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Steve isn't sure what wakes him. All he knows is that he can't breathe. Perhaps the sudden lack of oxygen is what spurred him out of rest, or maybe his lungs have just been in a sorry state all along.
"Stevie?" A quiet voice asks. A cool hand squeezes his shoulder. It's both comforting and oppressive, familiar too. Steve isn't sure if he wants it to stay or not. "Open your eyes," The same person murmurs. It sounds like Bucky.
Steve drags his knees to his chest, feeling a shiver run down his spine. The motion pulls bed clothes into an uneven circle of creases around his waist. He gasps for breath. Thick fluid flows up his throat, uncontrolled by the walls of his esophagus. He watches it pour from his lower lip onto the pillowcase right before he begins to gag. Tears roll down his cheeks, although in the haziness, he can't tell if it's from emotion or the sourness on his tongue.
"It's okay, Steve," It definitely is Bucky. His flannel pajama pants clad knees slide up behind Steve's back as he moves, sinking into the mattress springs, creating a vaguely seasick sensation. He hauls Steve upright, ratcheting the dizziness up to gale force vertigo. "Breathe, you're okay," He whispers, resting his head on Steve's shoulder. It's soothing in a distinctly Bucky-like way, but Steve's still confused.
"What's…what's going on-" Bile pours from Steve's mouth again, all down his chin and the t-shirt that feels too large to be his own. He sputters and tries to wipe his disgusting lips, but he's too disoriented and shaky.
"Please take a breath," Bucky pleads. He clocks Steve hard on the back with an open palm. It catches him on an inhale, his spine at its crest. He deflates, his ribs closing, and god willing, nary opening again. "I'm sorry, Steve, but you're getting worse. I have to get my ma," Bucky says quietly. He makes to get up, but Steve catches his forearm with a strength that surprises even himself.
"Stay," Steve rasps in a tiny voice. "Or just…tell me what's…" He motions to the room, hoping it gets his point across.
"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry," Bucky shifts back into place behind Steve. "You're at our house cause your ma has to work and you're sick," He explains. "Your fever's gotta be up there," Bucky presses the backs of his knuckles to the nape of Steve's neck. "I bet that's what's gettin' you mixed up."
"Yeah," Steve nods absent-mindedly.
"I'll be back, that okay?" Bucky asks as he stands. Steve nods slowly. "Alright."
As soon as he leaves, though, nausea returns with a sickly vengeance. Steve swallows thickly against it. A sharp cramp travels upwards from his naval into his chest. Saliva overloads his tongue. He wraps his arms around his midsection to midigate the pain, but it does nothing, if not make him feel worse.
Panic and an unfortunate awareness of his circumstances join the turmoil in his gut brain axis. He sobs softly, ashamed. He's already thrown up all over Bucky's bed, and himself, just to add insult to injury. He feels his cheeks flush, going darker than the dark room, hotter than his overheated body. What if he vomits again? What if he doesn't make it to the bathroom? What if he throws up on someone?
The gross possibilities fly through Steve's mind, leaving him anxious as well as sick to his stomach. He awkwardly unfolds his legs and rotates himself. It causes the room to spin. He grabs onto the bed post in the corner and forces himself to stand. The world wavers and the background noises of everyday life dim. His vision goes grey. He feels himself fall in so motion.
He hears a muffled "Steven?" and a moment later he's being pushed back onto the edge of the bed. "Sweetheart," Winnie's face reappears through the fuzz. "Don't hurt yourself, you're alright," Her sweet, accented voice murmurs, cupping his cheek. Steve tries to push her away. The urge to retch presses in his jaw. "James, could you get me a washcloth?" Winnie says over her shoulder, then turns back Steve. "Stop," She whispers.
"Trying…" Steve gulps hard against a tide of fluid. His stomach flips and squeezes. He wants to stop. He'd do anything to halt the flashes of hospital rooms and terrifying early childhood illness on the backs of his eyelids. Nurse's voices ring in his ears. Bitterness clings to his gums. The urge to cry increases the already elevated pressure in his sinuses, as does embarrassment.
