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“I'm dying, Buck.” Clint says, voice low and nasally and a little overdramatic as he sprawls himself across Bucky's lap just as the soldier lifts the book he'd been reading to give him space after he'd caught sight of the archer shambling towards the couch like a left-footed zombie.
He hums in agreement, lowering his forearms again to rest across the other man's back, thumbing to the next page. He'd like to at least finish this chapter before indulging his partner's theatrics, leaving him to settle restlessly with a sigh, face burrowing down into the cold comfort of a throw pillow.
The cold had been coming on for days, and while it's been nearly a century since Bucky has so much had the sniffles, he remembers well enough every-time little Stevie came down with some sort of cough or fever or an unpleasant combination. He also remembers encouraging Clint to see a doctor the moment he first showed signs of the encroaching cold, and, met with stubborn refusal, he's deciding now to be less than sympathetic.
He expects more whining soon, a demand for attention, maybe those pathetic big-blue puppy eyes leveled at him because he hasn't immediately dropped everything to comfort his sick boyfriend. But Clint is quiet beside the soft rattle of his lungs each time he takes a too-deep breath and the occasional muffled cough caught by the pillow, the muscles of his abdomen spasming across Bucky's lap.
The page he's on is left unturned for nearly ten minutes once he realizes he isn't absorbing a word of it, focused instead on every observable detail of the blond's condition: the tension in his back, the flush of color to his skin, how heat seems to radiate off him even though he's always tended to run a little warm. But now he's too hot, sweat leaving the short hairs at his nape damp and dark and the skin clammy at the small of his back.
Bucky dog-ears the page of his book and sets it aside, touching cool metal fingers between Clint's shoulder-blades, eliciting a sigh that's a bit like relief. “Clint.” He tries for serious rather than concerned but the latter bleeds through with far more ease. Not that it matters, Barton doesn't respond and Bucky realizes a moment later that it's because he doesn't have his ears in.
“I told you to see a doctor,” He scolds gently, knowing now that Clint can't hear him and the 'I told you so' will at least make him feel better. “and I'm the stubborn asshole?” He runs his hand up and down the other man's back, the metal of his palm can be unforgiving, but at least it's cool and smooth, and he's careful that Clint's hair doesn't end up getting caught up in the plates when he finally cards his fingers up through it.
For being the worst kind of dog person, Clint is like a damn cat sometimes, and Bucky can't help think of Alpine when the archer shifts and arches into any good touch, like he needs to encourage it, even as groggy as he is. A soft hum reverberates through him, followed by another coughing fit and Bucky stills his petting to simply cradle the back of his neck until the fit subsides, leaving Clint boneless and wheezing, turning his face away from the pillow to gasp for air.
He catches Clint's eye from his peripheral, wet and glazed over, but enough to draw his attention and gestured for him to roll over, which he does with after a bit of struggling, flopping to his back with his head in Bucky's lap, chest heaving and nose scrunched up at the chore of having to move. Put out but still compliant, which is how Bucky knows he really isn't feeling well if there isn't a least a bit of fuss.
“What do you need, sweetheart?” He speaks slowly so Clint can read his lips, if he's even paying enough attention to try. The blond is squinting, throat bobbing in a thick swallow that seems painful before he's reaching with a clumsy sort of pawing motion for Bucky's hand, pulling it over his face to both cover his eyes from the bright glare of the reading light and to sigh into the cool press of metal against his damp forehead. Bucky doesn't so much as put up a fight.
“I'm leaving Lucky to Kate. But you can have my X-box and Blade Runner on laserdisc signed by Harrison Ford.”
Bucky doesn't even want to ask what a laserdisc is, sighing instead at Clint's obvious theatrics as he continues with gravely determination, like a man drawing his last breath under the spotlight on stage.
“Peter gets my comic collection, and Nat gets my knives....”
He finally drags his hand down to cover Clint's mouth, peering down at him with a pinched brow.
“You're not dying. Come'on.” He can't tell if Barton is trying to deflect with humor, as miserable as he is, but he can guess as much. It's his predictably go-to. But he really must be feeling bad if he's bringing himself to Bucky to wallow rather than hiding himself away until he's at least presentably human-feeling again. Usually, he makes an effort to hide when things are really bad, even from Bucky. (The worst he's seen is 'before coffee Clint' and 'I have an owie, kiss it better' Clint) So this is a big step that the soldier isn't quite prepared for.
