Several wildfires are forcing members of a number of First Nations to flee their homes in northern Ontario.
“I had time to run home and pack a bag and get to the beach where the boats were waiting,” said a member of Namaygoosisagagun First Nation (Collins). “We literally had minutes to get on the boats and flee before it took our town.
“Once we left my house finally after packing what I could in a pack sack, the fire was right behind our place. We had to run to the beach and once we got there, it was only moments before the fire had jumped over the (train) track and was coming for us.”
it has since been confirmed that namaygoosisagagun first nation has completely burnt to the ground. if you would like to help the community navigate an ongoing crisis, i urge you to donate to the anishinabek nation 7th generation, a registered charity seeking to improve the lives of first nations people. donations are going directly to members of namaygoosisagagun first nation.
if you're canadian, you can e-transfer [email protected]. if you're outside canada, they accept paypal as well. see more information HERE
Victor Frankenstein after achieving the impossible and building a fucking person from scraps of the dead: Oh god, ew, ew it's ugly! Yucky! Yucky! Gross! Ew! Ew! Yucky! Yucky! Gross! Ew!
Hi, Ken!! I’m sorry your inbox is revolting against you! I think it might have eaten this request, so sending again!
What if reader gets sick (starts as a cold and turns into pneumonia or something) and tries to hide it from Bucky. She knows he’ll panic because he still has trauma from Steve being sick so much when they were kids. But the cough gets worse and worse, and then she starts feeling short of breath, and finally she can’t hide it from Bucky anymore (perhaps a dramatic faint?). Our poor Bucky!
this was so sad! poor guy really has to relive those feelings :(
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You tell yourself it’s fine.
It’s just a cold. Just a scratchy throat and a stuffy nose and a cough that isn’t even that bad. You can hide it—especially from the man who will tear apart the entire compound if he even suspects you’re unwell.
Because you know what happens the second Bucky thinks you’re sick. His entire nervous system rewires itself into one memory: Steve’s tiny, fever-burning body in a too-big bed, coughing until his knuckles went white, month after month after month. Bucky sitting beside him at ten years old, pretending not to panic. Pretending he could stop bad things from happening.
You love him too much to put him through that again.
So you hide it.
Or… you try.
The cough starts small. Morning tickle. Afternoon irritation. You drink tea. You take cough drops. You avoid Bucky’s eyes every time he tilts his head and asks, “You okay, doll?”
You say yes. Of course you say yes.
He believes you.
Until he doesn’t.
Three days in, your chest feels tighter than it should. Breathing takes effort—like someone’s pressing a hand there, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make every inhale feel borrowed.
You tell yourself it’s fine.
Just tired. Just a cold. Just—
“Sweetheart?”
You jolt, hand missing the counter completely as you wobble forward. Bucky’s instantly there, metal hand at your lower back, guiding you upright.
“You alright?” His voice is careful—gentle in the way he gets when he’s already half-worried.
You force a smile. “Yeah. Dizzy for a second.”
His fingers curve slightly, anchoring you. “Dizzy?”
“Didn’t eat enough today.”
He frowns. “You ate breakfast with me.”
“Not enough,” you lie again.
Bucky studies your face, blue eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s replaying your morning in his head—every cough you tried to hide, every breath you masked.
For one tense moment you think he knows.
But then he kisses your forehead and just says, “C’mon. Let’s sit for a bit.”
You do. But your lungs ache a little more.
Another two days pass.
Your cough worsens—wet, deep, the kind that threatens to rip out of your chest. You muffle it against pillows. Into towels. Into running water. Anything.
But your breathing keeps getting shorter. Shallow. Labored if you push yourself too far.
And you’re so, so stupidly tired.
Bucky notices something is wrong now—of course he does—but you dodge every question, redirect every suspicion, kiss him into silence when he tries to linger too long. He lets you, but his worry settles under his skin like static.
He watches you constantly. He listens too closely. And each cough you smother only makes him stand a little nearer.
Until the night you feel the edges of your vision blur.
It happens in the kitchen.
You’re grabbing a glass of water, hand shaking a little more than you mean it to. You hear him humming softly from the living room, folding laundry because he likes doing it for you. You inhale—
—and your chest locks. Not pain. Not exactly. Just a sudden inability to pull a full breath. Like your lungs have shrunk to half-size.
You try again. Shallow, fast, panicked.
The room tilts.
The faucet handle blurs.
Your vision goes watery and then—
“Doll?”
