Chapter 2
“Kept the place just like you left it. Didn’t even move your stuff around, ‘cept to clean it. Can’t say I don’t do my part to clean up anymore, huh? It’s been all me since you left…”
Steve led Bucky through the door of their dilapidated apartment, chatting aimlessly to fill the silence. He’d been trying to strike up a conversation with Bucky ever since they’d left the harbor, but Bucky, normally the talkative one, still hadn’t said a word. He seemed especially withdrawn now, stopping on his way in to sag heavily against the doorframe, like the walk back from the docks had sapped away all the strength he had left.
Steve had bustled ahead into the kitchen, but when he realized Bucky was no longer with him he turned around. Bucky was still braced against the doorframe, his eyelids drooping so low they’d almost fallen all the way shut. Steve rushed back to his side.
“Buck. Hey.”
Bucky’s eyes fluttered back open, and he fixed Steve with a look that was equal parts desperate and empty. Unable to stop himself, Steve reached up to his face again, brushing the back of his hand first against Bucky’s cheek, then against his sweaty forehead. His fingers were still tinged blue from the cold. Bucky didn’t seem to notice.
“Are - are you feeling okay? I mean, obviously you’re not, I just - you feel really hot. I think you might be sick…” Steve trailed off, feeling increasingly incompetent in the face of Bucky’s blank, uncomprehending stare. Bucky needed him, maybe more than he’d realized, and he had no idea what to do.
After a moment, Bucky cleared his throat, wincing like it hurt. When he finally spoke, his voice was gravelly with disuse. “Steve…”
“Yeah?”
“I’m… I don’t... feel so good.”
Steve swallowed hard. “I know,” he said. “Why don’t you come sit down, okay? Put this down…” When Bucky didn’t move, Steve reached for the pack still draped over Bucky’s shoulder, guiding it down his arm and dropping it to the floor. He loosely ushered Bucky through the doorway, still wary of his bandaged left side. He’d intended to steer Bucky towards the couch, or maybe his bedroom, but Bucky stopped short on the way in with his eyes fixated on the kitchen. Steve followed Bucky’s intensely focused gaze to a pot sitting on the stove, still simmering.
“Oh, yeah. Put that on this morning. Figured you might be hungry. Are you -” Before Steve could even finish talking, Bucky was nodding with more vigor than Steve had seen him exhibit all day. Steve smiled softly. “Okay. Here, I can fix you something.”
Bucky staggered over to collapse in one of the two rickety wooden chairs that sat bookending their dining table, and Steve, unable to help himself, took a moment to just look at him. He’d been eating his dinners facing that empty chair for far too long now, wondering if it’d ever be full again or if he’d be doomed to eat staring at the blank wall beyond it forever. Bucky may have been down an arm and thinner than Steve had ever seen him, but the rest of him was finally back and sitting in the same spot he always had, and for the first time in a long time, the apartment was starting to feel like home again.
Steve put together a couple of bowls of stew, and pulled out a loaf of bread for good measure. It seemed almost unduly extravagant - with Bucky gone, money had been especially tight, and Steve had gotten accustomed to living on the bare minimum - but if anything called for a little indulgence, he reasoned, it was Bucky making it home (mostly) intact. He put the food on the table with a flourish.
Bucky quickly grabbed for his bowl. His singular hand was shaking hard, but he ignored it as he attacked the meager amount of stew and bread with surprising accuracy. Steve paused with a spoon poised halfway between his bowl and his mouth, suddenly unable to do anything but watch.
Bucky ate like he was ravenous, like he wasn’t sure he’d ever be fed again. He barely even paused to swallow between bites, leaning over his bowl the whole time like he thought someone would snatch it away if he gave them the slightest opportunity. He didn’t look up until his spoon scraped the bottom of the dish. When he did, he met Steve’s eyes, and Steve quickly glanced away, red-faced.
“Sorry,” Bucky said after a moment, then paused to clear his throat. “I just…”
“What? No,” Steve said quickly. “Don’t be.”
“You keep looking at me funny.”