Clint coughs against his palm and Bucky moves it away to give him room to breathe, wiping it off on the leg of his cotton pants as if that had any hope of rubbing away the germs.
“You're gonna let me take care of you.” It's both a question and a statement, maybe a bit of a demand even if he's a little surprised by the realization of it. Not that it matters, Clint can't read his tone, just his words, bewildered as his expression might be. Clint pulls a face as his eyes flick away and Bucky's face softens before he's back to stroking his cheek, days worth of stubble rasping beneath his fingertips.
Okay, still stubborn, but at least he's finally reaching out, and Bucky will take any little victory he can get.
“Poor baby.” He murmurs, teasing, drawing his thumb under the blond's eye where the skin is delicate and darkly circled. Fingers trace over his cheekbones, over the bridge of a nose that has been broken too many times and up along his fevered forehead. The touch has it's desired effect; Clint's lids flutter closed and his body relaxes, lips parted to murmur something like his partner's name.
--Then ends up squawking with a broken sound as his voice gives out like a kid going through puberty (or a startled goose) as Bucky scoops him up against his chest as he stands, rolling his shoulders back to pop a few vertebrae, though the taller man's weight in his arms is hardly a burden.
“Aw pillow no! Why?”
“We're having a bath. Then soup. Then I'm putting you to bed.” Which is pretty much the holy-trinity of dealing with a cold. Thankfully Clint's protests are kitten-weak and half-hearted as Bucky carries him to the bathroom, setting him down on the sink counter so he can turn on the shower. He doesn't let the water get past lukewarm before stripping him out of his obnoxious purple PJ pants and crowding him under the shower spray.
“Shit! What the futz Buck?!” Clint tries to scramble back, suddenly more alert than he's been all afternoon, cowering from what must seem like freezing water. Bucky kicks off his own joggers and slips in behind him, corralling him back despite the breathless 'no no noo' like he's being lead into a firing squad. There isn't enough traction under his bare feet and Bucky's a wall of muscle behind him despite being nearly a head shorter.
He gets him back under the water, reaching past him to adjust the tap so Clint will at least stop chattering miserably. It's probably a bit of an outdated way to get a fever down, but it's all he can remember.
“This is cruel and unusual punishment.” Clint protests weakly, tucking his face against his neck and Bucky lifts his chin for him, smoothing his palms up and down his back until the tension ebbs away as the sweat is washed from his skin. He keeps them there for minutes, gradually increasing the temperature until the heat-leech attached to his chest lets up his grip and turns his face towards the water.
He leaves Clint to wash up with a parting kiss against the back of his neck, stepping out to towel off and pick their discarding clothing up from the floor, knowing the blond would just try to put the same worn pajamas back on if left to his own devices. He digs another pair from the closet, red-flannel covered in little blue spiders, tacky, but at least the cord isn't broken on these. Both the pants and a towel are left folded by the sink and he catches Clint's eye long enough to sign to him. Five more minutes while he makes lunch.
Bucky loses track of time while putting around the kitchen, keeping an ear out for the sound of running water. He browses his tablet for simple soup recipes, feeling particularly domestic in a warm-fuzzy sort of way that he doesn't try to analyze too deeply, just basks in the pleasant sensation that sits feather-light in the pit of his chest as he sorts through the herb rack he doesn't remember acquiring so much as it appeared on the counter one day between the coffee maker and toaster. Probably a gift from Sam who always insisted his cooking was bland because white people. Bucky had stated that the reason he wasn't a five-star chef was because he had to abandon his cooking skills in favor of fifty different ways to kill a man with a paperclip. (Barton had boasted he knew fifty-one, and Natasha beat them both out with an even hundred.)
He pulls out thyme and rosemary, scrunching up his nose when he realizes he's humming Scarborough Fair and the song will be stuck in his head for hours if he doesn't distract himself with something else. It takes three attempts to bite back the urge to sing along with the lyrics in his head before he simply gives in, opening a can of chicken to dump into the pot of store-bought stock. They don't cook enough to keep anything fresh on hand, though he does find an onion at the end of it's life that ends up chopped, sauteed and into the soup. A can of sliced carrots, a can of peas, and why not throw in a can of french-style greenbeans? (He doesn't know why they're called that, and he's been to France.)
