#chronic illness reader

Not because it doesn’t hurt.

But because you were taught—over and over—that hurting quietly was better than being inconvenient.

“Everyone gets sore,” your mother used to say. “You’re too young for that,” an aunt would scoff. “You just don’t like doing hard things,” your brother once laughed.

So you learned to swallow it. Learned to smile through stiffness and pain that bloomed deep in your joints like something alive. Learned to push past flare-ups and call them bad moods. Learned that asking for help meant eye-rolls and sighs and the sharp little reminder that other people have it worse.

By the time Bucky came into your life, the habit was bone-deep.

So when the pain is bad—when your wrists throb and your knees burn and your shoulders feel like they’re filled with ground glass—you don’t say anything. You just move slower. You sit more carefully. You grit your teeth and carry on.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t push. He never crowds you. But he adjusts himself around you the way he does on missions—quiet, precise, protective.

He opens jars before you reach for them. He moves the heavy pans closer to the edge of the counter. He laces your boots a little looser on mornings when your hands look stiff. He offers his arm like it’s casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not bracing himself just in case you lean.

You tell yourself it’s coincidence.

Until one evening, your family comes over.

You’re already tired before they arrive. Rain has been pressing against your joints all day, the kind of damp cold that seeps in and refuses to leave. Your hands ache, swollen and hot beneath the skin, but you keep moving—setting the table, carrying plates, pretending you’re fine.

Your aunt notices you flexing your fingers.

“Oh my god,” she laughs lightly. “Is your arthritis acting up again?”

The word again lands like a slap.

You shrug. “It’s nothing.”

“You always say that,” your mother says, not unkindly—but dismissive. “You can’t let every ache stop you from living.”

Your brother snorts. “Here we go.”

Bucky stiffens beside you.

“You know,” your aunt continues, waving her fork, “I think you lean into it a little. It’s become such a convenient excuse.”

The room goes quiet.

You feel it happen inside you—that familiar collapse. The way your chest caves inward, the way shame creeps up your throat faster than pain ever could.

You laugh, because you always do. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”

Bucky’s chair scrapes back hard enough to make everyone jump.

“No,” he says.

One word. Low. Steady. Dangerous in the way only Bucky can manage.

“That’s not what’s happening.”

Your mother frowns. “James—”

“She’s not exaggerating,” he continues, eyes locked on them, not raising his voice once. “She’s been in pain all day and didn’t say a word. She didn’t ask for help. She didn’t slow anyone down. She pushed through it because she’s been taught that needing help makes her a burden.”

Your throat tightens.

Bucky turns to you then, soft where he was steel a moment ago. “And that’s bullshit.”

Silence.

“She has a chronic condition,” he says. “That means it doesn’t go away. That means some days are worse than others. And it means she doesn’t owe anyone toughness as proof she’s hurting.”

Your aunt opens her mouth. Bucky cuts her off with a look.

“She lives with this every day. You see five minutes of it and decide you know better.”

He reaches for your hand—careful, always careful—and squeezes gently. “And she doesn’t use it as an excuse. If anything, she minimizes it so people like you don’t make her feel small.”

You can’t speak. You’re shaking too hard.

Bucky stands. “We’re done with this conversation.”

He guides you out without another word, one arm solid around your back, his body a shield between you and every voice that ever made you doubt yourself.

Later, in the quiet of your bedroom, the pain finally crashes in full force. Your joints throb, your hands ache, your knees feel unstable beneath you. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to make things awkward.”

Bucky kneels in front of you.

His metal hand is warm where it cups your knee. His flesh hand wraps around your wrist, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles over your pulse.

“You never have to apologize for being in pain,” he says softly.

You swallow. “I don’t like asking for help.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why I’m offering instead.”

He helps you out of your clothes, slow and patient. Rubs the ointment into your joints like it’s sacred work. Brings you heating pads, pillows, blankets. He settles you back against the headboard and tucks you in like you’re something precious.

When he finally climbs into bed beside you, he presses a kiss to your temple.

“You’re not a nuisance,” he whispers. “You’re not weak. And you’re not alone anymore.”

You curl into his chest, pain still there—but quieter now, softened by care.

There’s a lot to love about winter in rural Indiana, especially on a day like today.  The puffy, steel-colored clouds that paint the sky hold in a little extra heat so when the snow falls, it falls in layers upon layers on the dormant ground.  The barren trees shield the wind, what little there is today.  The sun’s rays are present but filtered, so there’s no irritatingly dangerous glare off the iridescent surface; instead of glimmering bright enough to burn your retinas, the purity of the landscape is more matte and inviting. 

For seemingly everyone in the greater Hawkins area, this is a beautiful day – one full of the promise of tightly packed snowballs and whirling tracks behind bundled-up youth (or that lucky parent) that pile their ever-growing base for the world’s greatest snowman.

For you?  It’s fucking torture.

But, then again, not everyone has dramatic little blood vessels in their fingers and toes that cower to the the slightest inconvenience, clamping down like a vise and cutting off precious, life-giving warmth to the tips of your digits, causing them to discolor in tepid hues of stark white and indigo blue until your body feels you've had enough; only to have blood flow sluggishly return in burning, prickling, painful shades of dusky red.

How very patriotic of you.  

A diagnosis with a name like Raynaud’s Phenomenon should make you feel about half as badass as it sounds.  It sounds like a goddamn superhero callsign – like you should don a cape instead of mittens if it gets too cold indoors, or be able to run faster and jump higher instead of being bogged down by fatigue and dizziness if you so much as get up too fast (a lovely gift from the medication that doesn’t really do all that much to settle the phenomenon down, anyway).  

Nah.  All Raynaud’s does for you is pair nicely with your other chronic illnesses; your sweet little friend alopecia, who likes to just randomly remove circular chunks of hair from your noggin out of spite; and lupus, who thankfully can lay dormant like the Indiana winter landscape for periods of time long enough to make you almost forget about her.

Until she rears her bitchy little head and makes you feel like you’ve been hit by a motherfucking Mack truck.

Luckily, the lupus beast is at bay, thanks to your meticulous dosing of your lengthy medication regimen.  Alopecia, unfortunately, didn’t get the memo; and that’s why you stand at the sink in the girls’ locker room, biding your time for an emptier space before you dress and ready yourself for gym class.

Specifically, pulling your hair in a ponytail after the judgemental eyes of one Carol Perkins exits the room.  She’s absolutely the last person you want to notice the two growing bald patches behind your right ear, because no matter how hard you try, they become quite obvious – even for the most proficient of ponytail engineers.

Your reflection huffs as you do, displacing some of the feathered strands away from your cheek as you consider running your hands under warm water while you wait.  The echoing commotion off of the concrete walls behind you is at a peak, loud and obnoxious and wildly irritating.  You know, however – you know what this means.  It’s likely you have several moments, if not minutes, to quickly change alone in the tiny little area off from the bathroom stalls, away from wandering and wondering stares and crisp, foul words full of ignorance and acid.

Years of the same, stupid shit should build you a better armor by now.  But it doesn’t.  It hasn’t, not yet.

So, you change alone.

The ache in your bones, the creak in your joints are a hard-stop for speed; the lack of dexterity in your digits a roadblock for efficiency, but you manage to shuck your fleece-lined tights and sweater for the ratty, school-issued uniforms for phys ed.  You’re coming down the home stretch, pulling on socks you can’t quite pinch just right; your tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth as you force those little muscles to do their fucking job and yank that fabric over the soft curve of your heel.  You slide your slip-on Keds back over your feet, then straightening your spine with a muted groan.  Shuffling back to the mirror, you have one step to complete and you’ll actually be out in the gym before the rest of them – a smile ghosts over your features.  What a weird thing to be proud of, but here you are.  Pretty fuckin’ proud.

