Work Text:
“Thank you so much.”
“Oh no, thank you! I’ll have that right out for you guys.”
Steve watched as Bucky handed the waitress their menus, his classic charming smile out on display.
As she disappeared into the kitchen, Steve rested his chin on his propped-up hand and peered out the café window. The world just outside was bustling and bright and alive, like something Steve always wanted to draw but never could because everything was moving too fast. Bucky had insisted on taking him into Manhattan to this brunch spot in Union Square where all the waitresses were up and coming models or something. Steve told Bucky that he really didn’t care if he brought him McDonald’s for breakfast, he just liked spending time with him. But Buck had promised to take him to the farmer’s market afterwards, so he grabbed his coat and his metro card.
It was late fall, and New York had turned shades of tawny reds and yellows. The air was becoming cold and sharp, slicing through his bones like it used to slice through the thin walls of their old apartment. When they’d first entered the café—Bucky holding open the door for him, as always, and Steve rolling his eyes, as always—and hung up their coats and scarves on the coat rack, Steve had been struck by the sudden warmth hitting his skin, and the sounds of voices, and plates clattering together, and soft music on the radio.
The old red vinyl of the booth squeaked as they slid into it on either side. Bucky winked at the hostess as she flipped over their coffee cups and filled them. Then he turned to looked at Steve, smirking at him from across the table. His shoulders were a little hunched, like he was trying to make himself smaller. He licked his lips and timidly slid his hands onto the tabletop, palms up, a shy offering.
Steve smiled back at him and slid his hands into Bucky’s. No matter how big or small, how young or old, they always fit together perfectly, like puzzle pieces. They were meant to be together.
The late morning was filled with laughter and stories and delicious plates of food being shuffled around the table. Bucky would stab his fork into something on his plate and press it to Steve’s lips without even asking, insisting it was delicious and he had to try it. After the first few times, it got hard for Steve to pretend like he was bothered. It was moments like these—with the warm midmorning sun pressed up against the window, wrapping them up together like a big fluffy blanket, holding them inside their own little world, just the two of them—that Steve wished would never come to an end. But of course, they always did.
Eventually, the waitress came with the bill. As Steve was settling up, he heard Bucky’s phone buzz once, then twice in his pocket. He fished it out and checked the notification, then Steve watched as his eyes flicked up to the TV mounted above the bar. A hush fell over the restaurant as the hostess turned up the volume.
“Breaking news. There has been a bombing at South Station in Boston. The suspected domestic terrorist attack took place at approximately 10:30 AM this morning. Search and rescue are currently on the scene looking for survivors—”
Steve turned to look at Bucky. A cloud had drifted in front of the sun and the booth they were in had gone cold and dark. Bucky was staring at the phone in his hand, his shoulders set and rigid, his face expressionless. Steve could see his eyes scanning the screen, presumably reading a message from Nick Fury.
Steve just sat there across from him, brow furrowed, biting his lip, hands folded in his lap. He didn’t speak.
Bucky sighed and flexed his right hand against the table top.
“Fury’s got more intel on the attack, says there could be more trouble on the way…”
“—More bombs?” Steve leaned in closer, trying to keep his voice down.
“Could be,” He shrugged. “Fury needs me and Sam to go in and find out. Before it gets worse.”
Steve’s mind was suddenly flooded with visions of fire and blood, and bright flashes of light swimming behind his eyelids. Loud cracks like thunder and the sound of a train engine echoed between his ears.
“This just in. We’ve received word of a manifesto released by the domestic terrorist organization claiming responsibility for the Boston train station bombing that occurred this morning. This station will not be reporting on the full transcript which was released, but the summary, reported by the authorities, states they are directly addressing Captain Sam Wilson and his partner, Sergeant James Barnes, in response to their involvement in foiling another attempted bombing by a nationalist group in London four months ago—”
The murmurs throughout the restaurant seemed to steadily grow louder. Steve could feel eyes on him and Bucky from all over the room. The café door swung open and a strong gust of wind came up the street and snuck inside. It wound its way up Steve’s spine and he froze. Suddenly, there was a black hole inside his lungs. The vacuum sucking up all the air swiftly crept up the walls of his windpipe. It felt like someone was choking him, pressing their fingers down on his neck. Hard.
