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ltbarnes · 4 months

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‘Tis the Damn Season

Stark U #6

Summary: It’s Christmas Eve, you’re too drunk, you’ve basically avoided Bucky and Steve for six months and the last person you’d want to meet at this party just happens to be yelling in your face. The panic attack is inevitable, really.

Pairing: college!Steve Rogers x reader, college!Bucky Barnes x reader, college!Sam Wilson x reader, college!Natasha Romanoff x reader

Word count: 7.8k

Warnings: so much angst, past SA, alcohol, talk about violence, Christmas celebrations, things finally start to happen, kissing :)

A/N: Happy holidays to anyone who celebrates and to those who don’t, I hope you have a good few days anyways <3 This is the first I’ve posted since July which is awful of me so sorry

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You didn't see them all summer. The day after your last exam was over, you bolted back to your hometown and spent the entire summer selectively ignoring messages from Bucky and Natasha and Steve and Sam asking what you were doing and how your summer was going and maybe you could all meet up and go somewhere and—

It's December now, and every goddamn day since June you have been trying to figure out if what Bucky said to you when you were sick was a fever-induced hallucination or if he really, actually, said that he wanted you to take his last name someday. It made you panic, because the entire spring term you tried to convince yourself that your feelings towards them were batshit crazy and any inkling to them feeling the same was a delusional reach, grasping for crumbs that in reality were just friendly gestures. And then he says that.

"She's just practicing her future last name, Stevie."

So, yeah...things have been weird. Three months have passed since classes started and none of you want to mention what happened right before summer break. Actually, with each day passing you feel more like maybe it was just a hallucination or a very vivid dream, because both Bucky and Steve act like it never even happened. Bucky even had his mouth latched onto some blonde sophomore at a dumb, stupid frat party on Halloween. You went home right after and cried for two hours. But it's not hard to conclude that even if there was some spark or connection or anything beyond friendship with either of them before summer, it has died out completely.

The subject will probably never be broached. You're too scared of confrontation and definitely too scared of revealing unreciprocated feelings for that to happen. The slightly tense atmosphere in the loft is entirely your fault—your lack of communication with anyone in the group during the summer has made them a little confused, you guess. You mostly spend time in your room, giving excuses of studying and talking with parents on the phone and 'I'm just tired, sorry'.

Spending too much time with Natasha scares you too, because she reads you so well and you don't want her to know how hurt and unhappily in love you are. She'll try to do something about it and then Steve and Bucky will catch on and then you will end up rejected and labeled as crazy, because who the fuck falls in love with two people?

That doesn't mean you've managed to avoid her. Living in the same apartment as her definitely makes that hard, but just the fact that she won't let you makes it impossible. Last week she even broke into your room when you had it locked, because apparently she knows how to pick a lock open in under ten seconds. She absolutely knows something is off, but so far she hasn't brought it up.

Natasha is the sole reason why you're now standing in the backyard of some rich kid's house just off campus, surrounded by smoke from cheap cigarettes and fairy lights hung up between the trees and one too many shots of vodka in your blood. It's December utterly and thoroughly—there's snow on the ground but people still haven't accepted the fact that wearing their short dresses and tank tops without jackets does not work anymore. Ice drops hangs from the tree where you stand, listening to Natasha talk with a drunken girl looking for her phone.

It's fun, sure. Not the worst party you've been to and not the best either. You talked to the girl you've been sitting next to in History class earlier for almost twenty minutes. Got free vodka. It's Friday and you don't have any exams to study for. None of that makes you forget that things aren't the same.

"Nat. Nat." You poke her shoulder repeatedly, obnoxiously probably, until she glances over her shoulder with a slight glare.

"What is it?"

"I'm gonna get 'nother drink. Inside," you tell her, pointing with your thumb towards a hedge even though it was meant to be the door. Natasha seems to understand anyway.

"Okay. Don't wander off too long. And come back here right after."

"Yes, ma'am." You give her a half-assed salute before turning around, swaying slightly in your step. It's the uneven and slippery surface of the snow-covered ground, you tell yourself.

There's a lot of people here, is what you note as you push yourself through the seemingly endless crowds of the living room. You kind of hate that they haven't played a single song you like and if Steve was here he would agree, because he doesn't listen to any music made after the internet was born. Bucky would then make fun of Steve and you would laugh and everything would be right in the world. Instead you're pressed to kitchen drawers of a dark kitchen, cheap vodka mixed with soda running down your throat.

The kitchen is crowded too, but either way it's a respite from whatever the hell's going on in the living room. Jumping up and down and calling it dancing (you were doing the same the hour before). You're too drunk to be miserable about everything happening in your life this entire term and much too drunk to feel the absolute atrocious taste of your drink.

In half an hour you will probably throw up and tomorrow will be spent nursing a horrible hangover, but those consequences seem insignificant right now. You just keep thinking about the image of Bucky shoving his tongue down someone's throat that wasn't yours. It was heartbreaking. That he's not here is a good thing, because you'd either witness the same thing again or actually bring it up to him, and that's much worse. God knows it's only a matter of time before Steve does the same thing.

Someone pushes into you, forcing the liquid from your cup to spill from the confines of the red plastic onto your dress. It's black, so it doesn't really matter, but the alcohol still seeps through the fabric until it reaches your skin.

"Shit, fuck—"

Your hand tries to somehow dry your dress by fanning the fabric, which obviously doesn't help very much, and the paper towels placed on the counter in front of you escape your drunken mind completely.

Fresh air and icy winter winds are the only options, so you push through and stumble into people on your way outside. It takes a lot longer than it should. You can't really see much considering the dizziness and darkness inside, but somehow, magically, you are eventually dragging your way towards Natasha who stands in the same place as before.

"Nat. Natty—I spilled. Look."

The black dress with the now wet patch is lifted towards her by your hands, highlighted for her to see. You sway as you tell her.

"Jesus, you can barely stand straight," Natasha answers with a stabling hand to your shoulder, shaking her head to herself instead of focusing on the very urgent fact that you spilled on yourself.

Natasha turns to the girl she's talking to, saying something you can't bother to decipher, before stepping aside with a guiding arm around you.

"We gotta get you home before you embarrass yourself for real," she mumbles underneath her breath.

"I heard that," you whisper, a loud hiccup following. Whoops.

She rolls her eyes, fishing her phone up from her pocket.

"Who—who you writing? To?" you ask, slightly aware that your sentences lack correct structure but not really caring. As long as the message comes across, right?

"I'm texting Steve. I can't drive and you sure as hell can't."

Even in your state, panic instantly sets in over the mention of his name even though you live in the same goddamn apartment.

"Nooo. No Steve."

Your hand grasps for her phone. Nat pulls it away from your reach much quicker than you can comprehend.

"Yes Steve. You're a mess and he's the only one with the patience to take care of this level of drunk. I don't care that you're avoiding them for some stupid goddamn reason," she tells you.

"Nat," you whine. "He can't see me. I spilled!"

She just glares at you. "I swear to god, Y/n...nobody cares that you spilled your drink. I can't even see it."

"I'm so drunk!"

"Yeah, I know. Just—just stay here, okay? I'm going to get you some water so you can sober up by the time your precious Steve comes for us."

Natasha is heading inside before you can process her words. Waiting in place for a few minutes turns into an eternity in your mind. She should know better than to leave you unattended and then expect you to stay—really, it's her own fault. You will accept no blame if Nat gets mad at you for going inside again. It's cold and you need to go to the bathroom. Also, you're mad at her. Telling Steve to come get you? That's just...embarrassing.

Once again you're shouldering your way past people on about the same level of intoxication as you. There's a bad remix of a Christmas song playing loudly. Makes you wanna punch whoever's phone is connected to the speaker. The bathroom is so, so far away. It's something the architect of this house should've thought of before he put it at the very end of this long hallway you're currently making your way through, but clearly he didn't have you in mind.

"Fuck! Watch where you're going, asshole," some girl seethes at you as your shoulder nudges against hers. A nudge is an exaggeration—you brushed against it at most. She's probably an aggressive drunk, that's all.

You don't answer, instead fumbling for the door handle to what you believe might be the bathroom. Some couple is making out in here, the girl with her ass planted on the edge of the bathtub and the guy nearly devouring her face. Doesn't look very pleasant, if you're honest.

"Out. I need to pee."

Your hands find their way to their shoulders, ushering the lovesick pair out of the room without much protest from either of them. They're still making out as they walk out.

Despite your less than sober state, you manage to remember to lock the door after they leave. Some of the mascara that previously inhabited your lashes has moved down to rest under your eyes. You rub it away, smudging it slightly, but it just makes you look a little more like one of those cool girls you always see on campus. It will do.

