Alright, here we go! More fluff to soothe the Infinity War-battered soul. Steve gets sick, and taking care of the grouchy little jerk is something Bucky remembers well. Shamelessly sweet and fluffy. Enjoy.

No matter how much sleep Bucky got at night, it always took him a little while to get out of bed. The distance between the mattress and the floor wasn't that far, but he had to stare at it for a while and talk himself into it. Once he was vertical, he was good. Steve, on the other hand, would just get up and go. The funny part was, his brain might be awake, but his body took a minute or two to catch up. His eyes wouldn't open all the way and his equilibrium always wanted a few more minutes to sleep, the end result being that he was incapable of walking in a straight line first thing in the morning. (He'd been that way when he was tiny too, and Bucky swore that it just got worse after he got big. That serum really did enhance everything.) It was funny when he was in the apartment, and you could hear him thump into one wall and then the other—and sometimes back into the first wall again—as he veered down the hall on his way to the bathroom. It was hilarious back during the war—canvas in no way took his weight, and on missions the Howlies would get up early to watch and see if Steve would remember to sit down and ride it out or if he'd just wake up and knock his own tent over. The first time Peggy went with them on a mission, she nearly cracked a rib, she was laughing so hard.

Bucky had remembered that all on his own. Sure, it wasn't an identity-defining memory or anything, but he was still pretty pleased with himself for managing it.

So, at first, he thought nothing of it when he heard Steve, who had gotten up later than normal this morning, thump into the wall in the hallway a little louder than usual. Bucky kept eating his cereal, then it occurred to him that he hadn't heard another thump, and he hadn't heard the bathroom door close either. Curious, he pushed away from the kitchen counter. "Steve?" he called, moving into the hallway.

Curiosity gave way to concern as he rounded the corner and saw Steve on the floor. "Steve!" He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside his friend. "Steve, are you okay?"

Steve, for his part, looked just as surprised to find himself on the floor as Bucky was. "Bucky?" he replied, squinting glassy eyes up from where he was slouched against the wall. "Bucky! Hey! Hey, Bucky," he rambled, smiling and reaching up to pat Bucky's cheek a little too forcefully. "No, I'm, 'm fine," he insisted, attempting and failing to push himself back up. "M'okay. I just, I hit th' wall again, an' then I, I just los' my balance 's all. Help me up?"

The slurred words and the drunken rambling were doing nothing to convince Bucky that Steve was fine. He'd come in late last night from a mission and gone straight to bed—had he gotten hurt? Was this a really bad concussion or something? But, no, if he'd gotten hurt that badly, they wouldn't've sent him home. Stark's ceiling computer checked for that kind of thing. And Banner was a doctor, he would've made sure Steve was alright. Bucky's concern kicked up another few notches.

Steve was starting to slide closer to the floor, and Bucky reached out to keep him steady. He could feel the heat coming off of him before his flesh hand touched Steve's skin. Even his metal hand could feel it. "Steve, you're not okay, you're burning up." So, maybe not hurt, but sick, and it had to be a hell of a bug to take Steve down.

"'s hot in here," Steve agreed, nodding his head clumsily.

"Okay," Bucky said, trying not to panic and searching his brain for what to do. "Okay. Let's get you off the floor, alright?"

"'kay."

It was a good thing Bucky had that super-soldier strength too, because Steve was no help in getting himself to his feet. (Though he did try.) With Steve leaning heavily against him, Bucky moved back into the living room, lowering Steve to lay down on the couch. It looked like the twenty-foot journey had exhausted him. He turned on the ceiling fan, hoping it would do a little to cool him down, then went into Steve's room and got his phone. His first instinct was to call Sam—but, no, Sam hadn't gone on that mission. Sam had gone to bed before Steve had gotten back and left for work before Steve got up. He probably didn't know anything was wrong.

Okay. Okay. Bucky took a deep breath as his stomach twisted itself into a knot. Banner. He could call Banner. Banner was a doctor, he'd been on the mission, Bucky could call him. The knot in his stomach twisted a little tighter. He could talk to Sam—he knew Sam. Banner was…Banner was a nice guy, Bucky knew that, but he didn't know him, and it was too early in the day for this and he hadn't been prepared to talk to strangers and he felt like he was going to throw up, but, no. No. Something was wrong with Steve. Banner could help. Bucky could do this.

