it was one of the rare days when steve woke up earlier than bucky. he had to get up at six in order to be at work by eight, so steve thought he could prepare breakfast, start their days off right.
except it was already 6:20 and bucky didn’t seem to be out of bed yet. he usually wasn’t one to sleep past the alarm (no matter how much he wanted to), especially if he had to go to work, so steve went to go check on him.
“buck? c’mon, it’s time to get up.”
“i don’t feel good, steve,” he mumbled. steve sat on the edge of the bed to place the back of his hand against bucky’s forehead.
“don’t think you have a fever, at least.”
“why’s it hurt then, stevie?”
it’s four o’clock when bucky’s done with work, and 4:15 when he meets steve at home, who’s been waiting for him with a food and a shoulder to cry on.
he takes him up on the offer, not out of sadness but out of frustration. he feels sick, but it’s not like any type of sick he’s been before. instead of simply having a cough, maybe, or a headache, he felt like someone sucked all of the color and excitement out of his life, and then proceeded to throw him to the bottom of the east river, where it’s dark, and cold, and lonely.
lonely. why does he feel lonely? steve was sitting right next to him, running his hands through his hair and whispering words of encouragement and comfort. maybe it was the fact that steve would never really understand how he felt, not that bucky would ever want him to.
finally, he manages to say something for the first time in hours. “it feels like i’m dyin’, steve.” he feels the sting of tears at his eyes but he screws them shut to keep them from falling.
“well, you can sleep as long as you need, we don’t hafta to do nothin’ tomorrow, and hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“and if i don’t?” there wasn’t any hope either, not in the dark, cold, lonely place he was in. really, all he wants for it all to stop, but he had no idea when or even if that was going to happen.
“i’ll still be there for you.”