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Steve oversleeps on Saturday.
They don’t have a set time to rise on weekends; James’s desire to sleep late strikes unpredictably and just as often as his desire to get up a 2am and watch History Channel. Steve sets his phone to wake him at 8:30 on the days he doesn’t work so at least he has the chance to check in and get some coffee and meds into James before they wind up spooning into the afternoon.
When Steve opens his eyes, the clock on his bedside table already reads 9:45. His phone is nowhere to be seen. He rubs his eyes and tries to think through his movements last night. They’d gone to the movies, so no need for a phone there. Then James had been quiet and tired, and they’d come home. In this day and age, it’s an accomplishment to go over 12 hours without putting hands on his mobile device. But when he’s with James, everything else is secondary.
It’s probably on the charger in his office, Steve realizes. He remembers now, Clint coming by and interrupting him as he was packing his bag to head home, inviting him and James to some kind of get-together he and Laura were hosting. Something else Steve’s forgotten about. Whoops.
Steve sits up. He slides his legs over the edge of the mattress and has to pause when a throbbing pain blooms behind his forehead. He sucks in a deep breath and blinks a couple of times, but the ache doesn’t fade. In fact, it seems to travel downward, spurring a rawness in his throat and an ache in his lower back. The hairs on Steve’s legs stand up as he shivers. Fuck.
By the time he clumsily pulls on a hoodie and jeans, there’s no getting around the fact that he’s sick. Steve wipes his nose on his sleeve and scribbles a note to James, hoping he’ll sleep until he finds his phone and gets back home.
James doesn’t need babysitting, but mornings are tough. Even when he’s well-rested, the struggle to still his tremors long enough to pick up a mug and shake out his pills can easily turn to frustration. Then there are the occasional days where he forgets one or the other, and Steve’s left to figure out whether the foul mood is due to caffeine withdrawal or an impending seizure.
He takes the note into the bedroom and leaves it on his pillow, then grabs his keys and jogs out to his car. It makes his empty stomach slosh uncomfortably, but not enough to keep him from hurrying.
The drive to the hospital is short, and it takes Steve longer to badge into the building than it does to locate his phone and jam it into his pocket. He has a dozen or so missed texts, but he glances at them and decides to deal with them later. Two are from Clint, and one is from Laura, probably trying to ferret out an RSVP.
Steve pulls a Kleenex from the box beside his computer. His brain begins to automatically compose a declination as he locks his office door again. James doesn’t like no-notice plans, and the only place Steve wants to go today is back to bed. He feels bad about it, though. Whether or not James feels up to going to a barbecue, he doesn’t deserve to be tied to the apartment because of Steve’s stupid cold.
He’s about to exit the building when an idea lands. It’s after 10, so the pharmacy will be open. Steve’s not a doctor, and it’s not exactly kosher to swing by and ask for drugs, but if he sweet-talks the pharmacist, there’s a possibility someone can put in an order for tamiflu. At the very least, they should be able to give him something over-the-counter without necessitating a trip to CVS.
“Hey, what’cha doing here on a weekend?” Bruce is way too cheerful for this early on a Saturday.
Steve shrugs. It’s not actually that early, he reminds himself. And people who are fed and caffeinated and not running fevers may in fact be in good spirits. “Lost my phone.” He has to pause and clear his throat. “And wondered if I could ask a favor.”
“On your way to losing your voice, too.” Bruce raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I’m trying to hold onto it,” Steve says. “It would help I could get something for this.” He gestures vaguely at his stuffy head. “If it gets any worse, I’m gonna be out on Monday, then James is gonna get it, then I’ll be out making sure he’s ok…” It’s easy to appeal to Bruce’s caring side.
“I really can’t without a script…” Bruce plays with the cap of a pen. “I mean, if you got time to run down to urgent care and see the doc, that’s what I’d advise.”
Steve checks the time on his phone. Another text from Clint lands as he peers down at the screen. “Yeah, I’m in a little bit of a hurry,” he says.
“Ok, uh…” Bruce turns around and looks at the rows of boxes and bottles on the shelves behind him. “I have Dayquil. It would probably be cheaper to go to a drugstore and get a generic, but–”
“No, that’s fine.” Steve already has his wallet out. “Can I have two boxes?”
Steve swallows two orange pills with a swill of days-old Gatorade from the cupholder in his car. He’s already germ-infested, and his taste buds are too dull to detect anything off about the flavor. He coughs into his elbow and swallows again to push the medication down, then backs out of his parking space and speeds toward home.
“Hey, Buck, it’s me,” Steve says softly as he opens the door.
“Huh?” So James is awake. And in the kitchen, it seems. He stands in front of the sink, the glass coffee pot full of water on the counter by his elbow. It’s as if he started to make coffee, then got lost halfway through.
“Hey, I’m back,” Steve says, unloading his pockets onto the kitchen table. He drags his sleeve under his nose before filling the coffeemaker and punching the button to start the brew cycle.
“Thanks.” James stays still, staring out the kitchen window . “Um. Laura called my phone? And asked if we were coming to a…thing.”
“Shit,” Steve mutters. “I’m sorry, Buck. I completely forgot Clint invited us, and then I left my phone at the office. We don’t have to go. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” Mucous bubbles up in his throat, and he can’t help but hack to clear it.
“You lost your phone?” James turns around. His eyes are glassy and his cheeks pink.
“Yeah, I, uh. But I found it.” Steve coughs again. “I left a note. I thought you’d see it when you woke up.”
“Oh.” James shakes his head, then squints.
“You ok, Buck?” Steve asks.
“I…” James seems to think about it. “I…don’t feel very good. I don’t want to go to the… the… whatever it is. Sorry.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it, Buck.” Steve presses the backs of his knuckles under Bucky’s chin, wondering how well he can gauge a fever when he’s running one himself.
“Are…you ok?” James asks, peering into Steve’s face.
“I actually don’t feel that great either,” Steve admits with a congested chuckle. “We’ll take it easy today.”
He turns and gets James’s regular meds from the drawer, then tears off a blister pack of the Dayquil and pops them out into James’s outstretched hand. “At least we’re prepared. Kinda. Right?”
James tosses back the pills, wincing as he swallows. “And you don’t have to worry. About getting me sick,” he rasps. “So…you could kiss me. If you wanted to.”
Steve laughs. “I always want to, Buck.” So he does.