He breathed slowly and deliberately as he scrolled through Steve's phone, took a deep breath as his finger hovered over Banner's number, then he hit it before he could talk himself out of it.

It rang a few times before Banner picked up. "Hey, Steve," he answered with a yawn. "What's up?" Bucky froze for a moment. "Steve, you there?" Banner asked.

"No," Bucky said, hoping Banner didn't hear that little waver he felt as he spoke. "No, it—it's Bucky."

"Bucky?" Banner asked. "Oh, okay. Yeah, what's, ah, what's going on?"

"Steve's sick," Bucky said quickly, getting to the point of the call before he could chicken out. "He's got a fever and he…he's sick," he repeated, hating how pitiful he knew he must sound.

"Oh. Yeah, that's…" Banner started, not sounding nearly as worried as Bucky thought he should be, but then trailing off as though something was occurring to him. "He didn't tell you about the mission, did he?"

"No," Bucky replied shortly, anger with Banner for knowing something was wrong and sending him home and anger with Steve for not mentioning it surging up and then getting squashed back down by the need to figure out what was wrong and the reminder to breathe and not pass out while in the middle of an unplanned conversation with someone he didn't really know.

He could hear Banner sigh into the phone. "Okay. Okay, yeah, I can see why you'd be concerned. So, um, the guy we were after had some pretty nasty stuff cooked up in his lab. He, ah, he set some of it airborne before we got him, and Steve took a pretty good hit." Bucky felt that urge to throw up again rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down as he realized Banner was still talking. "—got back to the Tower, J.A.R.V.I.S. and I checked him out thoroughly, and he's gonna be okay. It's obviously some pretty heavy stuff to be able to take Steve down like this—would've killed anyone else—but the serum's doing its job and protecting him. It may take him a little while to get back on his feet, but his body just needs time to fight it off, and he's not contagious or anything, which is why we thought it would be okay to send him home. I'm sorry about this, man, he was supposed to fill you in when he got back."

Bucky nodded, then remembered Banner couldn't see it. "So, he's gonna be okay?"

"He is," Banner assured him. "There's some extra-strength stuff that should be in his bag to help with some of the symptoms, but he mostly just needs a lot of rest. If you want, we can bring him back over to the Tower," Banner offered.

Bucky considered. He appreciated Banner's wording—offering to take over if this was too much for Bucky to handle, but not implying that he thought it would be. "You're sure he'll be okay?" Bucky asked again. Not that he didn't trust Banner—he didn't know him well, but Steve trusted him—but he wanted to make the best decision.

"Absolutely," Banner replied, not sounding offended that Bucky would ask again.

"Okay," Bucky said. "It's—I can look out for him." And he could. He remembered sick Steve. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure," Banner said. "And, hey, if you need anything, give me a call."

"Okay. Thank you. I'm sorry, I—" Knowing it would be alright, he felt bad now for bothering Banner and waking him up.

"Don't worry about it, man," Banner assured him. "I know he's not normally sick, so it was a good call."

Bucky nodded again. "Thanks."

Banner ended the call, which saved Bucky the trouble of needing to remember how (although he thought it was the red button). Okay. It was funny what he remembered and what he didn't and what he got mixed up sometimes. Because he did remember Steve explaining to him the effects of the serum, back in some tent in Italy what felt like a million years ago, and he knew it meant Steve wasn't supposed to get sick anymore. That was pretty solidly set in his brain, and so of course he was going to panic when Steve caught something bad enough to break past the super-serum's defenses. But also pretty solidly set in his brain was tiny little sick Steve—at times better than the big guy was. There'd been twenty-five years of the little fella and only two of the big one, after all. And so, in some ways, sick Steve felt…was it wrong to say familiar? Bucky's panic was replaced by something that it took him a moment to identify as confidence. Because, yeah, it sucked that Steve was sick, and Bucky hated it as much as he did back before, but sick Steve…Sick Steve, Bucky could do. He knew this.

He went to the kitchen and started filling little bags with ice and wrapping them in dish towels. First thing he needed to do was to get Steve cooled down. Steve was still sprawled across the couch, staring at the ceiling with half-open, glazed-over eyes and watching the rotation of the ceiling fan.

"Hey, Steve," he said, nudging Steve's leg aside with his hip so that he could sit down next to him. "How're you feeling?"

It looked like it took a little bit of effort for Steve to tear his eyes away from the fan. "Oh, hey, Buck," he said with a little smile. "M'alright." He sniffed. "Little dizzy."