He gasped for air and clutched at his chest, thumping against it with a closed fist and letting out a deep, raspy cough. He squinted at Bucky from across the booth, but he was blurry. His eyes were beginning to water.
“Steve, Steve—can you hear me?” Bucky sat up and leaned over the table, reaching his hands out to cup Steve’s face.
Steve frantically nodded and held both hands out in front of him, like he was signaling I don’t need your help.
“Bullshit, Rogers, c’mere.” Bucky swatted his hands away and tenderly gripped him by the shoulders. He felt Bucky gently twisting him from left to right, trying to get a good look at his face.
Steve’s throat felt like it was on fire. Every breath of air he managed to pull in seemed to turn into biting smoke that he was forced to swallow down into his broken lungs.
“Can’t…breathe—” Steve used whatever strength he had left to force the words out, wrapping his own hands around his neck as a signal.
“Shit—hold on a second, bud. You’re gonna be ok.” Bucky suddenly drew back, then vaulted up out of the booth and dashed to the front of the restaurant. Steve tried to turn and follow him with his eyes but he broke out in another fit of coughs. He made eye contact with the hostess and saw her frantically whispering to one of the waitresses while she poured a glass of water.
He could hear Bucky’s footsteps behind him, coming closer, and the sound of voices on the television, low but present, like an uncomfortable hum in the air that you can’t escape:
“…a direct message for Captain Wilson and Sergeant Barnes…”
“…a warning…’you can’t stop us’…’get in our way’…’suffer the consequences…’”
“‘We are watching you.’”
His vision was starting to go dark around the edges, no, wait, that’s—Bucky’s shadow loomed over Steve as he slid into the booth next to him and wrapped his right arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close and bringing his left arm up to Steve’s mouth.
“Here,” he said, his voice soft and controlled. “Breathe in slow.”
Steve felt him press the rescue inhaler to his lips. Bucky held down the button and Steve took in a long, deep breath, counting to five in his head.
One.
He closed his eyes.
Two.
Sam and Bucky, they were there.
Three.
They were walking away from him,
Four.
disappearing into a cloud of smoke and ash.
Five.
Communication was lost, all he could hear was static.
“Now hold it.”
Steve held the little ball of air he’d inhaled, tucked away deep inside of him, resting on top of his diaphragm. He imagined himself holding it in his hands like a ball of clay, rolling it between his fingers, compressing it down into the smallest space it could possibly take up, keeping it as close to his center as possible.
“And breathe out.”
Bucky was rubbing tight circles into the center of his back, between the bony points of his shoulder blades. Steve felt his ribcage rattling as he released the tight ball of air, his chest collapsing as it escaped. He confidently picked himself up by his sternum, as though an invisible string were attached to him, pulling his body up towards the ceiling. He tried to take the inhaler out of Bucky’s grip but his hands were shaking.
“That’s it. You’re doing great bud, just keep breathing.”
Steve let out an annoyed sigh that came out more like a grunt (in between all the coughing and wheezing) and set his hands in his lap, focusing on counting his inhales and exhales in his head. Slowly, time began to pass again, and each breath became easier and easier until Steve could finally push the inhaler away from his face.
“Thanks, Buck,” Steve said. He let out a little cough and Bucky immediately jumped in his seat, bringing the inhaler up again. Steve gently laid a hand on his forearm. “Relax, I’m fine.” Bucky backed away slowly, hesitantly tucking the inhaler in his pants pocket.
There was a long pause between the two of them. The hostess—who had stood back while Steve was using the rescue inhaler—came over with the glass of water. She gave Bucky an apprehensive glance, to which Bucky nodded and she swiftly left them be.
The rest of the diners had returned to their own conversations. The low hum of voices from the tv still permeated the air between them like an electric charge.
Bucky opened his mouth, about to speak, when his phone buzzed again.
His mouth closed as he read the text from Fury.
“Shit, I’m sorry Stevie.” He ran his right hand back up and down Steve’s back, keeping his eyes focused on the screen. “I gotta go to work.” He looked up, and when their eyes met, it took all of the strength Steve had left in him not to break.
