Chapter 3
Steve jolted awake when he felt someone thrashing on the mattress beside him. The room was fully dark now, and it took him a moment to piece together why he was here, still half-dressed and curled up on top of the quilt of an unfamiliar bed, boiling hot even though it was February and he hadn’t even fallen asleep under a blanket. Then a flailing arm came into contact with his chest, and the previous day’s events started flooding back to him.
“Hey. Hey, Buck. Wake up, pal.” Steve pushed himself to a seated position, still blinking tiredness away from his own eyes as he reached out to Bucky’s shoulder and shook it gently, trying to get him conscious and alert. Bucky groaned, eyes still squeezed shut in sleep as his arm and legs continued to thrash against the bed.
“It’s alright, Bucky. Just - just try to open your eyes for me, alright?” Steve’s heart thrummed nervously in his chest as he registered the heat seeping into his fingers from Bucky’s shoulder. With Bucky still stubbornly clinging to sleep, Steve had no way of telling whether his distress was a result of his obvious nightmare or his yet more obvious fever.
“Mm- no- please…” Bucky muttered to himself, the words coming out so slurred Steve barely recognized them.
“You’re alright, Buck,” Steve lied. “Just a bad dream. C’mon, pal.”
Steve gripped Bucky’s shoulder again, this time shaking a little harder. Finally, Bucky’s glassy eyes were blinking open, gleaming dazedly at Steve through the darkness.
“There you are,” Steve said breathlessly. He wanted more than anything to feel relieved, but Bucky still looked so terrified that Steve couldn’t keep his worry from kicking into a higher gear.
And then Bucky started talking, and Steve knew he’d been right to worry.
“Please,” Bucky gasped, curling into a defensive fetal position on the bed. He moved slowly, stiffly, like his whole body hurt. “Stop it. N-no more, I just - I can’t.” His wandering eyes managed to settle on Steve’s. “Please.”
Steve felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
“I’m not - I’m not doing anything. It’s just me, Buck. It’s Steve.”
Bucky groaned and shook his head, eyes still foggy and devoid of recognition. “No, you’re… please, I just… wanna go home...”
“But - you are,” Steve insisted, still reeling. “You are home. You’re with me. Promise.”
Bucky squinted at him, his gaze going, if possible, even cloudier. “Where… Becca?”
Steve’s heart plummeted to the floor. “Not quite,” he said sadly. “Becca’s in Indiana, Buck. Remember? Your family moved out to the farm. You’re in New York, with me.”
Bucky sighed shakily, reaching up his trembling hand to rub at his forehead, which was wrinkled in confusion - or maybe pain, Steve wasn’t sure. He still didn’t acknowledge Steve, still gave no indication he fully knew where he was, but the panicked rhythm of his breath was easing up and his tight muscles were starting to relax, and Steve decided he’d have to count it as a win.
With Bucky seeming marginally calmer, Steve reached out to press his perpetually icy fingers to Bucky’s forehead. He was only hoping to get a better idea of just how bad the obviously substantial fever was, but his train of thought was completely derailed when Bucky suddenly grabbed for his wrist, gripping it with more strength than Steve would have thought possible. Steve held his breath; Bucky may very well have been incapacitated with fever, but if he was still lost in some memory he thought he had ot fight his way out of, Steve wasn’t sure he stood a chance.
But he didn’t have to worry. Bucky just clung to him, holding Steve’s cool fingers even more tightly against his blistering skin.
“Yeah,” Steve murmured sadly, watching Bucky’s eyes flit closed as he absorbed the cold from his body. “You’re really burning up, huh?”
Bucky grumbled in what Steve assumed was agreement. Steve worked to get his thoughts back in order, to remember all the times the roles had been reversed and he’d been the one in need of help. Bucky had always managed to swoop in with a remedy - between that and the secondhand nursing experience Steve had picked up from his mother, he was sure he could figure out something.
“If we can just get that fever down, you’re gonna feel a whole lot better,” Steve assured Bucky. He delicately extricated his wrist from Bucky’s grip, trying to ignore his guilt as Bucky whimpered and grabbed for his hand.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll do you one better, though. D’you think you can get up?”
Bucky tried, but his singular, shaking hand wasn’t enough to lift his body off the bed. Steve stepped in to help him, supporting his back and lifting him gently into a seated position. The quilt below Bucky’s body was damp with fever sweat, but his skin was unsettlingly dry. His shoulders seemed permanently bowed forward in defeat, and he hung his head below them like it hurt. Steve couldn’t resist lingering his hand on Bucky’s back a little longer than strictly necessary to prop him up, rubbing gently back and forth over the taut muscles between his shoulder blades.
“Okay,” Steve said softly. “I’m gonna help you, Buck, don’t worry. You just gotta bear with me for a minute.”
