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Bucky’s sick.
Not crazy, out-of-his-mind-delirious sick, but still definitely sick.
Between the concussion from Walker bashing him in the head with the shield and the exhaustion from trying to keep up with Karli, Bucky wakes up not feeling his best.
His head throbs as he sits up from the floor, his de facto bed the past few months since he’d been snapped back. His neck is stiff, and so is the rest of his body, but he thinks little of it as he levies himself up to a standing position. Of course his body aches, he’s been sleeping on hardwood for god’s sake.
A yawn makes his jaw pop, and he raises a hand to rub at the soreness it leaves.
A bright light from the counter catches his eye, and he winces as his screen lights up in the still dark morning. It’s a text from Sam, but Bucky can’t make his eyes focus enough to read it. His eyes burn in the light, and as he flips the phone over on the counter he sighs in relief at the renewed darkness. He’ll respond to Sam later; if it was really important, the other man would have just called.
Bucky presses fingers into his eyes to try and halt the dull pressure behind them. He doesn’t remember his head hurting this much yesterday, and he’d thought he was on the upswing from his concussion when he went to bed last night. But today the persistent thrum is back, and the accompanying vertigo is enough to make Bucky’s stomach turn.
He ignores it, naturally, like any good soldier would. He rolls the word around inside of his brain for a minute - soldier. Lately he doesn’t really feel like much of a soldier. Back in the war, he knew what he was fighting for. He knew how his actions played into the bigger picture. Even when he was under Hydra’s control, he knew that the work he was doing was for a higher purpose. These days, he feels like every move he makes is a mistake.
Bucky shivers as thoughts of that fateful day in Latvia flit through his mind. The memory of blood on the shield, Steve’s shield, is a painful reminder that all he’s done is chase dead ends.They’ve spent weeks chasing Karli, and all it’s brought is more bloodshed. Two more bodies in a war that’s already taken too many.
With a staggering exhale, Bucky shakes his head back and forth as if to clear his mind. He instantly regrets it when his headache flares dizzyingly, but the pain is a welcome distraction from the uncomfortable thoughts. A glance at the digital clock on his microwave tells Bucky that he has about an hour before his scheduled therapy session, so he abandons his cell phone on the counter and goes to take a shower.
The hot water feels nice, he decides after a few minutes of just standing underneath the spray. It’s something his therapist has been encouraging him to practice, taking time to understand and name the things he feels. For so long he was forced to not feel, so sometimes it takes some work for Bucky to really know what he thinks or wants. Steve used to know him better than Bucky knew himself, but now, braving the 21st century without him, Bucky has had to learn to listen to his body and mind. And right now, his body is loving the heat.
A stab of pain radiates through his skull as he moves his head back to rinse out the shampoo. Bucky winces as it causes him to lose his balance, nearly falling as he lowers himself to the floor of the shower. The water isn’t as warm down here, further from the showerhead, and even though the temperature shift is small, the supersoldier finds himself shivering. He stays seated there for a few more minutes, letting the spray run over him until he’s sure that his hair is completely rinsed, before leaning forward carefully to turn off the water.
It’s cold outside the shower, and Bucky dries off as fast as he can before throwing on a pair of black jeans with a tee shirt and hoodie underneath his signature leather jacket. He spends a few minutes trying to make his hair behave, but ultimately decides it’s too much work.
His head is spinning as he calls an uber to his therapist’s office. Just the thought of hopping on his motorcycle and having to listen to the engine rev as he navigates New York City morning traffic makes him want to be sick. The uber at least gives him a chance to close his eyes and zone out for the twenty minute ride. His sunglasses hang off his face, poorly disguising the bags underneath his closed eyes.
Bucky can feel the driver looking at him through the mirror, knows instinctively what it feels like to have eyes on him. He also knows that it isn’t because he looks as ill as he feels. The driver recognizes him, whether as Bucky Barnes or as the Winter Soldier, he isn’t sure. He wonders idly if the driver is afraid of him, and the thought leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.
When the ride is over, Bucky quietly thanks the driver and walks into the building. The office is pretty quiet this morning, and he’s grateful. His headache is worsening and he doesn’t like the way his whole body feels weighed down by fatigue. It’s more than being tired, more than just needing a cup of coffee. Bucky sighs, threading a hand through his messy hair. He officially doesn’t feel well.
It’s a shame, too, because Dr. Raynor didn’t come to play today. Bucky’s brain is moving slowly and it feels like his therapist is moving a mile a minute. He’s off, and he’d been sure his therapist would clock that the second she saw him, but if she’s noticed the way his eyes are drooping and his body is sinking deeper into her couch than normal, she doesn’t say anything. Bucky sniffs a bit against a suddenly running nose, not sure why his therapist is looking at him expectantly.
“Uh, sorry. What did you say?” Bucky breathes deeply, trying to ignore the deep ache in his chest and the way it feels like he can’t hold his head up. He’s beginning to feel like the time he’d come down with the flu back during the war, and the hazy memory feels too familiar to have happened some seventy years ago.
“I said I think we should cut our session short.”
“Um,” Bucky pauses, trying to make his muddled brain catch up to the conversation. “Okay.”
“Do you know why I think we should wrap up early?” Bucky’s mouth is dry as he ponders her question. She must have noticed he wasn’t himself today, after all. But then why didn’t she say anything? Apparently he sits for too long without answering, because Dr. Raynor frowns and closes her notebook before speaking again.
“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me this whole session that you’re not feeling well, James. It’s part of advocating for yourself and setting a boundary. I know that’s hard for you, that you’ve spent a lot of your life not being able to make your own choices. But I want you to know that you can speak up for yourself here, and that it isn’t wrong to ask for what you need.”
