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Hey!! So, I just wanted to throw this in here so that you guys, first of all, know that you can request any time, my asks are always open! And also know what I won't write <3

DO'S: -Ships/pairings that I have written about -Ships/pairings coming from media that I have written about -Fluff -Whump -Illness/Injury -Really anything that's not in don'ts DON'TS: -Smut -Any ship with an adult and a minor -Anything that could be seen as hateful (Racist, Sexist, Homophobic, Transphobic, etc) -Over the top angst (Yes I do write angst from time to time but things like depressive episodes I won't write) -Most ships outside of my media fortè (Please feel free to send them in but I just can't guarantee in the case that I haven't seen the OG media. I'll do my best though!!) OTHER INFO: If you send a request I will generally fill it in 2-4 days from getting the request, I do it as quick as I can so please be patient! I love getting requests and filling your fantasies, making them a reality, so I do hope that you'll be happy to give me some. Feel free to get creative with it! be specific if you want to, I'm here to give you exactly what you're looking for and if you have a particular vision, I want to see that out properly.

Pt. 1, Exposure.

This is a really important fic to me, and it's only just starting. If you have the time please read and let me know if you have any thoughts <3

(PART ONE: Exposure totals out to 5,424 words so if you don't have the time to take a look I 100% understand)

Love you and happy reading :) -Blue

Hi-Hi! Some of y'all may have noticed that I've been gone for a while, and there's a few reasons for that. So, long story short, I had pancreatitis, then I got it again, and it just cut a lot of the time I had to write out. But.. with the time I did have I've been working on a long form fic.. really for quite a while, I'm so proud of it so far honestly and I really do hope that you all get to take a look at it when you have some time!

It'll be posted over on my AO3 once I've gone back through and edited <3

Thank you so much for sitting with me, always, I love all of you so so much

-Blue <3

Hi-Hi!! This was actually a request over on my AO3 but it was just so fun to write I couldn't not post it here too!! I know that most of ya follow me for Stucky work, but I'm also a big irondad writer and I'm honestly just so happy with this <3 Hope yall enjoy this as much as I loved writing it Happy Reading :) _______________________________________________________

It started out small, Tony missing a cue in a meeting, staring at a hologram stuttering in his hands a second too long, blinking slow, Peter had figured it was just stress.. That was until he saw the way that Tony keeps flexing his fingers, almost like he’s testing voltage

“F.R.I.D.A.Y’s lagging” Tony says

“...She’s not” Tony ignores him, which is normal, it’s just.. He does it twice in the same sentence. 

By the middle of that afternoon, he’s still in the lab, the sleeves of his shirt shoved up his arms, the reactor glow too bright against skin that’s not, his jaw is twitching every few minutes, like a heartbeat that's sitting in the wrong place.

“Have you eaten?” Peter asks “Coffee counts if you believe hard enough” “Mr. Stark-” Tony sets the wrench he's holding down too carefully “Kid, I’m fine, don’t start”. Peter doesn’t, he just notices, notices the colour under Tony’s nails being wrong, a faint sheen of grey like graphite dust. He remembers Chemistry with Mr. Cobbwell, palladium, but he doesn’t mention it. When Tony stands the stool goes over, he steadies himself on the bench, his hand leaving sweat on the metal. “Woah,” Peter says, stepping in before Tony can make it look intentional “Sit down” “Kid. I said I’m fine.” “Yeah, you uh..” Peter shifts his weight, pushing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie “You just don’t look super fine?” Tony doesn’t look up at that, “appreciate the medical insight” “Yeah I just uh.. You dropped that wrench and then like, forgot what gravity is, so” 

He huffs at that, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand “guess gravity and I are renegotiating our contract, huh kid” “Cool” Peter says “But maybe sign that later though?”

Peter bends over, grabbing the wrench before Tony can get to it, setting it back on the bench. Tony takes it but he doesn't do anything, the skin around his mouth looks off colour, way too washed out against the light from the arc reactor. “You should-” Peter stops, restarts “-maybe sit down for a second Mr. Stark?” “I am sitting” “Yeah, sure, okay but I mean like.. more sitting less… almost falling over” Tony smiles at that, flickering and running out halfway through, he shifts on the stool, movement’s small but it drags a sound out of him that isn’t a word. “Mr. Stark?” “Hmm?” “You, uh.. you’re kinda- I don’t know… you’re not um.. great” “Define ‘great’” “Not looking like you swallowed a flashlight, for one” Peter says, gesturing at the glow under Tony’s T-Shirt, it's too bright, the pulse is uneven, Tony looks down at it. He laughs, tiny and helpless, “Yeah thats.. new”

Peter waits for the next joke but it doesn’t come, the air between the two of them humming with the machinery, F.R.I.D.A.Y doesn’t say anything, which is almost worse than a warning. “You should call- I mean.. Not me but like, real medical people?” Peter says “Pepper maybe?? Or-” “Peter.” “....yeah?” “It’s handled.” “...but you just said it’s new” Tony leans forward, his forearms resting on his knees and his fingers trembling. “New doesn’t mean disaster, sometimes it just means Tuesday.” Peter frowns at that, “that’s not-” Tony looks up at him, whatever argument Peter had going in his head turns into static, his eyes are too bright, rimmed with red, not drunk or tired just… wrong. “Look” Tony sighs “if it gets worse, i’ll handle it, you don’t need to..” he waves his hand vaguely, “-hover” “I’m not hovering!” Peter says, he’s definitely hovering 

Tony exhales, it’s almost a laugh “Y’know you’re the only kid I know that can make worrying look like a full time job” “I uh..” Peter rubs his hands against his jeans, “I don’t know, someone's gotta.”

Silence.

It stretches, the arc reactor flickers again and Tony’s head tips, just slightly, but it’s a motion that ends with his hand on the edge of a bench, his knuckles turning white. “Okay!! Okay- thats um, that’s enough tuesday” Peter crosses the gap before Tony manages to argue, panicked as he puts his shoulder under Tony’s arm, steadying him while the stool scrapes back. Tony doesn’t fight it, that’s how Peter knows it’s bad. “Easy” Peter mutters “Just um.. Sit back, breathe, whatever.” Tony does, his eyes are closed now and his jaw set like he’s trying to think his way out of his body. 

Peter stays there, his hand half hovering because touching feels weird but not touching feels worse, the hum of the reactor drops and F.R.I.D.A.Y finally says, “Toxin levels elevated. Recommended rest and chelation protocol” Peter exhales, “translation: not fine” Tony doesn’t even open his eyes at that, “yeah” his voice is thin “working on it”

Tony doesn’t move for a while, the monitors breathing with a low electrical heartbeat. Peter stays standing because sitting feels wrong. “F.R.I.D.A.Y” Tony says after a bit, his voice sounding as thin as paper “run it again.. Lower output” “Already running boss”

Peter looks at the screen, he can’t read half of it but he knows that the lines are dipping where they shouldn’t be. “Is that uh.. bad?” Tony squints at the screens “Depends who ya’ ask.” 

“I’m asking you.” 

Tony exhales through his nose “then it’s bad but not movie-end-of-the-week bad. Yet.” “Cool. Okay. Love that.” Tony smirks faintly, his hands still at his chest, thumb tracing the edge of the metal like it might jump out of him if he stops, the air smells like ozone and metal dust. Peter finds a rag on the counter, passes it to Tony “you’re sweating. Just um- here” Tony takes it without a word, wipes his face. “You should go home before you start writing a lab report about this” “Right! I’ll just, uh, leave you here to… what? glow louder?” “Kid-” “Mr Stark” Peter says, cutting him off without meaning to, “you can’t fix it if you pass out halfway through fixing it” Tony watches him, a slight flicker of surprise coming up then something that isn’t quite annoyance, he nods once “Fair enough.” He reaches for the console. His hand shakes too much to hit the key sequence; Peter slides it closer without a word. F.R.I.D.A.Y’s light finally moves to a lower pulse, cooling fans spin up and the hum drops down an octave, Tony leans back against the bench. “You, uh, want me to- like.. stay? just until-” Peter starts, Tony cuts him off, gentle “Yeah. Just… keep an eye on the readings, okay? Top row, left side. If that number jumps again, hit the red toggle.” Peter nods and moves closer to the screen, the number crawls by, slow and steady. Its probably fine.. probably. Five minutes stretch into twenty. Tony’s breathing steadies, its still uneven but less sharp. Peter scrolls through diagnostics he doesn’t understand, pretending to. “F.R.I.D.A.Y” Peter  whispers …what happens if it jumps?” “Internal filtration will initiate emergency purge” she says quietly, “It will not be pleasant.” “Great, okay” he glances back to Tony, his eyes are closed now and his mouth is set. A smear of grey sits near the edge of the reactor that wasn’t there before. “Is it supposed to-” “Surface oxidation” FRIDAY says. “Minor.”

