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“Sleep.” Bucky whispers into the dark room. “Sleep.” He drags the word out like it’s a prayer. He needs to fall asleep. A quick glance at his phone tells him he’ll have six hours of sleep if he falls asleep within the next few minutes. That’s a least three less than he needs to function, but six hours is better than five and a half.
“Fucking sleep.” He says more sternly this time. He rolls over on his stomach, moving around to find a comfortable position. His arms feel awkward at his sides, and his legs keep touching, sticking to each other. The mattress pushes into his stomach, making him feel both better and worse at the same time. He’s so tired he’s nauseous, and every muscle ache with exhaustion.
Steve is in his room, snoring so loudly Bucky can hear it through the walls. He has the ability to fall asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, and above all else, that is Steve’s true superpower; his greatest privilege; his amazing hidden talent.
Listening to someone snoring in deep sleep for hours is possibly the least helpful thing when you’re trying to will yourself to sleep. The only thing less helpful is thinking ‘go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep’, and saying it out loud is even worse.
The comfort of Steve is what Bucky needs, but he doesn’t want to wake Steve up. He needs sleep just as much as Bucky does, maybe even more as he’s the one who has to talk at the meeting in the morning. If Bucky is lucky, he can just sit in a corner and pretend to listen while trying not to fall asleep. But Steve is their leader, he takes charge, and he tells people what to do.
Bucky’s stomach is bothering him more by the minute, and it sets off his anxiety. He knows he isn’t sick; he can’t be. He was hungry at dinner, and he isn’t running a fever. Besides, where would he catch the bug from? He hasn’t been anywhere.
“You’re fine.” He desperately tries to tell himself. Stomach aches are normal. They happen to everyone. He gets them all the time, but it never is anything other than anxiety. That makes it virtually impossible for it to be anything this time either. It just doesn’t happen like this.
Bucky has a problem with illness. Control is something he depends on to function. By proving to himself that he is the one in control, Bucky can be the one in charge, not his trauma. Illness takes away his control. He can’t control when it happens or how it happens. And throwing up is the worst of all.
Which is why Bucky has to talk himself down from panicking every time his stomach growls or hurts or feels weird in any way. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was limited to his own stomach doing weird things. But it also includes any cold symptoms, eating foods that could upset his stomach, or any signs that the people around him are ill.
The only way Bucky handles illness is with complete and utter panic.
The sheets are suddenly stuck to his skin, wet with his sweat. He tries to peel them off of himself, desperate for the cool air to hit his skin, but his muscles are too achy to get them from where he tucked them tightly around his legs. Once again, he tells himself he’s fine. He doesn’t have a fever, he isn’t even that hot, he just got sweaty from making himself anxious.
Despite Steve’s ability to sleep anywhere, anytime, he is a light sleeper. In their line of work, they have to be. Most of the time it’s annoying, because even the smallest sound disturbs their sleep, but this time, it could help Bucky.
He gets out of bed, still tangled in the sheets, and tries not to trip over them on his way to the door. They slip down, falling to the floor, and Bucky leaves them there. As quietly as possible, he exits the room, and opens the door to Steve’s. The snoring instantly gets louder.
Everything in Bucky is telling him to close the door, leave Steve alone, but he knows he can’t be alone when he gets like this. Whatever this is. Anxiety makes him nauseous, and the nausea makes him even more anxious because what if it is more than anxiety? It’s a vicious cycle that keeps spinning in his mind.
Forcing his feet to move, he steps into Steve’s room, closing the door softly behind himself. Somehow, he manages to be so quiet, Steve doesn’t even stir. It’s a relief that he didn’t disturb Steve’s sleep, but what is he supposed to do now? Just standing on the floor seems futile.
Maybe his heart will beat loud enough to wake Steve up. It certainly feels like it is. It beats in time with the throbbing in his head and the rolling in his stomach. Not rolling, just nausea. That’s what makes this just anxiety. If his stomach was rolling, he’d be concerned, but it isn’t. The waves of nausea are evenly building and subsiding, not rolling.
There are many reasons why he might feel nauseous. Anxiety is the most likely one, in that case it’ll melt away as soon as he’s in bed next to Steve. He could have digestive issues, in which case it’ll pass on its own while he’s asleep, it could be something he ate, and it will also pass while he’s sleeping, or he’s just too tired, once again needing sleep.
