Chapter 27: Lemon Drop
Bucky hadn't spent the night inpatient since his last round of chemo. When he woke up in that kind of environment, it freaked him out more than he let on. Joking around with Steve and watching the footage of his own muscles jumping had helped distract him from the formidable combination of post-surgical pain and the memories of treatment threatening to surge and drown him. He didn't have clinical PTSD like his mother, but the memories, like the fear of relapse, were still there and still potent. Even after arriving back home, the nervous nausea refused to abate. Bucky wished he knew why.
Maybe it was the fact that leaving the hospital had only ever been permanent the one time. For most of his treatment course, discharge had meant nothing more than a brief respite before an inevitable return for more misery. In fact, sometimes he actually preferred being at Gravesen to being home. In the beginning, he'd had Carol and Parker there. And he didn't have to worry as much about germs. And he didn't have his mother constantly looking at him like she was afraid he'd start bleeding from his ears or something.
He knew, logically, that he wasn't going back into the hospital after this. But old habits died hard, and he found himself constantly double checking his own body for signs of fever, dizziness from low blood counts, or any other concerning symptoms. It was ridiculous. The only thing afflicting him was the steadily worsening phantom pain and the raw, splitting tug of his incision when he moved a certain way. Steve kept eyeing him concerningly, but Bucky didn't want to worry him any more than he had to.
As Tuesday afternoon turned to evening and then to Wednesday morning, the well wishes continuously poured in. Bucky got texts or calls from almost every person in his contacts list. He actually had trouble keeping up with them all, but it made him smile to know that they cared. Josiah dropped off a care package from the team filled with snacks, fuzzy socks, a blanket, a book, and one of those adult coloring books. There was a sticky note on the inside cover clarifying that it was a gag gift, which made Bucky laugh so hard it hurt.
They sat at the kitchen table and sorted through all the snacks. Bucky's smile grew with each one, until he stumbled upon a package of lemon drops. He could taste the sour that morphed instantly into the burn of bile and the nausea reawakened with a roar that drowned out Steve's cry of concern. He dropped the package and lunged for the kitchen sink, knowing there was no way he'd make it to the bathroom. His stomach strained to expel everything in it, and with each heave he felt his skin strain against the stitches and his phantom arm light up with blazing agony.
Steve was at his side in an instant, rubbing his back just below the bandages. Bucky tried to focus on his voice, but his senses were assaulted with the pressure of hands holding him down, the smell of antiseptic and vomit, and the image of bright red dripping into his veins. It was all-consuming, the horror filling up the space that his emptying stomach left behind and swelling until he thought he might burst. He heaved one last time before his knees gave out and he collapsed back into Steve's arms.
Steve lowered him to the floor and continued whispering in his ear. Bucky strained to let that sound wash away all the others, but it wasn't working. He couldn't breathe between the pain and the fear and all of a sudden he was a fourteen-year-old kid again screaming that his shoulder hurt and wondering why neither his mother nor the nurses could alleviate his suffering. "Make it stop," he whimpered.
"It'll stop," Steve assured him. "Just focus on me." He gave his good shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The pain remained, but the fear gradually trickled away and the memories faded. They remained there, together, on the floor, until some time later, his phone started ringing. Steve stood up and grabbed it off the table. "It's your mom," he said.
"Don't tell her," Bucky pleaded.
"I won't." Steve answered the phone with one hand and helped Bucky to his feet and towards the sofa with the other. He was close enough that Bucky could hear his mom on the other end.
"How are things going?"
"A little rocky, but that's to be expected," Steve said truthfully. Bucky glared at him for revealing even that much.
"Rocky how?"
"Just some pain. We're managing it." He looked to Bucky for approval, and he gave a meek thumbs-up.
"Can I talk to him?"
Bucky shook his head. He knew she'd pick up on his uneasiness.
"Not right now. He's resting. Can you call back later?"
"Okay. Tell him I send my love."