Peter doesn’t buy that but he keeps watch anyway, checks his phone twice, starts a text to May, deletes it, checks the number again. It blips once, holds. Tony stirs “...still alive?” “Uh yeah” Peter says “You mean me or you?” “Good question” Tony pushes himself up on his elbows, grimaces at the effort. “What’s the damage kid?” “Numbers steady” “See? Perfect, told you, manageable” Peter doesn't reply to that, just sets the rag back near the sink, turns the stool so Tony doesn’t have to. “Gonna run a manual purge,” Tony says “you should-” 

“No I’m okay here” “Peter.” “Seriously!! I’ll just um.. Stand over here, out of zap range” 

Tony almost smiles at that. “Zap range? That a technical term now?” “Yeah uh.. Adding it to the dictionary” 

Peter moves over to the far side of the lab, watching Tony wire in the probe with movements that are slower than usual but he’s still precise. The machine answers with a low mechanical hiss. The light in the arc reactor fades from bright white to a calmer blue, and Peter exhales, realising he’s been holding his breath for most of a minute. Tony straightens himself up, wiping his palms on a towel “See? Still functional, little rust never killed nobody” “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what rust does” “Pedantic.” Tony sinks back onto the stool, rubbing his eyes. “Okay. Calling it a night before you start quoting OSHA at me” “You don’t follow OSHA.” “Rebranding Underoos” Peter half laughs at that, it feels like permission to breathe again. Tony waves a hand, “go home, kid. For real this time”

I cant stop with irondad istg its like an addiction at this point, this one is pretty heavy in the angst (which isnt my normal space) so lmk if theres anything u think I can improve! thank you so much and happy reading!!! <33

======

Peter’s been telling himself he’s fine for about four hours now, which is exactly how long he’s been shivering like the world’s least intimidating chihuahua.

He drags himself into the workshop anyway. Mostly because he promised Tony he’d help calibrate a new scanner but also because sitting still makes him think too much, and thinking makes everything hurt worse.

He coughs once into his elbow, quiet but sharp The sound echoes in the metal-filled room like he just fired a warning shot.

Tony’s head pops up from behind a hologram projection. “What was that?”

“A cough” Peter says, wandering in like he’s not walking through glue. “Just a normal.. human cough.”

Tony squints. “Uh huh. And I’m the Tooth Fairy. Come here.”

“No, I’m good-”

Tony’s already striding over, ignoring him entirely. He presses the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead, frowns, presses again like maybe the temperature will magically change the second time.

Peter flinches, not away, just… inwards. It’s a reflex.

Tony notices. Of course he does. His expression softens, barely. “Hey. Relax. I’m not gonna poke you with anything.”

“You poke everyone with something” Peter mutters.

Tony shrugs. “Well, yeah, but not thermometers. They’re sacred. Now sit.”

Peter sits on the nearest stool mostly because his legs choose that moment to wobble. Tony immediately throws a blanket around his shoulders like he had it holstered.

“I don’t need-” Peter starts.

“Buddy, the blanket stays. It has diplomatic immunity.”

Peter snorts. The motion makes his head throb.

Tony crouches a little to meet his eyes. “How long have you been feeling like crap?”

Peter looks away. “I dunno. Since yesterday? It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re sweating and shivering at the same time” Tony says. “You’re breaking the laws of thermodynamics and I’m not a fan.”

Peter huffs a weak laugh but his chest aches. And when he tries to inhale, it sticks, like his lungs forgot how.

Tony notices again. He always does.

“You should’ve told me” he says, quieter.

Peter shrugs, tugging the blanket tighter. “It’s weird” he admits before he can stop himself. “Being sick without… without May. She always…” He stops, swallowing hard. “She always knew what I needed before I did.”

Tony doesn’t say anything for a moment. The workshop hums around them.

Then, softly, he answers: “Well, I don’t know what you need, but I can make a pretty decent attempt if you give me a hint.”

Peter’s throat goes tight. He knows Tony wasn’t trying to replace anyone- Tony’s just… Tony. Blunt and loud and trying way too hard not to scare him.

“Soup?” Peter manages.

Tony’s mouth curls. “Kid, I own several companies. One of them makes self-heating ramen bowls. I can do soup.”

And for the first time that day, Peter lets himself lean just slightly, into the blanket, into the warmth, into the fact that someone’s here.

Even if it’s not who he wishes it was.

====================

The fever takes him down fast.

By evening, he can barely lift his head. His chest is tight, his breathing shallow, and every cough feels like it’s digging trenches behind his ribs.

Tony, who swears he’s not hovering while absolutely hovering, keeps checking his temperature, then re-checking it because “thermometers lie sometimes, shut up, FRIDAY.”

Peter’s curled on his side in bed, hoodie damp with sweat, curls plastered to his forehead. His skin feels too hot, too cold, too everything.

Tony stands over him, tablet in hand. “Okay. New plan. Doctor said if your breathing gets worse, we’re upgrading to the deluxe hospital package.”

“No hospitals” Peter croaks. “Please. I can’t- not again.”

Tony pauses. His voice softens. “Alright. Staying put. For now.”

Peter nods, relieved, but relief turns immediately into a vicious coughing fit. He curls in on himself, chest spasming, breath catching in short, panicked bursts.

Tony is beside him instantly. “Easy, kid. Deep breath- no, gentler than that- okay, wow, that was not a gentle breath-”

“I’m- trying-” Peter gasps between coughs.

Tony positions him upright, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. “You’re doing great. Terrifying the hell out of me, but great.”

Peter lets his head fall back against the pillows. The room swims. His vision blurs.

“Hey” Tony says more quietly. “Stay with me baby spider.”

Peter’s eyelids droop. “M’tired…”

“I know” Tony murmurs. “But we need to keep you awake a little longer.”

Peter tries. He really does.

But then the fever pulls him under.

He drifts into half-dreams, hallways that lead nowhere, the smell of May’s cooking, the sound of her voice calling him “sweetheart” as she straightens his blankets.

It feels real.

He mumbles, “May…?”

When he surfaces again, Tony is sitting beside the bed, jaw clenched, looking like someone punched him.

“Hey” Tony says, voice low. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Peter tries to speak but his throat burns. He looks away instead. Embarrassment, grief, sickness, they all feel the same from inside.

Tony doesn’t push. He stays close but not smothering, just… present.

When the chills come back, he adds another blanket. When Peter’s breaths hitch, he steadies him. When Peter’s hands shake trying to drink water, Tony holds the cup for him, no comments, no jokes.

This shouldn’t be Tony’s job. It should be May’s.

But Tony does it anyway.

Because someone has to.

========================

Peter wakes in the middle of the night in full panic, gasping, choking on air that won’t go in right. His lungs feel locked.

“Mr. Stark-” he rasps, voice barely audible.

Tony is on his feet instantly. “Okay, okay, hey, breathe, kiddo. Look at me.”

Peter tries to inhale. It catches. The wheeze is horrible.

“I’m calling an ambulance” Tony says, already reaching for his phone. The fear in his voice is new.. raw, unfiltered. “This is not optional-”

“No!” Peter wheezes, grabbing Tony’s wrist with a shaking hand. “Don’t leave. Please don’t, don’t let them take me-I can’t-”

Tony stops. His whole expression fractures for half a second.

“Okay” he says quietly. “Okay. No ambulance. I’m right here.”

He helps Peter sit up, supports him with one arm while guiding each breath with the other, syncing with him like they’re tethered.

“Nice ‘n slow” Tony murmurs. “In… out… there you go.”

Peter’s breath finally comes, shaky but moving.

And then the tears hit. Not dainty ones, messy, overwhelmed, fever-drenched tears.

“It’s supposed to be her” Peter says, voice cracking apart. “She’s supposed to be here. Not you.”

He hears how harsh it sounds only after it leaves his mouth.

Tony doesn’t flinch. He just exhales, long and quiet. “Yeah. I know.”

Peter presses his fist to his eyes. “I want her. I want her back. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be this sick without her- she always- she always made it okay-”

Tony sits beside him on the bed, steadying him when he sways. He gently wipes sweat from Peter’s temple with a cool cloth.

“I’m not her, kid” Tony says softly. “And I’m never gonna be. You get to miss her. You get to want her. That’s not an insult.”

Peter sobs harder, leaning into Tony before he even realizes he’s doing it. Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders.. not tight, just enough to anchor him.

“You’re not alone” Tony says. “Not ever. I can’t replace her. But I can sit here and hold the water and freak out about your temperature and tell you your cough sounds like a broken lawnmower. That I can do.”

Peter lets out a weak, wet laugh, half pain and half relief. “You’re so bad at comfort.”

Tony smirks. “Yeah, well. You’re stuck with me.”

It’s not a cure. It doesn’t erase the grief slicing through Peter’s chest.

But it helps enough that he can breathe again.

Which, right now, is everything.

==========================

By morning, the worst has passed.

Peter’s fever is down, his breathing steadier, and the stabbing pain when he coughs has downgraded to a very sharp, very annoying “ow.”

Tony looks like he aged six years overnight. He shoves a tray onto the bed with unnecessary force.

“Breakfast” he announces. “Made by yours truly. And by ‘made,’ I mean supervised extremely aggressively.”

Peter peeks into the bowl. “This looks… edible?”

“Kid, it looks amazing. Don’t be ungrateful.”

Peter takes a spoonful. His eyebrows lift. “Okay, it’s actually good.”

“Thank you” Tony says, pretending he’s not absurdly pleased.

Peter sips tea, tucked into pillows. “You really didn’t sleep, did you?”

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “Sleep is for people without trauma-ridden teenagers collapsing on them at 3 a.m.”

Peter flushes. “Sorry.”

Tony’s expression softens for real this time. “Don’t be sorry. You scared me. That’s all. You’re allowed to be sick, you know.”

Peter stares at the blanket in his lap. “It just… feels wrong. Being taken care of by anyone else.”

