Cold
Steve returns home and quickly washes the blood off his face. He also changes his bloody, mud stained shirt, hastily hiding it at the bottom of the hamper where Bucky won’t see it. It won’t stop Bucky from knowing he got into another fight, but maybe it will be enough for him not to worry. He doubts it though. Bucky has turned worrying about him into an art form.
Steve hears the door slam and jumps.
“Hey punk.”
Steve relaxes at the familiar voice.
“Leftovers for dinner,” He calls as Bucky takes off his boots. Bucky glances up, his eyes taking in the bruises forming on Steve’s face, a small stain of blood that Steve had missed in his washing, and the shirt he definitely wasn’t wearing this morning. Bucky leans back, “alright, who was it this time?”
“Patrick,” Steve says easily, glad that he can be honest about something.
“He’s an ass. I’ll take care of him.” Bucky says.
Steve starts to nod, but pauses. Patrick will definitely mention Clint if Bucky confronts him.
“Oh don’t worry about it Buck. Some passerby broke it up real quick,” Steve says. It’s not a lie, technically.
“So? Doesn’t mean I can’t pop him one as well.” Bucky says.
“I don’t think Patrick will be bothering me again. Stranger had knife on him and gave him a good and proper scare.” Steve grins. The smile slips off his face at Bucky’s increasingly worried look. Clearly he had miscalculated.
“It was fine. He didn’t use the knife or nothing. Just scared him a bit and let him go.” Steve says quickly. Bucky steps closer to Steve looking him over critically as if looking for hidden knife wounds on Steve.
“He didn’t hurt me at all,” Steve says rolling his eyes.
“Did he take your wallet?”
“What? No. I didn’t get mugged. He was an ok fellow I swear,” Steve grins, “believe it or not, but not everyone in the world is out to get me.”
Bucky gives him a playful shove.
“I know that you lug. You just have a knack for finding the ones who are out to get you.”
It’s a scolding, but a lighthearted one. Steve lets him have it without arguing and starts heating up the leftovers on the stove. He wishes there was a faster way to do it. Maybe Tony will invent something that can, assuming they don’t already have that in the future.
After dinner Steve settles down in front of the window, content to spend the evening sketching under the watchful eye of Bucky and his three hidden sitters. Only, when he looks around he can’t find his sketchbook. The apartment is small and a quick look around shows that the sketchbook is nowhere to be seen. Steve groans when he remembers the last place he had seen the sketchbook; in the park. He had saved up for weeks to buy it, and he hadn’t even filled up half the pages yet. Looks like it’s back to drawing on scraps of paper he thinks with a disappointed sigh.
Steve’s on the cusp of thinking that things just can’t get any worse for him when he feels it; a faint tickle in the back of his throat. Oh no. A series of sneezes follow in quick succession. Bucky looks up, his over protective sensors already on high from before.
Steve sinks back into the couch, resigned. Bucky places a hand on his head and tsks at him in a way that Steve knows he learned from his mother.
“You’re a bit warm, and looking a bit peaky.”
“I’m fine,” Steve says squirming away from Bucky’s hand.
“I’m going to make you some tea and the moment you get worse you’re going to tell me,” Bucky says as if he hadn’t heard.
Ten minutes later a cup of tea appears on the little table next to the couch. Steve drinks it obediently. The sneezing gets worse, and when he finishes his cup, Steve quickly excuses himself to go to bed.
The next morning Steve oversleeps. When he does eventually pull himself fully into wakefulness it is with a pounding head and a stuffy nose. Steve’s just glad that Bucky leaves for work before him.
Steve skips breakfast. He’s late and not very hungry anyway. He can already tell today is going to be miserable and long. Suddenly an assassin’s bullet doesn’t sound so terrible. He quirks his lips at the morbid thought, grateful that, as far as he knows, Natasha Clint and Tony can’t read minds. At least he hopes they can’t. He wouldn’t put it past Tony to invent something that could though.
He opens the door and steps into the hallway and on to something that is not carpet. It crinkles under his weight and he looks down. His sketchbook, only a little dirty, sits on the floor. Steve picks it up, glancing around although he knows he won’t see anyone. A piece of paper flutters out of it.
“Behave”
An honest laugh bubbles out of him unbidden, which very quickly turns into a coughing fit.
“I will,” he promises the empty corridor. He puts the sketchbook away and walks to work a little happier that before.
Steve is calmer at work. Clearly the fight in the park had taken the edge off, or maybe the cold was just dulling his instincts for self-preservation. That could be it. Colds have a way of draining ones energy and attention away from anything that wasn’t the clogged feeling in one’s nose or throbbing in one’s head.
By the time work has finished his throat is sore and head pounds. He sincerely hopes there isn’t an assassination attempt tonight, because he’s really just too tired to be bothered. Steve makes it back to his apartment, but only after two coughing fits that were so bad they almost trigger an asthma attack. His lungs burn as he climbs the stairs, thinking of nothing but how comfortable his bed will be.
Steve opens the door to his apartment and despite the cold instantly knows that someone has been inside. He tenses as he inches his way inside. Bucky shouldn’t be back for another hour at least. On the table sits a box of tea, that hadn’t been there this morning. A note on the tea merely reads “Drink it.” It is somehow both comforting and threatening. Steve relaxes. He has a strong guess who sent him the tea, and he’s pretty sure that it isn’t his assassin. And if it is, then the man gets points for creativity in Steve’s opinion. He waves out the window and flashes a grateful thumbs up before making himself a cup of tea.
“Where’d you get the tea?” Bucky asks. He has just walked through the door after a long day spent trying not to worry about Steve’s worsening cold.
“Mr. Dilworth gave it to me when he heard me coughing,” Steve lies. He feels a bit guilty by how good he has gotten at lying these past few days. Then he firmly reminds himself the necessity of the lies and gives Bucky an easy smile.
“That’s unusual for you. Since when do you accept charity?” Bucky asks, suspicious.
“He was particularly forceful,” Steve says, remembering the note. Bucky lets it drop, content that Steve was actually taking care of himself for once. Steve turns in early, Bucky not far behind.