Bucky lowered his voice and leaned in, soft and close. “You sure you gonna be ok?” He asked. Steve knew that tone of voice, that I mean it, bud, I’m worried sick about you tone, that Bucky used to whip out whenever Steve got sick and tried to hide it from him, so he wouldn’t keep Bucky from living his own damn life for once.
Steve looked down into his lap and rubbed his lips together.
“Yeah, Buck, I’ll be alright. Just be careful out there, ok?”
“I will, bud. Now let’s get you home, alright?” He leaned down and gave Steve a tender kiss on the forehead. Steve cherished the feeling of Bucky’s warm fingers tangled up in his bangs, and committed it to memory.
The click of the front door closing echoed throughout the entire house. Steve sat curled up in his chair in the sunroom, sketchpad resting on his lap. He felt the ghost of Bucky’s lips pressed against him; his face, the top of his head, the bruised, bony knuckles of his hands. Everywhere except those spots felt cold and hollow.
His inhaler sat on the side table next to him. He was shivering, underneath the fuzzy blanket he was wrapped up in.
For the first time in what felt like ages, when he pressed pencil to paper, the lead immediately snapped.
An hour earlier…
“We’ll be continuing our ongoing coverage of the terror attack in Boston after these messages from our sponsors—”
“Can you turn that off, please?”
Bucky didn’t turn when he spoke, just kept his head down, focused on his hands folding clothes, stuffing equipment into his black, military grade, canvas duffel bag.
Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, his tablet set down next to him. He exited out of his news app and gently pushed the device away.
A pause. Then, quietly:
“Thank you.”
“Sure thing, Buck.” Steve’s voice tapered off as he got up and wandered into the master bathroom.
He rested his hands on the edge of the counter and his whole body slumped over the sink. He peaked up at his reflection in the mirror. He was still getting used to, this—being himself again, like waking up from a long dream. How quickly even he forgot: he spent most of his life as Steve Rogers, not Captain America. And if you really think about it, I spent most of it completely frozen in one spot.
He turned on the faucet and cupped his hands underneath the cold stream of water, splashing some of it onto his face and rubbing it into his skin. He peaked over his left shoulder, and saw Bucky hunched over his bag, fiddling with something. It reminded Steve of when they had gone to the café that morning, how he’d always get so small in front of him. But this was a different type of small, the kind that made Steve wish he still had the serum, so he could wrap Bucky up completely in between his arms and never let him go. He had a hard time looking at this type of small. When he turned back towards the mirror and reached up to open the cabinet, that’s when the coughing started.
Steve didn’t have to turn back around to sense Bucky was moving towards him from across the room.
The coughing was thick and wet and terrible, buried deep down in his chest and burning his throat as it tried to come out. He banged a fist against his heart a couple of times and death-gripped the edge of the counter with his free hand. He felt a cold droplet of water slip down the side of his face, onto his chin, then fall down through his shirt, causing an enormous chill to burst up through his entire body. His eyes started to water and he shut them again, right before Bucky placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“You alright, bud?” He’d switched to his worried voice (or more accurately, his worried about Steve voice). Steve opened his eyes.
“I’m—fuck, I’m—I’m fine, Buck, just—” he kept patting his chest as he struggled to take in enough air to speak.
“Do you need your inhaler again? Should I call a doctor?” Bucky already had one foot out the bathroom door when Steve turned and stopped him with a look.
He took a few more seconds to let out the last few coughs, hand pressed to his heart. “I’m fine, Buck. I probably just have a cold—”
“God, Steve, you know it’s never just a cold.” Bucky reached his right hand up and tenderly pressed it against Steve’s forehead. Steve smacked it away.
“I’m not a baby anymore, Buck! I’m fine!” Bucky paused and took a step back at Steve’s tone. Steve was taken aback by himself, the sound of his voice echoing against the tile. Gently, he reached out and took Bucky’s hand—the one he’d just swatted away—and held it between the two of them. His voice softened. “Buck, I’m fine. Besides, we live in the future, and they’ve got all types of vaccines and antibiotics now, and we finally have insurance to cover all of it. So don’t waste your time worrying about me all day, old man.”