“Bucky?” Steve mutters groggily from the bed, cutting Bucky’s thoughts off. Bucky didn’t notice the loud snoring stop, filling the room with silence.
“What’s wrong?” Steve pushes himself into a sitting position, leaning over the edge of the bed as if he’s pulled in Bucky’s direction.
“Stomach hurts.” Steve will know what it means. That he’s anxious or has eaten something or is too tired or freaking constipated. That he’s not sick, he just hurts.
“Anxious?” Steve asks, and Bucky knows he should nod, say yes, that’s it. That’s what he’s spent all night trying to convince himself off. But now that he’s here, and Steve is awake and talking to him, the feeling is still there. It didn’t melt away the moment Steve opened his eyes or spoke a word. Which means that something’s wrong.
Bucky just shrugs. He doesn’t know anything anymore.
Steve simply lifts the duvet in invitation. Bucky curls up against his side, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder. Now that he’s safely in Steve’s bed, the feeling eases some. Not all the way, but enough for him to suddenly feel how tired he is. He has no clue what time it is, but there’s no way he’ll get enough sleep tonight.
“You’re warm.” Steve comments, feeling how hot Bucky’s skin is against his side.
“Anxious.” The excuse is weak. His anxiety usually makes him cold. It makes him tense, cutting off his blood circulation, makes him hold his breath, cutting off his oxygen supply. He has no problem breathing now, and he’s so relaxed he’s melting into the mattress, and he’s so warm.
Bucky didn’t even realize he fell asleep until he jerks awake a couple hours later. It’s early dawn, the sky is not really dark anymore, but also not really light yet.
Steve shifts beside him and for a moment he worries he’s woken Steve up again, but Steve just rolls over and starts snoring again. Before he can even wonder what woke him up, the feeling is back, and with a vengeance.
Nausea paralyzes him, every part of him painfully tingles with it.
With limbs fighting against him to stay where they are, he hauls himself out of bed. He needs to get to the bathroom fast, but his legs are moving sluggishly, and he can’t see where he’s going in the dark.
Going by muscle memory, he gets to the stairs. Gripping the railing tightly, he moves down them. He can’t afford tripping down the stairs or losing his balance in this condition.
Every step jostles his stomach, building the urge to gag. He swallows it down, but it’s a losing battle. His heart picks up speed as he realizes he can’t stop it. He will do the thing he fears the most and there’s nothing he can do to change that.
A burning explosion fills the back of his mouth just as he reaches the last step, and he crumbles to the floor, expelling his stomach contents on the carpet. Breaking off with a cough, he takes a shallow breath, before he’s heaving up more of his dinner.
He wants to call out for Steve, but he can’t get a word out between the heaves. Panic is clouding his brain and taking his breath from him as it tells him he will die here. There’s no way a human heart can race this fast without malfunctioning, no way he won’t drown in his own puke, no way he won’t be strangled by the hands around his neck.
Darkness moves into his vision with a promise that it will be over soon. More burning liquid hits the carpet. Tears run down his cheeks, joining the mess as they fall from his jaw. His hands and knees are burning from rubbing against the carpet with every heave that rocks through him.
And just when the darkness takes over his vision, and his chest hurts from not breathing, it stops. A sour taste is left in his mouth, his muscles are achy from the strain, and he can’t breathe.
Steve always says that Bucky needs to get sick once, just so he can see that it isn’t so bad, and it will help him overcome this fear. But rather than thinking it was okay, that he overcame it, that he’s okay, he panics.
He lost control of himself. His own body betrayed him, forced him to do something against his will, forced him to experience the thing he fears more than anything else.
Fear isn’t a strong enough word. It’s so much more than that, so much worse than that.
Clumsy with panic, Bucky sits down on the floor, his back to the mess. He lowers his head down between his knees and forces his chest to fill with air. Bucky is capable of calming himself down. He knows how to breathe and consciously relax his muscles.
He breathes and does a body scan, noticing the tension before deliberately relaxing his body little by little. He repeats his mantra over and over again. ‘I am calm. I am relaxed. I am at peace.’