Bucky deflates. He leans forward and rests his head in his palms, letting the throbbing headache take over his senses. He can hear Dr. Raynor moving around the space, but he can’t make himself lift his head long enough to place her. His sole focus is keeping himself upright and not passing out in his therapist’s office.
“James,” a voice says, close to him now. He jumps a bit at the sudden proximity, but he opens his eyes to look up anyways. Dr. Raynor is holding a glass of water out to him and he gratefully accepts it. He takes a ginger sip while she sits back down in her chair.
“Thanks,” Bucky says after a moment, before tacking on a sheepish, “sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, you haven’t done anything wrong. I just want you to rest and feel better. We can move our session to next week.”
Bucky nods slowly and leans forward to set the water glass down on the coffee table between them. “I should go.”
“Did you drive here?” Dr. Raynor asks. “Because I can have someone call you a ride.”
“No,” Bucky interrupts. “I didn’t drive here. But um, thanks. I’ll call the office to reschedule.”
The uber ride home is quiet, thankfully. The driver is playing the radio, some latin playlist that Bucky imagines he’d hear in a nightclub, but it’s at a low enough volume that it doesn’t bother him. He wishes that the driver would turn up the heat a bit, since he’s still feeling cold; he absently wonders if that means he’s running a fever.
When he arrives home, Bucky takes a brief moment to strip off his leather jacket and swap his jeans for a pair of black joggers before collapsing on the couch. He feels so crushingly weak and the feeling leaves him simultaneously wanting to punch something and collapse dead. A buzz from his cell phone catches his attention as he’s drifting off, but his phone is all the way over on the kitchen table and he can’t find it within himself to stand up and cross the room.
With a final sniff, Bucky curls onto his side and lets sleep take him.
---
Cool.
Bucky wakes to a cool pressure against his forehead. It’s not painful, but rather soothing. The pressure moves down to his cheek and Bucky hums at the gentle contact.
“Bucky? You in there?” It’s Sam, of course it’s Sam. Bucky imagines if he were still able to breathe through the congestion in his nose, he might have been able to smell Sam’s signature pine and cinnamon scent. Bucky is surprised to find that the ex-military officer is a welcome presence in his cold apartment. He shivers as Sam moves his hand through Bucky’s messy hair.
“Sam,” Bucky breathes, pinching his nose against the headache he’s still nursing before he cracks his eyes open to slits. The other man is seated on the coffee table across from him, and his eyes are dark and concerned.
“You didn’t answer any of my texts,” Sam murmurs, wincing as a shiver rolls through his partner’s frame. “Haven’t heard from you in days, and with your concussion I figured I’d better come see that you weren’t passed out on the floor.”
“Sorry,” Bucky breathes, letting his eyes fall closed again. Sam’s hand finds its way back to Bucky’s forehead.
“You’re too warm. How long have you been feeling bad?” Sam reaches out to help Bucky sit up when he sees the super soldier bracing himself to move. He looks dazed, exhausted, and Sam doesn’t like the faraway look in his eyes.
“Woke up feeling weird. Thought it was just the concussion but then I started feeling worse. Feels kind of like the flu.”
“Fever, congestion, headache? Sounds like the flu to me,” Sam agrees, standing to go to the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water and a small bottle of painkillers from Bucky’s medicine cabinet. “Take two of these, should help with some of the aches.”
Bucky squints up at him skeptically, looking like he wants to argue, but decides he doesn’t have enough energy and accepts the medicine. Sam heads to the bedroom and comes back to the couch with a blanket from the bed to wrap around Bucky’s shoulders.
“Have you eaten today, Barnes?” Bucky looks at him sheepishly and Sam huffs a small laugh. “Of course you haven’t. You’re kind of shit at taking care of yourself, you know that?” Sam tucks the blanket around Bucky and leans him back down on the sofa.
“I’m not used to being sick, s'all,” Bucky slurs, settling into the cushions. “That was always Stevie’s thing.”
There’s a moment of silence between them at the mention of Steve, both of them still quietly grieving. Sam wonders if Steve ever used to take care of Bucky like this. He hopes this isn’t a triggering experience for Bucky, but the sick man seems to be in good enough spirits for now.
“Hey,” Sam starts after a beat, “It’s Wednesday. Don’t you have therapy on Wednesdays?”
Bucky moves to sit up as Sam wanders back over to the coffee table with a bowl. “Yeah, Wednesdays.”
“Did you go today feeling like this? Or is there another warrant out for your arrest that I should be dealing with?” Sam places a steaming bowl of soup on the table in front of the super soldier, alongside a tube of crackers.
“I went, don’t worry,” Bucky murmurs, picking up the spoon. The steam makes his nose run, and he sniffs against it. “Dr. Raynor kicked me out halfway and everything.”
“As she should have,” Sam huffs. “You look like crap, Buck.”
Bucky just smirks and takes another spoonful of soup.
“Alright, how about you finish that soup and I get you to bed?” Sam offers, watching the super soldier nod and push the bowl aside. “Done already?”
“Yeah, don’t have much of an appetite.” Bucky stands, slowly enough to not trigger his vertigo, and Sam takes him by the arm to the bedroom. As Bucky lays down in bed, Sam tucks the covers up around him. Another minute and he’s placed a box of tissues, a trash can, and some water by the soldier’s bedside.
“Okay, you should be all set here. Just answer your damn phone next time I call, alright? And maybe take a break from your whole soldiering through the pain bit.”
Bucky snorts at Sam’s tone and otherwise stays quiet, already beginning to drift off. But as he hears the click of the door behind his friend’s retreating frame, he ponders the idea. Good soldiers follow orders, and the ones laid out for him seem simple enough. Resolved, Bucky lets himself slip down into pleasant sleep.
Alright.