You pick at the small elastic wrapped around your wrist, missing the catch under an unathletic index finger three separate times before finally hooking it and pulling it over your hand.  In a flurry of silken strands and uncoordinated digits, you gather as much of your hair as you can in both hands while eyeing your handiwork for the offending, reddened areas of peach fuzz.

You yelp as the door to the showers bursts open, and of course – of course – the holier-than-thou sneer of Carol Perkins is what you see first right as your fingers rake over the thin, remaining patch of hair to provide coverage to what’s bare.

Carol sees it all.

Her face wrinkles in overdramatic disgust.  “Eww, gross!  What in the fuck is that?!”

Carol’s screeching theatrics draw the attention of the two girls that flank her sides (Tina?  Trina?  Dawn?  Dunno), who reactively parrot Carol’s repulsion — though you’re certain they have no fucking idea what for.

“Ohmygawd,” Carol squawks as she draws closer to where your arms are held frozen atop your head, “are you going bald?!”

That gets TinaTrinaDawn’s attention, the two marionettes stalk forward with a sickly curiosity borne only of ignorance and hate.  “Are you fucking kidding me, she’s seriously going bald?” 

You’re caught between the overwhelming urge to drop your progress and just leave your hair down before stammering some lame-ass retort about how no, you’re not going fucking bald, or to quickly whip your thinning tresses through the tight elastic as to not lose all you’ve gained just for the sake of three stupid hoe-bags that wouldn’t be able to recognize a chronic illness if it smacked them upside the head.

“That’s so pathetic, did you see how big that bald spot was?”

The trouble with words is that they fucking hurt, even (especially…?) when they’re spoken from the mouths of hoe-bags.

Carol scoffs as your hands fall to your sides, your hair curtains your reddening face like a thin, lace veil.  “Holy shit, do you have lice or something?”

Your eyes grow wide, and your stammering no, no! is drowned out by the henchwomen’s comically thespian wailing.

“Oh my god, gross!”

“That’s so fucking nasty, seriously!”

You finally find your voice through the hammering of your heart, breaking through their boisterous stupidity to offer some logic.  

“It’s not lice,” you mumble, willing yourself to speak up, “it’s not.  I’d be itching if it was and I’m not.”

Carol winds her arms over her chest and smirks.  “That’s exactly what someone would say if they didn’t want people to think they were fucking dirty and gross, all infested with lice.”  Her eyes narrow into a malicious stare.  “You’re gonna spread whatever nastiness you have to everyone here, bitch.”

Your jaw aches with how hard you have to grit your teeth to keep the tears at bay.  “It’s not lice. It’s nothing, okay?  It’s nothing that can spread.”

“Oh yeah?” her friend scoffs.  “Then what is it?”

A familiar tether of annoyance tugs at your heart.  It’s not worth it to explain it to these people; they wouldn’t understand and you know it.  You know this, but yet you hope for some decency left in their stupid little black hearts, and if there is — maybe they’ll hear you.

“It – it’s called alopecia,” you mutter, unable to meet the piercing stare of three sets of eyes.  You feel like a bird in a cage, surrounded by hungry Siamese cats, feral for your fear.

“Al-oh-what?”

“Alopecia,” you repeat, though it comes out more as a demure question, like you don’t want to insult them for being so ignorant and rude.  “It – I, uh, lose – um, I lose h-hair –”

Carol leans into your space, and you reactively flinch.  “D-d-d-does it make you fucking stutter like a moron?”

The vile cackling of the witches is abruptly cut by a soft, but firm, “Carol.  Stop.”

Carol’s jaw goes slack as a familiar strawberry blonde ponytail strides up to face her.  “C’mon,” Chrissy Cunningham commands kindly, but the fire that flickers in her blue eyes doesn’t waver.  “Just stop.”

“You’re seriously getting in my face about –”

Chrissy cuts her off before she gets carried away.  “Being a bitch for no reason?”

Carol practically growls with how hard she scoffs.  “Did you not see that she has lice?”

“Carol, seriously?” Chrissy sighs with a dramatic roll of vivid pools of baby blue.  “Not at all what that is.”

The girl that’s been challenged by your literal guardian angel in a scrunchie and a heather gray tee opens her mouth to retort, and then closes it, turning her vapid attention to you.  “You know if you forget to wash your hair, it falls out.  That’s disgusting.  Fucking wash your hair.”

“Carol!”

“What, Chrissy?” Carol spits, “what the fuck do you have to say?”

“You’re flat-out being a bitch.”  Chrissy looks pointedly at you, and confirming that you’re dressed enough to be presentable for class, she lopes her toned arm through yours.  “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late.”

Chrissy guides you wordlessly through the door, leaving a flabbergasted Carol in her wake.  She arches a pretty brow over a glance behind her, and confirming that the door closes, she leans in to say,

“Her parents are getting divorced.  Not that it’s any excuse as to why she’s being such an asshole to you, but she’s been like this for weeks.”  Her arm falls from yours as you turn though the double doors of the gym.  “I have a cousin with alopecia,” she explains softly, her lips twist into a sympathetic frown.  “It sucks.”

“Yeah,” you chuff through the burn of tears that well dangerously along your lower lids, “it does.”

Chrissy pats your arm.  “Try not to let her get to you,” she murmurs sweetly, flouncing away to go talk with a group of girls that have gathered around the badminton nets.

Ugh.  Badminton.  Could Coach Brown have picked a worse activity to introduce this week?  Who in the fuck plays badminton, anyway?

Apparently, high schoolers in rural Indiana do.  The rules are simple: partner up, grab a small racquet and whack the little plastic birdie at the two people on the other side of the net.  Seems pretty easy, except it’s winter and there’s no chance for any successful grabbing of anything with the way your hands burn and tingle; the way your fingers flush a deep, chilly purple despite your fevered attempts to warm those assholish little blood vessels with every known massage technique in the book. 

Gritting your teeth against the pain, a rather overzealous swing at the birdie has you losing your hold on your racquet, and as you connect with nothing but frigid gymnasium air, it flies spectacularly out of your hands and makes a point to clatter with gusto on the lacquered wood floor.

You sigh in frustration, weary vertebrae creaking and groaning in protest as you lean over to snatch it from the ground.  But before you can make such a move, your assigned badminton partner is there to whisk it from the floor and back safely in your hands.

“Your racquet’s making quite the racket,” Eddie Munson chuffs, his toothy grin dancing across freckled cheeks as those bottomless doe-eyes watch you carefully.  

You grimace as your fingers flex around the gummy handle, the rubber well-worn from many years of piss-poor play.  He clears his throat, an obvious ask for your attention.

“Get it?”

You wince, rolling some tension out of your shoulders while your fingers protest your stubborn attempt at gross motor skills.  “Get what?”

“Y’know,” Eddie licks his lower lip nervously, twirling his handle in a magnificent whirl in his hand, “racket…?”

“Oh, right.”  You have no idea what he’s talking about.  “I got it.  Get it.”  You clear your throat, bobbing your head awkwardly at the odd exchange.  “Good one, Munson.”

His plush lips press together, eyes narrowing to thin slips of honey-brown as he regards you.  “Hmm.  You ready?”

“Yep,” you feign enthusiasm as a welcome distraction from the throbbing in your frigid digits, “you serve.”

He nods once, hollering something about servicing Chrissy and Patrick on the other side of the net, to which Patrick guffaws and Chrissy claps a hand over her perfect cupid’s bow in mock scandalization.  The lighthearted laughter tinkles around you, and you force a smile while inwardly wishing you could for once be part of the conversation instead of being so goddamn distracted with how your body protests every bit of this stupid game you’re forced to play.