Bucky smiled down at him, a small smile, but a good one. Steve couldn’t help but smile back, even if Bucky’s flesh hand felt cold in his.
Suddenly, a buzz came from the bedroom.
Then another.
Bucky’s smile fell.
“I’ve gotta go to work.”
And so did Steve’s.
Steve worried the edge of the drawing paper between his chapped fingertips. He could still taste the chalkiness of all the pills he’d swallowed, after Bucky had swiftly left the bathroom and finished packing. He didn’t like how the taste sat at the back of his throat for so long. A reminder of who I really am.
After those text messages, as was always the case, the bubble burst, and Bucky was on his way back to work. Steve barely even had time to say goodbye, let alone admit to Bucky that he hadn’t gotten his flu shot yet. With the way the news anchors were talking, it just hadn’t seemed like the right moment. And besides, Steve knew himself better than anyone, and after a hundred years, he was pretty sure he knew when he just had a cold. Nothing to worry about.
The old grandfather clock Pepper had gifted them—a relic of Howard’s estate—ticked along stoically in the corner of the sunroom. Steve sat back further into his chair and watched the sun move across the sky at the edge of the garden. He spent the rest of the morning slipping in and out of sleep, thinking of ideas for his sketchbook but never actually starting anything, listing out errands in his head; groceries, cleaning, charity auction, therapy…. Sometimes, when he drifted off, and the sun would peak through the old glass windowpanes and sneak under his eyelids, he’d see the bright lights and smoke of machines. He’d hear whirring and yelling and dress shoes squeaking, as men in white coats ran across sterile tile. Then he’d feel a press of a needle in his arm, and he’d wake up.
As the clock struck two, Steve finally came up from out of his haze and went to work. Go figure, it took Steve actually retiring to realize how stressful being a homemaker could be. Now that he was actually living in a home—and not on a quinjet or in an army barracks—he knew how different it felt when it was dirty or clean—empty or full. When he’d been an Avenger, his Brooklyn apartment had been decorated for him by SHIELD. It had always felt cold and impersonal, like they’d plucked it out of a museum display about him. Now that he had the time and money to furnish his own place, his and Bucky’s, he took as much pride in it as he did any of his other work. Which, coincidentally, meant chores, even when he felt a little off.
He found himself in the guest bedroom, changing the sheets and dusting the furniture. After fluffing one of the pillows, he stopped to catch his breath and wipe a bit of sweat off his brow. He rested his hands on his hips and turned to look at the portrait of Nat hung on the opposite side of the room. The guest bedroom wasn’t used too often, so Steve figured it could be her room, in its own way.
He sighed and picked up the duster resting on the bedside table, walking over to the old wooden dresser that sat below the painting. When he kicked the dust up into the air, he watched it float on the beam of light coming in through the window, gently caressing the soft edges of her face. Steve reached up and rested a hand on the frame.
Suddenly, his eyes were watering again, and he felt a damp cloud forming in his lungs. He clutched at the edge of the dresser and leaned over it as he heaved out another round of thick, watery coughs. He couldn’t tell if it was the light hitting him, but he felt himself suddenly getting very warm.
Damn dusty old house. Steve stumbled his way down the hall towards the master bedroom, unceremoniously dropping the duster somewhere along the way. He wondered to himself if perhaps his own insides were coated with a layer of dust too.
He shuffled into the bathroom, passing by the bed—and the faint indentation left in the comforter by Bucky’s heavy duffel bag. He fumbled around in the drawers underneath the sink, listening to the plastic pill bottles rattling together, until he found some old vitamin C tablets, the label halfway scrubbed off the side. His hands shook as he cracked the lid open, and a couple of the chalky orange tablets fell into the sink. He set the bottle down and scrubbed his eyes. When he glanced back up at himself in the mirror, he saw a ghost.
The grandfather clock struck 2:30. With the taste of artificial citrus stuck to the back of his tongue, he made his way down the stairs, pulled on his coat and boots, and shoved his aching body out the door.