"Uh huh. Still hot?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded sleepily.

"Okay. Let's see if this helps, huh?" Bucky said, moving to place the bags of ice under Steve's arms and along his side. He wasn't wearing a shirt, which was good for now, but he was probably going to get cold later. Bucky made a mental note to grab some blankets to keep nearby. Steve shivered a little as Bucky tucked a bag of ice against his neck then relaxed. "Better?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Good. Now, I want you to drink some water, okay?" Steve moved to sit up, but Bucky pushed him back down. "No, stay there, I've got a straw." He held the glass close to Steve and nudged his lips with the straw. "Hey, whoa, slow down, alright? Don't want you puking this back up." Steve complied and drank slower, and Bucky held the glass steady until he was done. "Why don't you get some more sleep, okay?" he asked, reaching over to brush Steve's damp hair off his forehead with his left hand. Steve leaned into the touch, and Bucky realized the cool metal probably felt good against his warm skin. He smiled and left his hand resting on his forehead. "When you get better, we're gonna have a talk about post-mission communication."

Steve blinked his eyes part of the way open again. "I was…There was somethn' I was s'posed to tell you."

"Yep."

Steve squinted. "You're mad, aren't you?"

Bucky smiled. "I'm gonna have to thump you a little bit, but I'll wait 'til you get better. Right now you just get some rest, okay?"

Steve hummed a little and closed his eyes, and Bucky smiled and left his hand on his forehead until he was sure he was asleep.

It took him a little while to find Steve's go-bag—he'd dropped it by the front door instead of taking it to his room—but the medicine Banner had mentioned was there, tucked into a little pocket on the side. He brought it back to the living room and read all the labels while he finished his cereal. Steve's super-soldier metabolism ran pretty warm normally, so it wasn't really a surprise that with the added fever, the ice didn't take long to melt. Bucky crushed up some of the pills Banner had sent in a glass of water and woke Steve up enough to drink it. He changed the ice out two more times before the fever swung the other way and Steve started to shiver.

Bucky started unfolding blankets from the stack he'd set by the couch—it took two to cover Steve's shoulders and his feet when he was stretched out like that—and tucked them around him, reaching up to turn off the fan before nudging Steve toward the back of the couch so he could sit down by his head, stretching his legs down alongside him. He didn't work quite the same way as Steve, but normally he ran a little warmer than your average guy too, and he smiled when Steve shifted in the cushions and rolled to lean against Bucky's leg.

They spent the rest of the morning like that until Bucky got up to make lunch. Steve was incredibly grumpy about being woken up to eat, but his brain was still fuzzy from the fever and he didn't really argue. Memory told Bucky to appreciate that while it lasted—when he was coherent, sick Steve was stubborn and argumentative, sometimes just for the hell of it and not for any actual reason. Bucky remembered Steve accusing him of having a terrible bedside manner, but there was only so far being nice would take you with sick Steve.

His skin felt a little cooler, but Bucky made him take more of Banner's medicine before letting him go back to sleep. He also took the opportunity to have him put on a hoodie—he hadn't wanted to try to wrestle the sleeping giant into one earlier. He faded out before he got his left arm all the way through the sleeve and flopped back down onto the couch, so Bucky had to unfold his arm and work it out of the sleeve for him. Steve mumbled something that could have been a 'thank you' before passing all the way out again.

Based on the medicine Banner had sent back, Bucky guessed that he should expect some puking in Steve's future, so he grabbed the kitchen trashcan before resuming his place on the couch next to Steve. He kept the TV on low volume, one ear on Star Trek and one on Steve, reaching over to pat his head whenever he shifted or let out a little moan. He turned the TV off when Steve started to whimper. Bucky recognized a nightmare when he saw one, although usually he was the one whimpering and shaking. He didn't remember Little Steve having trouble with nightmares before, even when he was sick, but Little Steve hadn't had much to fuel them, either. Big Steve, on the other hand, had plenty.

"Nnh," Steve groaned into Bucky's leg, shifting uncomfortably. "No. No," he whispered.

"Steve?" Bucky asked, placing a hand carefully on Steve's head. He felt warm again, whether from the fever or just agitation, it was hard to say.

"No," Steve moaned, mumbling something else Bucky didn't catch. "Bucky! Bucky, no!"