"I will. Thanks for calling." He hung up, then returned to the kitchen.
"Did you get rid of them?" Bucky asked when he came back.
"Yeah. I'm so sorry, Bucky, I didn't realize just seeing them would affect you so much."
"I didn't either. 'S been so long. But I think being in the hospital just primed me to be more sensitive to that kind of thing."
"Understandable. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Just sit with me?" he asked pitifully.
"I can do that."
~0~
Much to Steve's relief, Bucky fell asleep on the couch within an hour. Only after he'd remained steadily asleep for ten minutes did Steve dare get up. He washed out the kitchen sink and then took a long, thorough shower, keeping an ear out for Bucky the entire time. God, he'd known this would be hard, but he hadn't anticipated just how hard. At this rate, he might need to call in reinforcements.
His mom called just as he finished drying off and getting dressed, and he took the phone out in the backyard to avoid waking Bucky. "Hey Mom."
"You sound exhausted. How are things going?"
Steve sighed. He glanced back at the house, knowing Bucky probably wouldn't approve of him divulging the true extent of his suffering, but he needed to share this load with someone before he collapsed under the weight of it. "Not great," he began. "This whole experience has dug up some lingering trauma from his cancer treatment, I think."
"I'm so sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, today's been rough. He's been nauseous ever since we got home, but today it was worse. I'm hoping I can get him to eat something at some point today."
Mom laughed airily. "You sound just like your father."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't even count the number of times I called home when you were sick and listened to your dad despair over getting you to eat. He's used that exact line many times."
"At least I know what it's like to be on the other side of this."
"That's true. They say doctors make the worst patients, but I'm pretty sure patients make the best caregivers."
"I'll probably end up bribing him with a Firecracker popsicle. He bought them for me as a joke one time, but he's well and truly hooked."
"Sounds like a plan. What's he doing now? How's his pain?"
"He's been asleep for the last hour or so, thankfully. Pain is bothering him less than the nausea, I think. I haven't asked in a while, and I'm fairly confident he'll tell me the truth next time I do. Tomorrow's the last day of his stronger pain meds, and I'm hoping the day after won't be too bad."
"Do you need any help? I have work, but I can send Joseph up there to take care of you so you can take care of him."
Steve smiled at the genuineness of the offer, but declined. "I think we're okay for now. I can handle it. But I'll let you know if I change my mind."
"Okay. But please don't forget that you need to take care of yourself too."
"I know, Mom. I haven't missed anything."
"Good. Send Bucky my love, okay?"
"I will."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
Steve put the phone in his back pocket and headed back inside to check on Bucky. Even in sleep, his face was screwed up in discomfort. He felt his shoulders sag in sympathy. Steve left a glass of water and a plate of crackers on the coffee table and sat on the other end of the sofa with his American flag blanket, which he fetched from the bedroom, and a book. The words didn't stick in his head, though, and after almost every paragraph he looked up to check on Bucky. He'd made it through only eight pages when Gabe texted asking if he could come visit this weekend.
"I'll have to ask Bucky," Steve replied. "He's sleeping now."
"Okay. Tell him I said hi and get well."
"Will do."
Steve made it through twenty-two pages before a drawn-out groan let him know Bucky had awakened. "Good morning, sunshine," he said cheekily. "How're you feeling?"
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Like shit."
"Still nauseous?"
"Not really. But it hurts."
"You're not due for meds for another few hours. In the meantime, will you try and eat something? It might make you feel better."
"Sure." Bucky worked his way to sitting, and Steve could tell by the way he moved that he was hurting. He took a few sips from the water and managed three crackers before stopping and pushing the plate away. Steve was satisfied that at least he'd gotten something down. Hopefully it would stay that way.
"My mom and Gabe wish you well," Steve said. "And Gabe asked if he could come visit this weekend."
"Why?"
"I'm sure it's because he wants to see you."
"I don't imagine I look very good at the moment."