The world outside was frozen over. Everything seemed to have been stretched farther apart than normal, including the people. The sidewalks were barren. Steve trudged along with the wind scratching at his cheeks and nose. He grumbled as he adjusted his scarf so it covered more of his face. The sharp air sliced through the old ratty coat that he refused to get rid of, right through to his skin. He could feel goosebumps prickling up his arms inside of his sleeves.
When he reached for the door to Dr. Johnson’s office, his hands were still shaking.
“Hello, Mr. Rogers,” The receptionist looked up from whatever she was typing and smiled at him. “If you have a seat, Dr. Johnson will be right with you.”
“Thank you,” Steve muttered, smiling back. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and sat himself down gently in one of the reception chairs. His shoulders burned with a dull ache as he shifted in his seat. He glanced around the quaint waiting room. Everything was in its usual place; the clock ticking away on the far wall, the months-old magazines spread across the coffee table, and the small flat-screen television sitting on a side table tucked away in the corner. The volume was on low, but it was audible (even with Steve’s bad ear). They were showing the news.
“We’re continuing our coverage of the terrorist attack at Boston South Station today. Captain America and his team were on the scene earlier this morning, accompanied by local law enforcement. According to a report released by Boston PD officials, Captain Wilson and Sergeant Barnes were searching for evidence leading to the capture and arrest of members of a white nationalist terrorist cell based in Upstate New York.”
Steve took his hands out of his pockets and wrung them together in his lap. His right leg bounced in his seat.
“This is the first major attack attributed to the group—whose name will not be publicized by this network—but their online presence is allegedly much larger, with their official website touting membership from all across the United States. Their recently updated manifesto includes graphic descriptions of plans to target Captain Wilson and Sergeant Barnes directly. In a statement made to reporters on the scene, Wilson said he and Barnes felt a responsibility to respond to the attack, in order to protect those who were affected by it, and to prevent the spread of further violence—”
A creaking sound—almost like a piece of metal, twisting and breaking—echoed between Steve’s ears.
“Steven?” Dr. Johnson peaked her head out of her office. It was just the door. “Come on in.” She motioned towards herself, smiling softly.
Steve stood up quickly, wiping his hands on the front of his pants. “Thank you, Doctor.” He sat back down, this time inside her office, while she shut the door behind him.
“Tell me how you’re feeling today, Steve.” Her voice was light and warm.
He fidgeted in his chair. “Uh, I’m alright I guess.” He coughed. “Been feeling a little sick recently.”
“Oh really? She perched herself on the edge of her desk. “And how long has that been going on?”
“Since this morning.”
She looked him up and down. Steve tried not to give away anything with his face as he felt her analyzing him with her eyes. He coughed again.
“Do you have a fever?”
He reached around and scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, I don’t know… Bucky tried to check earlier, before he left for work.”
“I see…” She took out her notebook. “So he’s concerned as well?”
Steve straightened up a little bit. “Well I wouldn’t say I’m concerned…”
“Well why not?” She set her paper down and folded her hands delicately in her lap.
He shrugged. “Well, I know myself pretty well, and I used to get sick a lot, y’know, back in the forties, but now—” He broke into another bout of coughs. She pursed her lips and waited until he was done before she spoke again.
“I used to be a medical doctor, Steven. Would you mind if I go ahead and check for you?”
His leg started bouncing again. “Oh! Uh, that won’t be necessary, Doctor, but thank you for offering—”
“Oh no, Steven I’m not offering.” She was already behind her desk rummaging through one of her drawers. “I feel as though it would be unethical to continue our session if I knew you required immediate medical attention.”
Steve could sense the sly humor in her voice, but he was not amused. While she was sticking the thermometer in his ear, he stared out the window at the brick building across the street, and listened to the sounds of cars driving past and the wind rushing up and down the avenues.
His temperature was holding at 100 degrees. Dr. Johnson gave him a referral to a walk-in clinic in his neighborhood and sent him on his way.
“…graphic depictions of plans to target Captain Wilson and Sergeant Barnes directly—” The news anchor’s words were still banging around in Steve’s head as he walked, arms wrapped around himself in a feeble attempt to keep warm. “Wilson and Barnes felt a responsibility—” He shook his head and grumbled. He couldn’t be mad—of course he couldn’t! He knew exactly how they felt. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d stood in their shoes, held the mantle, fought to protect people. But now, the list of people Steve needed to protect was much shorter.