Bucky jerked his hand back as though he'd been burned, pulling away from the couch to sit on the coffee table. If Steve was reliving what he thought he was reliving, he didn't want to scare him. They hadn't talked about the helicarrier incident since Bucky came back—not really. He'd tried to apologize for it and Steve had shut him down, firmly saying that he didn't blame him for any of it and that it was okay. He'd sounded like he meant it, and Bucky had slowly started to believe him, trying to accept that forgiveness. It hurt knowing that somewhere in there, Steve was afraid of him, but Bucky supposed he deserved that.

"Bucky, no!" Steve muttered again, twisting a sickening knot in Bucky's stomach. "No! Hold on!" Wait, what? He hadn't been wiped since being on the helicarrier, so, unfortunately, he remembered it all clearly, and that didn't sound right. Hold on to what?

"I'm coming," Steve panted, twisting in his blanket. "Take—take my hand! Bucky!" he yelled, startling Bucky with the abrupt shift in volume. Bucky was still trying to figure out what Steve was seeing when tears started leaking from his still-closed eyes. "I'm sorry," Steve whispered. "I'm so sorry, Buck, please, don't be…I couldn't…I'm sorry."

A whole different kind of knot twisted around in Bucky's stomach this time, even as his hand reached out automatically to wipe away Steve's tears with his sleeve. Steve wasn't seeing the helicarrier. Steve was seeing the train. In dreams and flashbacks and nightmares, Bucky could remember his fall, the pain and the terror and the ice and the snow. He could remember going into cryo for the first time, waking confused and afraid after God only knew how long with a metal arm and the face of Arnim Zola—the face that terrified him more than anything else—hovering over him. He could remember Steve's horrified face, his outstretched hand, disappearing out of view as he fell. He remembered all of it when he was asleep and there was nowhere to run. But when he was awake, what should have been his own death was just a blur of painful white noise. He didn't think about it because he couldn't remember it. But Steve obviously did.

"I'm sorry," Steve whispered again.

"Shh," Bucky soothed, moving his hand up to stroke Steve's hair. "It's okay, Stevie. It's okay." Steve's whimpers died away and he blinked open watery, frightened eyes. "It's alright," Bucky said with an encouraging smile now that Steve could see him.

"B—Bucky?" Steve asked, eyes casting around the room and obviously surprised not to find himself clinging to the outside of a train.

"Yeah, Steve, I'm here," Bucky said gently. "It's okay."

"Wh—" Steve stuttered, a clumsy hand coming out from the folds of the blanket to paw at Bucky's hand still going through his hair. "You—you're not…"

"I'm okay, Steve," Bucky assured him. And though his heart clenched at the fear and confusion on Steve's face and the realization that Steve had been carrying this guilt for nearly seventy years, it felt warmed at the same time by this very tangible reminder of how much Steve cared about him, even after everything that had happened. He wrapped his hand around the back of Steve's head. "It's okay. You saved me." And he had. Not on the train, true, but Steve had found him and Steve had saved him—not just his body, but his soul. "You saved me," he said again, voice suddenly a little tight.

"You're okay?" Steve asked in a small voice, wrapping his hand around Bucky's wrist.

"I'm okay." Bucky smiled, moving off the table to kneel down next to the couch so Steve didn't have to keep looking up at him. "You know that wasn't your fault, right? What happened on the train?"

"I couldn't reach you," Steve whispered sadly.

"And that wasn't your fault," Bucky said gently. "It was never your fault. And not one time in seventy years have I ever blamed you for it." He never had.

Steve looked at him, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, and tears started welling in his eyes again, but he was smiling a little bit. "I'm glad you're okay, Buck," he said in a small voice.

"I'm okay," Bucky repeated. "And you're gonna be okay too." Steve's eyes were drooping again, so Bucky's fingers resumed their brushing of his hair, and his eyelids fluttered and closed, the little smile lingering on his face. Bucky sighed, patted him gently on the cheek and stood. They were gonna talk about this train thing again when Steve was lucid. Just to make sure he got it.

He stretched out his back and walked to the kitchen, pondering the contents of their pantry. He found some chicken thawing in the fridge and decided to make soup. Steve seemed content to stay asleep while Bucky cut up chicken and carrots and set things boiling, but a retching sound from the living room had him rushing back before he could start washing the dishes. He slid around the couch and tugged Steve's head forward by the hood of his sweater just in time for him to not vomit on the couch. He kept one hand on Steve's forehead, holding his head up as he gagged into the trashcan, the other hand rubbing slow circles on his back.

