Chapter Text
Bucky fumbled with the keys to his apartment. His fingers did not want to cooperate, and the effort was proving more strenuous than he had anticipated. He felt his energy slowly but steadily depleting with every movement. Eventually, he managed to shimmy the key into the lock and open the door. He stumbled through the entryway and shouldered the door closed behind him, flinching at the harsh bang as it slammed against the frame. Once safely inside, he allowed himself to succumb to exhaustion, sliding to the ground. He leaned back, resting his pounding head against the door, and closed his eyes. His muscles ached and he could feel the beads of sweat prickling his top lip and forehead… He really did feel awful. If he was honest, he hadn’t been feeling great for the past week. He had been doing his best to ignore his symptoms and carry on with life, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with the charade.
He must have fallen asleep against the door because the next thing Bucky noticed was his dry throat and the red-orange glow of the evening sun through the window. He dragged himself to his feet, ignoring his screaming muscles and made his way to the kitchen of his small apartment. The few steps from his front door to the kitchen sink felt like ten miles as he paused to catch his breath, gripping the countertop for support. He coughed, gagged, and spat a gob of something vile into the sink. Shuddering, he moved to the refrigerator and peered inside. The harsh light of the interior of the fridge illuminated the selection within: a couple slices of nearly-fossilized pizza, some leftover sushi from a few days ago, a carton of orange juice, and two bottles of beer. Bucky’s stomach turned. Although he normally wasn’t above eating leftovers of dubious quality, it just didn’t seem like a good idea today. He grabbed the carton of orange juice and took a swig directly from the container. The cool liquid felt good on his throat, but exhaustion was creeping over him again. Navigating the distance to his bedroom seemed like an impossible feat. He was grateful that he had slept of the floor the previous night; the blankets and pillows were still in a disheveled pile by the sofa. He crawled into his makeshift bed, taking comfort in the unwavering support of the hard floor beneath him. Soon, he had drifted to sleep.
***
When Bucky opened his eyes, the room was dark. The unyielding floor had ceased to be soothing and was now creating painful pressure points on his hip and shoulder. As he dragged himself to a seated position, the room spun for a moment before settling into stillness. It was then that he became aware of the heat. In fact, he was almost certain that something was on fire inside his chest. He could feel the searing burn with each breath that he took. Groaning, he forced himself to his feet and stripped to his underwear, dully noting that his clothes were damp with sweat.
As he tossed his clothes onto the sofa beside him, a slip of paper fell out of his jacket pocket. It was Dr. Williams’ business card. Perhaps it’s a sign from the universe, Bucky thought to himself. He then decided that the universe didn’t know what it was talking about. Even before HYDRA, visiting the doctor was never a good time. Although he was fairly healthy growing up, he still remembered making a few visits to Dr. Huber’s cramped office above the market. No matter his ailment, it seemed as if those encounters always ended in one of two ways- getting stabbed in the backside with a needle or being given a large amber bottle containing a week’s worth of elixir that tasted like rotten eggs. The later was especially unpleasant, as it generally lead to him spending that next week becoming well-acquainted with the business end of his mother’s wooden spoon for trying to spit out the revolting medicine. Yes, visiting the doctor was a literal pain in the ass, he decided. His super-soldier serum would take care of whatever his current issue was. He tossed Dr. Williams’ card in the trash and proceeded down the hall to his bedroom. He flopped down on the soft mattress and immediately fell back to sleep.
***
The next day was a montage of suffering. Bucky alternated between shivering with chattering teeth under a mound of blankets, and flinging the covers away when he felt as if he might spontaneously combust. Throughout it all, he was plagued by a persistent cough that tore at his lungs and left him fighting for air. After a brief trip to the bathroom left his heart racing painfully in his chest, he felt the tendrils of fear begin to creep in. He was really sick. Maybe he should call Sam… Sam would know what to do. He even got as far as dialing his friend’s number and letting it ring once before quickly hanging up. It was a silly idea to call, he decided. Sam was all the way in DC attending to important hero stuff. It wasn’t fair to waste Captain America’s time whining about a little fever.
A few minutes later, Bucky’s phone buzzed. Looking at the screen, he saw a text message from Sam.
‘Hey, what’s up? Looks like I missed your call.’
Bucky briefly considered telling Sam what was going on, but instead he found himself typing, ‘Pocket dial, sorry.’ He felt a twinge of guilt as he pressed ‘send’ but couldn’t bring himself to disrupt Sam’s life with his own issues. Besides, the serum should be kicking in soon, he told himself. He would probably feel better in the morning...
***
He did not feel better in the morning. Bucky woke up to a pounding head and queasy stomach. His chest still hurt, and he was momentarily overwhelmed with dizziness when he sat up in bed. He was debating whether to spend the day in bed or on the couch when his phone buzzed from the bedside table. Groaning, he reached to grab it. Looking at the screen, he saw a reminder for his appointment with Dr. Raynor that morning. Cursing under his breath, he heaved himself out of bed and threw on some clothes.