The wind had picked up since he'd last been outside. He sneezed and it got caught on the edge of his scarf. The damp material quickly began forming gross, snotty crystals that pressed up against his face and only brought the cold in closer. The sharp breeze blew right through him, trying to pick him up off the empty sidewalk like a kite. He watched a few yellow cabs drive by, and considered flagging one down, but then, across the street, something caught his eye.
It was a medium sized corner bodega, like any other in the city. A young couple was just leaving, plastic bag in hand. The woman reached up to the man and folded his scarf around his neck a second time, then rested her palms on his jacket lapel. He looked down at her and smiled, then leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek.
C’mon girls, they’re playing our song…
As they walked down the sidewalk hand in hand, Steve had made up his mind.
He left the store about ten minutes later, headed out with his own bag of goodies in his shaky, frostbitten hands; home remedies like lemon, turmeric, and ginger, some snacks, some produce—who needed the walk in clinic, anyways? Steve had a life at home, he had work to do, groceries to put away, responsibilities of his own. So that’s where he was headed.
He made it just past the front door.
Levels at 100 percent…serum infusion…will cause…immediate cellular change….
“Steve, Steve—”
Every bone in his body seemed to creak and groan as his eyes fluttered open, his body shifting beneath the blanket. A dull, pulsating pain emanated from somewhere on the right side of his head. He felt so heavy.
“Steve, are you awake, pal? Can you hear me?”
He turned his head over his right shoulder and peered out the window. The sun was setting over the harbor, the metal of the fire escape reflecting the light into the small bedroom. He could barely make out the spot behind the yellowed curtain where the wallpaper was peeling. He turned his head and his eyes followed his outstretched arm. His left hand was limp at his side. Someone else’s hand was holding it.
“Hey, pal.” Bucky was smiling down at him. His hair was short, his face bare. “You took quite the tumble today, huh?”
Steve smiled back. “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Those punks didn’t know what hit em.” His voice was soft and scratchy.
Bucky reached over Steve with his right hand and gently pushed his hair back from his forehead. Then he cupped his cheek, slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth. His left hand stayed entwined with Steve’s, warm and rough with calluses.
“You had me worried sick, bud.” Bucky let out a brief sigh. “Don’t go running around pickin’ fights without me anymore, alright?”
Steve laughed, and he felt a pinch in his chest. “Sure thing, Buck. I know how much you love to dance.”
Bucky took his hand away and Steve’s whole body went cold.
“Why don’t you get some rest, bud.”
As he started walking, Steve reached his hand out to try and stop him, but he couldn’t manage to sit himself up straight.
“Bucky, wait—”
The bedroom door creaked open and a blinding white light shone through it. Steve’s vision was going blurry. He watched as Bucky stepped into the light, and he heard echoes of gunshots and canon fire in the distance.
“Please! Come back…”
Serum infusion…beginning in 5…4…3…2…
“STEVE! Oh, Steve, thank god!”
His vision was becoming clearer. He felt a throbbing in his temple, and a sharp pain deep inside his chest. Shadows and splotches of light were dancing around the room together. He could hear the grandfather clock off in the distance as it struck: it was five o’clock.
He also heard the clanging of cups hastily being set down, and feet shuffling across the floor towards the bed.
And then there was Bucky, all six feet, 200-something pounds of him, leaning over the bed, his hair hanging down over his face. There he was, all in one piece. Thank god.
He reached across the bed and picked the thermometer up off the bedside table.
“Open.”
Steve let his mouth fall open and Bucky proceeded to take his temperature. He hummed as his lips closed around the cold metal and plastic. Bucky looked down at him and their eyes met. His vision tunneled, and all of the warmth inside of their bodies filled up the air between them. Bucky smiled. Steve smiled back. The larger man reached down and cupped Steve’s cheek with his left hand, rubbing his thumb tenderly back and forth below his eye. Steve leaned into the touch, holding eye contact with him as he turned his head and placed a soft kiss on Bucky’s metal palm. He knew that Bucky could feel it.