Tony nods, slow and understanding. “Yeah. I get that. But wrong doesn’t mean bad.”

Peter considers that.

“You can lean on me” Tony adds. “Not because you have to. Just because… you can.”

Peter exhales. A long, shaky, relieved breath.

“Okay” he says quietly.

Later, he ends up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket while Tony sits nearby pretending to read but actually checking on him every three minutes.

The room is warm. Safe. Quiet in a way Peter almost forgot was possible.

He drifts to sleep to the sound of pages turning, Tony muttering under his breath about plot holes.

The space May left in his life is still there. It probably always will be.

But maybe, maybe there are people willing to sit in the empty spaces with him.

Hi-Hi!! I know I've been gone for a while, if you're wondering why theres a post in my navigation. But I have been writing the whole time (and I have quite a few fics ready to post!) Enjoy :3

(DIVIDER CRED: @chrisssiren)

PS: Requests are back open!!

Bucky’s already up when Steve comes out of the shower, which is the first sign something’s off. Normally Buck’s the one who has to be dragged out of bed in the mornings, stubborn and warm pretending he’s still asleep when hes not.

But today.. Hes sitting at the kitchen island in their brooklyn apartment, elbows on the counter, a half folded dish towel in front of him like he forgot what he was doing halfway through. 

Steve pauses in the doorway “Hey”

Bucky lifts his head a little “Mornin’”

His voice is rough. Not gravelly in that sexy post sleep way he sometimes has… this is scratchy, sandpapered, like every word he chokes out hurts. He tries to clear his throat right after saying it, but it just comes out a quiet, wet cough he tries to smother into his sleeve. Steve moves closer, slow. Bucky doesn’t look up again, just presses the heel of his hand between his eyebrows like something back there’s throbbing

“You okay?” Steve asks it softly, not accusing. Just checking.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, automatic and tired “just a headache.”

He waves a hand like he’s brushing the whole thing away but his hand trembles a little doing it. Barely, anyone else wouldn’t notice. Steve does. Steve notices everything Bucky tries to hide. Bucky stands like he’s going to finish folding the towel, but his balance wobbles for a second, and he steadies himself on the edge of the counter like it’s not a big deal

Steve’s brows pull in. “Buck…” “M’fine,” Bucky insists again, quieter this time, eyes avoiding his. He goes back to folding, but his fingers are slow, clumsy. He keeps stopping like he forgets what he’s doing.

Steve steps closer, pretending to reach for a mug so he’s not staring straight at him. Up close, he can hear it... Bucky’s breathing is congested, that faint whistle on every inhale like his nose is trying to work and failing.

“You want tea?” Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “No. Don’t… don’t feel like anything.”

That’s sign number two. Bucky always wants something in the morning, tea, coffee, toast, hell, even just stealing whatever’s on Steve’s plate. But now he’s hunched forward, elbows braced, staring at the countertop like it’s too bright.

Steve sets the mug down. “Buck,” he says softly, “you sure you’re alright?”

Bucky blinks up at him, and his eyes are glassy. Fever-bright, even in the soft apartment light.

“Just tired,” Bucky mutters. “Didn’t sleep good.”

And then he sniffles, thick and miserable, trying to do it quietly like Steve won’t hear.

Steve hears.

Steve always hears. Bucky stands again before Steve can say anything else, mumbling something about “laundry in the dryer.”

He moves like someone stuck bricks to his feet, slow, dragging, shoulders curled inward like he’s trying to hold himself together. Steve follows him with his eyes, not moving, not saying anything yet.

Bucky opens the dryer, leans forward to pull out a pile of warm clothes, and Steve sees it, the way Bucky’s hand slips on the drum, how he steadies himself immediately after, pretending it didn’t happen.

Then he starts folding.

Or… trying to.

He gets halfway through a T-shirt, blinks like he forgot where he was, and ends up staring at the fabric for way too long.

“Buck,” Steve says gently, crossing the room in a few steps. “Just leave that. You don’t look so-”

“I’m fine,” Bucky cuts in, sharper than before, a flicker of annoyance that isn’t aimed at Steve, it’s aimed at the fact that his body is betraying him.

He sniffles again, congested and miserable, and immediately tries to hide it with a cough that sounds like it tears something open in his chest.

Steve winces at the sound. Bucky pretends not to notice.

He picks the shirt back up, tries again, slower this time. His hands shake. Not dramatically.. just enough that Steve sees the tremble ripple through his fingers as he smooths the fabric.

“Buck…” Steve tries again.

Bucky ignores him, jaw tight, stubborn in that quiet way that means he’s seconds from going down hard.

It happens fast.

Bucky turns to grab another piece of clothing and the motion knocks something loose inside him, his breath stutters, vision probably swims. His knees buckle in this soft, almost silent way, like his legs simply forget how to hold him.

“Bucky,” Steve says instantly, voice dropping into that low, steady register he only uses when something is genuinely wrong.

Bucky sways.

Steve moves.

He catches him before the floor can, arms wrapping around Bucky’s chest, pulling him back against him. Bucky’s head drops forward, forehead hitting Steve’s shoulder with a dull, exhausted thump.

“Hey- hey, Buck, look at me,” Steve murmurs, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Bucky’s neck. His skin is hot. Burning.

Bucky tries to straighten. Fails. His fingers clutch weakly at Steve’s shirt.

“M’fine,” he mutters, voice slurred around the edges, completely contradicting the fact that his legs are jelly and his body is shaking.

“No, you’re not,” Steve says, gentle but firm, holding him tighter. “C’mon. I’ve got you. Just lean on me.”

Bucky’s breath shudders out of him. He’s barely conscious, eyes half-lidded, unfocused, head tipping toward Steve like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Steve… I feel-” His voice fades. His whole body lists.

“I know, sweetheart,” Steve whispers, adjusting his grip. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Steve guides him down the hallway, one arm around Bucky’s waist, the other braced across his chest just under his ribs. Bucky is deadweight, not in a dramatic, collapsing way, just in that awful fever-drenched way where every muscle has given up.

He keeps stumbling, leaning harder and harder into Steve, trying to follow but clearly not processing where they’re going.

“Slow down, Buck, you’re alright,” Steve murmurs, even though Bucky isn’t doing anything fast. His legs drag. His socks skid on the floorboards.

Bucky stops walking at one point, swaying like he doesn’t know which way is up.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, tilting Bucky’s chin up with a thumb so their eyes meet. “Stay with me, okay? Bedroom’s right here.”

Bucky blinks at him, confused and glassy-eyed, the fever making everything soft and distant. “Didn’t… didn’t think I was that bad,” he mumbles, almost apologetic.

Steve feels something cold spike in his chest. He doesn’t let it show.

“It’s alright,” he says, guiding him forward again. “Just lean on me.”

He gets Bucky onto the edge of the bed, lowering him slowly so he doesn’t fall backward. Bucky immediately curls inward, shivering so hard the mattress trembles under him.

Steve touches his forehead and nearly swears. “Jesus, Buck… you’re burning up.”

Bucky blinks at him again, confused like he only half understands. “Didn’t wanna… worry you.”

“You collapsing definitely worried me,” Steve says, too soft to be a scold. He brushes a damp strand of hair off Bucky’s forehead. “Stay here.”

Bucky’s fingers twitch, like he wants to grab Steve’s wrist but doesn’t have the strength.

Steve sees it. His heart squeezes.

“I’m just getting water and the thermometer,” he murmurs, brushing Bucky’s knuckles with his fingertips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

ive been sitting here staring at my laptop praying for inspiration to strike, no luck

my life has been really heavy for a really long time, im struggling, if youre not new here you might already know that my girlfriend has cancer and we recently learned that it is getting worse, the balance is really hard to find and my brain is screaming at me. i took a break not overly long ago and im not planning to take another.. but my creativity is shot

i hope you understand

please understand, this is not a break, i just wanted to give you all a reason if my posting schedule is off

love you

Emergency Contact <3

hi-hi and good morning/afternoon/night, welcome to day 28 of sicktember, ive been doing alot of stucky so i wanted to give yall some irondad, info below 🎀

Prompt: Ghostly Pale

Word Count: 2980

_____________________

Peter’s already decided this is the best field trip Midtown has ever done.. which is a low bar because last year they went to a recycling plant and watched a conveyor belt for forty-five minutes, this one has a planetarium, a robotics wing, and an exhibit where you can manipulate magnetic fields with your hands. He texts a blurry photo of a ferrofluid spike to Ned and another to the decently named group chat. MJ replies with a skull emoji and: stop taking pictures and look

So, he does. The ferrofluid beads shimmer like ink caught in a freeze frame. His stomach gives a slow, unenthusiastic roll that has nothing to do with awe

He ignores it. He’s fine. He’s not gonna be the kid who gets sick on the museum bus. He takes another photo anyway, because the skull emoji made him smile

By late morning he’s tired in that way that doesn’t feel like lack of sleep, it’s heavy and floaty at the same time, he keeps rubbing his palm against his jeans to ground himself, a metallic taste sitting in the back of his mouth. The museum cafeteria smells like hot dogs and floor cleaner, he buys a bottle of water and stares at the pizza until the cheese looks like a geology cross section

“Parker” Mr. Harrington says, breezing by with the panic of a man shepherding thirty teenagers “You eat something. Hypoglycemia sneaks up on you. Trust me, I fainted at SeaWorld in ’09”

“I’m good” Peter says, because the last thing he needs is Mr. Harrington hovering until he passes out just to prove a point

“Eat” MJ says, dropping into the chair across from him, she squints at him like she’s auditing a crime scene “You look… not great”

“Wow. thank you.” He says, picking up the pizza slice and puts it down again. The smell is aggressive “I’m fine. Probably just carsick from the bus.”