"I gotcha, Stevie, it's alright," he murmured. "Get it all out, you'll feel better."

When there was nothing coming up but strings of bile, Bucky grabbed one of the abandoned dish towels from the bags of ice and wiped his mouth, then eased him back onto the couch. Steve's cheeks were flushed, from the exertion but also a little bit of embarrassment. "Sorry," he rasped, blinking exhausted eyes up at Bucky.

Bucky smiled and brushed his hair off his forehead. "Don't worry about it. You want some water?"

Steve nodded, and Bucky grabbed the glass from the end table, sliding one hand under Steve's head to prop him up enough to drink.

"Thanks."

"Any time, pal."

After Steve fell back asleep, Bucky finished up in the kitchen, set the soup to simmer and returned to his spot on the couch. Steve drifted in and out, grumbling that Bucky was crowding him on the couch while simultaneously complaining that he was cold, which is why Sam came home to all six feet two inches of America's greatest hero curled up into a ball on one end of the couch under five blankets and sort of on Bucky's lap.

"Hey, guys," Sam said slowly. "What'd I miss?"

"He's sick," Bucky said, nodding down at the top of Steve's head, which was the only thing visible from under the blankets.

"He is?" Sam asked, rounding the couch. "I didn't think he could get sick. How'd that even happen?"

Bucky sighed. "Some mad scientist on their last mission with crazy stuff in his lab."

"Must be a hell of a bug to take him down."

Bucky nodded. "Banner said it would have killed anybody else."

Sam let out a low whistle. "He gonna be okay?"

Bucky nodded again. "Yeah. Banner said he'd be down for a while, but he'll be fine."

"Good," Sam said. He looked back up at Bucky. "Everything going okay?"

Bucky knew he was trying to ask if he was handling this alright, and he nodded. "Sick Steve is nothing new," he told him. He smiled. "He's always easy at the beginning, anyway. Give him another day or two and he's still gonna be sick but he'll be grouchy as hell."

Sam chuckled. "That ought to be interesting."

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Steve was persuaded to sit up enough to eat some soup and take some more medicine before burrowing back down into his pile of blankets. His eyes were starting to look a little brighter, which was good. His breathing was starting to sound kind of wheezy, which was not so good. At least he didn't have the asthma to contend with on top of it all. When Little Steve had gotten sick, that had always been one of Bucky's biggest worries—the illness and the asthma tended to aggravate each other, making it harder and harder for Steve to breathe and ending him up in the hospital on more than one occasion. Now it was just what was starting to sound like an increasing amount of mucus—and not constricting airways on top of that—that he had to try to breathe around. So, that was something.

When Sam left the next morning, both Bucky and Steve were still asleep. Steve was still huddled under his blanket pile on one end of the couch and Bucky was stretched out on the other side. They'd both slept badly—Steve kept waking up to puke and Bucky had stopped counting somewhere around the thirteenth time. He'd pulled in the kitchen and the bathroom and the laundry room trash cans, and Bucky had meant to clean them all out once it seemed like Steve was finally done, he really had, but he'd sat down and closed his eyes for a minute and that had been it.

He woke up surprised that he'd fallen asleep, and it took him a second to remember why he was on the couch. He rolled his eyes when he looked down his metal arm and saw a piece of paper stuck to his bicep with a magnet shaped like a banana. "Real cute, Wilson," he muttered, pulling the note off, smiling a little to himself as he read it. Apparently, Sam had washed out all the trash cans when he had gotten up this morning and they were upside down drying out in the bathtub in case he still needed them. He'd also picked up a bottle of ginger ale while he was out on his run and set it on the counter.

Bucky smiled and put the note on the coffee table and slid carefully off the couch so as not to wake Steve. The all-night vomit-fest had worn him out and he was snoring—thanks to clogged sinuses, very, very loudly—and Bucky figured it was safe to leave him alone long enough to take a shower. He returned the newly-cleaned trashcans to their homes, leaving one by Steve just in case.

The warm water woke him up, and he returned to the living room to find Steve awake and trying and failing to untangle himself from his pile of blankets. "Morning, Steve," he said. When Steve looked up at him he was happy to notice that his eyes were clear. Tired and red and runny, true, but lucid. "How you feeling?" he asked, sitting down on the coffee table.

Steve sniffed. "Alright," he replied. Bucky narrowed his eyes. "What?" Steve protested.