He felt the thermometer slide back out from between his lips. “Hmm… looks like your fever hasn’t gone down…” Bucky pursed his lips as he studied the readout closely. “But it hasn’t gone up either, so that’s a good sign.”
Steve looked around. He was in their master bedroom, in the their brownstone in Brooklyn, bundled up in the blankets in a t-shirt and sweatpants, not the clothes he’d gone out in. The last thing he remembered was digging for keys in his pocket with frostbitten fingers.
“What happened?” He asked.
Bucky sat up, placing a hand on Steve’s leg and rubbing gently. “Pepper called Nick Fury, told him you were supposed to talk to her about some art auction, and that you weren’t answering your phone. She got worried.”
“So…you came back?”
Bucky sighed. “Nick called me, asked me if it was normal for you to not answer your phone like that. I told him to send a quinjet to Buffalo, ASAP. I came home, found you passed out in the foyer with your groceries all over the floor, runnin’ a hundred-degree fever.”
Steve sat up abruptly, causing a fit of coughs in the process. Bucky held onto his shoulders and waited for him to finish.
When he was done spluttering, he spoke, his voice scratchy. “Is Sam alright?”
“Oh, Sam? Yeah he’s fine.”
“Then why aren’t you out there with him?”
Bucky scoffed. “Cuz you were passed out on the living room floor, dumbass!”
“But I’m fine, Buck! I can take care of myself! What about the mission?”
“Some things are more important than the mission, Steve.”
Steve was taken aback. He moved away from Bucky slightly and his back thumped up against the headboard.
“But—but they hurt people, Buck! Are those people’s lives worth any less than mine?”
Bucky looked back at him, confused. “No, no, Stevie of course not.” He leaned in and grabbed both of Steve’s hands, holding them together in his lap. “It’s just—” he sighed again and looked away. “I don’t wanna live my life constantly fighting, just ‘cuz there’s people out there who don’t like who I work with, or who I go home to, y’know? That’s what they want at the end of the day, Steve, a fight. And when I got that phone call from Nick today—” Steve could see Bucky’s bright blue eyes starting to glisten in the low light. “All of a sudden, I had to decide what’s more important to me, and in this moment, right now, it’s you. Alright, pal? It’ll always be you. No matter what.”
He leaned down and gave Steve a gentle kiss on the forehead.
Steve felt his own eyes begin to water.
He chuckled softly. “Y’know, Buck, I can get by just fine on my own—”
“Don’t make me say it, punk.”
They both laughed.
“Now, let’s get you in the tub, huh?”
Steve remembered how Bucky always used to give him a bath when he was sick. It was something his ma had done for him when he was little, and Bucky had insisted on continuing the tradition in her absence. The fact that almost a hundred years had passed was no exception to that rule.
Bucky hoisted him up out of the bed, carefully cradling him in his arms, a big, warm hand resting on the center of his back. Steve always protested this part the most—
I’m not a baby, Buck!
Sure sure, whatever, pal…
—but he secretly liked it and hoped he would never stop doing it. He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s neck and his legs around Bucky’s waist, and held on as he watched the bed get farther away. Once they were in the bathroom, Steve noticed the tub was already full, and that the water smelled like roses and lavender. Bucky gently sat him down on the closed toilet seat and knelt down in front of the tub, sticking his fingers in the water to test the temperature.
“You’re lucky we live in the future now, with that fancy tankless heater thing downstairs? Otherwise, this would definitely be cold and you’d be shit outta luck, kid.”
Steve laughed again and stuck his arms out above his head. Bucky stripped him slowly. First came his shirt, pulled over his head (he always seemed to love it when it messed up Steve’s hair). Then, Bucky helped him stand and carefully slipped Steve’s sweatpants and briefs off, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. Steve stood there and watched as Bucky took off his own clothes and unceremoniously added them to the pile.
Bucky turned around, completely nude, and hoisted Steve back up into his arms again before stepping one foot into the tub, then the other, and finally sitting the both of them down with Steve positioned in his lap, his back resting against Bucky’s front. He heard Bucky let out a deep sigh as the warm water hit his skin. Steve leaned into Bucky’s chest and relaxed as well, tucking his head into the crook of Bucky’s neck. For the first time in a long while, the other man’s skin felt cold.