Bucky barely acknowledged him, just muttered something indistinct, eyes still glued to his knees. Steve didn’t push it - he’d had enough high fevers himself to know that Bucky’s sleepy confusion had to be at least bordering on delirium. Instead he got to work tugging Bucky to his feet, working to drape his larger body over his shoulders and support him down the hallway to their tiny, shared bathroom.
Once they reached the bathroom, Steve flipped on the lights, and the room’s dim lightbulb flickered to life. Bucky was clearly struggling to stay upright, his knees buckling repeatedly as he hung off Steve for support. The position was making Steve’s spine scream in protest, and he only felt a little bad when he finally wormed his way out from under Bucky and spotted him while he crumpled to the floor.
“Sorry,” Steve panted, propping Bucky’s limp body up to lean against the side of their dented tin bathtub. “Just hang tight for a second.”
Steve guiltily turned away from Bucky, trying to hide how hard he was fighting to catch his breath as he set about turning on the bathtub faucet and letting the basin slowly fill with lukewarm water. He’d never admit it, but with Bucky in tow, even the short walk from the bedroom to the bathroom had both his legs and lungs burning, succinct reminders from his body that he was maybe, possibly, a little bit out of his depth here.
But no, this was Bucky, who’d clearly been through hell, who’d fought and starved and bled for three years in Europe, who for once actually needed him. Steve would be damned if he didn’t deliver.
He ran a hand through the rising bathwater, testing the temperature. Their apartment’s faulty plumbing and perpetually short supply of hot water were usually inconveniences at best, but Steve found himself grateful now, trying to run Bucky a bath that was cool enough to dampen his fever without being painfully cold. Once he was satisfied with the tepid temperature, Steve turned off the tap and returned his attention to Bucky, still sprawled limply on the floor.
Bucky’s eyes were closed, his head tilted back to expose the length of his neck as he rested against the cold metal of the tub. His chest was rising and falling rapidly with shallow breaths, and Steve could see slight tremors running up and down his limbs.
“Hey,” Steve said quietly, gently tapping Bucky’s cheek. Bucky’s eyes slowly made their way open. He tried to lift his head to look at Steve, but he couldn’t hold it up, and it ended up falling forward towards his chest. Steve had to manually cup his chin and support him until they were looking eye to eye.
“I know. I know you’re feeling awful. How does a bath sound, huh? Help you cool down a little?”
Bucky shook his head minutely from side to side, face screwing up as his headache clearly shot up another notch. “S-so cold - don’t want to - I need - Steve, please -”
Steve had to glance away from Bucky’s pleading face to keep tears from springing up in his own eyes. He wasn’t sure if Bucky was begging him or begging for him, but lingering on either possibility was enough to thoroughly break his heart.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said once he could finally trust his voice. “I know. Believe me, I know. But this is gonna make you feel better. You just have to trust me, Bucky. Can you do that? Please?”
Bucky searched Steve’s face desperately with eyes that seemed just barely able to focus. Steve held his breath, certain he wouldn’t be able to force Bucky into anything he didn’t want, even something as innocuous and helpful as a bath.
“...Steve?” Bucky slurred after a moment.
“Yep. Right here.”
“Are you… real?”
Steve swallowed hard. “Yeah. Real as you are, Buck.” He gripped Bucky’s uninjured shoulder gently with his free hand, hoping the contact might help ground him in reality. The gesture brought with it memories of his mother’s funeral, of spare keys and couch cushions and Bucky’s hand on his shoulder as he insisted they were together ‘til the end of the line. Steve only hoped he could muster up a fraction of the warmth and safety and relief he’d felt that day and channel it back to Bucky now.
After a long moment, Bucky finally seemed to relent. “...’kay,” he breathed, tipping his head back to rest against the tub again. “Wanna believe you, Stevie.”
Steve felt a grin split his face. “Good. That’s so good. Let me just…”
Steve worried for a moment over Bucky’s clothes. He didn’t want to go near his shirt for fear of disrupting the bandage wrapped around his shoulder beneath. And his pants… well. A different problem, but a problem nonetheless.
Still, he could either deal with the clothes now or afterwards, and afterwards they’d be wet on top of it all. Slowly, Steve twitched his fingers towards the hem of Bucky’s shirt.
Bucky whimpered a little as Steve lifted up the fabric and the cool air of the bathroom met his skin. The tiny, pained sound filled Steve with horrible guilt, but he pressed on, gently guiding the shirt over Bucky’s head and injured shoulder to deposit it on the floor.
He couldn’t help but suck in a breath as Bucky’s trembling chest came into view. The two of them had lived together through several scorching New York summers, meaning they’d seen each other shirtless plenty of times, just out of necessity. There had been a point in time when it had been second nature for Bucky to peel off his sweaty shirt as soon as he got home from the docks and spend the evening going around the apartment bare-chested, well-defined muscles on full display. Those images were somehow still stored in Steve’s mind in very detailed clarity, a fact which made the sight in front of him now even more shocking by comparison.
