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A low-stakes mission in the middle of Nowhere, on the east side of the city of Whatever. Routine so monotonous that it left no trace in their memory as soon as it ended, vanishing as if bearing no importance— despite how it gnawed at him with guilt every time he thought of it. Rinse and repeat, the two of them would fly around the States, trying to clean up the leftovers of Karli's influence all over the country. A difficult task, considering that Karli left behind a belief more than material contraband, but nonetheless important to deal with if they wanted to avoid any unwelcome consequences.
Bucky sighed. He was exhausted beyond measure, standing on his two feet from the very morning with barely a few minutes to spare. He could tell, by the stiffness in the line of Sam's shoulders, that his partner was just as tired as he— if not more, for the lack of serum fuelling his bloodstream.
Bucky pursed his lips. The only thing he wished for, right now, was to flop down on the sofa under the roof of Sam's family home, replacing the words of dirty insults echoing in his ears with the cheering of kids playing outside, and instead of cars and the whirring of engines, to listen to the noise of water hitting the shore by the beach. A little safe haven, it was.
Instead he looked up to see a ratty hotel, standing tall before them and looking as unwelcoming as a hotel could get without causing the desire to avoid it. Bucky pouted.
"You've got cash for the rooms?"
"Yes. Between the two of us, I actually have a job."
"Jerk."
With a chuckle from Sam, they had entered the building, and the first thing Bucky took notice of was the atmosphere of the place— so contrasting it was to the wishes of his mind, lacking any warmth and friendliness his memories came up with.
He wouldn't say that the place looked horrible; however, the feeling of being unwelcome lingered at the edge of his thoughts with firm determination. He couldn't pinpoint what it was.
They came up to the receptionist, dressed neatly and watching them with a curious expression, smiling and coming to stand at the desk as soon as they got close. Bucky saw a glint in her eyes— not quite recognition; however, something knowing that made him want to squirm in his place.
"Hi," Sam spoke up. "Do you have any rooms available for tonight?"
"Of course, we do." The woman nodded, reaching to look for something on her computer. "We have— would you prefer two separate rooms or a single double?"
"Whichever one is cheaper for a single night."
"The double it is, then." She started typing away at something on the keyboard and then reached out behind her to take the keys off the rack. "Now, let's talk services…"
While Sam and the receptionist discussed the pricing—No, we don't need breakfast, thank you— Bucky stood with the key in his hand, tracing the lines of the room number with his fingertips. Exhaustion pulled at him, and, distantly, he registered that Sam finished talking to the receptionist. He set off to follow after him, trusting the man to lead them to the assigned room.
"You look pretty out of it, man. What's up?" He heard Sam ask.
When Bucky looked up, they were already at the door to their room. He bit at his lip and hastened to unlock it, desperate to throw off his clothes and plop down on the hopefully soft cushions of an actual bed. He ignored the concerned sideway glance that Sam directed at him, and noticed instead the unsteady shaking of his hands and the jerkiness underlining his movements.
He pushed the door open with a relieved sigh.
"When the receptionist said that our room was 'a double,' I thought she referred to the amount of beds, not the size of one."
Bucky looked around the place. It was big enough but empty, with only the most necessary furniture. On the one side was a small kitchen, separated only by the bar counter; on the other was the living area, with indeed only one double bed sitting at the centre, flanked on both sides by bedside tables. A bit further up the wall was a short corridor, leading to what Bucky presumed was a corridor.
"I'm taking the closer side. You go by the window."
"Sure."
They set to unpack their bags for the night. They didn't bring too much stuff, only what was necessary for a one-day stay at a hotel and a first-aid kit they learnt to carry on them at all times. The Quinjet would land at the airport tomorrow evening to take them back to New York, where they would be left to their devices until another possible mission would come to their attention.
Bucky didn't realise that he'd zoned out until a warm hand— was it warm? He couldn't properly discern the temperature of it— pressed against his forehead. He looked up, locking eyes with Sam's worried ones. The man clicked his tongue.
"Jeez, man. How did you manage to get sick? I thought that you couldn't? With the serum?"
It took a moment for Bucky to discern what Sam was saying. Another one to realise that he was no longer looking at the contents of his bag but instead leaned against the bed and stared off into the distance. And when he did, he had to swallow the lump that formed in the back of his throat.
"I usually don't," he admitted, "get sick, that is. But sometimes— I would just drop with a fever at random intervals. They never told me why, and I'm not knowledgeable enough to figure it out by myself."
Sam hummed. "No 'I'm okay'? No trying to convince me that you're perfectly fine?"
"When did I lie down?"
"Ah. Fair."
The task of taking a shower and getting into bed was difficult. If he had any energy left in him by the time he had dropped into bed, he would probably start cheering for the day to finally end. Sam laid down at his side with a heavy sigh, just as exhausted as he was but with no fever running him down. He squeezed Bucky's shoulder.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like I was run over by a train. Disgusting."
"Right." Sam gave him a full bottle of water. "I'll run to the pharmacy first thing in the morning."
"You're a godsend. Can I kiss you?"
"Don't you dare."
"Hm."
"… You can when you're not as pale as a sheet of paper."
"Cheers to me."