Bucky didn't buy that for a minute, but decided not to antagonize him just yet. "I'm glad you're feeling better. What are you doing?"

Steve finally wrestled himself free of the blankets and sat up. "I was gonna go to the bathroom," he said, and Bucky managed not to laugh at the way the words came out—he was stuffy enough that the letter 'n' was coming out as a 'd', 'm' was 'b' and 't' was just some half little sad noise.

"Alright. Let me help you up," Bucky said, moving to grab his arm, but Steve waved him away.

"I got it," he said, pushing himself off the couch, swaying, and promptly falling over.

"Yeah, looks like it," Bucky said, walking over and reaching down for Steve's hand.

"Shut up," Steve grumbled, scowling as Bucky pulled him carefully to his feet.

Bucky sighed when Steve was upright again, one arm over his shoulder. "Really, Steve?" He'd hit the end table on his way down and blood was trickling out of a cut over his left eyebrow. Steve grunted and said nothing, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

They made it down the hall and Steve pulled away at the bathroom door, holding onto the door handle for support. "I've got this part on my own."

Bucky eyed him skeptically, but nodded. He went back to the kitchen and got the coffee going, arriving back outside the bathroom door just in time to hear the water in the shower come on. "Oh, hell, no," he growled. He rapped sharply on the door. "Steve!" he yelled. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Taking a shower!" Steve called back hoarsely.

"You can't stand up in the living room, you moron, what makes you think you can stand up on wet porcelain?" he yelled.

"I'll be fine, Bucky!"

Oh, this was just great. The last thing he needed was sick, grumpy Steve with a concussion. "Don't make me come in there!"

"You come in here and I'll punch you!"

Bucky growled and rubbed his forehead. He'd been hoping he might get another day out of the compliant version of sick Steve, but that was apparently too much to ask. "At least sit down in the tub!" he called. "'Cause if you fall over and break anything we're going back to the Tower and you're gonna be Tony's problem!" Not that he would actually do that to Steve, but if the punk was gonna start off this stubborn this fast, Bucky wasn't afraid to get threatening.

A long silence was followed a bitter, "Fine!"

Bucky stayed outside the door, keeping an ear out for any sounds of trouble, and was glad when the water finally shut off and nothing had happened. It was quiet for several long minutes, then he heard a tentative, "Bucky?"

He eased the door open to find Steve wrapped in a towel and sitting on the edge of the tub. "I didn't…" Steve sighed. "I left my clean stuff in my room," he muttered.

Bucky smirked. "Need a hand?" Steve's expression was one of severely wounded pride—falling down on the way back to his room would be bad enough—doing it wearing nothing but a towel would have been too much, and was probably what finally prompted him to ask for help in the first place.

Steve glared at him but extended a hand to allow Bucky to pull him up, keeping the other firmly on his towel. He shook as they walked down the hall. Bucky deposited him on his bed and left, wanting to let him keep at least a little bit of dignity by getting dressed himself.

He came back a few minutes later and knocked, pushing the door open when he heard a grunt. Steve had changed into sweatpants and socks that didn't match and was lying face-down on the mattress with one arm in a clean hoodie, having evidently given up on getting it on.

"You're bad at shirts when you're sick," Bucky chuckled, sitting down beside him and pulling him up enough to wrestle him the rest of the way into the sweater.

"Shut up," Steve complained.

"At least you smell better now," Bucky added. He hadn't been going to force him to shower in the wobbly state he was in, but since he'd made it out undamaged, Bucky was glad he'd done it. A night of puking did not make for a particularly fragrant super-soldier.

"Shut up," Steve said again.

Bucky smiled and pulled back the blankets before letting go of Steve, who promptly collapsed onto his pillow. "What're you doing?" he asked when Bucky pulled his feet back up onto the bed and tucked them under the blanket.

"Getting you all the way up here."

"No, I don't need to be in bed."

"Steve, your eyes are shut."

"No, they're not."

"Go back to sleep, punk," Bucky replied. The lack of response told him Steve already had.

He spent a few quiet hours in the living room with his coffee and a book. Well, relatively quiet, anyway. Steve's congested snoring was loud enough to be heard from his room, punctuated by rounds of coughing and brief silent interludes. The cycle was rhythmic enough, Bucky found himself subconsciously timing it.