"You look amazing, as always," Steve assured him.
Bucky rubbed his eyes again and picked at the edge of his bandages through his shirt. "Doubtful. What I really need is a shower, but I'm assuming that's a no-go?"
"Yeah, sorry."
"Fuck."
"You can take a bath, get mostly clean."
"You'll help?" he asked unsurely.
"Yeah, of course. But only as much as you want me to." Steve knew how much it sucked to be stripped of your independence, to rely on others to do the simplest of tasks for you, and Bucky was even more fiercely protective of that, given his disability.
"Okay." Bucky worked his way painfully to standing and trudged off to the bathroom. Steve made to follow, but Bucky told him to hold off until he called him in. He sat back down and listened closely for signs of trouble. He knew Bucky wasn't a fall risk, but he also knew he was likely to work himself to frustration and it could easily cause a problem. Almost instantly, Bucky called his name. "Can you bring the scissors?" he asked.
Steve grabbed them from the kitchen and headed into the bathroom. Bucky pointed to his ankle, which still had a hospital bracelet around it. They'd initially put it on his wrist, but switched it to his ankle when he had to soak his hand in water for the IV. "It feels like a house arrest anklet," Bucky remarked.
"I don't think those are quite so easy to remove as this," Steve said as he crouched down to snip the bracelet off.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. Do you need anything else?"
"Not yet. I'm gonna try it by myself."
"Okay. I'll be in the bedroom." Steve wanted to be close enough that he could help quickly. Bucky closed the door behind him. Steve listened to the water running, and Bucky's occasional grunts of discomfort, but he heard nothing concerning.
About twenty minutes later, Bucky cautiously called out, "Steve?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't know how I'm gonna wash my hair."
"Can you skip it for today?"
"I don't wanna. Feels gross," he groaned.
"Okay. Can I come in?"
"Sure."
Steve stepped inside to assess the situation. Bucky had filled the tub so the water level sat a safe distance from the bottom edge of his bandages. Steve glanced around the bathroom for a few moments before he came up with an idea. He dashed back to the kitchen for a plastic cup and gathered a few towels, which he draped over Bucky's shoulders to keep the ace wrap out of the line of fire. Bucky watched him with a calculating gaze clouded over by pain.
"How's this gonna work?"
"Close your eyes and tilt your head back."
"Pushy," Bucky jabbed, but he complied. Steve put a hand on his forehead to shield his eyes and poured a cup of water over his head to wet his hair. Bucky audibly sighed, and Steve saw some of the lines of tension disappear from around his eyes. He did that a few times before offering Bucky the chance to shampoo it himself. His blue eyes opened and looked up at Steve, silently asking, "Can you do it for me?" Steve was more than happy to do so.
While Steve worked the shampoo into his hair, Bucky looked more relaxed than he had since the last of the anesthesia left his system. A low hum of relief sounded from his chest. Steve filled the cup again and began to rinse it out. Instead of closing them, Bucky kept his eyes open and fixed on Steve, half a smile gracing his face.
"What?" Steve said.
"I love you."
Steve planted a kiss on the top of his sopping wet head. "Love you too."
~0~
Thursday he felt the best he ever had since the surgery. The nausea had abated, but even medicated the phantom pain was still significant enough that it washed out his appetite. On the bright side, the sharpest pain from the incision had dulled. Bucky agreed to letting Gabe come up on Saturday, figuring he'd be even better by then. Then Friday arrived. His first day without the stronger pain medication.
With nothing more than over-the-counter meds to keep it at bay, the pain woke him up from a fitful, intermittent sleep before the sun rose. He clenched his jaw and waited, hoping it would subside on its own, but it refused to relent. Once upon a time he thought nothing could ever top the excruciation from right after his amputation, but his screaming, aggravated nerves proved him wrong. This was even worse because it was supposed to fix his phantom pain, not exacerbate it. Bucky crawled out of bed with a growl of frustration and relocated to the living room.