"No, no," Winnie murmurs. "Stop fighting," She back slicks sweaty strands of his hair and wipes his chin with her other thumb, pulling undigested bits of something from the peach fuzz below his nose. Steve tries to shake her gentle fingers away, but she just shushes him.
Bucky reappears with the washcloth and hands it to Winnie, who carefully tucks it under Steve's mouth in preparation for the next heave. He clamps his jaw shut, but it does little to suppress the increasingly ill feeling. A sheen of sweat breaks out across his forehead, and all remaining blood drains from his face.
"I'm sorry-" He tries to force out before what he doesn't want to think about happens. He cuts off with an abrupt hack. He sputters, then gags. His chest heaves hard. Winnie sighs sympathetically. Bucky materializes at his side and rubs his back.
"It's okay," Winnie says softly. "If you're sick, you're sick. If you want to sleep, I'll help you sleep-"
"And if you're gonna keep puking, you keep puking," Bucky so helpfully adds on. Steve grimaces. Winnie glares, then continues.
"This night will pass, and tomorrow morning will come."
"No," Steve chokes, shaking his head ever so slightly from side to side. "Always…gonna be…sick…" He sniffles. More tears well up in his eyes.
"You will feel differently," Winnie continues as if he hadn't interrupted. She shifts the towel to the other hand and uses her now free one to gently squeeze his shoulder.
"I won't feel better," Steve sobs so hard he dry heaves and breaks off coughing. Winnie looks at him with a kindness in her eyes that can even be sensed in the dark. Bucky palms his back again, forcing him to breathe.
"That ain't what she said," Bucky says sternly, but not without that sweet softness his words always possess.
"Differently," Winnie whispers. "This won't last all through tomorrow, surely you understand that."
"I…um..I- I…" Steve stutters. She's right, he knows. The great mess of illness and panic inside him will eventually go down. It could very well already be on the wane. He can't tell. He doesn't remember other nights like this one, well, beyond nurses rushing in to hold basins under his chin or his mom murmuring prayers for his health, not knowing he can hear her. He hangs his head, swooping it so low his chin touches the top of his sternum. "I guess…"
Winnie retracts the slightly soiled cloth and folds it in half to hide his mess. "Help him, James," She steps back so Bucky can take her place in front of Steve. He finds Steve's fists at his hips and unwraps his uncooperative fingers one by one, lacing them with his.
"You wanna walk?" Steve shrugs. "I can carry you?" Bucky offers. Steve vehemently shakes his head, which makes him dizzy, but the point is worth it. "Alright," Bucky carefully pulls upward, guiding him to standing. He crumples almost immediately, but Bucky catches him under the armpits. He adjusts his grip so that he's supporting Steve with one arm around the back and holding his hand with the other, almost like they're about to dance an outward facing tango.
"Come on," Winnie motions for them to follow.
"Where?" Steve barely manages to ask. Panic hits him like a freight train. Where is he going? Back home? Alone? Back where they have no heat or food? Steve hates intruding and being a burden, but the Barnes' house is so much nicer (safer, if he dares) than his own.
Winnie looks a bit confused, standing in the doorway, her face softly illuminated by the hallway light. "Bathroom? If you want to stay here, that's fine, sweetie, but I just thought you may want to wash up and get some medicine or water in you."
"Oh," Steve feels himself go hot. Sweat breaks out over his entire body. His stomach flips with either illness or embarrassment. "Sorry…"
"Wha'didya think?" Bucky asks. Winnie's brow knits. "We were kickin' you out?"
"I…um…" Steve turns his head away, but his eyes and nose are running. He's already given himself away.
"Oh, honey," Winnie rushes back over and cups his pathetic cheek, petting his hair with the other hand. "You're always welcome here, sick or not," She crouches down to meet his short stature. He pulls him into a hug, taking his weight from Bucky. She lets his head fall onto her shoulder, ignoring the stickiness on his face that touches her shiny, slicked-back hair.
"Yeah, Stevie," Bucky pats him on the back. "You're all good," He smiles.
"Our home is your home," Winnie pulls back to look him in the eye. "You understand?"
Steve nods. He understands.