41 Flu
In the morning, there came the discovery of a full assessment of the battle wounds accumulated the previous night.
Steve had it the easiest. He was sore, and he had a few bruises and scrapes, but he was none the worse for wear.
Natasha was much the same, excepting a dangerously deep shrapnel wound in her calf from a bombshell gone off too close. It was miraculous, truly. They were okay.
Or maybe it wasn't a miracle. After all, they'd had their own personal sniper.
Bucky was by far the worse off of everyone. To begin, he had mild frostbite in his fingers and face, and his skin was waxy and pale. Natasha was certain that it wasn't too bad, and that keeping him warm would fix it. She had been right, and between her and Steve's constant contact, one warm, winter glove and Bucky's remarkable healing, his skin had returned to normal by the end of the day. However, they discovered that his escape out of the window had sprained and very nearly broken his ankle and more incredible yet, he had woken again in the morning with a horrible fever and flu symptoms.
Not to mention the way he was staring again, the way he said little, the way he had fallen hard into a dreadful relapse.
Natasha sat by Bucky in bed and dabbed at the cold sweat across his brow with a napkin and Steve sat in a chair across the room, his head in his hands.
"No," Bucky muttered once. "Stop?" Natasha blinked in confusion and pulled her hand away from Bucky's forehead and as he spoke more, they learned that he was delirious. "Don't touch me, don't touch me, please stop," he slurred. "Don't… Make me…"
"James, can you hear me?" Natasha said and Bucky's eyes were glazed over and he sunk further into his covers, shivering and sneezing.
"Don't make me," Bucky mumbled in a weak voice.
"We aren't making you do anything," Natasha said. "Come on, James, shh. You're okay."
But Bucky didn't stop and Steve leaned over his knees with his head in his hands and stared in horror at the ground as he listened to Bucky slur together scared, delirious pleas. Steve felt suddenly ill as well, like he was going to throw up, or sob, or both because the things that Bucky was saying were awful. It was painful to listen to until Bucky slipped into Russian and Steve felt again guilt. He couldn't save Bucky, couldn't do him that one thing, and now it was as though he had done all those terrible things to Bucky himself. He felt it all, so much, all the time, and it was like something had been punched out of the middle of him. He felt it dissolving him away and he hated himself for it.
"Stopstopstopstopstopplease," Bucky thrashed weakly until Natasha was able to restrain him and force him to lay still.
"When," Steve muttered darkly from across the room. "When is he going to heal from this?" Natasha looked over at Steve and hesitated.
"The fever?" She said and Steve let out a breath. "Hopefully soon."
"If not for me," Steve groaned. "He could have been happy."
There were times during which Steve found it easier to believe that he wasn't a burden on Bucky and that Bucky had been happy with him and still was, but this was not one of those times. He was just beginning to believe that maybe he shouldn't blame himself like he did, and now that was all falling away. He struggled to suck in a breath. He felt strangled by the guilt.
"Steve," Natasha said firmly. "You don't have to take all this. Stop taking it all on." Steve said nothing and stared at the carpet until Natasha said his name again louder. "Steven!" She said and Steve looked up. "Stop it now." Steve didn't know what to do, how to react.
"No," he said. "But look at this. Look at it. Bucky isn't the one who's supposed to be sick here, he's not the one supposed to be miserable."
"And you are?" Natasha said and Steve threw up his hands.
"I'm supposed to be-," he started to say dead, but when he realized what he was admitting out loud to Natasha, he cut himself off and shrunk back, swallowing a lungful of the tide rising above his head. "Supposed to be…" Steve ground his teeth loudly in frustration, then jumped to his feet and pointed to Bucky, the cold sweat plastering his hair to his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut and muttered. "He should be happy!"
I should be dead!
Natasha frowned deeply at Steve.
"Sit down," she instructed. "And shush. There's no need to shout." Steve let out a breath and collapsed back into his chair. "Now," Natasha continued as she turned back to Bucky, holding his hand and dabbing at his forehead. "You're right about one thing. James should be happy. But he's not going to be happy without you. Stop thinking you personally cause every misery he's ever felt."
"It's not that easy," Steve said back in a hoarse whisper.
"Stee-Steve?" Bucky said and Steve was up out of his chair again in an instant and at Bucky's side.
"Yeah, I'm here," Steve said and Bucky let go of a breath. "You want me here?"
"I want you here," Bucky said and Steve could feel Natasha giving him a look, an 'I told you so'. "I," Bucky said. "They, I could see… them, are they-"
"No one's here, Buck," Steve said. "Just you and me and Nat. You've just got a bad fever."
"Okay," Bucky said weakly. "Okay." Steve looked up at Natasha and she was looking down now, her hair covering her face, silent.