When one of the silences stretched on longer than normal, Bucky started listening more attentively, and he closed his eyes and sighed when it was broken by a muffled thump. He walked around the couch and there was Steve halfway down the hall. On the floor. Again. "What are you doing?" Bucky asked, standing over him as he pushed himself up to lean against the wall.

"Getting up," Steve replied shortly.

"Why aren't you in bed?"

"I'm bored," Steve whined. "I don't want to be in bed."

"What are you, like, nine?" Bucky asked. He shook his head and leaned down to grab Steve's arm. "You could have at least asked for help," he told him, pulling him to his feet.

"I had it," Steve insisted, coughing loudly.

"Right," Bucky nodded, steering them back towards the living room. "You were bored, so you thought you'd lay on the floor in the hall for a change of scenery?"

"Shut up," Steve complained. "I got dizzy, alright?"

"No kidding." Bucky lowered him to sit on the couch and tossed a couple of clean blankets at him. He was already starting to shiver. "Here." He handed him some of the pills Banner had sent. "Take those and see if it helps your breathing any. What do you want to eat?" he asked, walking back over to the kitchen.

"Not hungry," Steve replied.

"Not what I asked," Bucky shot back. Steve said nothing. Bucky shook his head and decided to go with toast. After throwing up what had looked like everything he'd ever eaten, Steve needed to get some food in him. Toast was bland and shouldn't bother his stomach if it was still queasy. On his way back to the couch he grabbed the ginger ale Sam had brought.

"I said I wasn't hungry," Steve snapped, leaning forward and coughing into his elbow. He was leaning against the back of the couch, still mostly upright.

"And I said I didn't ask if you were hungry," Bucky repeated. "Drink that, it'll help your stomach," he said, pouring a glass of ginger ale. He pointed at the toast. "Eat that, you need food and you'll feel better." Steve continued to glare and Bucky glared back. "I'm not asking, Stevie. You eat it on your own or I'll make you."

Steve stared at him for a long moment before sullenly picking up a piece of toast. "You're mean when I'm sick," he complained.

"Well, you're a punk when you're sick," Bucky replied. Maybe he was a little short-tempered right now, but he hadn't slept well and Steve was trying his patience. "Were you this irritating when you were little and sick?"

Steve looked up at him and, to Bucky's surprise, huffed a short laugh. "Probably," he admitted. "I was never very good at being sick, was I?"

Bucky smiled. "For as often as you did it, you were surprisingly bad at it."

Steve smiled back. "Well, you know, you were always there to take care of me, so…Did I ever thank you for that?"

Bucky's smile softened. "You never needed to."

Steve blushed a little and ducked his head. "Well, thanks anyway."

"You're welcome," Bucky replied. He nudged Steve's shoulder. "Eat your toast."

Steve laughed, which made him cough, but he ate the toast.

Bucky smiled, warmed by Steve's appreciation. He'd never needed thanks for looking out for his friend, but it was still nice to hear. And it gave him a little more patience when Steve inevitably got grumpy again. (He really was a terrible patient.)

It took them the rest of the day to get through three episodes of Star Trek. Steve kept falling asleep then coughing himself awake and insisting Bucky back it up so he didn't miss anything. After having seen the middle of The City On The Edge Of Forever four times, Bucky just started hitting the pause button whenever Steve looked like he was fading.

"It wasn't that dingy during the Depression, was it?" Steve wondered, gesturing at the TV.

"Not that I remember. I mean, I don't know how much stock I'd put in my memory," Bucky added. "But I'm gonna say no."

"I know our clothes were kinda ratty," Steve recalled. "And we didn't always have heat in the apartment, but it wasn't all gloomy like this."

Bucky nodded. "The more I think about it, the more I'm getting this…" He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. "Why does the Depression smell like lemons? What is that?"

Steve smiled. "It was the soap your ma used when she cleaned. You didn't have a lot of money either, but the Barnes house was never dingy."

They finally made it to the end of that episode. Steve drifted off for a while after that. He also kept kicking Bucky until he moved off of the couch and over to the arm chair.

"Do aliens really look like that?" Bucky asked during Arena.

"Maybe?" Steve yawned. "I've only ever come across the one kind…"

Bucky moved back over to the couch when he saw him shivering under the blanket. He tossed another blanket over him and a half-asleep Steve huddled closer to his leg, trying to get warm. Bucky shook his head, but just paused the episode and picked up his book.

