꒰ ⋆ i’m not sick ⋆ ꒱
You weren’t sick.
No matter what Bucky Barnes said, no matter how smugly he leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed and a knowing look in his stupidly handsome face, you were not sick.
You cleared your throat (quietly, strategically), rolled your shoulders, and tightened the sleeves of your hoodie. “I’m fine.”
“You sound like a broken air conditioner,” he said, biting back a smirk. “One of those ones in a cheap motel.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means,” Bucky said, pushing off the counter and walking toward you with that annoyingly smooth super soldier stride, “you’re wheezing. And sniffling. And doing that thing where your eyes look too shiny, like a cartoon character about to cry.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not wheezing.”
“You are wheezing.”
You turned your back on him and made your way to the living room, grabbing the stack of mission reports Fury wanted reviewed and flopping onto the couch. You were fine. You could do this. You weren’t going to let a stupid cold defeat you in front of Bucky freaking Barnes.
Especially when he never, never, got sick.
Not once since you’d known him. Not a sneeze, not a sniffle, not even a yawn from exhaustion. Super soldier serum, enhanced immune system, annoyingly superior biology, he was basically a walking health commercial.
So no, you refused to show weakness. Even as your head pounded, your throat scratched like sandpaper, and your body screamed for a blanket and twelve hours of sleep.
You were fine.
You were not fine.
You were in fact, so not fine, that the moment you tried to sit up too fast from the couch, the world tipped sideways.
And Bucky caught you. Instinctively. Like he always did.
“Whoa, whoa- hey.” His hands settled on your shoulders, steadying you. “Alright, that’s it.”
“I’m-” You paused to cough into your elbow. “I’m fine.”
His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “Sweetheart, you just blacked out for a second while holding a paperclip. You looked at it like it insulted your family.”
“Okay,” you croaked. “Maybe I’m a little sick.”
He didn’t say I told you so.
But he did smile like he wanted to.
Bucky didn’t leave your side after that.
He tucked you into bed (and you were too tired to argue, which he clearly took as a victory). He brought you every cold remedy known to man and a few you suspected were just old Brooklyn traditions, like warm ginger ale and saltines.
He came in with soup, twice.
“Second one has real chicken in it,” he said, placing the bowl beside you. “Not the weird freeze-dried cubes from the first one. I upgraded.”
“Fancy,” you whispered, voice wrecked and scratchy.
He returned with orange juice and a whole bottle of vitamin C gummies.
“You’re supposed to take two a day,” you warned weakly.
“I’m not letting you die from a cold,” he said seriously. “I’ll overdose you on vitamins if I have to.”
He even brought flowers.
“You bought me flowers?”
He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Don’t get too excited. They were next to the NyQuil.”
And chocolate.
“You’re bribing me.”
“Yes. So stop looking like you’re going to cry and eat the damn truffle.”
But what really got you, what really made your heart ache, were the kisses.
Soft kisses to your temple when he brought in tea. A gentle brush of lips over your hair when you fell asleep mid-sentence. Little pecks at your forehead while he adjusted your blanket. Sometimes, even kisses on your warm, slightly runny nose, just to make you laugh.
“Bucky,” you croaked once, laughing despite how awful you felt, “you’re gonna catch this.”
He just smirked, leaned in, and kissed you anyway, square on the mouth. “I don’t get sick.”
You blinked at him. “You just kissed me while I have a fever.”
He kissed you again. “Worth it.”
Over the next few days, you faded in and out of sleep while Bucky floated in and out of your room. You felt him brush your hair back, hold your hand, rub your back when you couldn’t stop coughing. Once, you woke up with your head on his chest, his hand gently stroking your arm, slow and steady. You didn’t move. You just melted into it.
There were more kisses. Lazy ones. Sleepy ones. Fevered ones, mostly on your cheek or temple, until you felt a little better and pulled him in for a proper one.
“See?” he whispered against your lips. “Told you I’m indestructible.”
You snorted. “Arrogant.”
“You like it.”
You kinda did.
The quiet, careful Bucky.
Something about the way he stayed, about the way he looked at you like you weren’t a burden, made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your cold.
Once, you woke to find him dozing at your side, head tilted back against your headboard, his hand still holding yours where it rested on the blanket.
You didn’t let go.
By day five, you were better. Not perfect, but walking upright, able to speak without croaking, and your skin had lost that lovely shade of “slightly dead.”
You found him in the kitchen that morning, making coffee.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, handing you a mug.
You blinked down at it, then up at him. “Guess I lived.”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you sip. “Barely. You gave that tissue box a run for its money.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
He tilted his head, voice softer. “Always.”
Maybe it was the warmth in his voice. Maybe it was the way he said always like he meant it, like he’d already decided that looking after you was just part of his life now.
Or maybe it was the fact that his hand found the curve of your waist without thinking, that he pulled you just a little closer, his fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie to touch skin as if checking for fever.
Whatever it was, it made you rise up on your toes.
And kiss him.
Just a soft one, a quiet brush of lips, no pressure behind it. But when you pulled back, Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded, like he was the one feverish now.
Later that day, you were curled up on the couch under a blanket, finally reading through the reports you’d abandoned mid-fever, when you heard it:
A sneeze.
From the kitchen.
You froze.
Then slowly turned your head.
Bucky stood there, staring at the counter. His nose scrunched, eyes wide like he was trying to process the betrayal of his own immune system.
“…did you just sneeze?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.
He blinked. “No.”
“Oh my God.” You sat up slowly, eyes gleaming. “You did.”
He scowled. “It was probably dust.”
You stood, walking toward him with a grin that threatened to split your face in two. “You’re getting sick.”
“I’m not!”
“You caught my cold.” You gasped, delighted. “The super soldier has fallen.”
“I don’t get sick.”
“You do now.” You poked his arm. “This is the best day of my life.”
Bucky opened his mouth to protest and sneezed again.
You nearly fell off the couch laughing. “Bucky.”
He groaned, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve listened to you. Should’ve stopped kissing you.”
You grinned and walked up to him, arms slipping around his waist. “You couldn’t help yourself.”
“Apparently not.”
You stood on your toes, kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll take excellent care of you.”
He eyed you warily. “You’re going to make me soup, aren’t you?”
“With real chicken,” you said proudly, hugging him tighter and pressing another kiss to his jaw. “And I’ll even bring you flowers. But only if you admit I’m your favorite nurse.”
He sighed dramatically. “You’re not even certified.”
“You didn’t care when you were kissing me all over my fevered face.”
He leaned in, nose bumping yours. “Touché.”
And when he sneezed again, a big, dramatic one, you laughed so hard you nearly dropped the tissues you were about to hand him.
But you caught him this time.
Wrapped him up in a blanket.
And whispered against his hair, “Told you I was contagious.”