The ribs he’d felt through Bucky’s shirt while rubbing his back were just as visually prominent through his skin, standing out beneath the much leaner muscles of his chest and highlighting the visible concavity of his stomach. His whole midsection was dotted with bruises, most of which were tinted the sickly yellow-green color that meant they were old, almost healed. The exception was the skin just beneath the bandage wrapped around his left side. The ribs extending below were marred with fresher marks, pink and angry against his pale skin, climbing up his side and disappearing beneath the bottom edge of his bandage.
“Oh, god.” Almost involuntarily, Steve reached out a hand and hovered it over the injured area, desperately wanting to provide some comfort but terrified to actually come into contact with the puffy and obviously aching skin. Bucky shivered harder as Steve’s cold hand came near him, and Steve withdrew his touch.
This was bad, he thought, eyes still glued to Bucky’s chest even as he moved to help wrestle him out of his pants. This might be more than he could handle.
“Okay,” he whispered once Bucky was down to his briefs and trembling against the cracked tile of the bathroom floor. “Let’s get you up…” Steve tugged at his arm until Bucky got with the program, shoving against the floor with his shaking legs and helping support some of his own weight as Steve lifted him, one leg at a time, over the edge of the tub.
Bucky immediately slumped back against the tub’s edge, everything about him exuding fatigue. He let his head drift to rest near his good shoulder, eyes hovering somewhere between open and shut.
“Careful,” Steve said softly. “Try to keep that bandage out of the water, okay?” He ran what he hoped was a comforting hand over Bucky’s uninjured shoulder before getting up to rummage through the bathroom cabinets. He managed to find a couple of rags and a chipped mug, the latter of which he paused at the sink to fill with water before returning to Bucky’s side.
“Hey,” Steve murmured as he knelt beside the tub. Bucky pried his eyes open and managed to raise his head to look at Steve, who smiled softly at him. “Think you might be able to drink something for me?”
Bucky swallowed hard, face going visibly paler as he processed Steve’s words. Steve worried for a second that he was about to be sick into the bath, but after a moment he seemed to get the nausea under control. Tensing his jaw, he nodded.
“Good,” Steve said. Not even wanting to trust Bucky’s shaking hand with the mug of water, Steve took a deep breath and held up the cup himself, letting the rim just barely brush Bucky’s lips. After a slow moment of realization, Bucky opened his mouth a fraction, letting Steve administer a few small sips of water. He soon clamped his lips shut, gulping against what looked like more than just the water, but Steve still held the mug there until he was sure Bucky was absolutely finished, refusing any more with another tiny shake of his head.
“Okay. That’s okay,” Steve said, setting the cup aside. “We can try again later. Let’s just work on getting you cooled off for now.” He shifted his attention to the rags, dipping one into the lukewarm bathwater and swirling it around to wet it through.
“You remember doing this for me?” he asked, taking the wet rag and using it to dab at Bucky’s blistering forehead. Bucky’s jaw trembled from what Steve assumed was the cold as a few loose droplets of water slid down his face. “Used to help me out like this all the time. Every time I was sick, seemed like you knew exactly what to do.”
Bucky hummed quietly. Steve wasn’t sure if he was agreeing or just responding to the feeling of the cool rag on his skin. Steve was massaging it against his neck, trying to absorb some of the heat burning there before moving down to scrub gently at his chest and arm.
“Yeah,” Steve said. “You’ve always had my back. Don’t - don’t know what I’d do without you, y’know?” He’d meant the words to be comforting, but as soon as he said them he was suddenly having a hard time breathing, having a hard time even looking at Bucky through a sheen of barely suppressed tears. It was true, truer than he’d ever realized, and only in the wake of having actually lost Bucky once did he understand. He needed Bucky, and not just for things like taking care of him when he was too sick to do it himself. For everything.
Steve had swept the rag across most of Bucky’s chest, down the length of his pronounced ribcage and back up again - but as he neared the inflamed area on the left side of his chest, he stopped, frozen. He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but he was scared. What if Bucky wasn’t just sick? What if he was hurt worse than they thought, hurt so bad he…
Steve couldn’t even finish the thought.
Instead of washing the other side of Bucky’s chest, Steve retreated, playing his rag up and down the length of Bucky’s arm as he forced himself to breathe evenly again. He traced a path between the few small freckles dotting Bucky’s bicep, half-imagining they were stars in some constellation that only he knew the shape of. He’d known Bucky almost his whole life, but he’d never quite looked at him closely enough to know those freckles were there. Focusing on this innocuous new detail, as opposed to everything else new about Bucky that had been cruelly forced upon him by the war, Steve finally started to feel like he wasn’t imminently falling apart.