Patrick calls out your name and tosses you the white little plastic game piece under the net with a grin.  “Your turn.  Keep that shit away from your partner.”

“Uhm, s-sure,” you stammer, body jolting in surprise as that birdie bounces off your useless hands and falls right on its rubber nose at your feet.  The tiny muscles in your fingers find it appropriate to spasm at this very moment, making your racquet tumble to the ground, yet again.

You can see Eddie inching closer in your periphery; the time to push through the soreness is now, just bend at the waist and reach forward and –

“Hey,” his voice is as warm as his palm that splays over your back.  “Stop, hey – I got it.”  He leans his lanky body toward the ground with such enviable ease it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.  Eddie leaves his stare locked on yours and doesn’t make a move for the equipment on the floor.   “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I think –”  There’s something in his gaze, something deep and piercing and honest that makes you blurt the truth instead of skirting around it like you usually do.  With a shake of your head, you mumble, “No.  My hands are cramping like fucking crazy.  It’s –”

You don’t get to finish your sentence – Eddie’s already whipped away and ambling his lanky limbs over to Coach Brown, who waves off the metalhead’s fervent speech with an unbothered grunt.

He’s a little breathless when he comes jogging back.  “I’m gonna take you to the nurse’s office.  Come with me.”  He bends and scoops up your racquet and birdie, tossing it to Chrissy as she pads to the net.  “You got this, Cunningham?”

Her brows are set with concern over her seaglass eyes.  “What’s goin’ on?”

You revel in the warmth of Eddie’s arm as it drapes over your shoulders.  “Just taking my partner here to the on a walk. Out of the gym.  No big deal,” he shrugs a shoulder, looking down over his broad nose at you with a grin.  “Right?”

Chrissy shrugs as she dips under the net. “Feel better,” she whispers before summoning Patrick back to the game.

You look up at Eddie with grateful eyes. Somehow, he’s made the whole situation less embarrassing.  

He guides you away from the game, and as soon as you cross the threshold into the hall, you could sigh in relief – it’s at least ten degrees warmer out of that icebox of the gym.  The microscopic cables of tension loosen their hold in the tender musculature from your neck to your shoulders, and after a few steps, you can feel them settle to a more normal posture. 

It’s a small kindness, but you’re grateful for it anyway.

The only sounds are the squeaking of rubber soles on over-polished tile; you’re glad for the comfortable silence as the warmth seeps into your tissues.  Sneaking a glance at Eddie, you notice he’s staring straight ahead, lips rolled in and curls swaying as his head does, lost in his own little world.  

You follow him around the corner into the main hall when he chuffs, like he’s amused himself with his own private joke.  Before you have a chance to open your mouth to ask him to share, he starts humming.

It’s familiar, the tune that escapes through plush, pressed lips.  Eddie appears positively giddy, shuffling to his own personal rhythm he hums behind his smirk, sneaking very obvious looks at you out of the corner of his eye that are just as much endearing as he is.  

The attention isn’t unwanted, but it isn’t something you’re accustomed to.  You can feel your cheeks start to heat the louder he projects his sandpapery tone from the back of his throat, and after a few more steps, you recognize the cadence of the notes to start humming along.

Getting lost in the familiar tune settles your mounting shyness, just a little.  It’s right there… on the tip of your tongue.  Your features scrunch in concentration, trying to sift through the mountains of archived lyrics in the depths of your brain.  All the while, Eddie watches you with rapt attention, his bobbing shoulders tug his frame along for the ride; he’s practically dancing as he walks you through the empty corridor, intent on humming this hook until you arrive in recognition that’s just out of your reach.

The words here are missing, but you think it ends with arctic zone?

God damn it, it’s right fucking there – your brain fills in the missing words with little hmms and laas that correspond with the cadence of Eddie’s voice, and as he rounds his humming into the next stanza, it hits you.

She’s so cold, she’s so –

“Cold, cold, cold,” you practically yell, spinning to face the metalhead, “when I touch her, my hand just froze!”

Twin, hearty guffaws ring through the hallway as you finally land on the lyrics, and Eddie does his best Mick Jagger impression, jerking his shoulders and arms in time with the tempo of the song as he sings outright,

“She’s so cold, she’s so goddamn cold

She’s so cold, cold, cold

She’s so cold!”

His voice booms in spectacular fashion, bouncing off the lockers and wrapping you up in the heat of the moment.  Normally, something like these over-the-top theatrics would leave you mortified, but not today. 

“Eddie –” your hand flies to your mouth to hide your side-splitting laughter, which only serves to rile him up more.

It’s completely out of order, but not a part of the goofy metalhead cares.  He wiggles his brows, encouraging you to join him in the next line, “She’s so cold, she’s so cold, cold –”

And so you do.

“C-c-c-c-cold!”

Eddie cackles, curls bouncing in delight around his face that’s split wide with glee.  He takes it on himself to sing the next line with no hesitation,

“But she’s beautiful –”

Eddie’s dark chocolate eyes round when he cuts himself off, an embarrassed flush creeps up his neck when he realizes the content of the lyrics.  You watch as he presses his mouth in a thin line, like he’s willing the courage back in his throat as he clears it free of his mortification from his inadvertent overshare.  

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, when he spots a familiar door right before the turn for the hall in front of the cafeteria.  

“Hang on,” he mutters with a look over his shoulder.  Confirming the coast is clear, he tugs at your hand.  “In here.”

Eddie’s fingers gently slide through your fingers, making you inadvertently twitch from the contact.  Pulling you through the door, he leads you into a darkened space.

“The drama room,” he supplies softly, latching the door behind him with a gentle click.  “It’s warm enough in here that I don’t have to wear my jacket.”

Your eyebrows raise on your forehead.  He’s right – the room, if you recall correctly, is just off the kitchen.  Of course it’d be warm in here.  

“Oh,” you murmur, “yeah, it is.  ‘S nice.”

Eddie wanders through the space with purpose, arriving at a long table in the back of the room.  “Here,” he says as he pulls out a chair, “wanna sit for a minute and warm up?”

A languid smile pulls at your cheeks.  “Yeah, thanks.”  

Settling into the chair next to you, he keeps his fingers laced with yours, covering them with his other hand and rubbing gently to inject some heat into your freezing skin.

“Wow,” his brow furrows,  “you are cold.”  The browns in his eyes darken with concern.  “Do you need to go to the nurse?”

You can feel the stinging tingle of the return of blood to the tips of your fingers already.  “Nah,” you grin, “I’m fine.”  You nod towards his large hands that smother yours.  “This helps.”  

“How much does this happen?”

You shrug nonchalantly.  “Pretty much every day.  All day in the winter.”  

Eddie blinks, eyebrows elevating high on his forehead.  Giving your hands a gentle squeeze, his mouth twitches as he asks, “Are you sure you’re not like, a witch or a warlock and this is your body’s way of releasing your pent-up magic?  And if I’m not careful, lightning is gonna shoot out your fingers and you’re gonna turn me into a newt?”

A burst of genuine laughter is shocked out of you, cinching your sides.  “A what?!”

His boyish grin widens.  “A newt!”

“No,” you wheeze as your giggles settle, “no magical magical powers for turning people into newts or any other animals, I’m afraid.”  

For a moment, you consider telling him.  Confiding in him the name of the stupid disease that makes you feel like less of a human, sometimes.  Because the way he’s looking at you?  The way he’s treated you over the last half an hour has made you feel whole.  Like a normal person, for once.