Bucky's debating adding corn when Clint appears in kitchen doorway, heavy-lidded and still damp enough that the flannel clings to his thighs and there's a sheen to his skin that dries out Bucky's throat--just because he's ill and Bucky is in mother-hen mode doesn't mean he isn't any less attracted to his guy.
Clint's abs are distracting enough that he doesn't recognize the fresh sign of bruising around his nose or the smear of blood along his upper lip until the other man is shuffling up close to inspect the coffee maker and it's woefully empty pot.
“Jesus Barton, how did you manage to hurt yourself in ten minutes?” Bucky has this sigh, this grumbling sort of accepting 'the love of my life is a disaster' sound that's both a low rumble and exhale of exasperated but affectionate breath.
Clint has at least one aid in because he answers, rubbing his wrist under his nose to inspect, making sure the bleeding had stopped. “I fell asleep.”
Of course he did. Bucky doesn't feel guilty for leaving Clint alone because he would have somehow managed to injure himself with or without supervision, so instead, he just shakes his head, securing the lid over the soup pot and crosses the room to enfold the blond in his arms. Clint hooks his chin over Bucky's shoulder, eyes open just enough to study the ingredients spread out across the kitchen counter, even if they're just empty cans and a bubbling pot. He can't smell much thanks to his stuffy sinuses, but what he can pick up is pleasant and savory.
“You actually made me soup?”
“I told you I was gonna take care of you.” Bucky refuses to feel affronted at getting called out on being caring. Still, there's a prickle of heat at the back of his neck that he knows is a flush setting in. Clint just hums, his chest vibrating against his own.
“You're perfect, it's not even fair.” Clint murmurs and Bucky jerks slightly, but he's trapped under the archer's tightening grip. He's still weak and fatigued but he makes the effort to hang on against the strength of a super soldier, and Bucky doesn't try too hard to fight it, just cradles Clint's face in his palms and presses lips against his forehead. Still warm, but not as hot as before, so there's an improvement.
“Get your ass to bed, I'll bring lunch when it's done.” He nudges Barton back, guiding him with hands on his shoulders a few steps towards the bedroom before the archer is shuffling off on his own, casting only a brief glance over his shoulder to catch the no doubt dopey look Bucky's giving him before disappearing beyond the door. Ugh, he's so far gone.
The soup simmers for another thirty minutes before Bucky drops the heat to let it cool, building up a tray with juice and crackers, then finally filling a bowl. He's almost afraid to try it himself, but a testing bite proves that it's at least edible, a little salty... but it a satisfying sort of way, and while it's nothing to write home about, it tastes home-cooked rather than canned and he can't help but feel a little pleased by the results.
Clint, on the other hand, moans at the first bite like it's the greatest thing he's ever put in his mouth. And Bucky, knowing both his range of moans and the number of things he's put in his mouth, is a little jealous of the reaction his soup elicits. Still he brings him a second serving, letting Clint eat his fill until he's sinking back in bed, boneless and lethargic, the fever starved and the cold fed.
They curl up in bed afterward, Bucky enjoying the subtle scent of green apple shampoo and warm skin as he buries his nose against the nape of Clint's neck, spooned against him under freshly laundered sheets. His fevers broke, though his lungs still rattle with each breath, coughs few and far between but clearing.
“Thanks for taking care of me, Buck.” Clint finally murmurs after a span of silence, they're both awake but barely, somewhere between the spell of sleep and groggy wakefulness.
Bucky rumbles a sound in reply, lips moving against Clint's shoulder. “Mm. You know me, in sickness and in health.”
He's not sure why he says it, it's just the first thing that pops into his mind, and he goes still as Clint stiffens against him, processing. Then he's soft again, all lean muscle and good humor.
“Sounds a little like you're proposing...” It should sound like it's teasing, but there's a bit of apprehension, anticipation, begging to be let down easy.
And Bucky finds he doesn't regret the words, even if he's not quite ready for them, someday, maybe.
“Maybe I am.”
Clint doesn't answer him, just opens his mouth, then closes it again, pulling Bucky's arm firmly around him like the soldier makes a better blanket than the one pooled around their hips. It isn't an answer, but 'maybe' was never a question, just a promise that allowed for more time.
They were both good at waiting.