“You sat in the front” Ned points out “With the windows open. Like a golden retriever.”

Peter digs in his backpack for a granola bar and comes up with a crushed one that probably violated food safety laws weeks ago, he sets it on the tray like a prop that proves he’s listening

“Eat it” MJ says

He tries. Two bites in, his stomach twists in a way that says: absolutely not. He smiles, the kind you use on teachers and security guards “I’m gonna find a bathroom”

He goes. He’s not dramatic about it. He walks, the bathroom is bright and too clean in a way that makes his eyes water, he splashes water on his face, stares at himself in the mirror. He’s pale. No, not just pale, ghostly pale, the kind of washed-out that makes the freckles at his nose look like a map. His lips are colorless. There’s a pulsing point behind his sternum that isn’t the suit or the arc reactor because he doesn’t have either… he just has a nervous system that’s very sure it hates him right now

A stall opens. A little kid with a dinosaur hat emerges, looks at Peter, and says “are you a zombie?”

“Not today,” Peter says, and the effort to make it sound normal tugs something in his gut

He makes it into a stall and breathes, hes done this before: breathe, count, wait for the wave to pass. Except… it doesn’t. It crests and breaks and keeps breaking, a slow boil, he hears the cafeteria in the distance like it’s underwater. He texts May, fine, good, museums cool, and pockets his phone before she can ask follow ups

When he steps out, Mr Dell is near the sinks, pretending to read a museum map “Hey man” Mr. Dell says, not looking up right away “whats up”

“Nothing” Peter says

Mr. Dell looks up, “You’re pale”

Peter exhales. He doesn’t have the energy to invent a new story “My stomach’s not.. great, I think I’m just carsick, Ill be fine”

“Right” Mr. Dell says, in the tone of someone who recognizes the word just as a red flag “Lets get you some air”

They make it to the hallway outside the cafeteria, even walking starts to feel like wading through something thicker than air, the overhead lights have become too white, too bright

“Sit” Mr. Dell says “Head between your knees, slow breaths- Harrington!”

Mr. Harrington appears, half running, half flailing “Peter? Oh no. Oh no.. we knew this day would come”

“What day” Peter said, bent over

“The day someone gets sick on a field trip” Mr. Harrington says “Statistically inevitable”

“I’m not-” Peter starts, and then shuts up and breathes before he has to prove him right

They ease him into a bench near a wall display about the history of the museum. MJ materializes like she lives in air vents, she kneels in front of him and says, quietly “you look like you’re about to pass out” It’s not judgment. It’s observation. She hands him her water “Sip. Small.”

He does. It sloshes unhappily

“Should we call May?” Mr. Harrington asks, pulling out his phone with the energy of a man arming a missile

“I’m fine” Peter says, and it comes out too sharp

“Okay” Mr. Harrington says, soothed by the lie for exactly half of a second

Mr. Dell takes the phone “We call the emergency contact” he says, pragmatically. “thats what emergency contacts are for”

Peter has just enough space in his head to think: oh no.

It takes fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Peter loses track. He sits, breathing like he’s learning how, while the museum hums by. The air feels too thick, then too cold. Hes sweating in a chill way that makes the room tilt if he moves too fast, the edges of things get fuzzy, people pass and give him the quick glance you give strangers in distress, the one that says I hope someones handling that

Someone is.

The click of expensive shoes hits the tile and then slows. Theres a soft curse, and Tony says “Move, please, official dad business” to no one in particular

He’s not in a suit-suit, but it’s close: slacks, the shirt rolled at the forearms like he put it on in an elevator, his hair is doing that thing it does when he’s been running a hand through it, which means he drove here faster than anyone should, he clocks Peter in one look and the rest of the room in another

“Hi” Peter says, and it’s supposed to be normal. Its more relief than word

Tony crouches, palm coming to Peter’s cheek, then his forehead, he goes still, the jokes are there, crowded up behind his teeth, and he chooses the ones that wont spook anyone “You” he says, leveled “are the wrong color. When I said ghostly pale for Halloween costume ideas, I didn’t mean method acting”

Peter huffs something that almost wants to be a laugh “Im fine”

“Uh huh,” Tony says, equally respectful of the ritual nonsense, he glances up long enough to nod at the teachers “Thanks for calling. I’ve got him”

Mr. Harrington looks like someone handed him a live grenade and then took it away “We tried to feed him pizza”

Tony grimaces “Sure, what could go wrong” He returns to Peter “You with me?”

Peter nods. It bobbles The room does a soft shift, like a boat

“Okay. We’re standing up now” Tony’s voice drops a half step, a tone Peter knows from too many complicated rescues “you tell me if you’re gonna pass out”

“I’m not-” Peter starts

“Then you better not, because itll ruin my shoes” Tony says, he can’t help it, the joke is a channel he can breathe through, he slides an arm behind Peter’s back and another under his knees like it costs him nothing. It doesn’t. He’s stronger than he looks, and Peter forgets that until he’s suddenly off the bench and tucked against Tony’s chest like he used to be when things were worse, and smaller

There’s a murmur from a cluster of tenth graders at the next table. Someone whispers “is that-” and someone else says “Shut up.”

“You’re okay” Tony says into Peter’s hair “we’re gonna find somewhere that doesn’t smell like hot dog water”

They do. The museum has a staff lounge with a couch and a sink, and the world narrows in a good way: the softer lights, a hum of a vending machine, the sterile, neutral smell of nothing. Tony sets Peter down carefully, knees first, keeping a hand at the back of his neck like an anchor

Peter swallows, but the swallow threatens to turn into something else, Tony reads it, already reaching for a small trash bin under the sink, already lining it with a plastic bag like he’s done this a thousand times, which he has, just not always here. He plants it nearby, just in case, the same way you place a fire extinguisher

“Talk to me kid” Tony says “What are we working with”

“Stomach.” Peter sighs “Since the bus, I tried to eat. That was- no”

“Fever?” Tony presses the back of his hand to Peters forehead again “Little warm. Not terrible”

“Dizzy”

“Colour commentary says youre not lying” Tony says “Any chance some alien fungus kissed you in the bug exhibit”

Peter lets his head drop back “I didnt touch anything”

“Okay” Tony says “so… field trip roulette, could be a bug, could be a bad cafeteria slice, sit with me through diagnostic A: small sips of water, we see if it stays yeah?” he hands Peter a tiny paper cup hes found, filled halfway from the sink “and if it doesnt, then we move to plan B: cool cloth, you cussing at me, I pretend Im not offended”

Peter sips. His stomach thinks about it. He sets the cup down “I’m sorry” he says

“No” Tony says, immediately “No apology tours, not today.”

“I messed up the trip”

“Yeah, no” Tony says. “They got a story out of it. ‘Today I saw an Avenger and my classmate turned the exact color of notebook paper.’ That’s value. Also, this-” he taps Peter’s knee, light. “-this is the job. You call, I show up. That’s not you messing up. That’s us doing what we said.”

Peter nods because it’s easier than trying to put words around the way that hits

Tony dampens a paper towel under the tap and folds it, presses it to the back of Peter’s neck, then his forehead. Its blandly, perfectly cool. The dizziness slides a notch down. He breathes through his nose and tries to convince his body that water is not a threat

Tony watches him the way he watches prototypes balance on the edge of working. He leans back enough that it doesn’t feel like interrogation and close enough that Peter can see him without moving. His voice drops further “You’re shaking” he says, not as a call out, just as a fact “That’s okay.”

“I think I’m gonna-” Peter says, and that’s all he gets out, Tony has the bin in his hands and an arm around Peter’s shoulders. It’s awful, and mercifully quick, theres not much in his stomach so it’s mostly water and air and embarrassment

“Okay” Tony murmurs, steady as a metronome “There you go. Breathe. Good.”

Peter flushes and wipes his face with the back of his wrist, Tony is already handing him a wad of paper towels, damp and then dry. He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t flinch. He ties off the bag like he’s taking out the trash in his kitchen and sets a clean one in, efficient. Peter wants to cry for no reason other than relief that nobody is going to make a thing out of it

Tony presses another cool cloth into his hand, guiding it to his neck. “Better?”

“A little,” Peter says. The room is calmer now. His skin still feels too thin. He leans into Tony’s shoulder because it’s there. Tony lets him.

“Okay. So we’re calling it food poisoning or a delightful little virus,” Tony says. “Either way, the treatment plan is the same: tiny sips, time, me being unbearably annoying about hand sanitizer.”

“You’re already that,” Peter says, muffled.

“Wow,” Tony says. “Kicking me while I’m down.”

Peter lets his eyes close. He doesn’t sleep; he drifts. Tony moves when he needs to, texting, probably, a brief call that he keeps short. He says, “Hey, May. I’ve got him. He’s okay. White as a sheet, terrified a room full of children, but okay.” He listens, then: “No, you stay. Really. We’re fine. I’ll bring him by after he stops looking like a Victorian ghost.”

The words fold into the hum of the vending machine.

At some point the room cools from too-warm to neutral. The shivering stops. The nausea eases into a dull ache. Peter opens his eyes to Tony watching him with a kind of exhausted focus.