He scoots closer, pressing his palms closer together over yours, cocooning your hands in a ball of heavenly heat.  “That’s really too bad.  I kinda have a list I’d totally share and just, y’know, let you go to town.”

Your lips press together in a smirk, playing up to his antics.  “Then we’d have a newt problem in Hawkins.”

Eddie pitches forward and laughs, such a lighthearted sound.  “I guess we would, sweetheart.”

The way he murmurs sweetheart has warmth radiating through your entire form, heating your cheeks that are pinched still from your goofy, smitten little grin. 

“I, uh…” you begin shyly, “wish it was something cool like a superpower.”  You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, well aware of Eddie’s eyes still on you as you search for your words.  

His gaze is soft, a comfort rather than expectant.  There’s no urgency behind it, even when your mouth opens and closes again around words that just won’t come.

He waits with otherworldly patience, hands still clasped in a ball of heat over yours. 

And then, the words appear as you meet his espresso irises with conviction.  “I have something called Raynaud’s,” you explain meekly, gaze flicking to where your fingers wind with his, “it’s this autoimmune thing that makes my blood vessels clamp down and I – I guess I’m just cold all the time.  Especially with my hands.”

“Does it hurt?”

There’s real empathy woven through his tone, something you’re not always accustomed to when speaking of such things.  It blooms a different kind of warmth, something thicker and stronger that settles light in your heart.

“Yeah,” you huff a watery sigh, “it does.”

“Shit,” Eddie rasps with a frown.  “Sorry – I, uh… not a real eloquent sentiment,” he grimaces, though it makes you smile.  “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.  Really.  Just you asking is nice.  Talking about it with someone who isn’t all judgmental is nice.”

“Oh, I’m being judgmental,” Eddie grumbles with a shake of his curls, “insanely judgmental of me and my horrific song choice – I am a huge, raving idiot and I hope you know I meant you no harm.” 

“Eddie…”  You push out your bottom lip in a sympathetic pout. “You had no idea.  Really, it’s okay.  It was sweet, actually.”

“Yeah?”

You give him a reassuring squeeze of thoroughly thawing hands. “Yeah.”

The conversation is easy after that, making the rest of the hour melt away as warmth settles back into your fingers.  Though Eddie certainly puts you more at ease (even after his hands leave yours, as apparently the man can’t go three minutes without utilizing them in every which way to tell a story), lingering insecurities from the locker room still swirl in your mind, and have you on multiple occasions checking to make sure your hair covers those pesky patches over you right ear.

Eddie, of course, notices your nervous fidgeting.  “You ok?” he asks, cocking his head to the side after your digits dumbly fumble over a clump of strands that lie limp on your shoulder.

“Yeah – uh, yeah.  ‘M fine.”

Eddie shifts in his chair.  “Um, kind of a dumb question, but does it make your head hurt, too?  You keep –”

“Oh, no,” you interject sweetly, “it doesn’t.  I – I just have…” 

You find yourself trailing off before you confess yet another secret with a rapt, reverent look at his thick, curly hair.  Jealousy simmers below your skin as you blurt, “Damn.  You have really nice hair.”

He seems a little taken aback by your compliment, but recovers with a disbelieving, “Oh.  Hah, thanks.”  He twirls a curly lock around his deft fingers.  “So do you.”

“No I don’t.  It’s thin and it… it falls out sometimes.”  You don’t mean to grouse, but it’s the truth, and frankly?  It fucking sucks.  

“It does?”

“Yeah.”  

Eddie heaves an elongated sigh, like he’s contemplating something.  His tone is a little less hesitant, but still careful as he observes, “From what I gather from that frown, sweetheart… it’s more than just what I leave behind in the shower on a daily basis.  My uncle, uh – he jokes that I could make another human with all the hair I shed.”

His candor pulls your gaze from the ground.  “You’d be right, it is a little more than that.”  Summoning what bravery you have in you, the hand held near your right ear swipes the curtain of hair away to show him the two offending patches of hairless scalp.

You wait for the reaction, the repulsion, the disgust; but it never comes.  Eddie instead looks upon those two little patches with intrigue.  Respect.  

Kindness.

It makes you swallow hard.  “Carol Perkins saw it and gave me hell in the bathroom.  Said I had lice.”

There’s a lengthy pause.  A lull in the moment where Eddie’s eyes round comically wide before he bursts into side-splitting, wildly infectious laughter. 

“Lice?!” he shrieks, bending at the waist and slapping a ringed hand against the table, “lice doesn’t make you go bald!”  

You can’t help it, the way he’s absolutely losing it makes you beam, sponsoring a giggle or two of your own.  “I know, that’s what I tried to tell her!”

“Jesus Christ!”  Eddie’s wheezing is punctuated by gasping ohhhs as he fights to regain his composure.  “She’s such a fucking dumbass!”  

Once he’s settled himself, he eyes you coyly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I bet if I braid it, it’ll hide that spot.  Not that you should feel like you need to.”  Eddie tips his head to the side.  “It’s kinda metal.”

“Oh,” you admonish with furrowed brows, “no it’s not.”

“No, seriously!”  The worn rubber nubs on the bottom of his chair do nothing to mute the jangle and scrape of metal against tile as he scoots closer to where you sit.  He leans well into your space, and it surprises you that there’s no instinct to recoil.  “Imagine if that whole side of your head was shaved like that and then you couldn’t even tell!  Holy shit, that would look so fucking metal.”

Your whole face lights up.  “Like Cyndi Lauper?”

Eddie leans back and pulls a face.  “Well, I could argue that you’ve made it decidedly less metal now, but yeah.”  He flashes you a toothy grin, chair creaking as he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Like Cyndi Lauper.”

Funny how you can’t help but smile in front of Eddie Munson.  “Yeah, you can braid it if you want.”

He looks positively thrilled.  “Good.”  He shuffles closer, maneuvering his seat to situate himself behind you.  “C’mere.  Let me at this luscious hair.”  His tone drops, and you can feel how his shoulders shake as he gently rakes his agile fingers through your strands.  “Lice, my fuckin’ pasty ass.  Goddamn Carol Perkins, what an moron.”

It’s an effort, but somehow you manage to keep your torso still as another torrential wave of laughter threatens to shudder through your form.

Eddie’s fingers are well-practiced.  He’s easily split your hair into two sections, and in what seems like no time at all, a snug set of French braids are wrapped masterfully over your head, perfectly hiding the imperfections that caused you so much strife.  

A reverent drag of your hand down one elegant plait has you gazing at your savior in awe.  “How do you know how to do this?” you breathe.  “It’s so good.”

The corner of Eddie’s mouth ticks up in the most charmingly impish way, popping a rogue dimple in his left cheek.  “Ah well,” he muses as he stands to lead you back to the gym, “I may have been told by a certain uncle that learning how to do it would make me look less like a heathen.”  He sneaks a glance at you before tossing you a wink.  “And it would make me popular with the ladies.”

“Oh,” your lips twist into a smirk, “how’s that workin’ out for you?”

Eddie dips his chin near the shell of you ear, and the shiver that crawls down your spine isn’t due to the cold, for once. “I dunno, sweetheart,” his breath fans warm over the sensitive skin of your neck. “You tell me.”

Your arrival home is a little later than normal. Even though the stop at Bradley’s went smoothly, you’re still breezing through the front door about an hour later than usual.  There’s no hiding from your family, however – as soon as that front door slams, your mom pokes her head around the hall.  

“Hi.”

She’s got the biggest, corniest smile on her face.  It makes you really unnerved.  “Hi?”

The smile widens, like a goddamn Cheshire cat.  “Got anything you wanna tell me?”