You kind of want to throw up, but decide against it. That hasn't happened since you were a freshman, and you'd like to keep it that way. Staring at yourself in the mirror occupies your time in the bathroom instead, swaying slightly with your hands placed on the cold sink. If Steve saw you now he would be so disappointed. At least you imagine he would be—that fatherly look on his face as he tells you how you need to be more mindful with your alcohol consumption. Did you even watch who poured your drink? Never go anywhere alone at a party. Especially not a frat one. You know better than this, Y/n.

Steve's imaginary voice is interrupted by someone banging on the door, shouting for you to hurry the fuck up. It's been over ten minutes, but to you it just feels like three, and Natasha has been looking for you ever since she returned to the garden with a glass of water in her hand and no one to give it to. It's not her banging on the door, unfortunately, but instead a dickhead guy who has no patience. Can't a girl spend some time alone in the bathroom doing nothing anymore?

The guy glares at you as you push the door open, stumbling out into the crowded hallway while paying him no mind. It's dark save for the red LED-lights plastered on the walls, making it feel like a seedy dive bar instead of a seedy house. You don't see much.

"Hey! Hey, you—the girl with the black dress!"

Someone pushes their way past the people talking and making out and leaning against the walls, shoving through them as he searches for your attention. Of course, you don't really think it's you he's after. Half of the people at this party are wearing black dresses.

A clammy hand finds purchase on your shoulder, halting you in your less than gracious steps and turning you around with ease. Head tilted back, gaze running upwards until they settle on the face of a quite attractive guy. He doesn't look pretty happy to see you. You're not very happy to see him either.

The blood drains from your face, stealing away all that alcohol-induced heat within a second as his curly hair and green eyes look down at you with that same contempt he had when Sam dragged him away from the kitchen almost a year ago. You had hoped you never had to see him again. It was a naive thing to wish for.

"Y/n, right?" he asks bitterly. You don't answer, but he takes your silence as a yes. It was probably a rhetorical question anyway. His slightly crooked nose was perfectly straight the last time you saw him. His face is committed to your memory, burned in to taunt you on sleepless nights and everytime an unknown man walks a little too closely when you're out alone. "Your little boyfriend broke my fucking nose. You know that?"

Another rhetorical question. Definitely more threatening. Might be the tight grip he has on your arm too. Either way, his mere presence has apparently stripped away your ability to breathe normally. It feels like you've been running to the point of nausea, dark spots dancing before your eyes as he shakes you in attempt to get an answer.

"You ruined my fucking reputation. For what? I barely touched you. Such a sensitive fucking bitch, going around telling everyone that..." His voice trails off, ushering you into a quiet corner when he realizes people are staring. "Got nothing to say now, huh? Been so good at running your fucking mouth before, haven't you?"

"Let me go," you whisper, voice wavering. You don't sound assertive at all, instead weak and fearful. It's what you feel, as an upbeat, slightly bad cover rendition of "All I Want For Christmas" booms through the house. Girls shrieking in excitement over in the living room reaches your ears. You would have joined them if you weren't currently cornered by the guy who assaulted you in your own kitchen a year ago.

"No, we're going to fucking talk. What the fuck were you doing, going around saying shit like that about me to everyone?"

"I...I didn't..." Your lips part between words, breathing out shakily, trying to articulate sentences long enough to make sense. Why can't you speak? Why can't you even think?

"You didn't what?" he seethes. "You're such a fucking bitch, you know that? Acts all innocent and hides behind her friends. My nose is fucking crooked forever because of that fuckhead you sent after me."

Is it the alcohol that renders you this goddamn useless? There's just tears springing to your eyes, unable to say anything in defense of yourself. Can't even walk away.

He pushes you against the wall, knocking the breath out of you. To other people it probably looks like you're hooking up. At least that's what you hope they think, because otherwise you want to wonder why no one is intervening.

"Joshua, please let me go," you tell him again, even more pathetic this time. You're crying now, curled in on yourself in attempt to make yourself as small as possible.

"Fuck, you're so—"

"She told you to let her go."

The assertive, familiar tone booms through the hallway. It doesn't really, can probably only be heard by the people around you, but it feels like it when Steve's tall figure pushes through with hasty steps towards where you and Joshua stand, followed by a glaring Bucky with his jaw clenched so fucking tightly. A sob of relief is drawn from your lips, muffled by the back of your hand.

Joshua steps back instantly. Kind of funny to think that he's so scared of those two, and sad to think that he only respects a 'no' when it comes from men.

"Nice nose job," Bucky speaks up, pointing at his own nose as he stares at Joshua's crooked one, courtesy of the damn good punch he managed to land with his left fist all those months ago.

"Fuck you," Joshua growls, taking a step forward in attempt to appear more threatening or something. He doesn't really succeed—both Bucky and Steve towers over him in both length and build, unrelenting in their stance. As if they're stone walls keeping out the enemy.

Steve rolls his his eyes, shaking his head with a sigh. "Just get out of here. Don't go near her ever again, you hear me? Bucky's glad to fix your nose otherwise. Break it right back. Can't promise the result will be very good, though."

Bucky stands slightly behind Steve, raising an eyebrow in Joshua's direction that tells him there's not even a trace of a lie in the blonde giant's statement.

"You—fuck this." Joshua throws his hands in the air, aiming the most distasteful glare over his shoulder in your direction, before pushing past Steve and Bucky with a shove.

Your body instantly deflates, the tension melting off your limbs as you close your eyes and lean back against the wall. Gentle, firm hands instantly reach your cheeks, your arms, searching for any trace Joshua might have left behind on your body.

"Hey, hey. Y/n, are you okay? Did he touch you? Sweetheart, look at me."

Bucky's voice draws you out of the anxious, panicked state you slipped into, fluttering your eyelids open to see his worried frown and an equally worried Steve looming behind him. Wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes greet them, pupils dilated from the alcohol.

"Y/n, are you hurt? How long have you two been talking?" Steve adds, looming over you in such a way that his large frame blocks out any of the colorful lights plastered on the walls.

They already know you're drunk—Natasha was the one to call them here to get you, after all. Maybe your silence and obvious intoxication makes it clear to them after a couple of seconds that an answer from you is a few minutes away, a few miles of distance from this foggy, packed house. Nothing more is said or requested from you. Instead your trembling form is led away and out into the biting cold by gentle hands belonging to your friends. Even your slight shock can't shield you from freezing your ass off as soon as you get out into the fresh air again, teeth beginning to chatter within the second step on tightly packed snow.

"What the—where the hell have you been? I swear to god, Y/n, I was gone for two minutes! I've been looking for you everywhere!" an angry Natasha yells, running perfectly towards the three of you down the slippery lawn to where Steve is currently helping you into the backseat of his car.

"Nat," Steve says, giving her a pleading look that silently tells her it's not the time for a scolding.

"What? I told her to stay put when I went to get her a glass of water and she just disappeared out of nowhere. Slippery motherfucker while drunk, I swear she'll be the death of me—"

"Nat," he repeats, sternly this time. In that tone only he masters, silencing even the most eager tongues with a single exhale. "She met Joshua. And she's not okay. So please, leave your yelling for tomorrow and get in the car."

Steve holds the passenger door open, gesturing for the seat beside Bucky. He's turning the key, letting the car warm up properly while he clutches the wheel tightly. Natasha's irritated frown turns into a concerned one, nodding silently before slipping inside. Steve closes the door shut behind her.

You lean your head against the frost-covered window, fogged up by your breath two inches away from it, and close your eyes. Steve leans over you, reaching for the belt and fastens it over your torso. You forgot. He never does.

It's no surprise, doesn't startle you despite your absentminded state, when his warm hand cups your cheek, turns your head to face him. Soft, blue gaze and ridiculously long lashes. It's nothing but contrasting against the clouds released from your mouths with each breath—warm, concerned...loving? Maybe.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, thumb rubbing over your cheek.

You nod. "Yes. I am now."

Bucky puts his foot on the gas, turns on the blinker, and pulls away from the curb, out onto the streets. It's nearly soundless. The usual rumble from wheels against road is cushioned by the snow.

"This was a mistake. Sorry, I can't—" Sam gags, moving his head out of the bathroom before returning his presence within a few seconds. "You're a real shitty guard, Nat. Why'd you let her drink this much?"

All four of your roommates are gathered in the bathroom, surrounding you as if you're a newly born lion cub in a zoo, while you puke your guts out into the toilet. Steve is kneeling on the floor beside you, a comforting hand rubbing your back, while Bucky sits a few feet away with a glass of water in hand, ready for whenever you need it.