Steve shook his head, forcing himself to meet Bucky’s eyes again. They already looked clearer, nutrition helping the fog of feverish exhaustion give way to something softer. It maybe wasn’t quite the gleam Steve remembered seeing there, but it was pretty damn close.
“It’s - it’s nothing, Buck. I’m just really glad you’re home.”
The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifted in something that could almost be called a smile. His frighteningly pale face was beginning to color again, and Steve felt himself starting to return that small half-smile as the Bucky in front of him began to align with the one in his head, the one that populated his fondest memories.
But that illusion couldn’t last. Memory and reality quickly separated themselves again when Bucky sat up from the table and tried to lean back in his chair. As soon as his shoulder blades made contact with the chair’s hard wooden backing, he gasped and jolted forward, face contorting in a grimace.
“Oh god.” Steve was instantly on his feet, reaching out to Bucky but once again holding back from actually touching him. With the years they’d just spent apart, the sort of casual touch that had once been so easy between them now felt fraught and unsure. Steve clenched his fists, hating himself for it.
“What happened?” he asked instead. “Are you okay? What can I do?”
Bucky slowly shook his head, eyes still squeezed shut in that expression of barely contained agony. Sweat had broken out on his face again, and his hairline was dampening, bangs starting to curl and stick to his forehead. He swallowed hard before letting out a long breath.
“Fucking hurts,” he managed through gritted teeth.
“Yeah,” Steve breathed, taking the admission as permission to look over the bandage covering what remained of Bucky’s shoulder. It had been clean when he’d left the ship, but Steve could now see tiny darkened spots blooming under the layers of fabric - spots that looked uncomfortably like blood. Steeling himself, Steve finally forced himself to ask.
“What… what happened to you, Buck?”
Bucky’s shoulders sagged. He pushed out a long breath, longer than Steve would have thought possible, like he was trying to deflate himself entirely. When he glanced back over at Steve, his eyes were cloudy again - with memory or unshed tears, Steve wasn’t sure.
“It… it was real bad,” he finally said, his voice breaking a little over the words. “I can’t - can’t talk about it. I’m sorry, I -”
“It’s okay,” Steve said quickly. “It’s fine, Buck. And I’m so glad to see you, really. Just - it seems like you’re really hurting. Shouldn’t the army doctors still be looking after you? Just to make sure you’re alright?”
Bucky’s shoulders were shaking now. Steve wished he could pull back his words, wished he’d just left it alone, but all he could do was watch with bated breath as Bucky swallowed once, twice, three times in quick succession before opening his mouth to speak.
“I know. But I couldn't, Stevie, I just… I wanted to go home.”
“Okay,” Steve murmured, fighting to keep his throat from closing up. Steve Rogers never cried, and he wasn’t about to change that now, not when Bucky needed him to be strong. “It’s okay.”
“Steve,” Bucky whispered desperately, his voice coming out wet.
“Right here.” Steve reached up a hand to push Bucky’s sweaty bangs away from his forehead, concern ramping up as he felt the heat radiating in waves from Bucky’s skin.
“I’m gonna -” Bucky cut himself off with a wet hiccup, pressing his hand over his mouth as his shoulders hunched uncontrollably forward.
“Oh, shit. Okay.” Steve quickly worked to haul Bucky up by the elbow, putting all his strength into supporting him and tugging his nearly dead weight across the monumental distance of four feet between the table and the basin of the kitchen sink. They barely made it before Bucky was bracing himself on the counter with his shaking hand and vomiting up his dinner into the sink.
“Aw, Buck,” Steve murmured, trying to keep worry from bleeding into his voice. He slowly traced his fingers up and down Bucky’s spine as he heaved. “It’s okay. You’re alright.”
The retches quickly turned painful and dry, and Steve winced in sympathy. His fingers meandered up to Bucky’s neck, running through the sweaty tendrils of hair stuck to his burning skin. With Bucky in such rough shape, all those boundaries that had built up in the years they’d spent apart were starting to fall away. Steve hadn’t even thought about what it meant to touch him like this - he’d just done it. He kept it up, though, massaging tiny circles into the back of Bucky’s neck as he hiccuped and tried to catch his breath.