Your brows furrow in a pinch over your nose.  “Uh…” Theres no way she knows about skipping out on the nurse, right?  “No, I don’t think so?”

“Ha!” your grandmother cackles from her perch in her easychair.  “Liar!”

You round on her, grocery bag swaying with the movement of your body.  “Oh, what now?” you call back.  “How am I a liar?”

There’s a light in your mother’s eyes that dances just as much as teases when she says, “I wouldn’t say a liar, my dear,” she chides, sacchrine-sweet, “just withholding vital information.  Wouldn’t you say, Gran?”

“Yep!” Gran hollers again, “I would!”

You’re smiling in earnest now yay the threat of trouble is gone. “What in the heck are you two up my ass about?!”

Your mom holds a piece of paper pinched between her fingers.  “Someone called for you.”

The grin that widened so over your lips drops from your face in an instant.  There’s no way – no way he’s already called.

It’s code, right?  It’s code that guys — after a girl give them their number — wait at least two or three days to call.  You expected that.  You convinced yourself of that after you told Eddie Munson that yes, his hair-braiding deal did work quite well with you (a lady, he was quick to remind), and you wasted no time darting into the locker room to grab a pen and piece of scrap paper from your bag to scribble your home number.

It has to be Joy from chemistry, instead.  Or maybe Jeff – he was in your accounting class and you guys had that project together earlier in the year.  From the way your elders are looking at you with such playful expectancy, you’ve deduced it has to have been a boy that called.

Your Gran confirms your thought with an adorably irritating lilt, “It was a booooooy!”

Rolling your eyes, you try to ignore how your heart flutters. Instead, it disobeys — stuttering out of rhythm as your mom hands you her neatly folded message.

No way was that boy Eddie Munson…

The paper crinkles, dry and scratchy against your fingers that threaten to flush cold again as the adrenaline surges through your system.  You choke on a soft scoff, grinning madly to yourself as you scan her note.

Eddie Munson called to check in, he says call him back if you want to.  

I THINK YOU WANT TO!

“Jesus mom,” you mutter, shoving the paper in the back pocket of your jeans, “meddle much?”

You mother merely shrugs as she ambles past you to the kitchen.  “I thought he sounded very nice.”

“And handsome!” Gran pipes from the den.  “Very deep voice, that one!”

The rush of heat to your chest and cheeks effectively stops the bite of Raynauds in its tracks.  “Grandma!” you scoff over a laugh, “stop!”

If you could, you’d take the stairs two at a time.  As Lupus would have it, you’re stuck with singles, but in no time you’re in the privacy of your own room; door shut, latch locked, and phone in lap, waiting to dial the number left below your mother’s annoying little underlined annotation.  The nerves have kicked up again, but you’re pleasantly surprised to find that the little pit of worry isn’t as bad as you’d expected.  In fact, you’re excited to return this call.

The phone picks up on the second ring.  “Heeello,” Eddie drawls, “Munson’s.”

He’s already got you smiling and he’s barely said two words.  Some of the shyness is gone as you mimic his greeting.  “Heeey there, Eddie.”

It’s like you can hear how his face visibly lights up.  “Oh!” he exclaims into the receiver, making you jerk the phone back away from your ear, “It’s Jagger!”

“Jagger?!”

“Yeah! Uh, cause… yknow, the song, I — um, nevermind.”  His awkward silence is filled with the powdery-soft sound of your giggles, of how your cheeks burn with the strain of holding this perma-grin you seem to have developed in his presence.  He takes a deep breath.  “Are you okay?”

Right – the reason why he called.  “I am, actually.  Thanks to you,” now-warmed fingers trace over the braid that’s still held secure along your scalp.  Clearing your throat, you sit up straight, mustering up confidence you already feel.  “Um, so I have a question.”

“Shoot, sweetheart.”

“I did some shopping after school.”  Your smile widens to the point where it crinkles the delicate skin around your shining eyes.  “D’ya happen to have a pair of electric clippers?”

The very next day, Chrissy Cunningham scurries as fast as her Mary-Janes will allow over slick, overwaxed tile.  “Jas!” she calls to the blonde young man in the green and yellow letterman’s jacket, “hey babe!”

Jason Carver turns to greet his girl with a smile and a soft embrace.  “Hey, hon,” his adoration rumbles deep in his chest, “how was homeroom?”

Chrissy’s bright blue eyes are on fire; she’s got a look about her and oh – Jason knows that look.  “Okay,” Chrissy begins, her lids flaring and grin dropping to a conspiratorial smirk to convey the seriousness of the situation, “so you know how I told you I told off Carol yesterday for being such a bitch to –”

Jason nods and finishes her sentence by murmuring your name.  “Yeah, you did.”  He glances quickly over his shoulder, making sure Chase and Patrick are out of earshot.  Dropping his tone, he dips his lips by his girlfriend’s ear.  “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Chrissy murmurs back sweetly, taking the same consideration to keep her voice low.  “I told her it was my cousin, so she doesn’t know it’s, y’know, your sister that has alopecia.  Not that she’d care, but…”

“Still appreciate you keeping that between us,” Jason finishes as he wraps her in his jacket, a winter lunchtime ritual.  He leans in and kisses the top of her head, having to jerk his face away from the peppy swing of a strawberry-blonde ponytail as they make their way down the hall.

Chrissy nuzzles into his side before starting up again.  “Okay, so this morning – ohmigod, Jas, you’ll never believe – she comes in to homeroom today with her head like, half-buzzed like this –” the cheerleader gestures to the right side of her head from her eyebrows all the way to the nape of her slender neck, “dyed this gorgeous pinky-magenta color there, the other side is crimped and teased and dyed a yellow-orange.  Jas, like, holy shit, holy shit –”

“Holy shit,” he teases, “got it.” 

“Yes!” Chrissy squeals, “she looked so, so good!”  

“You gettin’ any ideas, babe?”

She wrinkles her dainty nose.  “Nah, I could never pull that off.”  Jason raises a brow at his girlfriend, as if to say, uh – yes you could, but she bats it away with an excited flit of her hand.  “Okay, so – she walks right by Carol who looks like a ogre with how her mouth hangs open, I swear to god she stops –” Chrissy pauses for effect, “looks Carol up and down, shakes her head so it bounces the fluff in her hair around and she goes,”

Chrissy’s timbre drops to mimic yours, “It’s a side effect of lice, Carol.  Or d-d-did you not fucking know that?” 

Jason guffaws, mildly impressed with your tenacity but all the more pleased when it brightens Chrissy’s face to see him so engaged and laughing at her story.

Chrissy’s feathery giggles trail off in the din of the surrounding students as they file into the cafeteria.  Her arm tightens around Jason’s middle.  “But the best part?”

“There’s more?!”  Jason’s sharp green eyes flare in comic disbelief, gazing down at his girl with mock slackjawed awe.

“Shut up!” Chrissy beams, delivering a swat to his chest with no real malice behind it.  Her grin is sly, playing up the mischief to the extreme.  “She was wearing Eddie’s leather jacket.”

The thick, sandy eyebrows on Jason’s forehead travel in a slow, northern path to pinch in faux-interest above his nose.  “Munson’s jacket, huh?”

Chrissy nods in rapid, giddy succession, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.  “Isn’t that so super cute?”

Truth be told, Jason Carver couldn’t care less about The Freak and who’d actually be willing to wear his jacket around school, but to see his girl – the one in his jacket, light up so much when she tells her story about you?

Well.  He can’t help but agree.  “Sure, Chris,” he yanks her close and plants a kiss to the top of her head as he jests, “it’s so super cute.”

