Chapter Text
It’s usually like this. It’s winter, the snow just starting to fall in large, wet clumps across the sidewalk and everyone is hurrying to get home before it starts to ice over. And like usual, one of them is sprawled out on the sofa, coughing and struggling to breathe.
The twist is that for once, Steve thinks as he boils more water, it isn’t him. Bucky groans, shifting and trying to get comfortable. They have every comforter piled on the couch because Bucky flat out refused to move from where he had collapsed after he’d dragged himself up four flights of stairs.
Steve stirred the water and dumped in a handful of thyme, letting it steep. Bucky sniffled pathetically while he waited the ten minutes and strained the tea into a mug. He took it to him, sitting on the couch right next to his best friend and pressing it into his hands. He was clammy, and feverish. He frowned, covering his larger hands with his own and helping him drink before he fell back on the couch. “‘m fine, Stevie,” he said, trying to move and nearly falling off the couch in a tangle of blankets.
“You’re not fine,” he said mildly, reaching out and touching his forehead. It burned and Bucky let out a soft moan. “Your hands…” he murmured. “S’cold.” He leaned into the touch, almost whimpering when Steve tried to move them away.
“You’ve got a fever, Buck,” he said softly. He’d been making him eat -- little bits he could manage -- but mostly he’d been drinking a lot of tea to soothe his throat from the constant coughing. They didn’t have much money, couldn’t afford a doctor, but Steve knew what to do. Normally it’d be Bucky doing this for him, after all.
He got up from the sofa to grab a change of sheets, more tea, and something for the fever when he was stopped as a hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. “Stay,” he slurred, fingers tightening in a weak hold.
“Gotta get you something for that fever, jerk,” he said carefully, trying to get away. The grip tightened and Bucky pinned him down with a look. He shouldn’t look that gorgeous, lying carelessly sprawled across their ancient sofa with his shirt unbuttoned to the waist and his eyes fever-bright, lips parted and face flushed.
Steve really shouldn’t want to kiss him.
Instead he lets himself be pulled back, settling back down next to him and grabbing a cool cloth to run it over his brow. Bucky turns his head, coughing harshly, but his grip stays just as firm. “Jus’ stay. ‘ll be fine…” he says as he starts to drift off. He shook himself awake almost stubbornly and Steve smiled.
“Move over,” he says after a minute. Bucky tries. It takes him a moment before he finally just throws himself against the back of the sofa. Steve kicked off his shoes, lying down next to him on the cramped space. His head is almost on Bucky’s shoulder, almost resting on the cool cloths he has dropped across his chest. He’ll have to change those soon. Bucky was still far too warm, but he stopped caring about that as an arm wound tiredly around his waist and pulled him closer. “You know, those washcloths are better,” he said with a smirk.
“Tired of being cold,” Bucky grumbled, burying his face in his neck. Steve tried not to think too much of it. “Love you for this, punk. Sorry, you’re gonna get sick ‘cause of me,” he said as he began to drift off.
“Then you’ll just have to take care of me,” Steve pointed out, reaching up and running his fingers through sweat-damp hair.
“Don’t I always?” Bucky muttered. Steve just smiled, watching him doze off.
“Love you too, jerk.”