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Bucky thinks he’s being suave, but Steve sees through him in a minute. He doesn’t walk that slowly or creep around with his back to the wall when he has nothing to hide. So of course, Steve’s extra keen to see what it is that’s concealed in Bucky’s back pocket.
“What you got there?” Steve holds his fist in front of his mouth to keep from coughing. The faint rattle that comes from his chest is distracting enough.
Bucky cocks his head, more interested in the breathy whistle than his words. “Why’re you out of bed?” Bucky takes off his cap and reaches sideways and back in order to hang it on the hook beside the door. As if it wouldn’t be easier to just turn around.
Steve shakes his head, unable to tamp down a wheeze. He puts his hands on Bucky’s waist, pausing at his belt, but slipping quickly around to nab Bucky’s wallet and the sloppily folded sheet of paper behind it.
“Hey, now—“ Bucky’s cap hits the floor. “Wait a second.” He makes a swipe at Steve’s triumphantly raised fist.
“Oh, no,” Steve coughs, tripping backward towards the sofa. “It’s mine now.”
“Steve—“
“I gotta see what you’re so desperate to hide,” Steve forces out on a gust of breath. “That’s just how it is.” His heel catches on the edge of the living room rug, and before he knows it he’s in dizzy free fall.
The wallet hits the ground with a thump, and the paper with a flutter. But Steve doesn’t. Bucky catches him, hooking his thumbs in Steve’s armpits and shove-carrying him the last few feet to the couch. “Christ, Stevie.”
“Hey—“ Steve protests, but his breath catches and forces out of him in a series of painful hacks. A thin spray of aerosolized saliva spurts between his lips. He tastes something hot and bitter and claps his hand over his mouth before he can be sick all over himself.
“Breathe,” Bucky instructs, clapping Steve on the back.
Steve does his best, pulling in a shuddering lungful through the cage of his fingers. He shoots up from the sofa on unsteady legs and rescues the paper from its fallen position, struggling to swallow breathless nausea long enough to shake it open and read it.
“Well, you’re persistent,” Bucky mutters. He snatches sullenly for the sheet in Steve’s grip, but it’s so clearly half-assed that Steve almost feels bad for batting him away. For all the time he spends trying to assert himself, he really should get more out of a moment of power.
“Hm.” Steve clears his throat and doesn’t catch Bucky’s eye. He doesn’t have the breath to spare, but as soon as he sees the word ‘enlistment,’ it drains from his lungs anyway, leaving him deflated like a punctured balloon.
“Steve.” Bucky sounds exasperated. A little disappointed. Maybe even scared.
All Steve can think is that Bucky deserves to feel those things. “You promised,” he chokes, swallowing the impending contraction working its way from his diaphragm up into his throat.
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky starts, “But—“
“You—“ Steve gives in to a hack. “You were supposed to…” Rages flares, igniting the burn in his lungs with the spark of anger. He wants to shout, to remind Bucky of his words.
“I’ll wait for you,” Bucky had said. “We’ll go in together. Maybe get orders together.”
And Steve had said ok. Of course he had. Because of course Bucky was speaking the truth. Or at least Steve thought he had.
Steve opens his mouth to give Bucky a piece of his mind, but what comes instead is a deep, wet cough, followed by another. And another. His chest caves, his stomach muscles spasming and clots of mucous shivering in his windpipe. “No—“ he hacks. “I— You—“
“Stevie, hey…”
“No, I—“
“Steve,” Bucky says firmly. “Stop talking.”
“Huh?” Steve’s voice cracks on the single syllable. “Why?”
“Just stop, ok?”
“What, cause I’m your bitch?” Steve’s strangled volume makes it all the more bitter.
“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky recoils.
“Cause I’m not allowed to go fight in England with the real men?” At least he gets the full sentence out before the next coughing fit.
“Cause you’re gonna have a fucking asthma attack.” Bucky gives him a scathing look, but can’t keep from bashing him softly between the shoulder blades with the heel of his hand. “I just… Christ, I just care about you.”
Steve tastes the bitterness again. He’ll have to be sparing with his words. “Then why’d you go?” He forces out. “Without me?”
“Steve…” Bucky sighs and looks at the ground, then at the crinkled edge of the paper shaking in Steve’s fist. “Do you really think they’ll take you?”
Steve coughs. “Yeah.” Then he realizes how pathetic it sounds.
“Well, I hope they don’t.” Bucky bites his lip. “Dying for the cause isn’t heroic if you do it on purpose. Then it’s just stupid.”
“Not— not on purpose—“
“But you know that’s what’s gonna happen.”
Steve hazards a breath. “Well, maybe.” He knows he’s going to sound like a swooning dame, but he’s still budgeting his words. “Maybe I’d rather die stupid than live without you.”
Bucky laughs. Not his usual raucous chuckle, but a low, throaty sound that seems empty and full at the same time. “Yeah.” He takes the paper from Steve and wads it up, crushing it between his palms. “You ever think maybe I feel the same way?”
Steve feels the impact of the question, but he’s coughing again, so his face is too red and contorted to show it.
“Yeah.” Bucky drops the crinkled wad between the couch cushions, then puts his arm around Steve. “I didn’t think so.” He roughly helps Steve to his feet and pulls him towards the bedroom. “Let’s get you lying down.”
Steve has no choice but to bend to Bucky’s will. He has the best of intentions. For both of them. Still, he expects Bucky to finish with ‘before you get too much more worked up’ or something similar. But he doesn’t. Bucky stays silent as he matches his footsteps to Steve’s and bundles him into bed.