“Okay,” he said once he’d blinked away the last of his would-be tears. He looked from Bucky’s arm to his face and was surprised to find him almost alert, watching him. Steve offered him a shaky smile, but he couldn’t keep his cheeks from reddening a little as he wondered what Bucky must think of him, sitting there and staring at the patterns on his skin. “Can you talk to me, Buck? Tell me how you’re feeling?”
Bucky opened his mouth, hesitating a little over his words. When he finally spoke, his voice was weak and thin. “Sick,” he croaked. “Everything just - hurts, real bad. All achy. And my arm…”
Steve sucked in a breath, forcing his fingers over to trace the very edge of Bucky’s bandage.
“Here? You shoulder?”
“No,” Bucky insisted. “My arm.” His bleary eyes were now trained on his empty left side, leaving Steve taken aback, unsure which arm he was really talking about.
“Yeah,” he managed. “ That looks like it hurts a lot, Buck. I’m sorry. I can tell it’s not healed.”
Bucky made an uncomfortable sound, still staring down with that glassy look that had Steve wondering what he was actually seeing. Steve followed his gaze, trying to piece it together, and landed on the once-clean bandage, now definitely stained with something that Steve thought might be blood.
“Right.” Steve took a deep breath, willing his hands to stop shaking. “I’m so sorry, Buck, but I’m gonna - I’m gonna try to see what we’re dealing with, alright? Just so I can figure out how to help you.”
Steve carefully slipped his fingers under the top layer of bandage, searching for an end to unwind. Bucky audibly ground his teeth together, his whole body shrinking away from Steve.
“You alright?” Steve paused to ask.
“I -” Bucky gulped, his face bloodless and chalk-white. “Wh-why’re you… don’t. Don’t take it, no, please, I’m awake -” The desperate word died with a sick noise in the back of his throat. He turned to bury his face in the crook of his elbow resting on the opposite end of the tub, as far away from Steve as he could possibly get.
“Yeah, you’re awake,” Steve repeated, uncomprehending. “I’m right here. You’re okay.”
Steve kept prodding at him, and Bucky let out an unmistakable sob, curling into a ball as he continually tried to pull away.
“Don’t, don’t, just let me go,” Bucky moaned, and Steve’s stomach dropped as he realized, too late, where Bucky’s feverish head was - somewhere far away from the cool water and relative safety of their little bathroom. He quickly let Bucky go.
“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Bucky, I thought you were with me. I thought you were okay…”
But Bucky wasn’t listening. His shoulders hitched again, and Steve thought for a second that he might still be crying, but then he let out a painful-sounding gag, and the water Steve had forced into him was coming back up onto the bathroom floor. Bucky’s arching spine was facing Steve, and Steve wanted desperately to reach out to him, to rub his back and hold him until he came back to himself, until he felt okay again - but he forced himself to hold back. His touch wasn’t going to help Bucky. He couldn’t fix this.
“I’m so sorry,” Steve said hollowly as Bucky caught his breath. “I’m sorry I-I can’t help you. Not the way…” Not the way you’ve always helped me. Not the way I should be able to because for god’s sake you’ve taken care of me my entire life and all I ever wanted was to return the favor. “...not the way you need. Soon as it’s morning I’m gonna call for a doctor, alright? Is that okay?”
Bucky groaned shakily, then slowly turned back around to face Steve. Barely perceptibly, he nodded.
“I-I didn’t mean to,” he said, voice raw and hoarse from vomiting. “My head keeps getting all… mixed up…”
“‘S ok,” Steve said sadly. “Not your fault. Let’s just go lie down again, alright? You probably just need some rest, and things are gonna get a whole lot clearer.”
But even as Steve supported Bucky back to bed and forced him into clean clothes, even as he burrowed with him under the quilt and added another blanket for good measure, he couldn’t rid himself of a nagging sense of worry, unshakeable and only growing every time Bucky whined quietly in his fitful sleep. Bucky was curled up with his back to Steve, effectively shutting him out, leaving Steve with only the slight up-and-down motion of his ribs as he breathed for company. Steve inched a hand out from where it was tucked beneath the blankets, lingering it barely an inch from the place where Bucky’s bicep was wrapped in the quilt. He couldn’t help but think back to the way he’d traced over the skin beneath with his fingers. The way he half-wished he could do it again, to somehow make all of this okay with the gentlest touch he could muster.
But it wouldn’t help, and he knew it. He left that inch of space between them, drifting in and out of sleep until light started filtering in through the bedroom window and the sounds of Brooklyn waking up for the day drowned out the soft noises of Bucky’s labored breathing. Steve spared one more quick glance at him, pale and small underneath the pile of blankets, before pushing himself to his feet to find reinforcements. He was going to fix this. He had to.