"Fuck you. You weren't there—she was like a goddamn ghost, just slipping away everytime I blinked. Looked fucking everywhere for her. 'S not my fault," Nat answers, residing on the floor of the shower in lack of space.

"Not true," you murmur in answer, your voice echoing off the ceramic surrounding you.

You're pretty much done throwing up, it's just the exhaustion following that's keeping you slumped over on the bathroom tile. Your hand stretches out in Bucky's direction, reaching for the glass of water that's gulped down within a few seconds.

"Careful. Gonna get sick again if you do it this fast," Bucky says, unable to help himself from brushing away the stray drops of water running down your chin.

The gesture is nothing new from him. He did it when you were sick all those months ago too, and you haven't forgotten it at all. His thumb gently rubbing over your skin as if you're precious, something deserving of gentleness, is engraved into your mind. You're thankful for getting most of the alcohol out of your system, because you might not have remembered this moment in the morning if not. Fuck it if you forgot the way his pupils widen just slightly, as if he didn't mean to, as if he couldn't help himself.

"I'm fine," you whisper in answer, clearing your throat. "Got it all out."

"Good." Steve's hand moves up from your back to your head, stroking it for just a second before withdrawing his touch. "Let's get you to the couch."

"I don't wanna go to the couch. Wanna be in my bed." You're pouting. Maybe there is some trace of alcohol left in you.

"Steve and Buck will feel much less like creepy stalkers if they stare at you sleeping on the couch instead of hovering around your bedroom all night like a bunch of pervs," Natasha speaks up. A snort follows after, as if it was a joke and not a statement. Definitely tipsy too, despite unwilling to admit such a weakness.

Steve raises a reprimanding eyebrow Natasha's way, telling her to shut her mouth with just his gaze. She smirks in answer.

"Don't listen to her. A fucking liar," Bucky remarks, but there's still some form of amusement in his expression. He can't even deny the statement—he is going to watch over you. Doesn't really matter if it's in the living room or in your bedroom. "Now let's get you up. C'mon."

With a push from your arms against the cold tile, you're standing on two legs again. Steve is hovering his hand near your back, ready to support if the vodka decides to topple you over. But you're fine—just tired now.

For ten minutes it feels things are back to normal again. On the living room couch, nestled in between them, your head leaning on Steve's shoulder as a stupid Hallmark Christmas movie plays on the tv. Sam and Natasha are in their rooms sleeping, and for a few moments you forget why you kept your distance. Everything would have been good if this is how the night would end. If Steve didn't have to address the past six months.

"I've missed this. With us," Steve whispers as he strokes your shoulder absentmindedly, like it's second nature to him to have his hands on your skin. "You've been so distant lately. For months, Y/n."

The room instantly becomes tense enough to make you nauseous. A clearing of your throat, an attempt to sit up out of Steve's hold and away from this conversation that you'd much rather avoid is futile—it's instantly stopped by Bucky's hand on your chest that pushes you right back.

"No," he says sternly. "You're gonna sit right here, sweetheart, and tell us why you've barely let us see you since fall term started. 'Cause it's sure as fuck not something I take lightly. Why have you avoided us?"

You look away, shaking your head to yourself as you try to talk yourself down. You will not break. You will not confess a single thing. You are going to act like everything is fine and you are not currently freaking out being sandwiched between the only two men you would gladly be sandwiched between under different circumstances than this.

"What are you even talking about?" you answer meekly. It's clear as soon as the words come out of your mouth that no one is falling for your innocent act, not even sweet, naive Steve. Then again, you're doing a particularly bad job. "Both of you think I've been distant?"

"Cut the bullshit, Y/n. If we've done something wrong, just say so." Bucky bites his cheek, glancing down for just a second, but it's enough to let his vulnerability slip. He's hurt.

A wave of guilt instantly washes over your body, an unusual feeling. During all these months of avoiding any interaction with Bucky and Steve besides the necessary ones, you didn't think that they'd actually mind your absence that much. They might not be hopelessly in love with you like you are with them, but they're still your friends. Friends miss each other.

"Or if it's something personal, you can tell us, you know? Is it anxiety, or are you feeling generally low, or...?" Steve chips in, trying to drown out Bucky's accusatory tone.

"No, no...I'm not depressed, Steve. And none of you have done anything wrong, I promise," you say hastily, shutting down their concerns as quickly as possible while trying to buy yourself time to come up with an excuse. "I just...needed some alone time."

Bucky rolls his eyes, shaking his head. Sassy man. "Bullshit again. You've spent a bunch of time with Natasha. Sam, too. It's us you're avoiding." He points to himself and Steve with his hand. "It's been almost six months, Y/n. What the hell's your problem?" He pushes himself off the couch, standing up and blocking your view of the tv. It's as if his frustration is all contained while sitting down.

"Bucky," Steve scolds, glaring up at his friend. He's not appreciating the tone at all, that's for sure.

"There's no problem, Bucky," you tell him, shaking your head. Trying to dismiss this entire conversation before you reveal too much.

"No! Y/n, I'm going fucking crazy! This is the first time you've even let me touch you in half a year!" Bucky yells, a pleading tone in his voice that breaks your heart just a little. Because it's true. You have barely even hugged since June. You've barely talked for more than five minutes at a time.

"Don't yell at her, for god's sake, Bucky," Steve adds, his hands on your shoulders and ready to get up from the couch any second.

"What the hell's going on with you, huh?!" Bucky continues, ignoring Steve's statement. His eyes are solely focused on you, void of the usual softness. There's just anger. "Cause if you can't stand us, then tough fucking luck. I can have your fucking things moved out by tomorrow for all I care. Can move right into Walker's dorm. Bet he'd accept you with open fucking arms if you get to your knees and—“

The drop of your heart down to your stomach can almost be heard, an echoing, hollow sound. You're sure of it. Bucky shuts his mouth, as if he realizes what exactly was about to come out of it. What is not even a second of silence feels like a whole minute, before Steve shoots up from his seat beside you and grabs Bucky by the collar, rattling the whole room with the force in which he nearly tackles Bucky against the wall with. The tangy taste of iron starts to fill your mouth, your teeth biting down on your lip hard enough to draw blood. There's tears lingering in your eyes but you can't hold them back, not anymore.

"You don't fucking talk to her like that, you bast—"

"I love you! It’s ‘cause I fucking love you guys!” you yell, a pathetic sob marring the words. “So I’m fucking sorry that I’ve avoided you two but I’m trying to get over these goddamn—these feelings, but I can’t, okay! I can’t!”

The bitter delivery is punctuated by the sleeve of your sweater wiping away the tears furiously, cutting Steve off and drawing both of their wild eyes towards your figure now standing up, just a minute away from a complete breakdown. You don't even process the fact that Steve cursed. It would've been teased about endlessly in any other situation.

"I will go. I'll leave if that's what you want," you seethe with a voice so unsteady that it's almost unbearable to listen to. "But I don’t hate any of you. I don’t, and I get why you’re mad. But fuck you, Bucky. Fuck you for saying that.”

More tears fall. It's futile to wipe them away when they'll be replaced the second after. You want to say more, hit Bucky where it hurts, but you cannot get the goddamn words to form on your lips. Opening your mouth and closing it again, shaking your head, comes before hastily walking towards your room and locking yourself inside without giving them a chance to answer.

As soon as the door is slammed shut, your hand comes up to your mouth to muffle the sobs. Sinking down to the floor as if you’re in a movie, forehead resting against your knees. The rate of your heartbeats could be considered dangerously high, but you just blurted out a whole love confession for two of your roommates in the midst of a fight. How the hell could everything turn to shit so quickly? Half an hour ago all of you were joking around in the bathroom, and now you're not sure you have the courage to face any of them again.

It's a rash, impulsive decision fueled by anger and betrayal and shame, but you rush over to your closet and pull out an overnight bag that's soon filled to the brim with enough things to last you a few days. You're crying the entire time.

When you pass the living room again, Bucky isn't there anymore. But Steve is. Barely a glance his way is spared, with hasty steps heading towards the hallway. You remind yourself of a furious toddler when you angrily put on your jacket, stick your feet into your winter boots. The bag is slung over your shoulder, hand resting on the door handle.

"Don't go. Y/n, please don't leave."

Steve stands at the other side of the hallway, a broken down expression on his pretty face.

"Bucky went out of line, but he didn't mean it, I swear. He's just too prideful to admit it," he continues. You shake your head, biting down on your bottom lip. "Please, honey. It’s Christmas Eve. It won’t be the same if you’re not here tomorrow.”

