Summary: a Crohn's flare hits you while Bucky is over for a date.
Warnings: GI issues, chronic pain, embarrassment regarding illness, mentions of phantom limb pain, behavior that could be interpreted as "overbearing" in a relationship
A/N: this one's pretty short! Not too many details, but I wanted it to be genuine representation.
Crohn's Disease: a chronic autoimmune condition where the immune system mistakenly attacks the digestive tract, causing long-lasting inflammation that can lead to pain, diarrhea, and malnutrition
Main Masterlist
Chronically ill/Disabled Reader Masterlist
You wouldn't have invited Bucky over if you knew your intestines would feel like they were being run through a meat grinder. The cramps started after lunch. Then the fatigue hit, making you feel like limbs were heavy. The pressure in your abdomen continued to grow as the cramps intensified, pain ripping through you.
By the time your realized you were going into a flare, it was too late. Bucky was laying next to you on the couch, one arm slung causally around you. You tried taking slow, deep breath, attempting to easy the pain in your middle.
Your hands are clamped in fists, toes curled in your toes, planting yourself in the spot. You know if you go to the bathroom, you won't be leaving for a long time. You feel yourself getting warmer as hot knives rip through your insides.
"You're really warm, doll," Bucky whispers, pushing your hair out of your face and kissing your forehead, "What's up?"
Bucky knows you have Crohn's disease, but you haven't been dating long enough for you to feel comfortable going into the intimate and borderline gory details of what your body can do to itself.
"Nothing," you answer quickly, "It's just hot in here,"
Creases appear between Bucky's eyebrows.
"No, it isn't," he responds gently.
"Well, n-not all of us ca-can regulate our body temp like a supersolider!" you stutter.
"Touche,"
The pressure in your stomach peaks, and you finally cave.
"I'll be back," you squeak, standing up and rushing to the bathroom.
A full hot flash hits you as you get to the bathroom, and you're stripping off your clothes. You grip your abdomen with one hand, the other on your forehead as cramp tear you aparth.
Between the hot flash and embarrassment, you're burning up. You can't believe your body is doing this to you. You've done everything right. Taken your meds, eaten right, stayed hydrated, gotten your infusions, everything. And still your body attacks itself and you.
You double over and tears well as a second round hits.
"Doll, are you okay in there?"
You bite your thumb, attempting to muffle you little pained noises.
"Y-yeah! I'm f-fine!" you call weakily.
"Open the door, baby," Bucky begs.
"B-buck, you should leave,"
"I'm not going anywhere. What is it, babe? I'm here for you," he calls through the door.
"Bucky, I'm having a flare, and I'm not gonna be able to come out for.a long time, so you should just go home,"
Bucky is silently for a moment, and you think for a moment that he's left.
"Open the door, doll," Bucky says gently.
"This is mortifying,"
"No, it's not. Open the door,"
"Bucky, you don't understand, I can't. I can't get up," you flush.
"Okay, baby, that's okay. I'm coming in,"
You grab a towel and drap it over you lap just as the door flies open.
"Did you just break my door down?" you ask, still doubled over, trying to hold in your bowels.
"What can I do, luv?" Bucky asks, "Let me help,"
"Bucky, I- you- you can't be in here!"
"Why, babygirl?" he asks gently, leaning against the doorframe.
Tears slip down your cheeks.
"It's so embarrassing," you cry, "And it's gross and smells and-"
"Babygirl," he interrupts gently, "Do you know what I do?"
"W-what?" you sniffle.
"My job. Do you know what my job is?"
"Yo-you fight bad guys," you respond, voice squeaking as another wave hits you.
"I kill people," he corrects, "It's not pretty. Blood, guts, dead bodies. And before that, I was in the military. There's no plumbing in trenches, luv. You never forget that smell. I don't want to belittle your pain, but it smells like daisies and rainbows in comparison.
"You are not gross. You don't have to be embarrassed about what your body does to you, doll,"
"You're crazy," you laugh, still crying.
"I'm not some little boy who can't handle the realities of your body. What can I do, baby?" he asks.
You think for a moment.
"My flare bag. Next to my bed. It's yellow and white,"
Your last mini flare had consisted of excruciating cramps, pain, and nauseous, but at least no lower GI symtoms, so you could stay in a fetal position in bed. Your body offers you no such luxury this time.
"Be right back,"
You hear Bucky clomping around your apartment as your body continues to tear itself apart. You tie your hair up in a messy bun. It's not cute, but it keep it off your neck.
Bucky returns with the bag and a fan. He hands you your bag, and as he digs through it, he sets up the fan. You sign in relief as cool air blows on your sweat slicked skin. You find your little pill divider, popping your Budesonide and a pain killer. You peal the backing off of an adhering heat pack, sticking it to your abdomen.
"Does that help?" Bucky asks.
"It should, a little to get me through at least,"
You look up an watch in shock as Bucky Barnes plops down on your bathroom floor, not too far from where you are on the toliet.
"What are you doing?"
"Well, doll, unless you really and truly need me to leave, I'm not going anywhere," Bucky says like it's obvious, leaning back against the sink.
And he does just that. Bucky sits with you for the rest of the evening, sometimes telling you stories from his childhood and time in the army, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes stroking your hand as you grip his. It's disgustingly intimate in a way you didn't know you needed while in such pain.
Bucky helps you to bed in the small bursts your body allowed before rushing back to the bathroom. He turns the fan on during hot flashes, then wraps your body in soft towels during the following cold flash.
When it finally seems to be over, Bucky runs a bath for you, and helps you in. You're practically limp with fatigue and lingering cramps as he gently cleans your sweat slicked body.
You usually don't have the energy to bathe after a flare, typically lucky if you can even make it to bed. But Bucky takes care of everything, even carrying you to bed after.
He tucks you into bed, not too tight so you can jump up if needed. He turns on the heating pad next to your bed, arranging it on your stomach before crawling in bed next to you. He makes you take tiny sips of water, insisting it'll be worse tomorrow if you're dehydrated.
"Thank you for taking care of me. You really didn't need to stay," you mumble into his chest.
"Doll, this is part of a committed relationship. We take care of each other. You patch me up after missions, and I help you through flares. You never have to hide your pain from me, just like I never hide mine from you,"
You think back to the days where Bukcy's shoulders are tighter, face creased, answer short and gruff around other. But as soon as you get home or a moment alone, how you always tells you if his phantom pain is bothering him. You never compared the two, thinking of his pain as more "normal" or "less embarrassing".
You hate that you care just terrible stigmas and beliefs about your GI issues, but developing an autoimmune like Crohn's in a public high school doesn't leave you with the best experiences regarding it.
"You're right. I'm sorry," you whisper.
"it's okay baby," Bucky soothes, kissing the top of you head, "I know it's hard,"
"I love you,"
"I love you too, doll,"
Crohn's&Colitis Foundation
A/N: If you or a loved one are struggling to a gastro related condition/disease, know that you are not alone. Your illness is valid and not something that has to be hidden. There are help and resources. You are not alone
