Chapter Text
In general, the serum had completely changed Steve’s life—many aspects of it, anyway. Some, however, had remained much the same—like his personality, thank god. His moral core is still steadfast as ever, as is his willingness to put everyone else before himself. And perhaps most importantly, he will never be able to forget what it’s like to be the little guy. He knows what it feels like when the cards are stacked against you, and the kind of courage it takes to stand up against those odds (though “courageous” isn’t a word he would ever use to describe himself).
Of course, his agreement to dive headfirst into a dangerous military experiment had certainly paid off. Surviving in the ice until the 21st century had been one perk, you could say. Not to mention the added height, strength, and the ability to take a hit (or two, or three…hundred). His asthma is gone, too. His immune system in general has no time for illness anymore—something that can really only be appreciated when he remembers nights spent coughing and gasping for air, every second wondering if this was really how he was going to go. The panicked look on Bucky’s face as he knew there was nothing he could do, but desperately wanted to help somehow anyway. Steve is eternally grateful he’ll never have to see that again.
Although, speaking of Bucky and illness…
“I’b fide.”
“You’re not—can you even hear yourself?”
“I have allergies.”
Steve snorts. “Since when? To what?”
“Datasha’s cat.”
Again, an eye-roll. “Natasha was here for what, all of five minutes with that cat? Yesterday. And you never had problems with any animals when we were growing up. Try again.”
A long pause.
“Buck, c’mon, it’s fine. Why don’t you sit on the couch? You need to relax, it’s fine,” he reiterates—but Bucky catches him by the sleeve as he rises from the kitchen table—making no move to stand himself.
He looks embarrassed. “Steve. This is the third tibe this widter. Ad it’s dot eved halfway over.”
“I know, Buck, but—here, come on,” he offers his hand, which Bucky reluctantly takes. His hand is hot and sweaty in Steve’s, and the super-soldier has a sinking suspicion this is going to be something worse than a cold this time. He leads him towards the sofa. “You can’t just—when you were only in and out of cryostasis for such short periods of time, your immune system never got the chance to adjust. So now that you’re out for good, your body has to get used to the fact that every single germ on the planet is different now.”
“I hate it,” he complains, coughing harshly into the crook of his elbow. Steve winces. Clearly he’s been pretend-staving-off this cold for longer than just a few hours, and he mentally kicks himself for not noticing sooner. Still, the fact that Bucky allows himself to be pushed down onto the couch cushions and tucked beneath the fleece blanket lying there for just that purpose is both a relief and a worry.
“You’re running a fever,” it’s a statement rather than a question.
Bucky looks like he wants to protest, but a sudden shudder gives him away. “Probably.”
“Anything else?”
Obviously knowing Steve’s tenacity (which quickly outweighs the prospect of pulling teeth through a game of twenty questions) Bucky answers, “I’b…fuckig codgested,” he makes a vague gesture towards his face. “Addoyig. Ad by head hurts. Ad by chest. Stupid cough. Throat hurts. Feel like I’b udderwater.” As he rattles off symptoms, his body seems to become more and more aware of its unwell state. He scowls as other aches make themselves known. “Everythig else fuckig hurts too.”
The flu. Steve knows it almost has to be. He’s been up close and personal with it himself more times than he can count. Despite the barrage of vaccinations and booster shots to get him up to speed, it seems Bucky’s overtaxed immune system has let yet another thing slip through the cracks. “Okay. That’s…that sucks, and I’m sorry, Buck. You should’ve said something earlier.” Again, Bucky looks like he’s going to put up a fuss, so Steve cuts him off before he can begin, “You want tea? I’ll make tea,” he hurries towards the kitchen.
Bucky’s hoarse laugh follows him. “You’re havig a good goddab tibe, ared’t you?”
“I’m—what?” Steve pokes his head back into the living room, confused.
“Beig the bother hed for odce. It’s the opposite. Frob whed we were kids.”
Oh. “I’m having a weird time, if that’s what you mean. Like backwards déjà-vu,” he steps back into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove. “I’d prefer,” he calls loudly enough so Bucky can hear him, “if neither of us was the sick one for once. Having you sick every time the wind blows the wrong way is bizarre. Doesn’t feel right. Although…” he considers, “…you are sorta cute with your face all flushed like that.”
A snort, then a series of hacking coughs that almost makes him regret voicing the thought, before, “Pudk.”
He grins, knowing Bucky will hear it in his voice. “Jerk.”