"I just need some space," you whisper, brushing away a stray tear with the sleeve of your jacket. You’re so embarrassed and hurt that you can barely look him in the eye. "I can't be in the same apartment as him right now."

Steve sighs, looking about ready to just throw you over his shoulder to get you to stay. But he won't do that. That's not Steve. So instead he glances down to the floor, shaking his head to himself.

“Did you mean it?” he asks softly. “The thing about—you said you loved us. Did you mean it?”

It takes a few seconds before you nod tentatively, sniffling and keeping your gaze on a spot past Steve. He doesn’t say anything.

Steve gathers courage enough to walk up to where you stand by the door, grabbing your cheeks with his hands, thumb running over the tear-stained skin gently. For a few moments, he just looks at you. Loud thoughts running amok in that perfect head of his.

“Nothing I say right now will do my feelings any justice, so I’m gonna save any big speeches for tomorrow. But just…stay. It’s 2 am, it’s freezing out and you’re still drunk. I don’t want you out there on the streets alone. I need you to stay, even if it’s only for your own safety. Don’t have to talk to any of us if you don’t want to.”

His words makes you nod automatically. All it took was his hands on your skin and the flicker of hope his words ignite in your chest, and you conceded within a second. No hesitation left in that exhausted body of yours. He‘s not saying outright that your feelings are requited, but it doesn’t feel like a rejection either. He doesn’t seem disgusted by your confession, by the knowledge that you’re in love with both him and his best friend.

“Good girl. Let’s just—let’s get you to bed, okay?”Steve tells you, squeezing your shoulder gently. With your confirmation in form of another silent nod, he nestles the bag out of your grip and takes off the jacket from your torso.

The bed feels so soft and warm and comforting when you lie down. Steve tucks you in. It’s achingly sweet and you don’t really deserve it after avoiding him and Bucky like that for so long, but he looks out for you nonetheless.

“Steve,” you whisper, drawing his gaze up to meet yours. “I’m sorry. For being so distant.”

He shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You were scared,” Steve answers. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? Get some sleep. You’ve had a tough night, Y/n.”

The softest of smiles grazes your lips, puppy eyes gazing up at Steve. Your wonderful, caring, perfect Steve.

“Are you alright? It must’ve been hard meeting Joshua again. And what Bucky said, it…it was far from okay.”

“I will be,” you whisper.

He nods, observes your face for a few seconds. Leans down to press a kiss to your forehead—what kind of college guy even does that? And then he leaves the room, turning the light off behind him.

You’re woken up by a red headed, crazy woman sitting on top of you over the sheets, shaking your shoulders.

“Wake up, fuckhead. You’re gonna open the presents I got you,” Natasha urges, grinning down at you as you blink your eyes open, groaning.

“Fuckhead?” you ask, a tired chuckle from your lips as Natasha climbs off the bed.

“Yes. Don’t like it, huh?” she teases. “C’mon. The guys are already waiting.”

With slow steps and a loud yawn, the slightest trace of a hangover plaguing your body, you drag yourself out into the living room. Around the ugly, little tree that Sam insisted on cutting down from the campus gardens last week (he almost got arrested by the security guards) the three boys sit. Your gaze falls to the floor, scratching the skin right above your lip nervously, once Bucky looks up at you. Can’t really read his expression, but you figure you’ll lay the fight aside for the day. It’s Christmas, after all.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Steve says, urging you to sit down next to him right there on the carpet. You offer a soft smile, and an even softer ‘Merry Christmas’ back. You’re still unsure about yesterday. Despite there being no rejection from either of them, the uncertainty is kind of killing you. A pit of anxiety rests in your stomach, an uneasy feeling corrupting every cell as you sit down on the floor next to Steve.

Not even ten minutes later, the living room is drowning in a sea of wrapping paper. Natasha went overboard with the gift shopping this year, it seems like, but her absent father is also some kind of Russian oligarch or something so she tends to use up as much of his money as she can. You’re not complaining.

The special edition of The Hobbit, signed by the director of the movie, that you managed to get on eBay and cost you a fucking fortune is received with a whispered ‘thank you’ from Bucky. He holds it in his hands tightly, staring down at the book without a word, and you don’t know if he’s happy for it. Maybe he’s not happy with anything touched by you at this moment. He hasn’t gotten you a gift, it seems like, or maybe he threw it in the trash and burned it yesterday.

Steve got you three books that he’d heard you say you wanted months ago, and a dainty silver necklace with a bee pendant hanging from it. “You know, uh, I usually call you ‘honey’ and I thought it was a little funny, maybe. But I can exchange it if you don’t like it. It’s no problem,” he had said, even though there were tears of gratitude in your eyes. Your arms were thrown around him a second later, hugging him tightly as you thanked him profusely for the most thoughtful gift.

Now you’re leaning your back against the couch, still on the floor, watching as Sam and Natasha are tinkering with his new Nintendo Switch that he got from her (overboard with the gifts, as previously mentioned). He’s so happy it almost makes you zoned out as you watch his childlike excitement. It’s nice to see the two of them so calm and sweet with each other too. Usually bickering and getting on each other’s nerves all the time otherwise.

“Y/n, can we talk?”

Your head tilts back, looking up at Bucky standing nervously in front of you, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. There’s a deep hesitation within you, a pride that wants to say no and remain in your angry state forever without confrontation. But it’s Bucky. You hate this animosity between the two of you, the tension. Despite being pissed off and hurt and afraid that he doesn’t want you, you can’t say no, so you nod and push yourself up to a stand.

Bucky closes the door to his room behind him gently, clearing his throat and looking at anything but you. A sigh comes out of his mouth, shaking his head, before he parts his lips to speak.

“I’m so sorry, Y/n. What I said was disgusting and unforgivable and so fucking out of line. You didn’t deserve that at all. So out of proportion to what I was mad at you for,” Bucky says, running the palm of his calloused hand over his face.

“It was,” you answer honestly. There’s no use in denying that what Bucky said was stupidly hurtful. He nods, looking away from your gaze.

“It made me angry thinking that you ignored me, because at first I didn’t know what I had done, you know? And then I thought for a few months that me and Steve had been too overbearing and that you tried to keep your distance because you thought we were annoying or something. But that’s not the case. I should’ve known better by now than to think that you would do anything to purposely hurt us.”

You gulp, nodding, looking down to the floor. “I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “I didn’t know that you guys thought I had something against you until last night. Obviously, you…you know now that’s not the case,” you tell him, embracing yourself with your arms. “But last night, Bucky, I…you hurt me. I know you were angry, but saying those kind of things isn’t okay.”

“I know that. God, I know, Y/n. I’m so sorry. It was fucking childish of me, retorting to saying that Jo—“ Bucky shakes his head, hands coming up to tug at the roots of his hair. “And it felt stupid giving you that present in front of everyone, so now you think I didn’t get you anything, too, and—“

“You got me a present?”

“Yes. Of course I did, Y/n. But I saw how much Natasha had bought and that necklace Steve gave you and my gift felt stupid in comparison to that. Just didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone,” he says, a little awkwardly. A little boy giving his mother a drawing he made in kindergarten, he reminds you of.

“Bucky…that doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you have gotten me. I’ll like it no matter what if it’s from you.”

He shifts in his place, contemplating something, before picking up a sweater on his bed, revealing a wrapped present hidden underneath. Bucky took the gift from the pile without anyone noticing before, throwing it into his room so no one would see.

With a tentative hand, he reaches it out to you. Doesn’t watch as you unwrap it, instead biting on his thumbnail. You reprimand him for it, and the hand returns to his side.

“Is it a book?” You run your fingers over the cover, a hardcover with nothing on it. Blank.

“It’s a photo album. Shit, it’s stupid. I don’t know,” Bucky answers, looking about ready to snatch it back, but you open the first page up before he has a chance to.

A picture of you, Natasha, Sam and Steve on the first page. It was taken last year in November. You’re all running after one of Sam’s model planes, fall leaves singling down from the sky. It’s a beautiful picture.

“4 grown idiots running after a kid’s toy - November 12th, 2022”

“It’s just pics I’ve taken with my phone, so it’s nothing artsy or anything, but…uhm.” Bucky runs his hand through his short, brown hair.

You flip the page. You’re looking out through the kitchen window, the sun shining through and casting shadows over the room and your figure curled up on the chair.

“Angel in the sun - March 25th, 2023”

A soft chuckle is drawn from your lips, resisting the urge to run your finger over the photo, but you don’t want to smudge the blank paper. On the same page there’s another picture of you with your arms around Natasha’s shoulders, nearly wrestling her to the ground with the force of your hug. You look so happy.