“Hi,” Peter says.

“Hey, zombie boy,” Tony says, softer than the joke deserves. “You back with the living?”

“Mostly.” His voice is sandpaper. Tony hands him another paper cup. The water tastes like water, which is an improvement. He sips and it stays.

Tony exhales like someone unscrewed a valve in his chest. “Okay. We’re gonna do five more minutes of the world’s most boring meditation, then we’ll try to stand up and see if your legs still function.”

“Okay,” Peter says. He glances toward the door. “The class-”

“Is fine,” Tony says. “Your friends checked in. MJ told me to tell you ‘don’t be dramatic,’ which I’m choosing to interpret as ‘get well soon.’ Ned sent a GIF that I’m not going to describe, but you’ll see it later and regret your life choices. Your teachers both aged ten years and then became younger again when I promised I wasn’t suing the concept of pizza.”

Peter smiles. It cracks and holds. “Thank you for coming.”

Tony looks at him like that’s not a question that needs asking. “You call, I come,” he says again, simpler this time. “I was two blocks away anyway.”

“Liar,” Peter says.

“On my way,” Tony amends. “Mentally. I’m always two blocks away when it’s you.” He winces. “Okay, that came out creepy. Strike it from the record.”

“It’s fine,” Peter says. He means it.

They sit. The silence is easy. Tony picks at the label of the water bottle, not looking like he’s counting breaths, but he is. When five minutes have passed, he stands and offers a hand. “Moment of truth.”

Peter takes it. His knees cooperate. The room stays where it’s supposed to be.

“Good,” Tony says, praise warm and quick. “You’ve got color again. Not a lot, but we’ll call it a limited edition.”

“Do we have to go back through the cafeteria?” Peter asks, tentative.

“Nope,” Tony says. “I bribed a security guard with Stark Expo tickets. There’s a back exit. Perks of being me. Also we’re getting you home before your classmates decide to form a prayer circle or start a rumor that I carried you out like a fainting debutante.”

“That already happened,” Peter says. “Probably.”

Tony grimaces. “Great. We’ll fix it in post.”

They move slowly. The staff hallway is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you aware you’re wearing shoes. Tony keeps a hand between Peter’s shoulder blades without making a thing of it. Outside, the air is cool and damp, city-weather that smells like wet concrete. Peter takes a deeper breath and the world clicks one more notch into place.

They reach the car. Tony opens the passenger door and waits until Peter sits, until his seatbelt is clicked. He lingers for a beat, hand braced on the roof. “Hey,” he says, too casual. “You scared me”

Peter looks up. Tony’s face is careful in ways that make Peter want to be careful back, so he doesn’t joke. “I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s the only honest response he has.

“Don’t be,” Tony says. “Just… don’t do it again today”

“I’ll pencil you in for next week,” Peter says, and Tony huffs, relieved

They drive. Tony keeps it smooth, the city slides by in late-afternoon colors, washed but not washed-out. Peter leans against the window and watches traffic and people and the mundane, miraculous fact that most days nothing catastrophic happens. His phone buzzes, MJ: stop being dramatic. Ned: [GIF of a cartoon ghost with sunglasses[. He thumbs a reply, alive, and tucks it away

“Soup?” Tony says, like they’re discussing engineering materials. “We have options. Chicken noodle, miso, that weird bone broth thing Happy swears by that tastes like sadness”

“Chicken noodle” Peter says. “Please.

“You got it,” Tony says

They pull up outside the tower to drop by the med floor first. FRIDAY runs a quick scan that says: dehydrated, mild fever, rest, fluids. Tony relaxes at the readout like someone told him the universe isn’t gunning for them today. He texts May again, and then they head up to Peter’s room, where the light is softer and the bed is familiar and the trash can is within reach just in case. Tony helps him into sweats and pretends he isn’t helping. The soup appears, the kind that tastes like salt and childhood

After a few spoons, Peter sinks down, heavy-limbed in the good way. Tony sits on the edge of the bed and smooths a hand back through Peter’s hair like it’s a reflex. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. He means it more now

“Okay.” Tony’s voice is quieter, like the room asked him to match it. “Close your eyes, Ill be here, And when May comes by later, we’ll pretend this was all very dignified”

Peter’s eyes close because they were going to anyway. “Thank you,” he says, already drifting

Sorry, sometimes I have a hard time reading on Tumblr.

yeah i do!! i havent posted it in a while so good thing u asked 🫶

hi-hi <33 i still have the cold ive had for the last few days, still not feeling very well so im sorry again if its not my best (i will say tho i feel like my writing has gotten better since day one so thats great) but love all of you, enjoy & happy reading

The first thing Peter registers is light, too much of it pouring through the penthouse windows, turning the dust in the air into glitter he didn't sign up for. The second thing is that his mouth tastes like he gargled a sock.

The third thing is Tony Stark standing at the foot of the couch with a mug in one hand, a tablet in the other, and the kind of focused frown he usually reserves for killer robots and quarterly earnings "Good afternoon sleeping beauty" Tony says. Peter squints, the couch blanket is heavy, his skin is clammy and the inside of his head feels like someone sanded it "...what time is it?"

"Two thirty four. youve been unconscious since I pried your heroic fingers off your backpack this morning, had to wrestle it away from you, it was embarrassing for both of us"

"I have to email Mr. Harrington-" Peter tries to sit up, the room tilts in protest, his arms trembling, so do his eyelashes "We have a lab write up due tonight, and I have a spanish test tomorrow, and if I dont log into calc by five Ms. Warren locks the assignment"

Tony sets the mug on the coffee table, casually blocking Peters route with one knee "...yeah about Mrs Warrens digital dungeon, I called your school"

Peter blinks "you did... what?"

"Shh. Daddys working" Tony points the tablet at him like a remote "you have excused absences for the rest of the week, unless the fever breaks earlier, in which case we can renegotiate. 'We' being me, because your brain is currently simmering at a low concerning boil"

"I'm fine"

"FRIDAY" Tony says without looking away

A soft chime "Mr. Parkers temperature as of five minutes ago was 101.8 degrees fahrenheit. Pulse 98 resting, oxygen 97%, no respiratory distress"

Peter groans into the couch pillow "...you narked on me to my AI"

"She loves you more than me" Tony says "Which I will unpack with my therapist at a later date" he squints at the tablet "Anyway, your teachers send their regards and their PDFs"

Peter coughs damply into his elbow, the cough rattles "I can do some of it now, I'll just- just a little, like- like the worksheets only twenty problems"

Tony slides the mug into his hands “Pepper made that" Tony says “its full of wholesome intent, disappoint me by not drinking it”

Peter stares at the steam, it fogs his glasses- oh right, hes wearing contects, thats how bad this is "I can drink and do math. I'm multi-task capable"

"you're multi mucus capable" Tony says "it's a niche market, also I was the worksheet, thats not math, thats a legally actionable cry for help, we're doing triage, You: fluids, antipyretics, horizontal. Me: offensive against Midtowns LMS" Peter would laugh if laughing didnt feel like swallowing sandpaper "you're gonna hack the homework portal?" "Peter. I am an upstanding citizen, I would never, besides they already gave us the downloads, I'm gonna categorize your assignments by misery index and then, imagine trumpets, apply Stark Differentiated Suffering Scheduling TM”

"That acronym is.. not good"

"The acronym is a work in progress" Tony drags the armchair closer with one foot and drops into it, crossing his legs in an angle that probably cost his tailor something “okay.. tell me which classes you actually like this semester”

“Chem. Spanish is... fine. Engineering club is-” Peter swallows, the tea burns in a nice way on the way down “Calc is calc.”

“Calc is calc” Tony repeats solemnly, like a prayer for the damned, he flicks to a different screen “Here’s the thing kid, your immune system is LARPing as a snotty tissue, your brain is fogged. I could do the assignments for you, but then you’d learn nothing and we would both be bored. So, alternate proposal: I teach you how to punt”

"I don't punt."

“You do now” Tony ticks points off on his fingers “Rule One: if an assignment’s point value is in the single digits and the teacher’s rubric says ‘completion grade’ that task goes in the ‘fever basket’-which is code for ‘we roll the dice later or skip it entirely’ Rule Two: anything time-boxed that can be extended by a parent email will be extended by a parent email, and yes, I am volunteering to cosplay as your parent, rule Three: you pick one thing you want to do today, and we do that one thing well. Then you go back to sleep”

Peter tightens his grip on the mug, the citrus cuts through the nausea a little “But- if I skip stuff I’ll get behind”

“You’re behind on being alive” Tony says “And before you argue, please note that you tried to brush your teeth with hand soap this morning, you made a face like you were betrayed by capitalism itself"

Peter presses the heel of his free hand to his eye socket, He had wondered why the foam tasted like hotel lobby “Okay, that was a mistake”

“Mm.” Tony scrolls “Chemistry write-up. You get points for making a graph look pretty. This we can handle. Spanish vocab? Could do in a coma, which you may currently be in. Calc” he says, and sighs, long-suffering. “one time I tried to explain L’Hôpital’s rule to a senator and watched a vein in his forehead give up on America. We can let that one marinate until tomorrow”

“Ms. Warren doesn’t do extensions” Peter says, reflexive. The tea is almost tolerable now, he tucks his feet under the blanket “says deadlines are an important life skill”

“I run a multinational company” Tony says flatly “You can quote me: life skills also include knowing when to ignore dumb rules”

Peter almost smiles which cracks a headache open behind his eyes “You’re gonna email my math teacher?”