Y/N knew the brothers first by reputation then introduced by Bobby a few years back when she ran into a pair of lamias. The hunt ended well and Y/N enjoyed the craziness of the case with them as they did with her, so they have remained in contact since.

It had been months since Y/N and the Winchesters had hunted together. She had picked up a weird case in a typical suburban area that she couldn’t put her finger on, so she gave up after two weeks and called them for help.

They drove in and met at her hotel room. When they came up to the third floor and knocked, having seen your old Ford Escape was there, but Y/N didn’t answer. They exchanged a look between them and Dean pounded on the door as Sam called you. Still silent except for your ringtone coming from inside the room—one that Dean had recommended for their ringtone of Metallica he liked. Dean moved to the side and drew his gun as Sam backed up doing the same and then kicked the door in.

Y/N laid across the closest queen size bed to the door. A small open box fell on to the bed next to her. Dean ran up to and kept beside her to check her pulse, “She good.” Sam with his gun at the ready checked the small hotel room, “All clear.” He went and closed the door while Dean checked her out.

She was in a pale pink tank top and blue jeans tucked into calf-high black boots. Sam quickly searched in the closet and under the bed and drawers, “Dean.” A hex bag in his hand and anger began to cross his features. He opened and tore up the bag then trashed it.

Dean looked very confused at the bag then at Sam and motioned for him to look at her, “Y/N has pink stuff on her.”

Sam looked at him, “What?” He leaned over her and looked carefully, a fine pink powder dusted much of her face and neck. He saw a pen on the nightstand and took it using it like a stick to turn the box upright. “Whatever it is, it was in the box,” Sam stated.

Dean glanced at the box then back to Y/N. “Maybe after cleaning it off, she’ll wake up?” Dean questioned out loud and moved to the bathroom before Sam could reply to get a wet washcloth. He returned with a warm, wet washcloth and a dry one and started gently to wipe her face and neck off.

Y/N began to stir, her eyebrows slightly furrowed and with a quietly sleepy voice she said , “Stop” as she tried to move her face from the washcloth. She attempted to lift her hands but struggled. Dean smirked at her reaction thinking it was cute. “You got whammied, Y/N.” He said as he wiped where he had removed the powder with the dry washcloth. Her eyes fluttered for a few seconds. When she finally opened her eyes and saw Dean’s face, she smiled brightly at him, “Hey.”

Sam watched the exchange with a quiet chuckle.

“Hey, Sweetheart. Just trying to get this powder off of you,” Dean explained.

“Powdered?” Y/N slurred slightly.

Dean picked up the box with the wet washcloth and moved it to her nightstand away from her after showing her.

“Ugh. That bitch. I’m gonna hurt her,” she attempted to exclaim angrily but sounded more drunk as she slurred her words. She tried getting up but Dean pushed her back down, “No, we don’t know what this stuff did to you. You need to relax.”

“I’m fine. Jennifer said she’d send me some new evidence and apparently this is it,” Y/N looked sleepily annoyed.

She tried to motion to the chest of drawers the tv was on, “My, uh…” She looked confused and the brothers exchanged a worried look. She took a deep breath, “TV. Thing you write on.”

Sam looked and saw the pad of paper. He held up the small pad.

“Yeah, Jennifer and Mitchell…um—“ she suddenly yawned and shook her head. She slowly sat up and Dean leaned away slightly. Y/N blinked a few times. She looked at her hands and shook them out. “I’m tingly,” she looked so confused.

“You ok, Y/N?” Asked Dean, concern written all over his face.

“Brain fog. Haven’t been doing great lately. Thought a case would be a good distraction.” She looked at her pants and jeans but didn’t find anything on them.

Sam had been examining Y/N’s notes on the pad about the case. “Lawrence?”

“That’s them,” Y/N quickly responded. A sudden wave of nausea came over her, “Oo oo oo, I need to shower. I don’t know what this shit is but it ain’t good.”

“Need help?” Asked Dean.

Sam giving Dean a look.

“I think I do,” Y/N said worriedly. “Nausea. Dizziness is slowly becoming an issue…or an ear crystal dislodged?”

The brothers looked at her like she was crazy, “it’s part of your equilibrium. You have fluid with ear crystals that your brain recognizes for balance but if they move, it fucks upyour equalibrium until they get moved back in place.”

“Ear crystals?” Asked Sam.

Y/N looked more annoyed. “Google is your friend. Type in ear crystals.” She rolled her eyes, “It’s human biology, people.” She quickly stood up and instantly regretted it and the dizziness immediately worsened causing her to fall without realizing it.

Dean caught her easily, “Hey, Swerheart. You need to rest.”

“I need to shower,” she replied and stood herself back up. With a deep breath and took a slow step forward with Dean attached to her right arm.

Sam looked at Dean who shrugged and then Sam lifted the notepad motioning silently he will go check it out. Dean nodded as Y/N slowly made it to the bathroom.

Y/N interjected, “If you can, Sam, see if you can determine if the Lawrence’s actually did whatever this is and if so, find out what and if it can be reversed. I might have the ingredients in my backpack or know where to get them depending on rarity. If they didn’t, I don’t know.” She turned on the bathroom light with a grin, “Whoot. Ha. Ha.” She slipped from Dean’s grasp and leaned on the small bathroom counter slowly turned around and stared at the combo shower-bath, brow furrowed.

“Will do,” said Sam and he left.

“How you doing there, Y/N?” Dean asked watching her lean against the counter.

“The dizziness is subsiding,” Y/N said then added, “slowly.” She stood up with her lower back touching the counter’s edge. She looked at Dean, “Nudity an issue for you?”

Dean looked at her confused and stepped in the bathroom. He felt his cock stir some at the thought of seeing Y/N naked.

She explained, ”Could you help me get in the shower? Worried I’ll slip and fall.”

Dean gave his best confident smile and nodded, “Yeah, no problem.” He took off his jacket and threw it on the bed closest to the bathroom then went back and waited for Y/N to tell him what to do next. “What do you need me to do?”

“Would you turn in the shower and just stand there while I work to get undressed?”

Dean nodded and went to the shower turn it to a nice warm temperature and went back to his spot next to her but faced to the shower and away from the mirror to give her what little privacy he could offer. She looked at him and giggled, making him glance at her. “You’re sweet, Dean and it’s a chivalrous gesture, but nudity is nudity, a body is a body, and it’s only sexual if you want it to be, and none of that really bothers me. So, if you want to look then look.” She chuckled at him as she took off her jacket and put it folded on the counter next to her.

Dean looked at her surprised. He knew that she was unlike other hunters he’d met, men or women, and she wasn’t easily won by his charms. He had not ever thought of the human body that way. Not sexualizing it automatically but choosing to or not.

She held onto the counter and Dean’s arm as she kicked off her boots under the sink then stepped on the toe of her sock and pulled and repeated with the other foot.

“Huh? I never thought of doing that,” Dean said looking at her feet.

“I don’t always have good use of my hands so I have to figure out other ways to do things sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, very interested. Y/N never talked much about herself besides her interests and other typical conversation items. He didn’t know much about her personally.

She smiled at him and looked at him, “I really shouldn’t be hunting but it makes the most sense to me after everything.”

“Oh, I understand that.” He agreed.

She pulled off her tank top and sports bra in one go. Dean was unprepared for the sudden sight of her breasts— soft, a bit bigger than palm size for him , which was plenty, with surprisingly matching colored areolas and nipples to her top, and a pale scar on the outside of her right breasts—and her abdomen, soft, round with some pudge. He wondered how it would feel holding her or kissing her. His cock was enjoying the view a little too much and caused him to cough and turn away as he tried to nonchalantly adjust himself. Stop it. He thought to himself frustrated at how his body wasn’t cooperating.