Bucky looks nervous as you glance up from the photo album at him. “Know it’s not much, but…yeah.”

A loud huff of hair escapes Bucky as you throw your arms around him. It takes a second or two for him to hug you back, but he soon has his chin resting on top of your head, arms around your waist.

“I love it,” you whisper, holding onto him tightly enough to constrict his breathing.

“You do? I can take it back if you don’t like it.”

Your grip around him releases, arms coming down to your sides so you can take a step back and look him in the eyes. “This is everything, Bucky,” you say softly, feeling a lump in your throat that can turn into tears any second. “The fact that you took the time to make this for me is just…it’s the most thoughtful thing ever. And these pictures are so beautiful, Bucky, and just the thought of you sitting down and glueing them onto the page and writing captions and—“

His lips against yours. Oh god. Oh my god, Bucky has his lips pressed against yours. Gentle hands hold your jaw, his head leaning down to compensate for the height difference, and Bucky Barnes is kissing you with urgency and desperation.

The shock is enough to make you unable to return the kiss. He seems to take your surprise as rejection despite the fact that you literally yelled ‘I love you’ in his face last night. Bucky steps away and takes his hands off your skin, running his hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry, don’t know what the hell came over me, I—“

On your tiptoes, fingers grabbing his sweatshirt to pull him closer, and you nearly smash your lips against his to shut up any of that doubt he carries. It’s not a graceful or very romantic kiss, but by the sound akin to a very mild growl that comes from Bucky and his hands sliding down to your waist to pull you closer, you guess he likes it anyway.

It doesn’t last more than 20 seconds. A harsh knock on the door to Bucky’s room interrupts it, forcing you part from his lips and get down from your tiptoes again.

“What the hell are you doing in there? C’mon! I’ve made goddamn Christmas brunch!” Sam yells, drawing a soft chuckle from your lips as your forehead meets Bucky’s chest.

With a soft smile, nothing said, you back away from Bucky. Slipping out of his room and leaving him there all flustered and semi-hard from a 20 second make-out session. The first ever between you, though. He thinks it’s pretty understandable.

As Bucky follows you into the kitchen, sitting down at the table by Steve, he leans towards his best friend and whispers into his ear low enough to make anyone else unable to hear.

“I kissed her, Stevie,” Bucky says with a shit eating grin on his face. “I finally fucking kissed her.”

The blond man turns his head enough to look over at Bucky, the red flush of his cheeks and ears enough to tell anyone what’s been said.

“Are you serious?” Steve asks.

“I kissed her and she kissed me back, I swear. I gave her that photo album I’ve worked on for weeks. She said she loved it, Steve.”

“I guess it’s my turn then, isn’t it?” Steve answers, a shy smile on his lips as the two of them watch you sit down opposite of them at the table, glancing through the window out at the heavy snowfall. Natasha puts a newly toasted bagel on your plate.

“Go get our girl, Stevie.”

#stark u #marvel fanfiction #marvel fic #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes angst #sam wilson x reader #natasha romanoff x reader

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ltbarnes · 9 months

Text

I Still Worship the Flame

[Stark U #5]

Summary: Everyone but you are at the cinema watching dumb movie marathons. You lay home in a sea of tissues, drowning in schoolwork with a pathetic fever. But what they don’t know can’t hurt them, right?

Pairing: college!Steve Rogers x reader, college!Bucky Barnes x reader, college!Sam Wilson x reader, college!Natasha Romanoff x reader

Word count: 6.8k

Warnings: sickness? just a really bad cold really nothing graphic, Steve and Bucky being a little overbearing, schoolwork (the biggest warning), angry reader

A/N: haven’t posted any of my writing since March 🤠 forgive me please and enjoy!! I have another one-shot coming soon though so you’ll get a little more of me than usual

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

As the hundredth whine from your lips sounds out today, you are glad that no one else is home. You would be scolded for being more dramatic than Sam during that week after his concussion while simultaneously yelled at for doing too much when you should be resting.

The words have since long started to blur together and the pen is clutched tightly in your hand without even touching the paper for half an hour. You can't remember comprehending the change from afternoon sun to complete darkness outside of your window, but you do know that you have piled on three layers of clothes only to tear them off of your overheated body in the last hour.

Fucking fevers. It's incredible how you forget how absolutely horrible they are between each time, but battling this one seems especially miserable when you have a test in four days. Your roommates had begged you to come with them to this god awful long Lord of The Rings marathon at the local cinema, but you were stressed out about the test enough without losing a full day of studying.

You have gotten some things done. It's just that your room is drowning in tissues, and the pills you've taken haven't done shit and your back hurts from sitting for so long. What you really want to do is take your comforter out to the couch and open all the windows with the AC on full blast. No—what you actually want is to be rid of this fucking cold and sit lodged between Steve and Bucky at the cinema, warm hands on your thighs with an obscene amount of chocolate in your lap. You know that Bucky would whisper random facts about the movies in your ear during the entirety of it, and that Steve would give him angry glares for speaking in the theater.

God, if it weren't for your body's excessive temperature, you would kill for them to hold you. It would suck in reality, because both of them run hot and that is the last thing you need right now. But you miss them. You miss them all the time lately and it frustrates you, because six months ago things weren't like this. Steve and Bucky were two of your annoying, though very sweet, roommates who bickered like siblings constantly at ungodly hours in the morning and left dirty dishes out in the living room (thank fucking god Bucky has stopped doing that).

Now, you dream weird dreams about them at night and shiver everytime they touch you. Calling you by name has suddenly turned into 'sweetheart' and 'bug' (still can't quite figure that one out), while merely the sight of Steve unintentionally flexing his bicep and Bucky moving his metal fingers makes you want to escape into your room. It's hard, because they are pretty much doing that everyday.

Worst of all is your resentment towards Natasha—she caught on so quickly that you barely managed to slip out of Steve's room the night you slept over before she confronted you about your feelings. She very conveniently left out the bet she and Sam had set up, but Bucky found out about that two weeks later and pushed Sam into some bushes. The latter complained about how Bucky didn't cater to his 'bush-related trauma' for much too long after that.

But at the same time, she reinforces your delusions about them liking you back. They are very protective of you, sure, but so are Sam and Natasha. Actually, that might have something to do with your constant knack of getting into the trouble rather than harboring secret, unconditional love for you. Natasha says they look at you with puppy dog eyes, but you think they just always look like that. And the constant touching and pet names are just—it's just who they are. You think.

Another onslaught of heat crashes over your tired body, and you give up completely. There comes a point where even you can't force yourself to work anymore. It's too draining. Instead you gulp down another pill, turn off the lights and throw yourself onto your bed. You groan out of pleasure, but know that it will soon disappear only to be replaced by torturous discomfort.

Yeah, it's good that they aren't here. Gathering the energy to deal with a smug Sam and overbearing Natasha is not in your capacity.

Besides, facing them in this state feels embarrassing. You'll pull yourself together by the time they come home. Just a short nap, and you'll fix your hair. Just twenty minutes of sleep, and you'll put on something presentable. Just some rest, and you'll look good for them.

"Ah, shit—why's it fucking pitch black in here?" Sam seethes as he now limps on his newly stubbed toe, reaching for the hallway light.

The living room is empty and so is the kitchen, they notice that pretty quickly. Usually when you're home alone you cook something elaborate with music blasting in the background, or rewatch that show for the thousandth time. Bucky always gives you a hard time for it, but he usually ends up watching it with you anyways.

"Y/n?" Steve calls out, taking off his jacket before hanging it up on the rack placed by the door.

"Hey, bug—we're home!" Bucky says, walking further into the apartment while searching with his eyes.

The lack of answer gives them anxiety, even though it's probably nothing. Might've gone out. It's Saturday night after all. But you don't really have many close friends outside of them. Unless you're on a date, which quite frantically makes Bucky want to throw up. Yeah, he chooses not to believe that for his own sake.

Natasha bites off another section of her snickers, the one she made everyone stop at the gas station for, while toeing off her shoes. Shoe-free household since you moved in, but exceptions are allowed in emergencies. If you knew that both Bucky and Steve have on theirs right now, you would be mad. But Natasha isn't about to nag about that—she's more focused on getting a huge glass of water for herself. She knows those idiots will take care of whatever's going on.

Steve knocks on your door, waits for too many seconds before calling out for you again.

"Y/n? You okay?" he asks, leaning against the wall.