“I’m going to email your math teacher with Pepper’s name in the CC line”

FRIDAY, traitor that she is, makes a noise that sounds like she’s trying not to laugh. Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees, tablet balanced on the armrest. He studies Peter’s face with an intensity that makes Peter want to squirm “You took your last dose at ten?”

“…ish?”

“Ish. FRIDAY?”

“10:07” FRIDAY says “Acetaminophen six hundred and ibuprofen four hundred, administered by Ms. Potts after Mr. Parker resisted the second dose by attempting to hide under the coffee table”

Peter’s face goes hot in a way that has nothing to do with fever “I wasn’t hiding. I dropped my phone”

“Under the coffee table” Tony says, deadpan. “Where you coincidentally stayed until Pepper promised you orange slices like you were a tiny soccer champion. It’s on the security footage if you ever want to revisit your finest hour”

“I hate it here,” Peter mutters into the mug, and takes another sip

“Good. Hate it hydrated.” Tony swipes “Alright, chem first. What’s the lab?”

“Enthalpy” Peter says automatically “Calorimetry, finding ΔH for-” His brow furrows. “-I know this. Coffee cup calorimeter, q equals m c ΔT, then convert to moles"

“Look at you, doing science. Let’s get you a little spreadsheet action” Tony sends a document to the big TV, columns populate like soldiers marching “You can dictate, I’ll type. Saves your muscles for the important stuff like breathing and... glaring”

“I don’t glare.”

“You do the world’s most tragic puppy-glare. It’s like being bullied by a beagle” Tony flicks his eyes up “Hit me with your masses and temperature change”

Peter closes his eyes and pictures the lab bench, Harrington’s jokes, Ned dropping a stir bar, the sharp smell of ethanol, MJ giving him a look over the rim of her goggles like she knows the answers to things he doesn’t even know are questions, his head feels treacherous but the numbers are there where he left them

He recites, Tony types without looking at the keys, which is the kind of flex Peter would appreciate more if his skull weren’t a drum, They work their way through q and moles and an error analysis that Tony insists on turning into (quote) “a teaching moment about instrument precision that your textbook should be ashamed of.”

At some point Pepper drifts through with a cool hand to Peter’s forehead and the kind of smile adults get when you finish your vegetables. She mouths drink and points at the mug; he obeys because defying Pepper Potts has never worked for any living creature.

By the time the graph is pretty enough to make Mr. Harrington cry gentle tears, Peter has slid lower on the couch. The room still tilts, but not as angrily. The coughs come and go like bad radio.

Tony sends the file and leans back, folding his arms. “Boom. One assignment slain. How do you feel?”

“Like a microwaved burrito” Peter says truthfully “But… thanks. That was the worst one”

“Good. That means we stop”

Peter’s head jerks up “Spanish is easy. I can do Spanish”

“You also said you could walk down the stairs by yourself this morning and then forgot stair three exists” Tony says. “No shade to your cerebellum but the only thing we’re doing next is the patented Stark Rest Protocol”

Peter narrows his eyes “Which is?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You’re looking at it. Couch. Blanket. Fluids. One episode of whatever show you kids are rotting your brains on. A nap. Maybe, spitballing here,a shower if you can stand upright, because you smell like the inside of a gym bag that angered a god.”

“I don’t smell,” Peter says, and then stops; his own nose informs him otherwise.

“We all have our truths,” Tony says. “FRIDAY, queue something that won’t accelerate his fever through sheer stupidity.”

“May I recommend nature documentary content?” FRIDAY offers. “The penguin series is soothing.”

Peter frowns into his blanket. “Are penguins… sad?”

“Only if you’re a fish,” Tony says. “FRIDAY, let’s penguin.”

The TV softens into a sweep of blue ice and small tuxedoed birds committing to a lifestyle choice. Peter tries not to care. He fails immediately. Penguins are.. fine. Whatever.

His eyelids droop. He dozes and startles and dozes again, distantly aware of Tony scrolling through emails, firing off messages with the efficiency of a man who could run a war from a breakfast nook. At some point Tony gets up, vanishes, returns with a cold pack tucked in a towel. He doesn’t announce it, just swaps it for the warm pack on Peter’s forehead, like it’s the most obvious thing.

The cold is a relief that makes his eyes water. He swallows the lump in his throat with the stubborn pride of a seventeen-year-old who doesn’t cry in front of billionaires.

“Hey.” Tony’s voice is gentle enough that Peter’s hackles go up on principle. “What was the plan here if I hadn’t been home? Because I’m going to be honest, the text at six a.m. that said ‘running late, everything is fine’ was the least convincing lie you’ve ever told.”

“I was gonna do school,” Peter mumbles. “I always go. I don’t… I’m not good at missing things.”

“Mm.” Tony’s chair creaks. “I used to think that, too. There was a whole period of my life where I thought if I just outran sleep, I could outrun consequences. Turns out the consequences jog. They catch up.”

Peter opens one eye. Tony has that look again, focused, a little far away. Peter knows better than to poke at it when it surfaces. The couch sink is warm. The cold pack numbs the ache at his temples. He wants to argue, and also to close his eyes and let the penguins do their thing.

“You’re not-” He starts, and then the sentence takes a detour. “I don’t need, like, training wheels. For school. I know what’s due.”

Tony huffs, amused. “I’m aware, courtesy of your spreadsheet of doom. I’m not giving you training wheels. I’m giving you a pit crew.”

“That’s… not how bikes work.”

“It is how metaphors work. Look, kid. You’re a genius, you’re responsible to a fault, and your idea of self-care is swapping out a cracked phone screen before it slices a finger off. All admirable. But part of being smart is knowing when to trade momentum for stability. Anyone can plow forward; it takes a better brain to say ‘not today.’”

Peter stares at the penguins. One of them slo-mos into the ocean like a tiny torpedo. He thinks about Ms. Warren’s neatly color-coded calendar, the way MJ raises one eyebrow when she sees him knot himself up over nothing, May’s automatic mom-face when she hands him soup and says want to talk about it? and he says no, I’m fine, and she says okay, when you are, I’m here.

He doesn’t need Tony to break down the biology of fevers. He knows what a hypothalamus is, and he knows what exhaustion feels like crawling along his bones. He knows when he’s ragged. He also knows the little thread that hums under all of it, the one that says if you stop, you’ll drop everything you’re carrying.

The penguin torpedo resurfaces, victorious. It looks smug. Peter can respect that.

“Okay,” he says finally, low. “One assignment today. The rest… later.”

Tony doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t say I told you so. He just nods like they’ve negotiated a trade deal. “Atta boy. We’ll send a couple more emails. Pepper will attach something terrifying in legalese. Then you, kiddo, are off the hook.”

Peter rolls the cold pack against his temple and tries for casual. “You’re really going to email my teachers.”

“I’m going to email your teachers,” Tony confirms, “and I’m going to write the kind of parent email that gets whispered about in faculty lounges for decades. I’ll cc May, and she can add a heart emoji so they know we’re approachable.”

Peter’s stomach quivers, half laugh, half nausea. “Please do not put a heart emoji in an email to Ms. Warren.”

“No promises.” Tony stands, stretches. “You nap. I’ll go press send on some missives, then I’m coming back with soup. Which is non-negotiable. Try to live long enough to regret letting me choose the flavor.”

Peter lets his eyes fall shut. The penguin narration is a low hum. The couch is a boat, drifting. Somewhere in the fog he feels Tony’s hand ruffle his hair, quick, not a big deal, done like it didn’t happen. Peter doesn’t move, because acknowledging it would make it a thing, and he is a cool teenager who does not need things. He remembers, anyway.

He sleeps. He dreams of thermometers that are also lightsabers, of Pepper chasing him with orange slices, of Ned building a calorimeter that looks suspiciously like a MacBook. When he wakes, it’s to the gentle tyranny of soup that tastes like someone boiled a garden and to an inbox with three new messages:

From: Virginia Potts: Feel better, Peter. Extensions approved. P.S. Don’t let Tony near the microwave again.

From: Ms. Warren: Thank you for the update. Peter may submit by Monday.

From: Mr. Harrington: Tell your aunt I said hello! Also: great graph.

Peter reads the last one twice. His chest goes loose in a way that makes breathing easier.

Tony pretends not to watch him reading. “Told you.”

“You bribed them,” Peter accuses, spoon halfway to his mouth.

“With what? Stark Industry pens? Relax. The secret is tone. You say ‘we appreciate your dedication’ and ‘we value rigor’ and then you bury the part where you shift the deadline four days. Pepper taught me.”

Peter takes another spoonful and doesn’t immediately gag. “This is good.”

“I know people.” Tony folds himself back into the armchair, angles his tablet where Peter can’t see the screen. “After you finish that, we’re taking another round of meds. No arguing. Then, hear me out, we’re watching another episode of the penguin show, because they’re doing a heist.”

“Penguins don’t do heists.”

“These penguins absolutely do heists. They’re out there casing the rookery. It’s Ocean’s Eleven with flippers.”

Peter makes a face and eats the soup. By the time the bowl is empty, the headache is a dull glow instead of a flare. The fever fuzzes the edges of the room, but the panic is gone, the clawed thing that had dug into his ribs at the thought of missed assignments, lost points, hovering zeros. It’ll come back. It always does. But right now, Tony is here and the emails are sent and the penguins are, inexplicably, gripping small stones like loot.

