Okay, so here's what happens when I'm home sick from work-I write about Steve being sick. Thankfully, I'm nowhere near the kind of sick he is. (Quick warning for mentions of blood and vomit).

Bucky mounted the stairs two at a time. When he reached the top, he scraped the mud from his shoes off on the ledge of the highest step. Once clean, he kicked aside the brick in the corner of the porch and retrieved the key. After he unlocked the door, he quickly replaced the key in its hiding place before bounding into the house.

"Steve!" he called, frowning when he found the house dark.

He flipped on the kitchen light and proceeded up the stairs.

"Steve? Are you awake?" he asked quietly, coming into the bedroom.

The lump under the blankets wiggled before Steve's pale face poked out the top. "I'm awake."

"Good," Bucky said, dropping a paper bag onto the bedside table and moving to take his coat off. No sooner had he unbuttoned it than he shivered and hastily redid the fastening. He scanned the room and narrowed his eyes at the open window he spotted. "Geez, Steve! Are you insane? What were you thinking opening the window in the middle of November?" In two short strides, he crossed the room and slammed the glass shut. "I think it's colder in here than it is out there," he grumbled. "And it's probably going to snow tonight."

Steve wordlessly shrugged and burrowed deeper into the mattress.

Shaking his head, Bucky came back to perch on the edge of Steve's bed. "Did you take your medicine?"

Steve nodded and tipped his chin in the direction of the assorted pill bottles on the dresser. Bucky ran his eyes over them.

"You got the new one from Dr. Miller today, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Steve said, one bare arm snaking out of the comforter to point at the proper bottle.

Before he could retract it, Bucky snatched his thin wrist. "Where's your shirt?"

Steve unsuccessfully tried to yank his hand away.

"Come on, man. I swear you've completely lost your mind," Bucky grunted, finally releasing him.

Wasting no time, Steve pulled the skinny limb back into the shelter of his blanket.

"I hope you're hungry," Bucky said, generously changing the subject. He reached behind him to retrieve the paper bag. "Because I have a ham sandwich with your name on it."

Steve visibly grimaced. "I'm not hungry."

"Sure you are," Bucky countered. "You've been doing much better lately. And you did just fine with those eggs this morning."

Since Bucky's attention was on the bag in his hand, he didn't see the guilty expression that flashed across Steve's face. With a pleased smile, Bucky pulled out a paper wrapped object and handed it to his friend.

"Here you go, pal."

Steve shook his head. "I told you, I'm not hungry."

"Yes, you are," Bucky responded, shaking the bundle under Steve's nose.

"I don't want it," Steve protested.

"It's ham," Bucky explained. "Frank made it special for you. You got a lot of friends down there, Steve."

Steve bristled. "I'm not a charity case, Buck."

"No one said you were," Bucky assured him.

"I don't want it," Steve repeated firmly.

"You have to eat," Bucky insisted.

"I don't want to," Steve stubbornly said.

"I don't care," Bucky growled. "You're going to kill yourself if you don't eat right. I stopped by Frank's place specifically after work, just to get you this sandwich. So you're going to eat it."

"I never said you had to do that," Steve pointed out.

"Well, I did anyway. Don't let my nickel go to waste," Bucky cajoled.

"If you bought it, you should eat it," Steve said.

Bucky crossed his arms. "That's not the way this works, Steve. Now stop being an idiot and eat."

"No."

"Eat it."

"No."

"Eat your damn sandwich, Steve!" Bucky roared.

"You can't make me!" Steve argued.

Frustrated, Bucky flung the food onto the bedspread and stood up. As he did, he nearly lost his balance when he slipped on something half-hidden beneath the bed. Curious, he bent down and picked it up. It was Steve's shirt. And there were bloodstains splattered down the front. Furious, he spun around, shirt clutched in a tight fist.

"You want to explain this to me?" he asked through clenched teeth.

Steve shrunk back against the pillow.

"What did you do?" Bucky demanded. "You get into another fight, huh? Between here and the doctor's?"

Staring at him with wide eyes, Steve remained mute.

"We've talked about this, Steve," Bucky said, irritably shaking the shirt. "You can't keep doing that." He stepped closer and leaned down, staring intently at Steve's face. "So where'd he hit you?"

"Just drop it, Bucky," Steve said wearily.

When he couldn't find any trace of black eyes or a bloody nose, Bucky became perplexed. "He didn't get you? This isn't your blood on here?" He turned to evaluate the shirt again, tugging it out of reach when Steve tried to grab it from him. "Wait a minute." He brought the fabric closer to his eyes. "What's this?" he asked, showing Steve the strange stain on one sleeve.

"It's nothing. Give it back." Steve made another attempt to get the shirt back but Bucky only held it higher.

"So you're not going to tell me what this is?" Bucky asked.

Steve's cheeks flushed but he made no reply. Bucky narrowed his gaze and lifted the shirt up to his nose. The lingering stench of vomit clung to the fabric and he immediately jerked away from it.

"Did you puke, Steve?" Bucky questioned.

Maintaining his silence, Steve only stared at him. Suspicious, Bucky knelt down to look beneath the bed. Steve let out a yelp of protest, which was ignored. The puddle of vomit hidden under the bed frame did not surprise Bucky. But the bright red mixed in with the half-digested scrambled eggs caused his chest to tighten with worry. Slowly, he raised his head and gazed at Steve in horror.

"Is that blood, Steve?" he inquired in a frightened whisper. "Were you vomiting blood?"

Steve mutely nodded. Bucky stood abruptly.

"And you weren't going to tell me?" he snapped.

"Bucky-" Steve started.

Bucky interrupted him. "First you throw up blood. Second, you take off your shirt to hide the evidence and then open the window to cover the smell. Third, you lie to my face and pretend everything's okay. Is there anything else you're not telling me?" he demanded.

"Bucky-" Steve began again.

"This is serious, Steve!" Bucky snarled. "We need to call Dr. Miller right now!"

"No! Don't call the doctor," Steve pleaded.

"Steve, we don't know what's wrong with you," Bucky countered.

"It's just the medicine. Sometimes it messes with me. But please, Buck, please don't call Dr. Miller," Steve begged.

In the face of Steve's obvious desperation, Bucky deflated. He sank into a seat on the bed. "This happens often?" he asked, gesturing with the soiled shirt.

"I usually have it cleaned up before you get back," Steve admitted.

Dropping the dirty fabric, Bucky ran a hand down his face. "Steve, you should have told me."

Steve dropped his eyes. "I know. I just don't want you to worry."

"I'm always worried about you, punk." Bucky affectionately ruffled Steve's hair.

"At least now you know why I don't want the sandwich," Steve said with a wry smile.

"We'll save it for tomorrow," Bucky compromised.

Steve pushed the blanket away and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "I guess I'll clean that up now."

"Hey, hey. Take it easy, pal," Bucky said, restraining him with a hand on his chest. "You stay here. I'll deal with it."

"No, Bucky, really. It's my mess. I should be the one to clean it up," Steve said.

"You're clearly not in any shape to be out of bed," Bucky retorted. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure I can handle it."

Steve resettled into the bed and sent him a grateful smile. Bucky stood and headed to the door to gather the necessary cleaning supplies. He paused with his hand on the doorframe and looked back over his shoulder.

"But next time, Steve, promise me you'll tell me when you get sick."