And because Steve is a considerate man, he doesn't open the door without an answer. But the same can't be said for Bucky—he shoulders past the former and pushes down the door handle without even so much as a sound. He is met with resistance as soon as he steps over the threshold, but all of it comes from the guy behind him.

"Buck—no," Steve seethes through a whisper, trying to pull him back by his shirt unsuccessfully.

Your room is as dark as the rest of the apartment was. Warm and stuffy, rid of any fresh air from outside of the four walls. You've been in here for a long time.

The small strip of light coming into your room reveals your figure splayed out over the unruly covers, a sign of tossing and turning in your sleep.

"Let her sleep, Buck," Steve sighs, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand while leaning against the doorway.

It would be near goddamn foolish to ever expect him to listen. Steve isn't surprised when Bucky steps towards your bed anyway. He lowers down into a crouch, reaching his right hand out for your face.

"Christ, she's burning up," Bucky sighs, pushing himself up to his feet again.

"Shit," Steve answers, passing the threshold into your room while forgetting the previous reservations he held. And as if Bucky's judgement isn't enough, he presses the back of his hand to your forehead. Steve's hand is normally warm, but your skin is a hot furnace against the lines and creases of his palm.

"Fuck, we just left her here all alone." Bucky shakes his head. "We watched fucking Lord of the Rings that we've seen a million fucking times and she laid here suffering with a fucking fever."

"Tone it down with the 'fucks', will you?" Steve tells him.

He turns on the small lamp standing on your bedside table, soft light revealing the dozen tissues spilling out of your trash can. There's not much doubt about your sickness now.

"What do we do? Oh god, what do we do?" The brunette starts pacing as if he has never been more stressed in his life.

"Calm down, Buck. It's a cold, not a heart attack." Steve raises his brows, turns around to glare at his friend. "You've taken care of me dozens of times when I was like this as a child. Go get a glass of water and a few Tylenols."

It seems like it takes a few seconds for Bucky to register Steve's words. Even then he looks anxious, as if he doesn't want to leave. This makes Steve nervous, because Bucky never acts like this, but then again he feels the same way. That's why he told his friend to get you medicine instead of himself.

But Steve could never deny Bucky anything, even if it costs him time watching over the girl he almost certainly cares for more than a friend should. He ignores that part though, and pushes himself up to a stand.

"I'll go," he sighs, gesturing for Bucky to replace him by your side.

The short trek towards the kitchen is filled with anxiety. Why does his heart beat so fast when it's probably just a cold? He just told Bucky to calm down despite feeling anything but calm himself. Just gotten very good at hiding it through the years, he supposes.

Steve has never been the caretaker. He so desperately wanted to be that person during his childhood—the fierce protector, the strong hero, the one bullies cowered away from instead of running towards. Maybe he has been overcompensating for his lack of heroism in his early years now with his friends. The guilt is always eating him up if even the slightest thing happens, because most of the time he can stop those things now. Steve is tall and muscular, fast too, and he's not afraid to speak up anymore.

But things like these—sicknesses—he cannot help except for pouring water down your throat and make sure you're comfortable. Because he wants you to be comfortable so badly, as the slightest sight of pain in any shape or form makes him as gloomy as Sam on days where his favorite football team loses. Steve has known for a while now that you—the girl living on the other end of the hallway who curls up at his side on movie nights and bakes him cookies after each test he's had—is much more than just a roommate. God, he waits by the door for you to come home like a puppy, for goodness's sake. Gets a hard on at least once a day no matter what you are wearing.

And Steve really likes this thing he and Bucky has going on with you. That caretaking thing that he never has gotten a chance to do is now so natural. He and Bucky has adapted this protector-role in your life that makes Steve feel so good. He likes making you happy, making sure you're safe. Like he has a purpose.

"She alright?" Sam speaks up as Steve passes by his room, changing out of his thick sweatshirt to a thinner t-shirt.

"Not really. She has a fever," Steve answers, both hands filled with water, pills and more tissues.

"Oh, shit. How bad? Dr. Wilson bad?"

"No." Steve rolls his eyes. One time Sam helped patch you up and now he has been calling himself Dr. Wilson ever since. "We're taking care of it. She hasn't woken up yet."

"Well, just call for me if she gets tired of your needy asses and wants some Sammy loving instead."

Steve raises his eyebrows, shakes his head like he always does, and moves on. He purposefully quiets his steps down while walking past the occupied bathroom—a fuzzing Natasha is not what you need right now. You already got two overbearing people in your room.

The door is shouldered open by Steve as he returns, realizing as soon as he steps inside that your eyes are open, tiredly nodding along to whatever recap Bucky is giving you of the movies. Steve stays silent, setting down his gifts beside you before crouching down. Soon enough you have him staring up at you, that ever present frown in between his brows.

"Now, will you tell us why in the goddamn hell you did not call or text any of us to say that you were sick?" Steve asks sternly, though his hand is gentle on your head. "Excuse the language."

You let a chuckle slip despite his lecture, because of course he needs to apologize for the very tame curse words inserted into his sentences. Of course Steve scolds you before even saying hello. Such a dad.

"You were at the cinema..." you croak out, glancing down at your intertwined fingers.

"So?" Bucky says with a look on his face that reveals he has no idea what you are talking about.

"I thought you wouldn't notice if I just—didn't think it would get this bad." You pout visibly. A bead of sweat has formed in your hairline, steadily making its trek down your forehead.

"Wait a minute, Y/n—you thought we just wouldn't notice you holing yourself up in your room for days until you were fine again?" Bucky raises his eyebrows, nearly rolling his eyes on you. It sounds dumb now that he says it out loud.

"Yes..."

"For god's sake, bug." He lets his palms scrub over his face while Steve sighs, balancing on the scale between amused and concerned.

"I didn't want to bother you! Besides I'm—this is not my finest moment. Kind of disgusting right now," you say.

"Now, c'mon," Steve tells you with a pointed gaze. "You know we don't care about that."

"You look fucking adorable right now. Just a little shiny, that's all." Bucky pokes you in the forehead, earning an offended gasp from your lips.

"Hey! I have a fever, asshole. I can't help it." The expression on your face is offended, but inside it's all warm and fuzzy because he called you adorable. Bucky fucking called you adorable.

But the playful grin on your lips soon turns into rumbling coughs, hiding your face into your elbow to avoid spreading saliva all over the two men beside you.

"Hey, hey. Take some water, Y/n. Here." Steve's hand flies to your back, rubbing gently, while reaching out the glass towards your lips.

Your throat is all scratchy and sore, and coughing up half of your lungs does not help in the least. But gulping down the cold liquid soothes the pain for the moment, even though most of the water drops down your chin.

"Should I...uh—"

Bucky reaches his hand out towards the box of tissues on your nightstand. Calloused fingers brush over your skin as he rids it of the stray drops, a metal hand tilting your chin up.

It's entirely too silent as you sit and let your face be dried like a toddler. Steve puffs up the pillow behind you, readjusts it until your face is getting enough support.

You don't say anything. Nobody says anything. The two of them work in tandem as they usually do, and have done since they were little boys, while making sure you're as comfortable as you possibly can be.

Soon enough there is a fan dragged in from someone else's room (you think there might be an angry Samuel barging in here any minute to demand it back), three boxes of napkins on your bedside table (you did not know there were that many napkins in your apartment) and four blankets on your bed in case you start shivering again (you do not own four blankets).

You get up to go to the bathroom and end up being carried instead. Being left alone is something you have to literally beg for, because you might, in their words, "pass out". The door remains unlocked as a compromise.

It's sometime around 12 am that you switch off the lights, still feverish and so tired of the sickness already. Mostly you're tired of the babying. But you don't say anything about the fact that both Steve and Bucky remain in your room, sitting on the goddamn floor even though you've told them several times that you have a desk chair and a bean bag. Actually, they have their own beds right on the other side of the hallway. Stupid boys.

They fall asleep pretty quickly, if judging by their snores. Both of them will deny their obnoxious sounds in the morning when you tell them. It makes you happy in one way, because Bucky usually has trouble not staying awake for hours on end grumbling over everything under the sun. Steve is sometimes found in the kitchen at 3 am when you go up for a glass of water, staring blankly out of the window as if he has the entire world resting on his shoulders. On the other hand, you're now the only one awake with your misery and overthinking.

Steve and Bucky definitely cares about you. For you. That much is clear from the past few hours. But to which extent? Is this what they would do for any of their friends? You would like to think so. It feels self-centered to not believe that. But they have been so adamant on making sure you're safe and alright and comfortable today—telling funny stories to distract you and getting caught up in those meaningless, petty fights they know you enjoy so much. Stroking your cheek, calling you sweet names and constantly making you drink water. College boys don't act that way towards their friends, or anyone at all really. You don't know why they are like this.