Despite his efforts, Bucky can’t calm down. He knows there’s a very real possibility this could happen again before morning. Lowering his shoulders and softening his neck doesn’t take away the anxiety churning in his gut.
Getting back to his feet, he makes his way up the stairs. Once again, Bucky is standing in the middle of Steve’s bedroom floor waiting to be noticed. This time, Steve’s eyes slide open after a moment.
“Hey.” His voice is scratchy from sleep.
“I threw up.” Bucky admits. His hands are shaking, so are his legs. He can’t keep standing for much longer.
“Oh, Buck.” Steve throws the covers off himself, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t think that you could be sick when you told me your stomach hurt, I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t make it.” Bucky continues stoically. He feels numb, his mind floaty, like he’s not fully awake, or maybe this is all a nightmare.
“Okay.” Steve’s brows furrow and he reaches out, taking Bucky’s hands in his own. “Are you okay?”
“I can’t deal with this.” Emotion breaks through, tinting his words with fear and desperation.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Warm arms maneuver him into Steve’s lap, holding his head in place at Steve’s chest. The heartbeat pounding under his ear instantly calms him, reminding him that he’s not going to die.
“I know this is horrible for you.” Steve says sympathetically. He knows about Bucky’s fear, and he would never brush off the way Bucky feels.
“I can’t repeat that.” Bucky pleads desperately as if Steve can do anything to stop it.
“You might not have to.”
“But I might have to.” Bucky wants Steve to be right, but the panicked voice in his head is louder.
“It’s probably a twenty-four-hour bug. With your serum, it’ll probably be over before noon.” Steve tries to be reassuring, but ‘probably’ doesn’t help him. He needs definite.
“Can’t you give me something?” His voice cracks. He doesn’t care that he’s asking to be medicated, doesn’t care about the trauma associated with drugs, he just needs it to stop.
“I don’t have anything.” Steve sounds apologetic. Most likely because he feels bad for Bucky, not because he doesn’t have any drugs for him.
“Then get something.” Bucky snaps. Instantly feeling bad, he shrinks back into himself, holding his breath to stop the tears. He shouldn’t take his anxiety out on Steve; it isn’t his fault. Steve is trying to help Bucky.
Steve isn’t offended. He doesn’t react to Bucky’s outburst, just holds him closer and runs his fingers down Bucky’s spine.
“It’s the middle of the night. I can give you some fever reducers and something to help you sleep, but I can’t get any anti-nausea medications until morning, I’m sorry.”
“No.” Bucky sobs helplessly. He’s so panicked and so exhausted, he’s just crying at this point. His heart beats loud in his ears, but he can’t feel the panic anymore. Everything is just numb, and Bucky is crying, and he doesn’t even know why he’s begging for help.
“You’re exhausted, Buck. You need some sleep.” Steve tries to gently pull Bucky away from his chest, prying his hands from where they’re gripping Steve’s shirt, lifting his face from the wet spot. Bucky whines, getting more upset at the loss of contact.
“I’m here, Bucky, I’m here.” Steve lets Bucky cling to him again. “I’ll watch over you while you sleep, okay? Let’s just take one thing at a time, and if anything happens, I’ll be with you this time.”
Considering the offer, Bucky lets himself feel how tired he is. The invitation to rest is tempting, but can he trust his body won’t betray him again? He isn’t sure how much logic is in his logic anymore, but he still tells himself his stomach isn’t rolling, and he wouldn’t be this tired if he needed to puke again. It was probably an acute panic attack, mixed with anxiety, exhaustion and a fever that led to tonight’s events, and he is just fine.
Bucky nods against Steve’s chest and slowly starts moving away from him. He lifts his head and unclenches his fists from the fabric of Steve’s oversized t-shirt.
“There you go.” Steve urges him on. He helps Bucky lay down under the covers and tucks him in tight, just how he likes it. “You’re okay.”
“Promise to stay awake?” Bucky looks up at Steve with wide eyes. He needs to fall asleep first, he can’t relax if he’s alone.
“I’ll stay awake long after you’re asleep.” Steve promises. He runs his hands through Bucky’s hair, over his cheeks and down his neck to soothe Bucky and help him fall asleep.
As promised, Steve sits beside Bucky, watching him sleep before he goes to clean up the living room, and goes to sleep himself.