“‘M sorry,” Bucky said shakily once the heaves had broken off into shallow, nauseous panting. “Think I just - haven’t really been eating that much.”
“No, don’t apologize.” Steve knew Bucky was telling the truth - as he leaned over the sink, Steve could see as well as feel his ribs and the bony ridge of his spine standing out beneath the thin fabric of his shirt - but Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was wrong, something worse. “You’re burning up, though, Buck. Do you think maybe you’re also sick?”
Bucky spat into the sink, then carefully dislodged his hand from the counter to wipe his mouth. The motion seemed to pull at his injured shoulder, and Steve watched helplessly as pain rippled across his face.
“I dunno,” Bucky finally replied, his voice wavering. “Just feel like shit.”
“Can I help you lie down?” Steve asked. “Would that help?” He wasn’t going to cry today. He wasn’t.
Bucky looked conflicted for a moment, illness clearly warring with his pride just behind his eyes. Eventually, illness seemed to win out. He nodded, the motion leaving him unsteady and swaying slightly on his feet.
“Okay,” Steve whispered. He worried for a moment about the logistics of it - he knew he couldn’t carry Bucky to his bedroom, but Bucky looked barely a moment from toppling over, and Steve wasn’t sure he’d be able to haul him off the ground either. He settled for ducking under Bucky’s arm and securing it around his shoulders, taking as much of Bucky’s weight as he could without falling over himself. Bucky stumbled a little over the apartment’s scuffed wooden floors, and Steve felt sweat break out on his forehead as his back bent under what was almost Bucky’s full weight.
“I’m doing you a favor, son,” the doctors had all said. “I’m sending you home. Guy of your size has no place in this fight.” Steve gritted his teeth, pulling Bucky past the threshold of his bedroom, standing tall even as his knees wanted to collapse. They were wrong about him, he told himself. Try as they might to “save” him, Steve had ended up in this fight anyway - and he didn’t intend to lose. He could do this.
Steve deposited Bucky on his bed, coughing as dust puffed up from the long-unused quilt. He half-expected Bucky to jump into action and start worrying over him, to start cursing the damned dust in their shitty apartment, or maybe vow like he sometimes did to get Steve out of the city someday, take him somewhere with clean air where he could breathe easy. Instead, Bucky just groaned as he went from upright to seated, shoulders tensing up as though pain had wound the muscles beneath them tight.
“Sorry,” Steve rasped once he managed to get his cough under control. "Here, let me just…”
He took the pillows from the head of Bucky’s bed and piled them up against the rusty headboard, then gently pressed Bucky’s good shoulder to encourage him to lie down. Bucky gasped as he did it, eyes going wide as his back settled into the pillows.
“What's wrong?” Steve asked, instantly worried. “Does it hurt?”
“No, just - softer’n I thought. Thought I was gonna fall…”
Steve sighed, heart breaking a little to hear the exhausted slur coloring Bucky’s words. Bucky certainly looked exhausted, thin body slumped back and appearing especially small against the mound of pillows. He didn’t even seem able to hold his head up; it lolled sideways towards his right shoulder as he blinked blearily at Steve, still perched at the foot of his bed.
“What?” Bucky mumbled after a pause. Steve jumped, realizing he’d been staring a bit too long at the way Bucky’s eyelashes kept falling into long blinks against his flushed cheeks, at the perfect pink shade of his slightly slack lips.
“Nothing,” Steve said quickly, forcing his attention back to the task at hand. “Why don’t I just… help you with these, huh?” Steve’s roving eyes had alighted on Bucky’s army-issued boots, still laced onto his feet over his rough green uniform pants. Steve busied himself with the task of untying them, ears reddening a little as he did it. He couldn’t shake the (irrational, totally irrational) feeling that he’d just been caught looking at something he shouldn’t.