While she noticed looking her over as she undressed, she mentally shrugged.

He heard her unzip her jeans and then they fell to the floor. “Would you check the temp, please? Don’t want it too hot, ya know?”

“Sure,” he replied as he reached through the curtain and checked the temp with his hands “It’s good.”

“Good,” she replied while she looked down to the floor.

Dean looked to the floor and back up her legs and noticed how muscular her calves were and her thighs were just thick with some stretch marks here and there. “Problem?”

“Just deciding,” she stated. She shrugged, turned away from Dean, and hooked her fingers in the band on both sides. She slowly took them down her legs and bent at the waist, flashing her ass right in front of Dean. She hid a cheeky grin from him as she did, completely intentional.

“Feeling better?” Dean asked when he saw her finish getting undressed.

“Tingly but dizziness seems to almost be gone.”

“You said that before,” Dean asked, curious, but was still faced away from her. “What do you mean by ‘tingly’?”

“Almost like everything is vibrating, not jittery or shaky,” she paused a minute. “Give me your hand. It’s ok. Turn around.”

He slowly turned around and saw she had her hand held out for his with a small grin on her face. “Let me see if I can show you. Give ne your hand.”

He hesitated but did as she asked. He put his hand in her palm face up and gently tapped her finger tips on his palm and slowly sped up the tapping. The sensation she caused him went straight to his cock. As she sped up, leaned on the sink and closed his eyes, every tap went to his cock and spread out like lightning.

She paused as she looked at his handand examined his index finger, “what’s that on your finger?”

Dean opened his eyes alarmed and looked.

She leaned down and smelled it, “Mmmm?” There was just a touch of the pink powder still on his finger from when he checked her carotid pulse. The urge to suck his finger became overwhelming and was so unexpected, she just reacted.

She engulfed his index finger in her mouth sucked it slowly up to the tip and rubbed her teeth against the tip of his sensitive finger releasing a quiet groan from his throat. Not realizing she had closed her eyes or even was holding his hand captive in both of hers, she opened them looking at his face as she repeated this again, sucking even harder.

Dean closed his eyes as the sensation over took him and moaned, “Oh my god, Y/N.”

She released his finger with an audible pop and a smirk on her lips, “Do you want me to stop?”

Dean opened his eyes and looked confused at Y/N, “No.” A moment later, “Wait” and pulled his hand,which took a few times before Y/N let him go, from her grasp. He sighs and crinkles his freckled nose, “You’re under a spell or some kind of magick. As much…” He takes a deep breath as he just lingers over her naked form, “As much as I would absolutely love to continue this, that would be taking advantage of you and I’m not that guy.” He slowly took a step back, concerned.

She placed her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him, and then she turned around and picked up her pants digging in it. She took out her cell and dropped her pants, “Fine, I’ll call Sam. I’m sure he would.”

Dean yanked the cell out of her hand and threw it towards the bed, and came back blocking the door.

“Oooo, jealous?” Y/N asked and slowly walked towards him, slowly swaying her hips with each step. He but his lower lip as he watched her approach. He did not back up and she reached out her hand to his Henley. “So soft.” She licked her lips then pressed them together as if putting on lipstick. . “You always look good in these shirts. I bet the ladies love them.”

She watched his face as she spoke and now she stood barely an inch apart. She slowly wrapped her hands over his shoulders. “I know you want me, Dean Winchester. I’ve wanted you for quite some time myself,” she ran her nails down on to his chest causing a quick inhale from him. “But, well, you intimidated me, I didn’t think you’d ever go for someone like,” she said in a quiet voice, “little ol’ me. Fucked up, scarred, chubby hunter who is still new to the scene.” She paused a moment to run her fingertips up and down the side of his neck. She pressed herself into him watching his face with a grin.

“Not like you and your womanizer reputation. Hot, delicious Dean Winchester, amazing hunter and fighter, and amazing in bed with a masterful tongue and talented fingers. That’s what I’ve been told by several other female hunters.” She pushed at him slightly and turned away from him to sit on the closet toilet seat. She put her elbows on her knees, legs spread out which drew his eyes where she wanted them, her dripping wetness.

“I found you very intimidating. You got it all, Mr. Winchester. Ridiculously attractive. I’m sure you’re just delicious,” she licked her lower lip then bit driving a groan from him. “Family. Resourceful. Physically fit and surpassing stamina. You’re very funny. No matter what Sam says, you’re hilarious. And a complete pop culture geek which I adore.” her smile softened as she looked at him and her eyes changed in a manner he couldn’t recognize, “Yeah, you’re a self-medicating alcoholic who eats way too much junk and has a rage that escapes you from time to time in the right places it seems, but I would take that all just to have you be mine.”

She stood hesitating, shook her head a moment then added, “Since I’m being so honest, if something were to happen to you, Mr. Winchester, I don’t think I could take it.” She let him go and stepped into the shower and remained silent.

Dean stood there surprised at her confession with an arousal that was trying to break free of his jeans, and worried it was the spell talking and not her. He was worried he was also affected by the spell.

She stuck her head, soaking wet hair and water dripping down her face causing droplets to stay on her eyelashes with a cheeky grin on her lips, “You're welcome to join me.” She but her lower lip and went back into the shower.

Dean was unable to say no anymore and gave into the invite. Quickly stripping, he closed and locked the bathroom door. Sorry, Sammy, he thought to himself right before he joined her in the shower.

An hour after he left, Sam came back to the room on his phone, “Ok. Thanks, Rowena. Will call if she doesn’t change by tomorrow afternoon.” He hung up and realized the shower was running but no one was on the beds. He heard moaning from the bathroom and scoffed. Oh my god, Dean. No, Sam thought and walked right back out of the room. He texted Dean telling him he was getting them a room at the motel and to call him when they were done.

Comments and Feedback are welcome!

Graphics: @firefly-graphics

“I don’t know,” you responded. “You?”

“Yeah. Want to go together later?”

“Sounds great.”

It had been a few months since the team found out about your rheumatoid arthritis. They had all been extremely supportive and caring, as well as overprotective. It took you tattling to Fury to get Tony and Steve to let you train again. Not to mention Bruce’s constant check ups and blood tests. Tony had even upgraded your watch to make it easier on himself and Bruce to track everything.

During the time since your illness came out, you and Tony had also become an official couple. To no one’s real surprise. He was so sweet and understanding about your illness, and had truly read everything he could on the subject. You in turn were caring and understanding about his struggles with PTSD, like you had been when you were friends.

“Hey honey,” Tony greeted coming into your shared room as you were trying to get undressed. “Need help?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “You mind helping me undress? I’m struggling to get my shirt off.”

“Sure thing.” Tony came over and began taking your shirt off. “Are your shoulders bugging you today?”

“Yeah. I tried not to use them too much in training today, but I couldn’t help it.”

Tony shook it head slightly and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “You need to be more careful.”

“It’s just my shoulders today, Tony. And I took some meds before you came it. I’ll be fine.”

He sighed as he finished taking your shirt off for you, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Do you need help in the shower?”

“I’ll be fine, Tony.” 

“You sure? Cause I can be of some help.”

“Maybe tonight.” You leaned in and gave him a small kiss. “I have to hurry so I can meet up with Nat. We’re going dress shopping for the party on Friday.”

“Oh? Need help?”

“Nope.”

“Will you send me a picture?”