Steve got really snippy again during The Devil In The Dark, back to complaining that Bucky was crowding him while, at the same time, not wanting him to move and take the heat with him, which led to a shoving match that somehow ended with Steve accidentally punching Bucky in the jaw. It was a pretty pathetic punch—for Steve, anyway—of the non-bone-breaking variety, but it still hurt. Steve apologized, but Bucky moved over to the chair anyway. A pitiful, "I'm sorry I hit you, Bucky. Please come back, I'm cold," brought him back to the couch before they got to the middle of the episode.

They were just starting a fourth one when Sam came home. "Hey, guys," he greeted. He quirked an eyebrow in puzzled amusement as he walked into the living room. "Do I want to know why you're sitting on Steve?" he asked.

"Sam, get him off me," Steve whined, turning his head and looking pitifully up at their friend.

"Don't fall for those sad eyes, Wilson," Bucky warned.

"I'm still not sure what's going on," Sam pointed out.

"Someone," Bucky said with a pointed look at Steve. "Keeps trying to get off the couch."

"And that's bad because…" Sam asked.

"What happened last time you tried to walk somewhere, Steve?" Bucky asked. Steve muttered something and Bucky poked him in the shoulder. "I don't think Wilson heard that."

"I fell over," Steve mumbled.

"And?" Bucky pressed.

"And hit my head on the end table. Again." Apologetic though he had been for hitting Bucky, Steve had kept getting grouchier since then. Bucky had gotten up to go to the bathroom and Steve had tried to go to the kitchen and get a drink, making it about two steps before going down and hitting the same end table he'd hit earlier. He had a large band-aid over his eyebrow now. He'd been undeterred, however, even after Bucky got back. After his third attempt, Bucky had had enough and pinned him to the couch and sat on him. And if Steve was too weak to push him off right now, well, too bad for him. He wasn't going anywhere.

Sam smiled. "Inner ear thing, huh?"

Bucky nodded. "He hasn't been able to stay vertical since he woke up yesterday."

"He is right here, you know," Steve said grumpily, coughing into the couch.

"And he is going to stay there," Bucky replied.

Sam's smile widened. "Long day, huh?" His eyes narrowed as he caught the bruise on Bucky's chin. "What happened to your face?"

Bucky looked down at Steve, clearing his throat expectantly when he said nothing.

"I punched him," Steve said quietly.

Sam's eyes went wide, then he bit his lip and looked down, trying very hard not to laugh.

"Told you he gets moody when he gets sick," Bucky said, smirking.

"History books leave that part out, huh?" Sam chuckled.

"I said I was sorry," Steve pouted, only making Sam laugh more.

"Will you let him up if I make you guys some dinner?" Sam asked, still chuckling.

"I will if he'll eat it," Bucky said.

"Do I have a choice?" grumbled Steve.

"Nope," Bucky told him cheerfully.

They watched some more of the episode quietly for a few minutes as Sam started on dinner.

"Hey, Buck?" Steve said.

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"I know you didn't mean to hit me, Steve," Bucky assured him.

"No, not for that," Steve corrected. "Well, yes, for that, but also for just…I'm a jerk when I'm sick. I know that. I don't try to be, I just, I don't know, I'm sorry," he said sincerely, pausing to cough. "And I'm not just saying that 'cause I want you to get off of me." He smiled apologetically. "You take a lot of crap from me, and I know you're just trying to help."

Bucky smiled. "Well, someone has to."

"Bucky, I'm being serious."

"I know. And if we're being serious, this has been…" He trailed off and shook his head, huffing a small laugh. "Man, you sure know how to twang my last nerve, but all of this…It's all stuff I remember. I remember you being sick and I remember taking care of you." This had been something unexpected, but unlike all the other unexpected things around here, this one hadn't freaked him out. Because he knew how to do this. He smiled down at Steve. "I remember this, and it's nice to feel like I know what I'm doing for once, even if you're just as much of a pain now as you were then. But I didn't it mind then and I still don't now." He smirked. "Although, you do hit harder than you used to."

Steve blushed a little bit, but he smiled. "Thanks for putting up with me."

"Any time, pal." He knew Steve meant it, and he knew that before Steve got better, he would get grumpy and mean again, and then he'd apologize again and mean that too. And Bucky would get frustrated and irritated with him again, but he'd meant it when he said he didn't mind. That's just how it worked, and Bucky was content to be able to remember that and to take care of his friend. "Any time."