At the same time, the sweet things have become almost too much. You didn't think it was possible. But it frustrates you that this has become a whole savior-situation for them. Maybe you should want that now. Many girls do—not having to lift a finger while two men come at your every beck and call, and you usually do too. But the thing is that they are not listening to you. They are deciding things for themselves about you.

There comes a point where being helpful and taking care of someone transcends into being condescending. You absolutely can dry away water from your chin yourself. You can go to the fucking bathroom by yourself too, and would actually prefer it that way if you had a say in it.

Maybe you're just sick to the point of extreme irritability. You're probably overreacting to their sweetness because of everything happening in your life right now—this comes at the worst possible time with your final exam for the year in just three days. The final grades for most of your classes come anytime now as well, and you're not sure you did so well in all of them. You haven't even gotten a job for the summer either because no one wants to hire you. It's all pretty shit at the moment.

Barely anything is in your control right now. Not even your own health and how you choose to deal with it, because there are two men hovering over you every second since they came home. This is the first breather you've gotten in way too many hours. You're actually surprised they fell asleep before making sure that you did too, but happy that they did.

Another hour passes before you give up. It's too hot in here, despite cracking the window open half an hour ago, and the fan doesn't do you any wonders. The air is too thick from the small space being occupied by two giants and a sick girl for hours on end, and your bed is too soft.

You silence your coughs as you sneak out of your room out onto the living room couch. It's colder out here. Quiet.

You fall asleep within two minutes.

"Sweetheart, wake up."

"C'mon, Y/n."

"Let her sleep, you assholes."

"She's burning up, for fuck's sake! We gotta do something!"

"Throw cold water on her."

"What the fuck, Sam?"

You groan, stirring awake while your eyes reluctantly flutter open. It feels like they have been glued shut. The fever-aches hit you instantly, distracting you from the mumbled voices right beside you as they try to gain contact.

"She's alive, at least," Sam says right before leaving the room. You barely notice.

"Y/n, hey, can you hear us?" Bucky asks, on his knees in front of the couch.

"Yes," you croak out, rubbing your eye while squinting. It's still early judging by the dimmed morning light coming into the apartment. "Wha—“

"Why did you leave? You have a 103 degree fever, baby. We have to cool you down."

You simply shake your head, letting out a distant hum while sinking down into the pillow once more, letting your eyelids close.

"C'mon. Sit up," Steve tells you, sneaking his hands around your back to push you upwards before you even have a chance to react to his words.

There's too many sounds around you, too many voices and hands prying your body around. You want quiet, like how it was when you went out here a few hours ago. What you sought after from the beginning.

"I want to be alone."

"Well, we're not going to fucking leave you alone right now, Y/n," Bucky says, stress practically seeping out of his pores.

Steve returns from the kitchen. You didn't notice him leaving. He reaches a cold, wet rag out to Bucky who immediately presses it to your burning forehead.

"I can do that myself."

"Nonsense. Just rest," Steve tells you.

"I'm serious. Guys, it's fin—"

"Can you get me the pills on her nightstand?"

He turns his head over his shoulder, nodding for Natasha who disappears into your room without so much as a blink to confirm. Your frustration grows with each second—Steve just entirely ignored you to speak over your words. He doesn't usually do that.

Red hair comes into view again, at least as much as you can see of her from underneath the rag covering half of your eyesight. She tosses the bottle, and you're lucid enough to try and catch it. Bucky grabs it instead.

But when he pours out a pill and begins prodding at your lips you push him away. It's too much.

"Bucky, stop!"

This is the thing with the two of them—you love being cared for like they watch over you, but right now it just feels demeaning. As if they believe you can't do anything by yourself, as if you will fall and break your bones each time you stand or confront someone who has done you wrong without bodyguards crowding your space. Their intentions are good, so good, but right now it feels like unnecessary babying. You are a grown woman who just happens to have very bad luck, but that doesn't mean you can't handle yourself at all.

As your yelling echoes through the now quiet room, their expressions fall, even though they did not look too chipper to begin with. Bucky inches back just slightly. Your tone was harsh enough to know that something is wrong.

"I get that the two of you are trying to help me right now, but I can lift my own fucking fingers!" Your face is hidden beneath your hands, head tilted back with a groan.

You can almost feel how their faces change right in front of you, postures tense up. It's not what you wanted—that is their reaction when being confronted, and this is not a scolding. At least you didn't intend it to be from the beginning.

"I just want to sleep right now, okay? I'm not going to die." Your voice softens into a whisper, a large contrast from the previous yelling that has the room quiet as a mouse.

Another three seconds of silence pass after your statement. Now they won't say anything? Steve runs a hand over his mouth, looking away from your gaze. Nervous.

"Uh...okay." He nods, despite looking like he doesn't want to agree. "Just—just take the Tylenol. If it gets worse you'll tell us, right?"

You don't really answer in the way he wants you to, which is not at all. You can tell by the way he purses his lips. Bucky just looks scarily neutral, as if he's schooling his face with every ounce of willpower in his body.

"Alright, boys. Scatter," Natasha says, waving her hands towards their rooms like she's directing an airplane. You guess that's about the organization you need to coordinate the three of them.

Before you can catch Steve and Bucky's conflicted glances, and Sam's slightly shocked expression, you roll around to face the back of the couch. As peace falls over the room, so does sleep once again.

Steve and Bucky take turns tiptoeing into the living room to watch over you each hour.

Natasha sits in the living room chair reading from her iPad when you wake up. It's dark outside—you've been asleep the entire day. She has a cup of tea and half a cookie left on her plate sitting on the table, and does not even stir when you speak up from out of nowhere. Damn her spy skills.

"What time is it?" you croak out, so unbelievably hoarse that you can't even believe words are coming out of your mouth. You kind of regret speaking at all.

"7:32," she tells you while pushing a glass of water your way. The glass is devoured immediately.

While drying away the stray drops of water from your skin, you put the back of your hand against your forehead to realize your fever has gone down significantly. Not gone entirely, you think, but so much better. The only thing worse is the lack of anyone else in this room besides you and Nat.

"Where is everyone?" you ask her, pushing yourself up slightly until you sit up in the couch.

Natasha must instantly clock your hesitant tone, the slight trace of regret in your voice that manages to seep out through your cold-affected throat. She turns your way, leaning forward slightly.

"Hiding in their rooms."

Your face soon gets buried in your hands, leaning back with a groan from your lips.

"I was too harsh on them, wasn't I?" you say suddenly, letting her decipher your muffled words. "Fuck, I upset them. I was too mean."

"No, no. Hey, no," Natasha interjects, clasping her hand around your wrist to reveal your face again. "Babe, you are allowed to have boundaries, and they're not allowed to be bitchy about that."

"But I—they were just trying to help and I went off on them," you whine. "They haven't even talked to me since this morning. I feel like shit about that, Nat."

"They didn't talk to you 'cause you've been fucking asleep, that's why," she says. "And just because their intentions are good doesn't mean they have the right to be around you."

Natasha raises her perfect eyebrow, glancing over her shoulder towards the empty apartment behind her. Her words hit you like a fucking truck no matter how cliche that sounds, regardless of the fact that you have never taken any sort of advice of this sort to heart before. They never used to apply to you earlier.

"You decide that. And I'm sorry that their egos were bruised, but they need to learn how to respect people's wishes even when they believe they are doing the right thing by disregarding them," she tells you.

"Yeah," you breathe out. "Yeah, you're right."

"Sure as fuck I am," Natasha agrees. "Now go tell them that."

"I don't want to," you whine.

"But you have to. They're not gonna learn if you ignore them. And I know they're dying to check up on you."

"They haven't been in here?" you ask, trying to sound more curious than disappointed. Why are you disappointed? You were the one who wanted space.

"I banished them after they kept checking your temperature as you slept seven times within an hour."

Your eyebrows shoot to the roof. Actually, that makes you annoyed. It's cute, but you were sleeping! You had just yelled at them for invading your space and privacy! Goddamn men who worry too fucking much!

She smirks as you struggle your way up from the couch, angrily making your way towards the end of the hallway to your best ability in this state. The knocks on their doors are loud. Both doors open almost at the same time.

"Get in Rogers' goddamn room, Barnes," you mutter, before shouldering your way past the blonde wall of muscle looking entirely too confused for your liking. He's way too cute like that, and you're supposed to be angry.

