The sun has long-since started to set by the time he punches his card and heads home for the night. Grey-purple shadows are stretching out, languid and lazy, between the buildings as he steps outside, the last hints of pink in the sky already starting to die. He shrugs into his battered old jacket, not bothering with the buttons, and sets off, feet stinging a little with every slap against the hard pavement. It's been one hell of a long day, and it's not even over yet - not by a long shot.

The air is cool and fresh on his face as Bucky slowly saunters home, every joint in his body creaking and protesting their hard use along the way. It's refreshing and bracing and just what he needs right now to wake him up: a brisk late-March breeze that follows him up the street, tussling his damp, sweaty hair and rustling the tatty edges of his second-hand jacket. He closes his eyes for just a second and indulges in it, imagines himself flying high over the city. The illusion is gone when he opens them again. With a sigh, he walks just a little bit faster, ignoring the tug in his right knee that promises to hurt like the devil tomorrow.
He's in a hurry to get back to the dingy hole in the wall that he calls home. He's not looking forward to it, not really, but he tries to pick up his pace nonetheless.

The instant he shuts the front door of the tenement behind him, Bucky wishes he was still outside.

The hallway air is stiflingly stale and smells faintly like burnt cooking grease. Just like it always does…
He sighs wearily, plodding up the creaky old stairs, skipping the one that sags in the middle, and taps mudd off the sole of his boot at the door of their miniscule rat-hole of a home.
The smell is better in here than it was in the hall, but only just. The air still feels heavy and used. There's the faintest scent of the menthol cream he scraped up pennies to buy last week drifting through the place, and he hopes there's enough left in the jar for however much longer this latest bout is going to take.

Bucky braces himself in the doorway before he's gone more than a couple of steps, and stretches hard, shoulders popping with an audible crack. He winces, rubbing at numerous tight, sore spots. It doesn't do any good and he's going to be achy for days... but it's better than nothing.
He's dirty, tired, and everything hurts, and he feels about 50 years older than he should - but he's got the extra 5 dollars in his pocket he was promised, so he supposes it's all worth it in the end.

Bucky hadn't really wanted to take the extra shift tonight, hard as they can be to come by these days... not with Steve down the way he is… but they need the money.
Rent has to get paid, food has to get put on the table. Hell, Steve probably needs a doctor again soon, especially if he doesn't come out of this on his own in the next day or two. Bucky's not about to let Steve die just because he got dealt a busted body. He'll do what he has to do, no matter how tired it makes him. That's what friends do.
Hadn't made him any less uneasy about leaving Steve on his own for 13 and a half hours in the middle of a wicked fever though…

Bucky had considered his options when his boss had asked him if he wanted to work extra time, weighed the risks, and rolled the dice, hoping Steve would still be among the living when he got home.

He's never sure what the right choice is when this happens, when Steve's dangling over the abyss like now, but he does his best to fumble along.

Exhaustion is threatening to tug Bucky down into a chair, threatening to make him forget that he's still got plenty to do tonight. He stays upright, but drags his feet, worn out and not looking forward to spending the rest of the night sitting vigil over his friend's bed. He hates himself a little for thinking like that -for resenting Steve for something he can't do anything about- but can't help himself. Bucky's been running non-stop for days, either working or taking care of an unresponsive lump of Steve who wheezes worryingly all night.
He's tired.

With a sigh, he glances out their tiny, leaky window... and for a brief, heady moment he considers throwing it wide, letting the fresh, brisk evening in. He thinks it might even do Steve some good, a bit of fresh air... but he stops short of actually opening the latch. His hands clench helplessly against his jacket and he turns away, pulling the raggedy thing over his shoulders and tossing it over the back of the less broken of their kitchen chairs.

Not today.

Even the early spring sunshine wasn't quite warm enough to thaw the mild chill that lingers in the air after a rough winter, and even that is gone now. As bad as the stuffy, dusty air of the tiny apartment is, the cold that has been slinking in through newspaper-stuffed cracks and drafty windows all winter would be worse. Any chill is dangerous. He won't take any stupid chances with it now, much as he feels like he's about to suffocate in here.

He glances around. Nothing's been disturbed since he left. No fresh sketches left half under the busted old couch they dragged up here last fall out of a dumpster. No signs of used dishes in the sink.
Figures.

Their tiny shoebox of an apartment is still in the dim dusky light of the evening, and he finds himself fretting, as usual, about what he'll find when he finally checks on Steve.
The punk is probably asleep, the same as he was when Bucky went to work this morning - burning up and weak as a kitten. He's resigned to it at this point. It's too much to hope that Steve will have recovered already, that he'll be up and awake... and the other alternative… he doesn't think he could survive that.