"Go to sleep, man. You sound like you ate a bucket of concrete."
Bucky hummed and turned away, lying down at his side facing the window— which he should not have been able to, considering he'd claimed the door-side just as they entered the room— and let his eyes slip closed, listening to the peaceful sounds of the city of Whatever.
He woke up to the loud ringing bells of a nearby church, banging loudly in his ears. Bells meant noon, and noon meant that he'd overslept. He swallowed down a groan and sat up, letting the daylight wash over his vision. Sometime during the night he'd turned away from the window, so now he had a perfect angle to watch as Sam, already dressed in proper clothes, ran around the kitchen area with various bottles of something in his hands.
Bucky leaned his back against the wall behind him, fingers tapping away against the bedsheets. Against the sleepy fog of his mind, he watched as Sam worked his way around the place, cooking something or other that he couldn't even begin to comprehend.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," Sam called out. Bucky winced at the volume of the voice, piercing against his still sensitive hearing. With a frown sent his way, Sam enquired, "How are you?"
Bucky paused, giving himself a moment to think of the answer. His head felt like it was splitting in half, pain echoing at the back of his skull; for whatever reason, it reminded Bucky of how he felt after getting a concussion. Had he hit his head yesterday without noticing? His body also felt heavy, and moving required a certain effort.
He dutifully relayed all that to Sam.
"I called Helen Cho today; she promised to meet us in New York," he said. "She was the Avengers' on-call medic, for when we got injuries above a regular doctor's pay grade. Sweet woman, you'll like her. Though she promised some kind of lecture for not telling anybody about those fever drops you're getting."
"Wonderful."
"Of course." Sam turned to him then, waving a finger— coated in something white, and it interested Bucky to recognise flour, of all things— in the direction of his side of the bed. "The medicine is on the top shelf. Take the double of what you'd take pre-serum. Helen's words, not mine."
Bucky steadily ignored him, rising instead to stand from the bed completely. From a higher vantage point, he peeked over the contents laid across the kitchenette. "Baking. You. Since when?"
Sam paused for a second, but swiftly regained the flow of his movements. He didn't turn to face Bucky when he answered, and that made Bucky grin. "I'm not— it's not something I do. Just for once I thought you might appreciate the nice gesture. Can you— believe that?"
By the time Sam finished speaking, Bucky had already crawled over all the way towards him, and leaned his chest against the man's back. He buried his nose in the nape of his neck and whined. Had he been even slightly more himself, he knew he would find the gesture ridiculous.
Sam had, evidently, thought the same, because after a short pause he said, "You should go back to bed."
"I should," Bucky agreed with a smile, but contrary to that, made no move to follow through with either of their words.
Sam sighed, resigned, and seemed to deem it pointless to try and force Bucky to lie down. Instead he continued the cooking, mixing the ingredients with slow gesturing of his hand. Bucky watched him, trying to focus his blurry vision on the shape of his hand, frowning at the dizziness it caused in his head.
A thought occurred to him, after a moment, and raising an eyebrow, he asked, "Where did you get the ingredients?"
Sam scoffed. "Have you looked at the clock? It's way past twelve already. And this isn't the first time you woke up. I thought I would run some errands while you're out of it."
Ah, right. He did mention the medicine on the shelf. Which meant he had already gone to the pharmacy.
Bucky tilted his head, looking at Sam's face from the side. Something warm pulled at him through the feverish haze, a thought of 'God, I love this man' echoing in his tired mind. He smirked.
"How thoughtful of you, Mr. Hero, holding this household afloat," Bucky whispered against the man's cheek. "I wish I could express my gratitude. Can I kiss you?"
Sam chuckled and finally shrugged him off of his shoulders. He pushed him away with a hand against Bucky's back.
"I think I already told you that there will be no kissing until you're fever-free. I don't wanna catch whatever freak of an illness you've caught. No, thank you," he shook his head, talking without looking at him. "You're delirious. Go to bed."
Deeming it useless to argue— and not having the strength needed to hold himself upright without the support of Sam's body— Bucky turned around and left for the bed, stretching out on top of the sheets with a groan. It didn't register before, but now that he had the mind to feel, every part of his body ached. It was a wonder, he thought, that he managed to stay upright for as long as he did.
"And take that medicine I bought you."
"Right. Sure."
"I'll call a cab around, eh, six or so. We'll get straight onto the Quinjet and meet with Helen afterwards."
"Awesome," Bucky whispered.
He had gulped down several pills with the water he was given the night before, noting with surprise that it was already almost fully empty— he had no memory of drinking this much yesterday.
"I'll refill it."
"Man, what would I do without you?"
"Died in a ditch under some bridge in Brooklyn. Or went the old-fashioned 'lone wolf' way and locked yourself in your room."
"I love you, man."
"As you should. It takes some courage to put up with you."
Bucky laughed and threw himself back against the cushions. Without even noticing, he was out like a light once again— deep into sleep and dead to the world.
Next time he woke up, it was to see Sam lying on the bed beside him, scrolling through something on his phone he couldn't possibly pay attention to. Instead, he reached past him to take the pastry from the plate on his bedside table.
Yes, Bucky loved this man.