Tony glances up, as if he can hear the click of something slotting into place. “Good?”

Peter nods, slow. His voice is hoarse and honest. “Good.”

“Great,” Tony says, and keeps watching the screen, casual as a sin. “For the record, I know you don’t need me to explain basic stuff. I do it anyway because I like annoying you.”

Peter huffs. “You’re very good at it.”

“I have an Oscar for it. Now finish your soup. There’s a big twist coming up.”

Peter sinks into the couch. The cold pack presses cool against his pulse. On the TV, a penguin tucks a stolen stone into a nest and looks around like it’s expecting applause.

“Okay,” Peter murmurs, as his eyelids drag down again, “maybe heists.”

“Maybe heists,” Tony agrees softly.

FRIDAY dims the lights. Somewhere, email servers ping. The city hums. The couch breathes. Peter drifts, a little less worried about everything he’s not doing, and a lot more certain the world won’t fall apart if he lets go of it for an afternoon.

hi-hi so as im writing this, i just wanted to let you guys know i came down with like a really bad cold so im sorry if this isnt my best, im so sorry if its not up to my normal standard but i need to get it out for the 26th, sorry again

happy reading

-blue

It was supposed to be simple, get in, get the intel, get out, Steve had said it multiple times on the quinjet on the way there, his shield sitting on his lap and that smirk of his painted across his face

But of course, things are never that simple

The second they got into the HYDRA base, it was crawling with agents, far more than intel had suggested, and it didn’t take long for the fight to turn ugly. Steve led them all, his shield flashing in the dim light, is voice through comms sharp as he barked orders at the team

Bucky stayed close, his rifle over his shoulder, his knives flashing whenever someone got too close, he moved like he was Steve's shadow, always being where he needed to be. But in the chaos, Steve took a hit. A rifle butt slammed into his ribs, hard enough that Bucky winced hearing it, Steve staggered, caught himself and kept swinging like nothing had happened

“Steve” Bucky said low in his ear

“I’m fine” Steve shot back, his voice tight

Bucky didn’t believe it, he saw the hitch in steves breath and the way his hand pressed just a fraction too long against his side before he raised the shield again

They kept fighting, clearing each room as they went, but Bucky never went far, when Steve faltered in the stairs Bucky’s hand was instantly there, steadying him “Easy sweetheart” he murmured, so soft you couldnt hear it over the comms, Steve huffed, annoyed but didn’t shake him off

By the time they reached the control room Steve was pale under the sweat and his breathing had a rasp to it, he planted the shield hard into the floor, catching himself with more force than he probably meant to

Bucky slid in beside him, shoulder brushing his, his eyes scanning “Ribs?” he asked, his voice low

“Just bruised” Steve lied, jaw tight

Bucky gave him a look that said he didn’t buy it for a second, but the fight wasn’t over, so he wasn’t gonna push. He stayed close, intercepting hits before they landed, taking the bruunt of a kick that wouldve gotten into Steves side

The others noticed in bits, Sam caught the way Bucky steadied Steve after a rough hit. Natasha heard the quiet “easy, doll” through the comms. But there was no time to comment, not when alarms were still blaring

The mission ended with the compound in flames and the intel secured, but Steve was moving slower than usual as they made it back to the quinjet. He climbed the ramp with his shoulders set, hiding the limp in his step

Bucky was right behind him, close enough that his hand brushed the small of Steve’s back every time he stumbled

—---

The quinjet ride back was quiet, normally steve would be at the comms, debriefing with Nat, shield propped up against his knee while he mapped out the next steps, instead, he sat in his jump seat with his arms folded tight across his ribs trying to mask how stiff each breath was

Bucky dropped into the seat beside him, when Steve shifted like he might argue, Bucky simply laid his flesh hand across his knee and left it there. The fight drained out of Steve instantly

By the time they touched down, Steve was pale and sweating under the collar of his uniform. He tried to stand first, but Bucky was already there, steadying his elbow, pretending it was casual.

“Cap, you good?” Sam asked, brow raised.

“Fine,” Steve said, voice clipped.

Sam didn’t look convinced, but Bucky’s sharp glance warned him off pressing.

Back at the Tower, Steve made it as far as the couch before he sank into it with a sharp exhale he couldn’t hide. He tugged the blanket from the backrest over himself, shoulders tight. The serum should’ve burned through bruises like this overnight. But the lines around his eyes told a different story.

The team lingered, uncertain. This wasn’t normal.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He dropped to a crouch beside the couch, tugging the blanket higher without asking. When Steve shifted, Bucky slid a pillow behind his back until he was propped comfortably. A glass of water appeared in his hand, and he pressed it into Steve’s without a word.

Steve took a sip, eyes flicking up. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do,” Bucky cut him off gently. “Slow and steady, Stevie.”

Steve huffed, annoyed at himself, but he didn’t argue further. His body slumped sideways until his head rested against Bucky’s shoulder.

The room was silent, the others frozen in place. Bucky, the same man who could take out a squad of operatives without breaking a sweat, was sitting on the floor, one hand moving absentmindedly through Steve’s damp hair, voice low as he murmured something only Steve could hear.

Sam’s mouth opened. Closed. He leaned toward Natasha. “You seeing this?” he whispered.

Nat didn’t look away. “I’m seeing it.”

Steve shifted, wincing, and Bucky was instantly there, palm flat against his ribs, steadying him. “Breathe, doll. I’ve got you.”

Steve obeyed, chest rising slow and even. His lashes fluttered shut, tension easing bit by bit.

Tony cleared his throat like he couldn’t quite believe what he was witnessing. “Okay. Not to ruin the Hallmark moment, but since when does Barnes-”

Natasha elbowed him, hard.

Bruce, for once, was smiling. Soft, quiet. “Since always.. I think. We just never saw it.”

They stayed a while longer, the weight of it settling in. The way Bucky melted around Steve, all sharp edges gone, every movement careful and sure. The way Steve leaned into him, utterly trusting.

Eventually Steve drifted off, his breathing deep and even against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky adjusted the blanket again, brushing a thumb over his temple, and glanced up at the others with a look that clearly said leave us be.

One by one, they slipped out.

When the room was finally quiet, Bucky pressed a kiss to Steve’s hair and murmured, “Take your time, punk. No rush. I’ll be right here.”

hi-hi!! welcome in to day 25 of my sicktember with blue series! with this specific fic the lovely @bookbat1937 helped me out with actually coming up with the idea\how to interpret the prompt so lets get a round of applause for her!! I hope you all love it <3

-blue

Steve Rogers wasn't supposed to get sick anymore

That'd been one of the few perks of Erskine's serum: the weak lungs, the rattling coughs, the endless colds, fevers, and chest infections, gone. For years they were gone, until one morning, they weren't

He woke up coughing so hard the bedframe shuddered, his chest burning like sandpaper, his skin was hot and clammy, his hair was damp with sweat. By the time he'd staggered into the common room, wrapped in a blanket, the team froze like he'd just stumbled out of a war zone.

"Cap?" Sam's voice was wary "you look like hell"

Steve tried to wave him off "I'm fine" his voice cracked halfway through the word, dissolving into another cough that left him hunched, bracing on his knees

Bruce was at his side in a second, thermometer already in hand "102" he muttered, after a beat his frown deepened "That shouldn't be possible with the serum"

"Tylenol" Nat said fast, heading to the kitchen "start simple"

Two tablets later Steve was no better, his fever still holding steady, cough rattling through his chest, wheezing like he was back at twenty, sickly and small

"Nyquil?" Sam said, digging through the cupboard "knocks me flat every time"

Steve swallowed, wincing at the taste, and still lay there restless and miserable an hour later

"I can make him something" Tony offered, eyes on his tablet "Custom nanotech humidifier, maybe an IV drip-"

"Or you could try not to poison him" Nat cut in

Steve groaned under the blanket "Really, I'm fine"

"No. you're not" Bruce said, firm

Through all of this, Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching, his expression didn't change as the others argued over brands of medicine and dosages, didn't flinch when Steve coughed so hard his chest seized or when his husband curled up against the cushions, miserable

He'd seen this before. Too many times, the serum had erased it for decades but Bucky remembered what it looked like when Steve Rogers got sick..

..And he knew exactly how to fix it

"I know what he needs" Bucky said finally pushing off the wall

They all turned

Tony narrowed his eyes "And what, pray tell, does the Winter Soldier recommend? Ice baths? motor oil?"

