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It’s one of Steve’s better days. Not good, maybe, not yet, but better. His chest feels like Bucky’s sitting on it, instead of the entire rhinoceros from a few days ago. There’s less congestion, meaning he’s coughing less, and if he sits up straight there’s virtually no coughing or wheezing.
So he’s sitting propped up in his bed, books and sketchpad littered around him because his eyes can only almost focus, and he’s learned his lesson about trying to strain them too early on.
“Steve!” Bucky yelled, footsteps thundering his direction, sounding more like the rhinoceros he’d been thinking about. “Steve, guess what!”
Steve managed a chuckle that didn’t turn into a cough as Bucky burst into his room. “What?”
“New book,” Bucky said giddily, eyes shining. “It’s got, like, trolls, kinda? And dragons and rings and it’s own language!”
“That sounds kinda cool,” Steve admitted.
“I know! Budge over, lemme sit.”
“No, no, Buck, the sheets aren’t washed yet, c’mon, I don’t want you sick, too. Take the chair.”
Bucky stopped as Steve sat up and immediately began coughing. “Like hell I’m taking the chair,” he said once Steve had finished. “You needta sit up, don’t argue with me. The floor’s fine enough, I’ll lay down, I don’t mind. Sit in the chair.”
Steve sighed. “You’re not gonna start until I do, are ya?”
“Nope!” Bucky said happily.
Steve muttered underneath his breath, but grabbed his sketchbook and pencil and went to sit in the chair. “Happy now?”
“Exceedingly,” Bucky said dryly, sounding for all the world like his ma. They both giggled.
“Okay, okay,” Bucky said, laying down before tossing his legs up, one on top of Steve’s feet and the other on the foot of his bed.
Steve grabbed his pencil, not to draw anything yet—he probably could, since the light was better over here, but he wanted to hear Bucky—but to have something to fiddle with.
Bucky cleared his throat, all important-like, then began. “In a hole in the ground lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, not yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”
Sitting there, listening to Bucky read, Steve could ignore the pressure on his chest, the wheezing, the headache trying to grow, even the wrong curve of his spine. He focused on Bucky’s voice, on the story he was telling, and decided this was their own version, a real-life version, of a hobbit-hole.