The two men follow you like obedient puppies, sitting down on Steve's bed when you gesture towards it. You sway slightly after closing the door, resulting in someone shooting up from their position, but quickly falls back when you shoot the brown-haired guy a glare.

For what must be at least five seconds, you stare at the two young men now sitting on Steve's bed, staring up at you nervously as if you are the principal and they've been called into the office for disobedience. It's kind of fun, but you tire quickly of the staring contest, and instead run the back of your hand across your forehead with a sigh.

"I do just fine by myself," you say all of a sudden. No warning, no explanation. "And yes, it's really sweet that you two want to help, but you've completely ignored me and what I want since I got sick. That's not okay."

What started off strong and confident has now turned into looking anywhere but their eyes as you speak. Why are they making you nervous?

"I have boundaries when I'm sick too, you know? And it doesn't exactly feel like you actually care about me when you just push and prod at me like I'm some doll instead of a person who told you repeatedly that I didn't want your help."

You can't really see their reactions, since you're...not looking at them. Instead you have your arms engulfing themselves, fingers picking on your skin and the hem of your shirt nervously. You're not used to confrontation. Almost no training in scolding people at all. Especially not when it comes to people you care about so deeply. But it has to be done, according to Natasha. And maybe you know that she's right.

"And I'm mad at you. But I know that your intentions are good, and this doesn't have to be a big thing...but I just wanted you to know how I felt."

Too many seconds of silence passes after your little speech is done. The only sound in the room is your collective breathing. You're still looking down to the floor, watching your toes wiggle as a distraction.

"You can speak now, if you want to," you add timidly after what must have been half a minute.

The sound of Bucky letting out a long pent up breath almost makes you laugh, but you school your expression as you finally look him in the eyes. He almost burst watching you so fidgety, refusing to look at either of them.

"I'm sorry, babe," Bucky says, volume nearing on a whisper. He didn't mean to say that last word. "I just—I get kind of panicky when people get sick. You know, Steve—"

"I know about Steve's sickness, Buck," you tell him.

"Yeah, but...sometimes when he was like this it would be a life or death situation. Y/n, I've been the one to call 911 several times when I didn't think Steve would make it."

"I didn't know that," you say. "That it was that bad."

"He would start off exactly like you." Bucky pauses for too many seconds, scrunching his nose before shaking his head. "This fucking cough that would never disappear, and then the high fever. But I guess you have a better set of lungs and heart than he did back then."

"Oh, I—I don't know..."

"You're not about to go into heart failure because of a stupid cold," he says, but you think it's more of a reminder for himself. Steve looks at him funnily, as if he's almost sad by Bucky's words. Maybe he didn't know how much his friend saw during their childhood.

"We're sorry we ignored you, Y/n," Steve speaks up. "Now after, I...I can see that we were too overbearing. And you're right, that's not okay. But I don't want you to think we don't view you as a person. That's not true."

His blue eyes do that soft, concerned thing only Steve can pull off. It kind of pisses you off. You're supposed to be mad, but it's hard. Okay, you actually forgave them before you even entered the room, but they don't know that yet.

"Well, it kind of felt like you didn't," you mutter, looking away.

"I know. You don't deserve that," he answers. "I'm really sorry, sweetheart. I promise I'll do better."

You can't help but let the tiniest of smiles grace your lips. They barely notice it, you think.

"Okay. I guess I accept your apologies. But, this doesn't mean that I don't want to be helped at all—it just means that it will happen on my own terms. No more extreme coddling and babying."

Bucky gives you an amused smirk, rubbing his chin with his fingers. God, he would fit in perfectly in a douchy frat house. Idiot.

"You're kinda cute when you're yelling at us, you know?" he tells you. You think both you and Steve share the exact same reaction—Bucky gets a slap to the back of his head from the latter while you just scowl at him.

"You're such a jerk. That is not what you should take with you from this situation," you seethe, even though heat is traveling to your cheeks in an almost unhealthy pace. Goddamn him and his charm. You blame it on the fever.

"Punk," Steve mutters, shaking his head in disapproval while Bucky just ducks away from any further violence. There's still that smug grin on his face though.

"Bucky is a lot more likeable when he's shy and quiet, don't you think?" You turn to Steve, ignoring the brown-haired man now pouting at you. You've already forgotten why you're in this room in the first place. And damn it, you're starting to feel that you're not exactly top condition right now, and you know you have to sit down soon.

"Uh-huh. Is a lot easier to keep in line, at least."

"Hey! I'm right fucking here, you know? Don't talk shit about—"

Bucky doesn't get to finish his sentence before your seemingly healthier state turns critical in just a few seconds. The standing up for too long with a fever and no source of energy for two whole days finally takes it toll, and the clear focus you had on your boys turns into a big blur. A thud sounds through the room as your side crashes into Steve's drawer, balance lost completely before you could even notice you were dizzy in the first place. Within a second you're on the floor with a throbbing pain in the back of your head.

"Ow."

"Fuck," Bucky breathes out as he gets to his feet with Steve right on his heel, crossing the few feet's distance between you. "I know you just said we shouldn't coddle you...but—"

"It's fine. I'll give you a pass," you manage to get out while rubbing the back of your head, a small chuckle escaping your lips.

Strong hands pull you up to your feet, embracing your unsteady body so your head rests against Bucky's chiseled chest. Steve has his palm on your back, searching for any kind of contact.

"What happened? Are you okay?" he asks while Bucky leads you to the bed, forcing you to lie down.

"I don't think it was such a good idea to stand for that long," you say with a tired smile.

"Well, I tried to tell—" Bucky stops himself in the middle of the sentence, catching himself doing exactly what he promised he wouldn't. You grin at him, patting his thigh the best you can from your position.

"Good boy. Already learning."

The man blushes like a grown man has not done ever. You don't notice though, of course you don't, and his momentary weakness remains harmless. Steve doesn't point it out, because he's too engrossed by looking at the now sore spot at the back of your head. But you never notice, and Steve almost begins to think you're avoiding the signs on purpose. You should have noticed by now. Sam and Natasha certainly have—they can't give either of them a break when it comes to teasing about you.

"Fuck, this is the last thing I needed," you groan, putting your hands up to cover your face while leaning back into what now feels like Steve's thighs. When did he move you?

"Know it sucks, bad timing and all that, but maybe a sign to take it easier?" Bucky says, though he has to clear his throat first to rid it of the thickness he gained from your little comment earlier.

"What d'ya mean?" you mumble, eyes closed.

Maybe you were overreacting earlier. Now, with their hands in your hair and stroking your legs soothingly, you feel great. As if they really do care about you. But it's different now, you guess.

"Sweetheart, you've been stressing yourself to death this past month. You have this irrational fear, which is completely wrong, that you will fail all of your classes when you absolutely are not going to," Steve tells you.

"Maybe..." you mutter.

"Yeah, lay it down, will you? 'M only taking it easy on you with the scolding now 'cause you're sick, but it's actually worrying. Don't know why you think so low of yourself when it comes to school. You've done great the entire time."

"I can't help it," you whisper. "But I really don't want to study anymore. I'm tired."

Steve chuckles at you, shaking his head. "You don't have to. If you're good to do the test in two days—and I really mean if—you're already perfectly prepared. Been studying for a month. God knows I ain't ever studied that long for an exam."

"I know..."

"But even without me and Steve...helping, I, uh—are you gonna be fine 'till then?" Bucky asks, a new concerned frown in between his eyebrows appearing.

"You are allowed to help me, Buck. I never said that you couldn't," you tell him. Your eyes are closed, deep breaths being taken to rid yourself of the nausea. Despite this, you notice his restlessness over the thought.

"Yeah. I guess. Just don't want you...don't want you to be sick anymore," he mutters under his breath, as if though he wishes you could not really hear it.

This is the Bucky you usually see. The one who's a little shy and has trouble expressing his feelings, except if it's anger. Then he has all the willpower in the world to act on it. The guy who cares very deeply about his friends and becomes closed off when he can't help them.

"Not super excited about this either, Barnes," you whisper, arm thrown over your face to shield you from the rest of the world.

"We're on last name basis now, huh?" Steve says. You can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Uh-huh." You nod to your best ability. "You deserve that."

"She's just practicing her future last name, Stevie," Bucky speaks up, wearing a grin that falls just as quickly as it appeared. A dreaded, wide-eyed expression dawns upon his face as he stares at the two of you. The realization is painful.

"What? What did you just say?" You lift your head up from Steve's lap, staring at Bucky who's now beet red.

"Buck..."

"Oh, shit."

#Stark U #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #sam wilson x reader #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #college steve rogers au #college au #college!bucky

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