He planted himself on the couch and just drifted, his brain full of static in an attempt to tune out the signals coming from his enraged nerve endings. That's where Steve found him when he awoke and headed out for his run, just sitting staring into space. "Bucky? You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. Just hurts, is all," he replied curtly.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Bucky shook his head. He just needed to wrap his head around this and beat it into submission. But maybe a distraction would help. "Actually," he began. "Would it kill you to switch out your run for a walk?"
Steve hesitated for the briefest of seconds before saying, "Yeah, I can do that." He was almost as protective of his fitness routine as Bucky, even years later still grateful for the simple pleasure of being able to run after being trapped by his own lungs for so long. Bucky stood up and followed Steve to the door. He slipped on his sneakers and a light jacket, letting Steve help with the zipper. It was almost April, but still chilly.
The walk did help distract him somewhat. He focused on the scents carried by the wind and the feel of Steve's hand in his, and it wasn't so bad. They passed Mr. Hodge walking his dog and steered well clear. Bucky let go of Steve's hand just long enough to wave hello. He'd encountered Mr. Hodge a few times while running on his own, and he always let Bucky pet the dog, a six-month-old Bernese mountain dog and poodle mix. He tried not to let on just how much he wanted to pet him now to avoid making Steve guilty. Steve would let him do it, but then he wouldn't be able to walk so close to him the rest of the way. So, he settled for watching the dog's tail wag when he caught sight of Bucky.
"Cute dog," Steve remarked when they'd passed out of earshot.
"You've never seen Rubisco before?"
"Rubisco?"
"It's an enzyme used in photosynthesis," Bucky explained. "Mr. Hodge is a biology teacher."
"Hmm. Makes a surprisingly good dog name."
"Doesn't it?"
"If you got a dog, what would you name it?"
"I don't know. I've never let myself think about getting a dog."
"Not even hypothetically? Even I've thought about it."
"Well then, what would you name your hypothetical dog?"
"Barney."
Bucky stifled a snort he knew would hurt. "Please tell me that isn't based on what I think it is."
"Sorry, I'm not gonna lie to you."
"You named your IV pole Roger and if you had a dog you would've named it Barney? Just how uncreative are you?"
"Hey, I wouldn't say uncreative. It's just…sentimental."
Bucky stepped close enough to lightly shove him with his good shoulder. "You sap."
"I'm fully aware of that. But you still haven't answered the question."
"What question?"
"What would you name a hypothetical dog?"
"I told you I don't know!"
"Come on, you have to think of something."
"Is it a girl dog or a boy dog?"
"Girl."
"Hmm...maybe Lyssa. After Ulysses Klaue."
Steve stopped in his tracks. An expression of indescribable shock fell onto his face.
"What's wrong?"
"You said Lyssa?"
"Yeah. Problem?"
"That's what my middle name would've been if I was a girl."
"Wow, really?"
"Yeah. I don't remember when or why I asked that, but that's what my mom said. Either way my dad wanted me to be named after Adlai Stevenson and Ulysses Grant. I ended up with the version based on their last names."
"Your parents are crazy."
"Did yours have a female name picked out for you before you were born?"
"Yeah."
"What was it?"
"Rebecca."
"What about your middle name?"
"Still would've been Buchanan."
"Rebecca Buchanan Barnes. I don't hate it," Steve said with a cheeky grin.
"Shut up."
"Do you think you still would've gone by Bucky? Or Becky?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Do you think we still would've been friends?"
"Hey!" Bucky said accusingly. "We are way more than friends, Mr. Rogers."
Steve rolled his eyes at the nickname. "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry. Do you think we still would've been more than friends?"
"Absolutely."
Yes, I headcanon that Sarah and Joseph never told Steve the truth about the miscarriages. It would definitely make him feel guilty, especially with his illness and the lifespan that comes with it, and I don't think they'd want to put that weight on his shoulders.