“I’d rather not. I’m trying to see how speechless I can leave the great billionaire, playboy.” You walked into the bathroom with a wink, shutting the door behind you.

~~~

“How about this one?” Natasha wondered, holding up a dress.

“Sure, why not?” You replied, adding the dress to the growing pile in your arms. With your shoulders already aching, the rest of your arms were slowly following. “I think that I’m ready to go try them on now. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to hold all these.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you in the fitting rooms. I’m just going to take one more look around before I start trying some on.”

You nodded before heading to the fitting room. Entering one, you laid the dresses out of the bench along the wall. You locked the door before trying to undress yourself. You sucked in a breath and winced as your shoulders screamed at you to not take your shirt off. Biting down on your bottom lip, you pulled your shirt over your head anyway. 

Slightly panting in relief, your head feel back and your eyes closes. You were trying to mentally cope with the pain. Taking another deep breath in, and slowly letting it out, you looked down at the dress on top. You lifted it so that you could see the back, revealing a long zipper. You sighed, upset at yourself for not noticing it sooner.

Because of your arthritis, you were unable to reach your back. So you wouldn’t be able to zip up the dress. You lifted it up and looked it over, sighing once again. The dress wouldn’t be able to be slipped over your head either. Putting the dress to the side, you began going over the other dresses in the pile, finding the same issue with them as well. Leaning back against the wall, you slid down it and buried your face in your hands. Why couldn’t you like a dress with a zipper on the side? Or, the bigger question, why do you have to have arthritis? 

You began to silently cry and panic slightly. How were you ever going to get a dress and surprise Tony? How were you ever going to be able to go dress shopping alone? There was a slight buzz on your wrist and you knew FRIDAY was sending information on your condition to Bruce and Tony, but you didn’t care at the moment. 

You don’t know how long you were sitting on the floor like that before you were interrupted.

“Hey, in there,” Natasha called, knocking on the locked door. “How’s it going?”

“Umm, it’s fine,” you replied, not sounding very convincing.

“Yeah? Find anything yet?”

“Not yet… uh, nothing’s fitting or looking good.”

“Really? Why don’t you show me? Maybe your mind is deceiving you.”

“Thanks, Nat, but I’m good. I think I’m just going to get dressed and go home. I’ll just wear something I already have.”

“Are you sure? I can go grab someth—“

“I’m good, Nat. Really. If you found something, go buy it and I’ll meet you out front.”

“…Okay. Meet you out front.”

~~~

It was painful getting your clothes back on. You could tell that Natasha knew that something was wrong, but wasn’t willing to push you about it. You went straight to your room, locking yourself in the connecting bathroom. You quickly swallowed down some medicine before putting some arthritis rub on your shoulders. Taking a few deep breaths, you tried to touch your hands together behind your back. On hand was going over a shoulder, the other was trying from the lower part of your back. Checking in the mirror, you could see that there was about 5 inches separating your hands from meeting. Tears trickled down your cheeks as you tried to push yourself to make them meet. 

“Honey?” Tony’s voice came from the other side of the door, with a slight knock. “Are you okay? FRIDAY’s sending Bruce and I some readings.” Instead of answering, you just let out a strangled sob. “Sweetheart? I’m coming in, okay?” FRIDAY unlocked the door and Tony quickly came in and pulled you into his arms. “What’s going on?”

“I—I can’t—I couldn’t—“

“Hold on, honey, you’re panicking.” He lifted you up so that you were sitting on the counter, and he cupped your face. “Just breathe, Y/N. Just breathe. I’m right here. And when you’re ready, you can tell me what’s going on.”

“I-I couldn’t find a dress.”

“Okay, that’s fine. You can wear something you already have.”

“No.” You shook your head slightly. “I couldn’t find a dress I could put on myself.”

“Oh.” Tony nodded, finally understanding.

“And I just wanted to look nice and surprise you.”

“Honey, you always look nice. Even when you’re dusty and have blood on you after a fight, you’re always the most beautiful person to me.”

“I just wanted to surprise you and I can’t even dress myself!” You slammed a fist against the counter.

“Woah! Honey!” He quickly grabbed your hand and pressed small kisses to it. “Please don’t hurt yourself.”

“Why does it matter? I’m useless anyway, or I will be, sooner than we all want to admit.”

“Stop right there!” Tony held your face so that you had to look at him. “You are not useless, nor will you ever be. Yes, you have your struggles. But you are a fighter and have proven that you aren’t one to give up. Why now?”

“I’m just so tired of it, Tony… I just want to not feel this way anymore… I want to be able to dress myself and not have my joints screaming in pain every time I move. I want to be able to have sex with you and be able to enjoy every single second of it… I want to consider the possibility of maybe having kids, without my joints telling me no… I want to be normal.”

Tony chuckled, rubbing his thumbs against your cheeks. “Honey, there is no such thing as normal. And that is okay. It hurts me to know that you are struggling through all this and that there is so little I can do. But, I will be by your side through whatever you need. You need me to brush your hair and wash your body? I’m there. You need me to make the bed or help you dress? I’m there. You need me to do all the work during sex? I got you. I am here for you, even when the time comes that you may be wheelchair bound. I am not leaving and Bruce and I will not stop trying to find something that eases your pain.”

“I love you, Tony.”

“Love you too.” He pressed a soft kiss on your lips. “Now, how about we go dress shopping again and you let me enjoy helping you into a dress, okay?”

“Okay.”

~~~

Dress shopping with Tony was actually enjoyable. It helped that he was treating you like a queen the whole time. He helped you into each dress, occasionally pressing gentle kisses onto your exposed skin. He praised you in each dress, telling you how gorgeous you looked but that it was up to you whether or not you got the dress. None of the dresses though were calling to you, which wasn’t making you feel much better. 

“I have one more idea,” Tony said after you had just said no to the last dress in your fitting room. He quickly unzipped you. “I’ll be right back.”

He rushed out of the small room, leaving you confused. You cringed at you got out of the dress and put it back on the hanger. Hugging your mid section, you stood there, nervously waiting for Tony to return. When he did, he came back with a dress that wasn’t exactly on your list of choices.

“Tony, I don’t know,” you told him, shaking your head a little. 

“I know it’s usually not your style, but could you just try it on. For me?” 

He knew very well that you had a hard time saying no when he used his big brown eyes and asked like that. 

You sighed, “Fine.”

Tony was way too excited to get you into that dress. You let him, just wanting to make him happy, as he was just trying to do with you. You tried not look in the mirror at all as Tony helped you into the dress. 

“Done,” he said softly after getting you all zipped up.

You took a deep breath and finally examined yourself in the mirror. You were shocked. Yes, you would have never picked this dress out for yourself, but it was perfect. You looked at Tony in the mirror, who was silent.

“It’s perfect, Tony,” you said softly. “Absolutely perfect.”

He carefully wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder. He smirked as he made eye contact with you in the mirror.

“No,” he responded at the same volume. “You’re perfect.”

Notes: Again, every experiences arthritis differently. This is just a sample on how I feel it. Thank you for reading and your support! If you enjoyed this please check out these:

My Superhero - Steve Rogers x Reader

Purple - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Here’s a sneak peak of more of my work to come:

2 - Out Of Time: Morgan Stark x Mom!Reader x Dad!Tony Stark

3 - Avengers x Teen!Reader

4 - Out Of Time: Uncle!Steve Rogers x Niece!Morgan Stark

5 - Tony Stark x Reader

6 - Bucky Barnes x Plus Size!Reader

7 - Sam Wilson x Reader

8 - Bucky Barnes x Patella Alta!Reader

9 - Tony Stark x Autistic!Reader

10 - Tony Stark x Reader

Y/N laid on the floor, staring at the same ceiling they often was forced to look at on their bad days. Their body was throbbing and the world spun whenever they tried to stand. Unfortunately they were the only one home. Luckily Jonathan always came over to check on them if they didn’t appear in school.