Prompt: Anon asked for Steve dealing with passing on all his pre-serum illnesses to his son
A/N: It’s Angst.
MasterList
Steve had always marvelled at how big his hands were in comparison to his son's head, how easily he covered most of the damp blonde hair as he gently stroked it. The short, silky strands tickled his palm, but the man found it difficult to smile at the sensation as he knelt by the bed at one in the morning. The boy's skin under his hand was fevered and clammy, his baby blue eyes misty and exhausted as he looked at Steve's face. "One more breath on three. One, two - perfect." He placed the inhaler at the side of the bed before pulled up a few pillows for the child to lay back on - the rasp in still too evident as tiny lungs struggled to work correctly.
He felt so guilty.
When his son had been born, it felt like the single, most incredible moment of his life, and that would never change as far as Steve was concerned. The boy looked like him; blonde hair, blue eyes. He had the sweetest smile to get him out of trouble, but he was stubborn too and full of the same fearless spirit Steve had had as a kid.
Then, as his son got older - as his son got sicker - the guilt began to gnaw away at the edges of Steve's happiness.
It had started in earnest when Steve had been playing with his toddler, rolling a ball back and forth until the boy missed and the ball rolled over to the others. Bucky had insisted on getting a ball pit, and as a result, the small plastic orbs were everywhere. "I get!"
"Let's get the red one, champ," Steve said as he watched his son get up in that unique toddler that somehow included all fours and a butt in the air. He ran to the small pile and returned to Steve, brandishing a green ball like a trophy, all smiles and bouncing feet. "Good job - that's a green ball though. Can you get a red one?" It wasn't that Steve was bothered by the colour they played with; he just felt it was good to practice colours with him.
"Otay!" Again he ran to the pile and grabbed a ball, pausing before looking at Steve hopefully, "Wed?"
Steve shook his head, "That one's blue." This happened a few more times, the man remained sweet with his son, but each try gave him cause for concern. The toddler wandered back to Steve, tiny hands clutching a yellow ball, holding it up almost anxiously, small, little eyebrows scrunching together. "Yeah," Steve ruffled his hair and smiled, "Nice one. What colour is Daddy's t-shirt?"
All smiles again, he replied confidently, "Gwey!" There was a shrill giggle as Steve scooped him up and tickled him - desperately wanting to get that anxious look off his child's face.
His t-shirt was blue.
At first, Steve hadn't worried too much; colour blindness wasn't a big deal. He had had it pre-serum days.
But then the first actual asthma attack happened, and Steve had wanted to scream. He'd faked a smile and told his son that it would be okay, that the inhalers weren't a bad thing and they were better than what he had growing up.
His heart ached when he watched his son trying to keep up with the other kids in kindergarten. Pride briefly smothering the guilt when the kid pulled out his little blue inhaler and powered on.
Steve remembered being left behind because of his asthma.
By the time his son was five, he had asthma, colour blindness, a heart murmur, regular fevers, and another pending test. His child was everything good in his life, so why? Why did Steve have to pass on everything that had been bad about himself?
Steve held in a sigh as he placed a cool cloth on his child's forehead, leaning in to kiss his head and brushing his hair back, "You gotta sleep, fella. Big day, ya know..." He was almost too frightened to leave the boy without a guardian tonight, his frail, little body seeming too weak to handle another asthma attack.
"Hey, Dad?" the boy glanced up at him with glassy eyes, long eyelashes catching the wetness of tired tears, "Don't worry, okay?" He reached up and pat Steve's hand, "I got this."
Steve's eyebrow cocked up, and he half grinned at the absurdity of his sick child trying to give him comfort, "I know you do." He leaned down to kiss his crown again, chest inflating slightly as he held in a sigh. "But I'm your Dad, and it's my job to worry a little when you get sick. And I gotta make sure you sleep because Uncle Buck said he was bringing you the biggest candy apple he's ever seen."
His son gave a weak giggle, coughing afterwards and prompting Steve to grab his water bottle. Encouraging him to take small sips until settling him back down with a strained smile – it was getting harder and harder to hide just how fearful he was for his child. "Don't worry. I'll better - just like you did!"
"Like… me?" Steve had to swallow the lump in his throat, had to not wince as it felt like razors shredding his windpipe.
"Yeah, the lady at the museum told me that you used to get sick when you were little too, but now you're a hero!" The sudden excitement, the pride, the utter adoration lighting up his son's eyes hit Steve harder than any fist. "I dunno when I'll get better, so I just gotta wait. Oh!" He sat up and pointed at the dinosaur figure he had on his bedside table, "We saw real dinosaurs at the museum too! And my teacher said we had another field trip soon and that you need to give permission and -"
Steve poked him in the nose and smiled at the undignified squeak it induced, "It's sleep time, champ, not talk time. I'll sign your permission slip in the morning, and you can tell me all about the dinosaurs." Steve got up off the bed and headed to the door, "You want Orange flavour or berry?"
The boy wriggled a little, pushing the blanket further down his small body, smaller than other kids his age; his cheeks were a little more flushed as his fever burned a little hotter, "Berry." Steve's hand had only just turned the doorknob when the boy spoke up curiously, "Dad?"
"Yeah, champ?"
"When I get big like you, when I get better too – Can I be your sidekick?"
Steve put on the best smile he could, licking his lips and nodding absently, "As if I would have anyone else." He stepped out of the room and made it three steps before silently sliding down the wall and burying his face in his hands. He wasn't being fair. He wasn't being kind as he gave false hope to his son. The guilt was choking him; it clawed and scratched and bit into his very being.
'When'
His son was always waiting for 'when'.
The small, frail thing that Steve treasured more than anything else in the world was waiting to become like him. To be strong and healthy. There were no serums for his son, no miracles beyond what medicine could do for him – 'when' wasn't coming.
The false hope that Steve's very existence gave his child killed him a little more each day.
One day he would be faced with the angry, resentful eyes of his son; he would demand to know why Steve had made him like this. Why was he stuck in a body that wanted to fall to pieces? A body that - hurt - and ached and tried to give up on him again and again and again.
And one day, Steve was going to have to tell the boy who idolised him that he had to stay behind because he was too ill to fight alongside him.
'When' was a word that Steve Rogers loathed almost as much as himself.
Hey guys! This is my new jarco child, id like to call him "dante diaz". A child with a very shy personality who unlike his dad and mom is very scared of danger, adventure, and the out of the ordinary, just wanting to live a normal family life and feeling scared of the unknown. He's an athlete and good student, and he prefers smaller groups. He is flustered easily, go easy on him, lmao
