Work Text:
When Steve first tosses his backpack over his shoulder and runs for the bathroom, he thinks it’s just to spit up a mouthful of bile, or some other disgusting bit of stomach secretion. He doesn’t expect to heave more than once or twice, and he certainly doesn’t expect to be in there more than a few minutes. Maybe ten tops if the gagging brings on a dizzy spell.
Steve definitely doesn’t anticipate bringing up food he literally ate last week. He probably shouldn’t have stolen that bite of James’s pizza, but the smell had made him hungry, and he hadn’t had pepperoni and olives in such a long time... Steve shakes his head and spits. The undigested food doesn’t taste nearly as good coming back as it did going down.
He can’t have much in him to expel, but Steve can’t stop his body from trying to turn itself inside out. He grips the edges of the toilet with white knuckles and stares at the center of the drain to keep himself from succumbing to the swirling sensation that’s quickly overtaking his vision and his balance.
Knowing he won’t be able to leave the bathroom under his own power, Steve paws at his back pocket for his phone. He doesn’t know what time it is, or how much of it has elapsed since he first entered the bathroom. He squints at the small numbers on his phone’s display and sees that it’s just a half hour till five, which is James’s usual quitting time for the workday. If Steve’s lucky, he can get him to beg off early. If he can manage to make the phone call without throwing up.
Steve scrolls through his contacts and chooses James’s number. James is allowed to have his phone on him while he’s working, as that’s generally how his supervisor gets ahold of him in the huge echoing warehouse, but he’s not supposed to take personal calls. A call from Steve, though, James will typically answer without second thought.
“Hey,” James says, picking up on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“Can’t stop puking,” Steve replies, forgoing a greeting and forcing out the words to explain the problem instead.
“Huh?”
“I’m sick,” Steve tries again.
“Sick?” James sounds confused, which is odd. He usually jumps into action when Steve isn’t well.
“Yeah.”
“I--sorry.” James clears his throat. “Did you say...?”
“Is something wrong with your phone?” Steve gulps, feeling warm sourness rising in his throat again.
“My aids--they’re in my locker--” James says loudly. “Something was whistling.”
The situation clicks for Steve just as the pressure in his esophagus becomes too much. He holds the phone a foot away from his ear and bends over the toilet to spit.
“Oh,” Steve rasps once he can speak again. “I need you. Did you-- can you hear me?”
“You’re sick? Did you just stop to get sick?”
“You heard that?”
“No,” James admits. “But last time you paused all weird like that you were passed out when I got home.”
“Can you come home?” Steve asks, ensuring he articulates each word clearly without shouting or speaking to James like he’s stupid.
“Lemme ask,” James says. “I think so. Probably.”
“Good,” Steve says with relief. “I can’t get out of the bathroom.”
“Can’t hear you. But lemme ask the boss man, and I’ll put my aids back in when I get to the car, then call you again on my way home.” James’s heavy footfalls echo against the warehouse floor, and Steve relishes the fact that he’s one step closer to coming to help.
“Thank you,” Steve breaths.
“Huh?”
“Thanks,” Steve says louder. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” James replies. “Thanks for not lying there dying on me.”
“Sure,” Steve says with a choked laugh. “Sure thing.”