Bucky honestly can't remember the last time Steve was awake more than an hour or two at a time in the last week. Steve's been down with one illness or another all winter, always is, but this one has been particularly nasty. Bucky thinks it's probably that flu that was going around the city like a wildfire. The one he, as usual, managed not to catch - but it would be just like Steve to attract dangerous germs like a sickly little magnet. Whatever it is he's got, it's knocked Steve out cold, and is threatening to flatten him completely.
Bucky really, really hates this city sometimes.

"Steve?"
He peers around the doorway of the bedroom they share, (they can't afford luxuries like individual bedrooms - not if they want to eat on a regular basis) and sees a shock of pale hair sticking out every which way, surrounding a slack face that's both much too pale and much too hotly flushed for his liking. Fortunately, Steve's still buried under the ratty old quilt Bucky sweet-talked out of one of their neighbors last year, so he's still sweating off the worst of the fever.
"Hey kid, I'm home." He tries again. "You hungry?"
No reply. He'd be alarmed, if not for the unsteady rise and fall of the thin chest under the raggedy heap of blankets on the bed. The faint wheezing inhale and stuttered exhale. Kid can't be dead if he's breathing...
Bucky hadn't really been expecting a reply, honestly, but he always tries anyway. Steve's been dead to the- … he's been real sound asleep just about every time Bucky's come in lately. It'll take a lot of harassing and a lot of noise to get Steve up. He'll try again when he has something hot and soothing to offer.

Bucky retreats to the kitchen and starts some broth heating on the stove. Mrs. Hanson down the hall gave them a big pot of the stuff when Steve first started to show signs of sickness, and they've been slowly burning through it ever since. They're down to just a couple of mugs' worth of the stuff now, but Bucky's been pouring it down Steve's throat like it was the secret to life itself every chance he gets.
Mrs. Hanson's a real sweet lady in Bucky's opinion - three kids and a dead husband, but she tries to look out for 'my boys in 43B' whenever she can. Mrs. Hanson can't do much for them, not when she's got three mouths to feed at her place and not much to stretch between them... but she always sends food of some kind -whatever she can spare- whenever Steve's down for the count.
She's a real sweet lady.

Bucky washes his hands the way Steve's mama taught him to, back when she was still around and still well enough to do it. Sarah Rogers had been a nurse, and if there was one thing she had known better than anybody, it was looking after Steve. He's careful to wash all the way up to his elbows, rolling his shirtsleeves back. He still stinks of sweat and dirty Brooklyn streets, but at least he can see the pale, calloused skin of his fingers through the grime now. That'll have to be good enough.

Mug of steaming broth in one hand, a slice of what remains of their slowly-turning-stale loaf of bread in the other, Bucky ducks back into the bedroom, turning on the flickering, unreliable lightbulb high up on the wall. For once, it stays on after a token struggle.
It's a lot easier to wrangle and feed Steve when he can see him.

"C'mon kid, rise and shine. Eat somethin' for me." He badgers Steve gently, hauling him upright and giving him a careful shake. Steve's head lolls loosely on his shoulders. His eyes don't open, but he coughs harshly against Bucky's sleeve, which Bucky tries to take as acknowledgement. "Wake up, Rogers. Can't sleep all day. Up an' at 'em."
He jostles Steve's shoulders a little more, tapping his hand against Steve's cheek in what may be the world's least aggressive slap. It seems to work
Steve stirs just faintly, blinking hazy eyes open. He almost looks crocked out of his mind, and Bucky thinks, just this side of hysterical, that it'd be hilarious if it wasn't so terrifying instead.
"That's right ya' little jerk. No more nappin'. Sit up for me."

Steve blinks again and his eyes slowly seem to find focus, though they're still glassy as hell. Bucky doesn't like the way his eyelids are still drooping, or how dark the circles under his eyes are, despite at least 14 hours of sleep today alone.
Fucking hell, you're a mess… he thinks, but doesn't say.
He knows he's not going to get any sleep tonight either.

"Sit up, I said, Rogers."
Steve wriggles as upright as he can get, trying to oblige, and Bucky helps him the rest of the way. "You been up at all today?"

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, like the dim light overhead hurts his eyes, then drags them open again.
"No…" He croaks, voice cracking, adam's apple bobbing drunkenly as he swallows around the dryness in his throat. "When… when'd you get back?"

"Half hour ago." Bucky says.

Steve coughs before he can speak.
"Coulda woke me up… Don' need sleep..." he mutters.