“God, you don’t know how scared I was when I found you earlier.”
Bucky’s voice was soft and low. Steve felt something in his chest tighten up, and he reflexively rubbed a hand against his knee where it poked out above the water.
“I’m sorry, Buck,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
“Ahh… it’s all right, pal. I know you worry about me too.” Bucky reached his own hand around and rested it on top of Steve’s knee.
They fell into a comfortable silence. The warm bath and the aroma of lavender oil and rosewater settled deep inside of Steve, and the feeling of Bucky’s chest steadily rising and falling eventually lulled him to sleep.
When he woke up, he was being hoisted back out of the water and wrapped up in several giant, white fluffy bath towels. He didn’t talk as Bucky carefully toweled him off, letting himself enjoy the feeling of the soft fabric being gently rubbed against his skin and hair by Buck’s steady hands. When he finished, he patted Steve gently on his sides.
“Stay put for a minute, alright? I’m gonna go change the sheets real quick.”
Steve watched as Bucky left the bathroom and started quickly tearing the sheets off the bed. He sat there for a moment as Bucky worked, looking down at his wrinkly toes. His legs weren’t nearly as long as they used to be, and it was easier to kick them while he was sitting. He felt a little bead of water roll down a strand of his hair and drop onto the bridge of his nose.
When he looked back up, Bucky was gone. He stood and waddled to the doorway leading into the bedroom, just in time to see Bucky coming back in with a laundry basket in hand.
“Thought you might want some fresh sheets when you woke up.” Steve watched with a smile plastered to his face as Bucky carefully replaced the bed covering, folding the corners of the flat sheet and fluffing the pillows. He could feel the warmth radiating off the linen from across the room.
When Bucky was finished, he came over to Steve and offered him his hand. Steve gladly took it, and was lead to the edge of the bed and pushed onto it. As Bucky helped button him into his freshly washed PJs (the fancy ones, that Pepper had gotten him) he took in the smell of dryer sheets and Bucky’s wet hair hanging down over his face. It smelled like home.
Soon he was tucked back into bed, sitting up against the headboard while Bucky fiddled with a tray of food on the other side of the room.
“I had to, uh—I had to reheat the tea, so, uh, sorry if it doesn’t taste right.” He was fiddling with a stirring spoon. “Wanted to make sure it was hot enough so the honey could dissolve.” He spun around and brought over the dinner tray, carefully placing it on the bed next to Steve. Then, he cleared his throat and began gesturing at the different food items with his hands, like some kind of fancy restaurant waiter. “Here, we have some lemon and ginger tea, made to order from the ingredients you spilled all over the floor.” Steve brought his hand up to his mouth as he chuckled. “—And here you’ll see some NyQuil, which you’re taking whether you like it or not. And finally, over here, we have a homemade noodle soup in an organic chicken broth, served in a whole wheat—”
“That’s not homemade, Buck! You bought it from Panera Bread!”
Bucky gasped and dramatically brought his hand to his chest. “I’m wounded, Rogers. And to think I went to the trouble of memorizing your order—”
“Postmates has it saved on the app, Buck.”
Bucky paused. Steve watched a smile slowly creep up onto his face before he pounced onto Steve, smothering him with face kisses.
“Buck, stop! You’ll spill the food!” Steve giggled as the onslaught continued, but Bucky eventually pulled back and smiled down at Steve, his hands resting on Steve’s waist as he straddled him.
“You still mad at me?” His voice was low and tender. It was the same voice Steve had heard him use on beautiful dames countless times when they were younger.
Steve shook his head. “No, Buck, I’m just happy you’re here.”
“Well that’s good, cuz I figured if I made the soup myself you’d get even sicker.”
“Buck!” Steve laughed and swatted at his head. Bucky leaned down and began trailing a line of soft kisses along Steve’s jaw and down his neck. Steve relaxed into the pillows and let him do it.
“Speaking of…getting sick…” He interjected between each kiss, as Steve tangled his fingers in his hair, “Doctors appointment…10am…tomorrow—”
“Buck! Way to kill the mood!”