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“Steve,” Bucky groaned, reaching out with one shaking hand. “Please. It's killing me.”
“You brought this on yourself,” Steve said mercilessly, not even looking up from his report. Bucky made a forlorn noise.
“You have to do something. I'm dying.”
“You're not dying, you drama queen.”
“It hurts so bad,” Bucky moaned into the couch pillows, turning onto his side so he could clutch his aching stomach. “Oh god. I thought the serum was supposed to fix this.”
Steve kept typing, undeterred. “I guess even Erskine drew the line at a whole chocolate cake.”
Bucky would've loved to say he regretted nothing, but that would've been a lie. “It was so good. Why is it hurting me?”
“Because there were probably three cups of sugar in there?” Steve deadpanned, finally looking over to give him a judgmental eyebrow raise. Now that was just mean.
“You have to rub my stomach,” Bucky demanded, and Steve snorted. “I'm serious!”
“And I'm working,” Steve said, like he wasn't even bothered. He probably wasn't, the bastard. “Rub your own stomach.”
“That doesn't work, and you know it.”
“Shockingly, I don't care.”
“Come on,” Bucky whined, thumping his head down into the pillows. “You owe me.”
“What the hell could I possibly owe you for?”
“December '29. You had that awful cold, and you threw up all over the place. Who do you think cleaned that up?”
“I cleaned up your vomit after you got drunk with that lass, what was her name? Ingrid?”
“Isabel,” Bucky said, just to be pedantic. He didn't remember her name either. “What about when you were shitting your guts out, and I –“
“You promised you'd never bring that up,” Steve cut him off, and Bucky groaned when his stomach twisted with another cramp. If he made it through this, he was never eating chocolate again.
“Come on, please. I'll clean our room, I'll mop the floors, I'll blow you every night, just –“ Bucky pressed down on the ache, wishing he could just push it away. “Please.”
His eyes were squeezed shut against the pain, but he still heard Steve's sigh and the sound of him shuffling closer. Bucky blindly held out his arms, but Steve pressed him back into the couch with one hand on his shoulder, the other coming down to rub Bucky's belly in soothing circles. Fuck, that was nice.
“You're a disaster, you know that?” Steve asked with unmistakable fondness, and Bucky grinned at him, though he grimaced a second later, when his stomach cramped again. “You're really hurting, huh?”
“Told you,” Bucky said, a little petulantly, frowning when Steve got to his feet. “Hey, where're you going?”
“Getting a hot-water bottle.” Steve only made it a few feet before Bucky snatched him back with a hand on his wrist, dragging Steve off balance so he tumbled directly on top of Bucky, sprawled out like a starfish. “Ow! What the fuck?”
“You can be my hot-water bottle,” Bucky said as he wrapped Steve up in his arms, entangling their legs until they were comfortable. Steve's weight on top of him weirdly helped with the pressure in his gut, not to mention how warm he was. Bucky always ran hot, but Steve was like a literal space-heater sometimes.
“You're ridiculous, you know that?” Steve asked, but he also pressed a kiss against Bucky's neck, so he couldn't be too mad. “I still need to finish my report.”
“Do it later,” Bucky said, burying his face in Steve's shoulder. “Let's just stay like this for a bit. Okay?”
Steve shifted his weight a little, and oh yeah, that was even better, allowing Steve to fully lie down on top of him and cover Bucky with his body. Bucky closed his eyes, reveling in how warm and safe he felt.
“We should do this more often,” he said, his voice coming out in a lazy drawl. Steve's hand came up to card through his hair, and Bucky shivered pleasantly, letting his eyes slip shut.
“Without the chocolate next time, maybe,” Steve said, and Bucky shuddered, pulling him even closer.
“Definitely without the chocolate.”