was his usual chipper self this morning. Bucky doesn’t think he could’ve missed something like this.
Steve’s breath hitches, and his complexion goes grey.
“You alright, Stevie?” Bucky pats his knee, and even the exposed skin of his leg is hot and clammy.
“Hm.” Steve sits up groggily. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but instead he gags, sending a dribble of yellowish bile down his front. He clamps one hand over his mouth and jerks forward as he retches again.
“Whoa, ok.” Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Do you think you can make it into the toilet?”
Steve doesn’t answer, but he uses the armrest to haul himself to his feet. He leans heavily against Bucky as they weave behind the couch and toward the downstairs bathroom. Bucky embeds his hand in Steve’s t-shirt and presses his stump arm into his shoulder from behind to keep him upright.
“Alright, there you go.” Bucky guides Steve to his knees, but he’s too slow to let go of him and get the toilet seat up before Steve vomits again. He scrambles for the trash can wedged under the sink while Bucky keeps him from face-planting.
“Good enough, I guess,” Bucky mumbles. He rubs circles between Steve’s shoulder blades. Sweat comes through the fabric of his shirt, and fiery warmth radiates into Bucky’s palm.
“You got chills or something?” Bucky asks. “You’re boiling.”
“I feel like I’m boiling…” Steve spits into the trashcan and coughs weakly.
“Ok, hold on.” Bucky tears the hand towel down from its ring and runs it under the faucet. He turns the water as cold as it will go, and he hopes it’s good enough. He does his best to wring the towel out one-handed, but it still drips across the floor as he takes it back to Steve.
“How far did you run?” Bucky drapes the compress over the back of Steve’s neck.
“Huh?”
“With Sam. How far did you go? You were gone for like an hour and a half.”
“I don’t know…” Steve wipes his mouth with the back of one shaking hand.
“You weren’t counting or you don’t remember?” Bucky bites his lip. “’Cause both are pretty unlike you.”
“I just…don’t know.” Steve swallows hard. “I…don’t feel very good.”
“Yeah, I got that part.” Bucky almost laughs, but the worry dominating his brain won’t let him. “I bet you pushed yourself too hard. You gotta let up sometimes. If you’ve got, like, heat exhaustion or something…” He breaks off, shaking his head.
“Hm.” Steve twitches and tightens his grip on the trash can.
Bucky flips the towel over to press the cooler side to Steve’s skin. “Is this helping?”
“I don’t know.” He tries to swallow a sick hiccup.
“Ok, let’s try something else…” Bucky trusts Steve to stay upright for the moment, and he reaches to turn on the shower. He gets a face-full of spray as he tests the temperature, but quickly shakes it off and extends his hand to Steve. “Come on.”
“I…think I’m still gonna throw up,” Steve pants. “And I have…clothes on.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky says. “Come on.” Steve acquiesces, and Bucky manhandles him over the lip of the tub. “Sit down before you fall down, too. I don’t trust you so much right now.”
“I got it,” Steve grumbles, tipping his head back so the cool water splashes over his face.
“You always got it,” Bucky says, sitting on the floor and leaning over the edge of the tub.
Steve lets out his breath and gives a weak smile. “Mm-hm. But…thanks.”