“‘M sorry,” Bucky mumbled as Steve pulled off the second boot. Steve finally managed to look at him again. His hair, as well as the neckline of his t-shirt, was dark with sweat, and eyes were half-lidded, almost drifting shut.
“Hey,” Steve murmured, dropping the boot to the floor and scooting up to sit closer to Bucky’s head. “What do you mean? What for?”
“For… y’know. This. Not s’posed to be so…” Bucky made a vague gesture towards the length of his body. “This. Can’t even take my own boots off.”
“Buck, c’mon.” Unable to help himself, Steve reached out to Bucky again, delicately brushing Bucky’s sweaty bangs aside with his fingers as he spoke. “You gotta stop apologizing, pal. This is nothing. I mean it.”
When Bucky’s glassy eyes still looked distrusting, Steve continued. “I mean, really, how many times have you looked after me when I was sick, huh? How many times have you taken extra hours to buy my medicine, or cleaned up for me when I couldn’t, or sat up all night with me just to make sure I kept breathing?” Bucky just blinked up at him in response. The hand Steve had been using to wipe hair and sweat from Bucky’s forehead stilled, and then, almost of its own accord, traced a pathway down his temple to rest on his slightly stubbled cheek.
“Seriously, Buck,” Steve said, meeting Bucky’s eyes and holding his gaze. “It's about time I did some taking care of you, too. It’s the least I can do.”
Finally, Bucky seemed to believe him. He at least stopped outwardly doubting him, instead giving in and leaning his head into Steve’s hand. Steve smiled sadly, gently rubbing at Bucky’s face with his thumb as he tried to gauge his temperature. If anything, he realized, the blistering heat radiating from Bucky’s skin was only increasing.
“What else can I do to help you?” Steve asked. Bucky flinched a little at the sound, lines of pain popping up on his face, and Steve hurriedly dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you want any more blankets? Some water, maybe?”
“I just…” Bucky slurred, his eyes sliding shut. He reached up and blindly felt out Steve’s hand, wrapping his clammy fingers around Steve’s wrist. “Really don’ feel good. Want you to - to stay with me. Please?” He cracked his eyes open a sliver, and they were hazy with fever, but there was a desperation there that seemed to run far deeper than sick delirium.
“Of course, Buck,” Steve breathed. “Of course.”
Steve gently pulled his wrist free of Bucky’s grasp, reaching down to squeeze his hand once before letting him go. He kicked off his shoes before peeling off his shirt, leaving him clad just as Bucky was in loose-fitting pants and a threadbare undershirt. He climbed carefully back onto the bed, trying not to disturb the mattress too much and cause Bucky more pain than he was already clearly in.
Bucky was still breathing shallowly, his arm splayed out by his side. He didn’t reach out for Steve again, whether because he was too weak or too close to falling asleep, Steve wasn’t sure. Steve reached out for Bucky instead, wrapping both of his arms around Bucky’s one and resting his chin on the pillows near his shoulder, so close he could hear every breath entering and leaving Bucky’s body. So close he swore he could almost feel his heartbeat.
They’d slept this way countless times before. They’d curled up in each other’s beds when it was windy and cold and they needed each other’s body heat for warmth. They’d slept side by side on the nights when Steve was sickest and Bucky refused to leave him no matter what. It had sometimes just happened, when they’d been talking or reading or listening to the radio so late into the evening that they ended up lying down and drifting off, not even realizing how close they were until they woke up nose to nose the next morning.
This time, though, as Steve curled up beside Bucky, watching the light of the setting sun seep in through the blinds of the window and cast his face in shadow, something felt different. His eyes were glued to the silhouette of Bucky’s face in the dim evening light, involuntarily tracing the familiar lines of his profile like he needed to commit them to memory even though he already had.
Even when his own eyes finally slipped shut, all Steve could see was Bucky, laid out in perfect detail on the backs of his eyelids, his familiar face bleeding into Steve’s dreams. The three years since he’d last seen Bucky’s face had damn near felt like an eternity. Now that that face was finally resting on the pillow next to him again, some part of Steve was beginning to realize that he didn’t ever want to stop looking at it.