You don’t even get to answer.
The floor moves faster than it should.
Your knee buckles and the glass slips and then the world just…
drops.
You come to in a panic that isn’t yours.
Bucky’s hands—both of them—are on your face, your chest, your cheeks. His voice is a frantic rasp.
“Sweetheart—hey—hey, c’mon, c’mon, open your eyes, please—please—”
You blink. Or try to. Everything is fuzzy. Your throat burns with a cough you can’t quite hold back.
When it tears out of you, Bucky flinches. Not away—from helplessness. Horror. Recognition.
“Baby…” His voice breaks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you—”
“I’m fine,” you croak, because you’re still lying, still stupid.
His jaw clenches. “You’re not.” He lifts you carefully, like your bones are made of glass, pulling you into his lap on the kitchen floor. “You fainted. You can barely breathe.”
“It’s… just a cold—”
“It’s not.” Fear sharpens his tone. Raw, exposed fear you’ve only heard a few times in your life. “I know the sound of a chest infection. You think I don’t? You think I didn’t sit through every cough Stevie ever had?”
Your breath stutters. “I didn’t… want you to worry.”
“Too late,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. His voice breaks again. “I’m always gonna worry about you.”
You’re not sure if it’s the fever or the shame or the simple truth of his words that makes your throat tighten—but you lean into him, weak, exhausted, lungs aching with each inhale.
He wraps his arms around you tighter.
Then he stands—stands with you in his arms—and you curl into him automatically.
“You’re going to medical,” he murmurs, voice trembling even as he tries to steady it. “Not tomorrow. Not later. Now.”
“Bucky—”
“No.” His grip flexes—not harsh, just absolute. “You hid this. You scared me. You don’t get to argue.”
Your chest gives another sharp, rattling cough against his collarbone, and his breath shudders.
“That’s pneumonia,” he says, like the diagnosis is a lightning strike. “I know that sound. God, sweetheart, I know it.”
His voice goes soft. Small.
“I can’t watch someone I love get that sick again. I can’t.”
Your heart twists painfully.
You lift a weak hand to his cheek, fingers barely brushing the stubble there. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He kisses your palm. His eyes shine. “Yeah, well. I’m terrified.”
Later—after medical confirms exactly what Bucky knew, after antibiotics and oxygen and a lecture from Bruce, after Bucky refuses to leave your hospital bed even for five minutes—you wake again to find him sitting beside you, head resting against your thigh.
He’s not asleep.
He’s watching your chest rise and fall like each breath is a miracle.
“Buck,” you murmur, voice scratchy but clearer.
His head snaps up instantly. “You need something? Water? Are you cold? Too warm? Does breathing hurt?”
“I need you to relax,” you whisper.
He gives you a look that is half-disbelief, half-heartache. “Not happening, doll.”
“You’re hovering.”
“Good. I’m gonna keep hovering until you’re back to normal.”
You smile weakly. “I really didn’t want you to panic.”
He exhales slowly, climbing into the narrow bed beside you with gentle, careful movements. “I’m always gonna panic when it comes to you. That’s not a flaw. That’s love.”
You lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump beneath your ear. His arm slides around you, drawing you closer without ever pressing too hard.
“And next time,” he adds quietly, “you tell me. Even if it’s nothing. Even if you think I’ll worry.”
“Okay,” you breathe.
He kisses your hair.
“Good. Because I almost lost ten years of my life tonight.”
You laugh—just a tiny one—but it sends another cough rattling through your chest. Bucky sits up instantly, rubbing your back, murmuring soft assurances until it passes.
Then he tucks you against him again, fierce and gentle all at once.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispers into your hair. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”
And this time… you don’t hide. You don’t argue.
You just breathe—slow, easy, safe—while Bucky holds you like he’ll never let anything hurt you again.
Short, bittersweet, adorable and yeah reader ain't fooling anyone. READER JUST LET HIM LOVE AND CARE AND PROVIDE FOR YOU! I say this like I wouldn't have done the same damn thing. Because I would've believed I wasn't worth the care and I never really had someone care for me on that level.
Reading this was cathartic and warm.
Imagine someone wanting to care for you when your sick, weak, vulnerable and just wanting to be there for you. Without obligation, without impatience or anger at being inconvenienced.
Saw someone say they think the person in the foreground of this shot is Steve and if it is it makes the poses and expressions on Sam + Bucky's faces so much funnier.
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
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