Bucky noticed it before you did.

Your breathing went shallow. Your skin flushed deep, unnatural red. The heat radiating off your body was so intense that even his metal arm felt warm against you.

He pulled back slightly and touched your cheek.

You flinched — not from pain, but from the burn of your own skin.

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

“Okay. That’s it.” His tone shifted — low, controlled, but carved with fear. “Your fever’s climbing too fast.”

You swayed, vision swimming.

“‘m fine…” you mumbled, barely audible.

“No. You’re not.”

He eased you down onto the cot, supporting your head with one hand as he grabbed a cloth and the nearest bowl of water with the other.

When he dipped the cloth in the water, he hesitated — his hand shaking just once.

You’d never seen his hands shake before.

“Bucky…?” you whispered.

He forced his voice steady.

“Don’t talk. Just breathe.”

He pressed the cold cloth to your forehead.

You gasped at the temperature difference — your whole body jolting.

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered. “That’s how hot you are.”

He moved the cloth to your neck, then your cheeks, then your wrists — the places that cooled fastest. But as he worked, your eyes began to half-close again, your head slipping to the side.

Bucky caught your face with both hands.

“Hey— hey.” His voice cracked. “No sleeping. Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

“Too tired…”

“I know,” he said. “I know. But you can’t crash. Not with a fever this high.”

You didn’t respond.

Your head tilted again.

That’s when Bucky panicked.

He grabbed another cloth, soaked it, and pressed it gently to the back of your neck. Then he stripped off his jacket, balled it under your head, and moved fast — methodical, desperate.

Your breathing went uneven, heat rolling off you in waves.

“Come on,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “Stay with me, sweetheart…”

The nickname slipped out before he could stop it.

Maybe you didn’t hear it. Maybe you did. He didn’t care right now.

Your chest rose too quick, too shallow.

Bucky leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours.

“You’re scaring me,” he whispered. “Please don’t do that. Not you.”

Your eyes cracked open, unfocused, and you whispered something he almost didn’t catch:

“…cold…”

He exhaled shakily — relief mixed with terror.

“You’re not cold. That’s the fever lying to you.”

He grabbed the bowl, dumping new cold water in, then pressed another cloth to your pulse point. You winced. He didn’t stop.

“I know it hurts,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. But I need this fever to drop.”

Your breathing hitched again — a small, broken sound.

Bucky’s eyes softened painfully.