Bucky ignored him, heading to the kitchen "Hot toddy"

Sam made a face "Man you're not serious"

"It's medicine" Bucky said simply, pulling a mug down from the cupboard, he filled it with hot water, reached for the bottle of whiskey they kept above the fridge, grabbed a lemon from the bowl on the counter, honey followed

Bruce hovered near the couch frowning "Alcohols not recommended-"

"It worked every time" Bucky cut in, firm "Back then it was all we had, and it worked"

The team exchanged uneasy glances

"Buck-" Nat started, but stopped when she saw the way he was clenching his jaw

Bucky carried the mug back into the room, crouched by the couch and touched Steve's shoulder "Stevie. Hey"

Steve cracked his eyes open, glassy from his fever

"Drink this" Bucky said, slipping an arm behind his shoulder and pressing the mug into his hands

Steve didn't even question it, he sipped, coughing once at the heat, but he kept drinking, by the time he'd finished half, his shoullders had loosened, his breathing less ragged, he slumped into Buckys side, eyes heavy

"Better" Steve murmered

Bucky took the mug away, set it on the table and pulled the blanket higher around him "Knew it would be"

The room was quiet except for Steve’s slowing breaths

“…you’ve got to be kidding me” Sam muttered

Tony gestured vaguely at the mug “That’s not medicine. That’s a cocktail. Rogers just got knocked out by whiskey and honey”

Bucky didn’t even look at them, he kept his hand in Steve’s hair, slow and steady “worked then, works now”

hey guys <3 welcome to day 24 of sicktember, im having so much fun writing this for you guys and for this challenge. im still not feeling well so its a short one and im sorry about that

love all of u

im going to bed, sorry

-blue

Peter had gone from “I’m fine, just tired” to cocooned on the Stark couch under three blankets in less than an hour, his nose was raw from tissues, his throat sounded like gravel, and he was running a fever high enough that FRIDAY kept pinging Tony with numbers

“Kid,” Tony said, setting a bottle of water on the coffee table, “you look like death warmed over, emphasis on warmed, you’re about 102, easy”

Peter groaned into the pillow. “Mr. Stark, I feel like I’m dying.”

Tony didn’t miss a beat “Dying people don’t whine this much, trust me, you’ve got the flu, congratulations, roo, you’re human”

Peter peeked at him, bleary “Feels worse than human, feels… ugh” he flopped back dramatically, one arm over his face

“Shakespeare would be proud” Tony muttered, he nudged the water closer until it tapped Peter’s arm “Drink. Before you actually keel over and I have to explain to May how I let a fifteen-year-old dehydrate in my living room”

Peter sat up enough to sip, the water felt good on his throat, even if swallowing was like glass shards, he grimaced “you’re gonna tell May?”

“Already did. She gave me the lecture and told me not to let you near homework until you can sit upright without swaying, almost asked her to put that in writing.”

Peter groaned again, muffled this time “I hate this”

“Yeah, well, nobody likes it. Welcome to the club” Tony settled into the chair across from him, tablet balanced on one knee. He wasn’t working, not really.. just keeping watch “Here’s the deal: you sleep, I’ll sit here and make sure you don’t actually explode, Sound fair?”

Peter tugged the blanket higher, eyes already closing “Don’t leave?”

Tony looked over the tablet at him, the kid’s curls were plastered to his forehead, his face flushed and too young to be this miserable “Not going anywhere kiddo, you’re stuck with me”

Peter’s breathing evened out, the rain-sound setting FRIDAY had queued up filled the silence

hi-hi and welcome in to day 23 of sicktember with blue! I actually have a cold while I'm writing this :( so I'm sorry if this ones not my best but I still think it's pretty great. I'm just not feeling very well, so yk not my best work, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway - also 1 week to go of sicktember!

love all of u

-blue

Bucky wasn't sick.

That's what he told Steve, that's what he told himself too. as he wrapped his fists and squared up to the punching bag in the Tower gym, he wasn’t sick, just tired, just sore, just a little warm. Nothing worth fussing about

The first few hits landed solid, muscle memory doing the work, but within minutes, sweat ran down his back in a cold sheet, his arms shook with the effort, and the room tilted on him

“Buck.” Steve’s voice carried from the doorway. Quiet, but laced with warning

“I’m fine” Bucky grunted, driving one last punch into the bag. He staggered a half-step, knuckles still pressed to the leather

Steve was there before the bag even swung back, steady hands at Bucky’s shoulders “You’re burning up, you shouldn’t even be down here"

“Don’t fuss” Bucky muttered, his voice came out hoarse, thick from congestion. He tried to shrug Steve off, but the motion made the floor lurch

Steve caught him by the waist before his knees gave “Uh-huh. Not fussing, just catching my idiot husband before he face plants”

Bucky’s laugh was rough and short, he let Steve guide him to the bench, shoulders slumping despite himself, his breath came quick, like he’d run miles, not thrown a few punches

“See?” Steve said softly, kneeling in front of him “Overdid it”

Bucky dropped his gaze, jaw tight “I can’t stand it, Stevie.. feels like being weak”

Steve’s hands were warm against his knees “You’re not weak, Buck. You’re sick, there’s a difference” He tilted his head until blue eyes caught blue “And you’ve got me, you don’t have to push through anything alone”

Bucky swallowed, throat dry, the fight leaking out of him, he let Steve haul him to his feet and back upstairs, leaning more than he wanted to admit

_________

Their bedroom was dim, curtains half drawn against the afternoon sun, Steve sat him on the edge of the bed and pulled the damp shirt over his head, replacing it with one of his own soft shirts, he pressed a hand to Bucky’s forehead, grimacing at the heat there

“Stay put” Steve kissed his temple before ducking into the kitchen. He came back with a glass of water, Tylenol, and a bowl of broth that smelled like ginger and garlic

"soup? really?" Bucky muttered, voice thick

Steve smirked, settling beside him “Soup’s a miracle cure, ask your ma”

Bucky’s lips twitched “Bossy”

“Drink”

Bucky obeyed, too tired to argue, Steve steadied the mug in his hands when they trembled, he let out a low sigh as the warmth hit his throat

When he was done, Steve coaxed him down under the blankets, then slid in behind him, Bucky tried to grumble that he didn’t need babysitting, but Steve only curled an arm around his waist and pulled him close

“You’ve got two options” Steve murmured against his hair “Rest, or I sit on you until you do”

Bucky snorted a laugh, chest rattling with it, he let himself sink back, the steady beat of Steve’s heart anchoring him

“Don’t leave me” he whispered, fever-drunk honesty slipping past his guard

Steve kissed his temple again, firm and certain “Never, Buck. Not in a million years”

hi-hi <3 welcome to day 22 of Sicktember with Blue! I hope everybodys having just as good of a time as I am!!! I'm really not the best at angst but I wanted to do the main prompt for today anyway because I think you guys would like it :)

Okay! Happy reading!!! <333

Soooo so so much love,

-Blue

Steve hated being sick. Not the sniffles, not a cough, This was the full thing, fever, chills, every muscle aching like he’d been trampled. He’d lost track of how long he’d been on the couch. Hours, maybe. The light outside had shifted to late afternoon, muted through the blinds

Bucky sat at his side, book forgotten in his lap, one hand carding gently through Steve’s damp hair, a cool cloth laying across Steve’s forehead, sliding a little as he shifted. He tried to breathe through his nose and coughed instead, throat raw

“I’m fine” Steve rasped, voice ruined

“Sure you are” Bucky said, not looking up from his book. The corner of his mouth quirked “That’s why you’re curled up like a burrito and sweating through my hoodie”

Steve wanted to smile. Instead his chest hitched, a cough twisting out of him. He curled tighter under the blanket

Bucky’s hand rubbed slow circles on his back “Easy, Stevie. Just breathe. You’re alright”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, everything hurt, the fever pressing behind his skull, the ache deep in his bones, the humiliation of being knocked flat by something so small. He was Captain America, for god’s sake, and he couldn’t even get through a day without falling apart

It welled up before he could stop it—tightness in his throat, burn behind his eyes. He bit down hard, but the sob tore loose anyway. Then another. And another, until he was shaking, breath hiccupping against Bucky’s chest.

Bucky’s book hit the floor. “Hey. Hey, Stevie-” He pulled Steve upright into his arms, blankets tangling between them. Steve buried his face in Bucky’s shirt, hot tears soaking through. His shoulders shook with each sob, coughs breaking them apart.

“I hate this” Steve choked, words broken by hiccups “I can’t- Buck, I can’t- ”

“Shh, shh,” Bucky murmured, rocking him gently. His hand smoothed over Steve’s hair, down his spine, back up again “It’s okay, doll, you don’t gotta do anything. Just let it out. I’ve got you”

Steve sobbed harder, clutching fistfuls of Bucky’s shirt like it was the only thing tethering him. The fever made him small, not in size but in spirit, stripped raw until there was no Captain America left, just Steve, sick and scared and miserable

Bucky kissed his temple, the damp skin hot under his lips “That’s it. Just breathe, sweetheart. Nothin’ to be ashamed of”

It took a long time for the sobs to quiet. They slowed to hiccups, then shuddery breaths. Steve sagged against him, worn out. His lashes stuck together, cheeks blotchy, voice rough when he whispered “Sorry”

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky said firmly, tilting his chin so Steve would look at him “Don’t you ever apologize for this. You’ve carried the world on your back, punk. You’re allowed to cry when the flu’s got you knocked sideways”

Steve swallowed, eyes glassy “I just feel… pathetic”

“Pathetic’s not the word I’d use” Bucky said softly. He wiped Steve’s face with his sleeve, thumb brushing gently at his cheek “Human. That’s the word. And I happen to like you human”

Steve let out a shaky laugh that dissolved into another cough. Bucky eased him back against his chest, tucking the blanket up over his shoulders again. He hummed low under his breath, some half-remembered tune from Brooklyn days, steady, soothing, something Steve had heard a thousand times

Steve’s breathing evened out against him, tears drying sticky on his cheeks. His fingers stayed curled in Bucky’s shirt, grip loosening only as he drifted

Bucky kissed the crown of his head. “That’s it, doll” he whispered. “Rest. I’ve got you”