Bucky doesn't mention that he already tried to get Steve up once and got nowhere. There's not much point.
He shrugs as easily as he can.
"Nah, I figured I'd wait til I got dinner ready. Let sleepin' punks lie, and all that." It's only half a lie, and Steve's too disoriented to know the difference. The kid just nods, then wavers dizzily, like he's lost his bearings. His bony chin dips briefly, but shoots back up as he catches himself dozing. Bucky presses the slab of bread into his thin hands before he can drop back off, and nudges them upward, toward Steve's mouth.

Steve eats just about whatever he can get his hands on when he's well, and with impressive gusto... though he never has stopped shoving whatever he thinks he can spare at Bucky with the reasoning that Bucky's bigger and works hard every day, so he must need the extra. And while it may well be true that Bucky's often hungry and sure he could use more to eat -who couldn't these days?- Bucky's body isn't actively trying to murder him on a monthly basis -unlike Steve-, so he's not having any of this self-sacrificing bullshit out of his best friend.
It's when Steve gets listless and his appetite starts to go that Bucky really gets worried.

When Steve can barely get the bread to his mouth, struggles to swallow, and almost chokes on his broth… then Bucky might occasionally suddenly find religion.

He's all I got. he growls silently to whoever is listening, eyes glued darkly to the shaking twig of a man that's only-somewhat-successfully trying to choke down a mug of watery soup in front of him.
You can't take him. I don't care what crap they preach about givin' and takin' away. You can't have him. You hear me? He ain't done yet.

It's always the same one-sided conversation in his head. He always swears and begs and sweats, and Steve always somehow pulls through. It's become something of a winter ritual, some thread of normalcy, of hope, to drag him through another ugly episode.
If death wants to come for Steve Rogers, it's got to go through Bucky Barnes first, and he's gonna put up one HELL of a fight.

"Buck…" Steve's thready voice draws him back to reality. The mug is empty, held out towards him. The bread is gone. Steve's hands still shake, but they're a little steadier now. Bucky takes the mug, thumbing over the little fractured crack in the top edge of it, feeling just that tiny bit better about things. It's like a miniature victory, getting food into a sick Steve and keeping it there. Most of the broth seems to have actually gotten into Steve this time, instead of half of it spilling down his front... even if there are a few new thin amber-colored drips on the bedding. Bucky brushes them away absent-mindedly. He'll wash the blankets later. When Steve doesn't need to use them 24-7 anymore. When he's well.
He doesn't ever think of if. If is a dangerous word. It's not allowed near Steve when he's like this.

He gently scruffs a hand through Steve's hair instead, relieved when there's a feeble attempt to batt him away. "Feel any better, twerp?"

Another cough is his answer, but it doesn't threaten to knock Steve over this time, so another tiny victory is added to his tally.
"Feel like shit now, instead of like nothin'. That count?" is the slightly woozy reply. Another cough.

Bucky laughs, almost genuine. He likes it when Steve's fire starts to come back, even if it's only in little flickers. It's a good sign that he's going to turn the corner soon. That he's going to be ok.

Bucky stands up from the bedside with a muffled groan, and flinches at the way his knees crackle under his weight. His back twinges in protest, but he ignores it. Everything hurts. It's just the reality of his existence. He deals with it.
Steve doesn't appear to notice the noise or his flinch. That goes into the bad column. Steve is always watching him like a hawk, making unhappy noises and guilty faces whenever Bucky shows how bone-weary he is most days. It never bodes well if Steve's honestly not paying attention.

"You better be awake when I get back y'little jackass, you hear me?" Bucky grumbles goodnaturedly, though he's not going to hold his breath, stumping back into their tiny kitchen and depositing the mug in the sink. He'll wash it later.

When he comes back, bowl of cold water and an old towel in hand, Steve's eyes are glazed again and his cheeks are hotter than they should be. Bucky sighs. Mops at the sweat on Steve's forehead.
The kid honest-to-god sighs when the wet rag hits his skin. It's like relief personified.
"Christ, Rogers… you're about on fire." He dips the towel again and swipes it over the back of Steve's sweaty neck. He'd swear he can hear it sizzle.

Steve's glassy eyes dart up, and they're only half lucid, but he's grinning, big and stupid, and something tight in Bucky's chest twists so hard it hurts.

" 'M too hot…" Steve mutters, head lolling forward a bit. Bucky eases him back down against the pillows and tucks him in.

"Yeah… I know, kid, I know."

A/N: I've written a lot of stories about Bucky's post-Winter Soldier recovery, especially about Steve taking care of him. Steve standing by his friend no matter what and taking emotional hits that would kill a lesser man because dammit, this is BUCKY. He'd do damned near anything for Bucky.
I still feel like that's important and worthy of writing about. But I also wanted to explore Bucky taking care of Steve. The other half of that dynamic. This story is just that.

More chapters coming. Enjoy :)