#chronically ill!reader

She had told herself that it was just a baby. A small, sleepy thing bundled in cream knit and snuggled in blankets, warm, real and alive.

She was halfway through laughing at something Lando said when she saw it. The sound died in her throat so quickly it almost hurt.

Lando noticed immediately. He always did.

“What?” He asked softly, smile fading as his eyes tracked her gaze.

And then he saw it too.

A pram parked near the hospitality doors. A couple leaning over it, cooing. The tiniest sock she had ever seen dangling from the edge like it might fall off and float away.

Her fingers tightened around the paper cup in her hands.

“Oh,” Lando breathed,

She hated that sound. She hated that he knew what she was thinking about.

“I’m okay,” she lied automatically.

She wasn’t. Not even close. Suddenly she wasn’t in the paddock anymore, it was like she was somewhere colder.

White walls. Bleach and antiseptic. The hum of fluorescent lights and a doctor who wouldn’t look at her for more than three seconds at a time.

There had been a screen and a deafening silence. Then the words that still echoed sometimes in the worst moments, when she let her guard down.

I’m sorry.

That was all it had taken. Two words to split her life clean in half.

She blinked hard, dragging herself back into the present like she was clawing her way through the thick fog.

Lando’s hand found hers, warm and grounding. His thumb brushed across her knuckles like he was trying to smooth something invisible away.

She swallowed and forced a smile. “I said I’m okay.”

He didn’t argue. That was the thing about Lando. He never pushed when the cracks showed. He just stayed close enough that she could reach him when she needed to.

But that day, even that felt too much.

She could hear the baby making small noises and it hit her straight in the chest like a physical blow.

Her lungs forgot how to work.

Because it wasn’t just the miscarriage anymore.

It was the months after. The waiting. The quiet hope she tried not to feel.

It was the negative tests hidden at the bottom of the bin. It was tracking cycles like a second job. It was holding her breath every month only to feel the familiar drop of disappointment settle heavy in her stomach.

I was the way time kept moving for everyone else.

She had thought she was doing better.

Months of pretending had almost convinced her. Until then.

“I need some air,” she said quickly.

Lando didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah okay.”

He didn’t ask if she wanted him to come. He just moved with her, guiding without touching too tightly, like she might shatter if he did.

They slipped out a side door into the cool afternoon.

The paddock noise dulled instantly, replaced by distant engines and the hum of generators. The sky was pale, the kind of washed-out blue that made everything feel a little unreal.

She wrapped her arms around herself.

“I hate this,” she whispered. The words surprised even her. She hadn’t said them out loud before.

Lando kept quiet, so she kept talking.

“I hate that it still does this to me. I hate that I see a baby and suddenly it’s like–” her voice cracked, “Like I’m right back there again.”

She remembered gripping the edge of the bed so hard her fingers went numb. She remembered the way Lando had held her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

But there was more now. A quieter grief layered over the first.

“I thought losing them was the worst part,” she admitted shakily. “I didn’t realise that the worst part wasn’t over.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“The trying,” she whispered. “The hoping. The waiting every month just to be disappointed again.”

Her throat tightened painfully.

“I kept thinking next time would be different. That maybe my body just needed time. Maybe it would happen again and we’d get our chance.”

She laughed brokenly. “But it never did.”

Lando exhaled slowly, like the air weighed something.

She kept staring at the ground.

“I couldn't ever be happy for people properly.” Her mouth trembled. “I saw babies and I just thought about ours. And the ones that never came.”

That was the part she almost never said. The quiet infertility grief that no one saw because there was nothing visible to mourn. No hospital room. No announcement. Just an absence that stretched on and on.

“I thought about what they would’ve looked like. If they would’ve had your smile.” A shaky laugh escaped her. “Or your curls.”

A fragile sound left him - something between a laugh and a sob.

“I thought about how old they would be now,” she continued.” What they would be doing. If they’d like racing or if they’d hate it.”

Her throat closed. “And then I remember that they aren’t here. And that I don't know if they ever will be.”

A bone pressing silence fell between the two of them. Thick and heavy.

For a moment she thought she might crumble right there on the asphalt. That the grief would finally win and split her open where everyone could see.

But then Lando stepped closer. He reached for her slowly, like he was asking for permission without using words.

And then she broke. The sob came out ugly and sudden, tearing its way up from somewhere deep and buried.

She buried her face in his chest, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“I’m sorry,” she choked. “I’m so sorry,”

“For what?” He murmured instantly, hand cradling the back of her head.

“For ruining today. For still being like this. For–” Her voice shattered. “For not being able to give you a baby.”

The words fell out before she could stop them.

The one fear she had never said aloud. The one that lived in the darkest corners of her mind and whispered when she was alone.

She felt him go completely still. Then he pulled back just enough to look at her. There was something in his expression, something almost angry.

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough.

She blinked, startled.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

“But it’s true,” she whispered. “I couldn’t–”

“No.” His hands tightened on her arms, not hurting her but grounding her. “That wasn’t your fault.”

Tears blurred her vision.

“But my body–”

“Your body didn’t fail me,” he said, firmer now. “Or us.”

His thumb brushed under her eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

“We lost a baby,” he said quietly. “And we’ve been hurting ever since. That doesn’t mean you’re broken.”

She couldn’t breathe. He said it so simply, like it was obvious.

But the guilt had been living inside her for so long that hearing him say it felt almost unreal.

“I think about them too,” he admitted softly.

Her heart twisted.

“I’ve seen kids and wondered,” he continued. “All the time, what they’d be like if they’d be loud. If they’d steal my hoodies. If they’d roll their eyes at me.”

A tear slipped down his cheek and he didn’t even seem to notice.

“But do you know what I don’t think?” He said.

She shook her head, barely breathing.

“I don’t think you took that away from me.”

The words landed somewhere deep in her chest, cracking something open.

“I didn’t lose a future,” he whispered. “I just got a different one. And you’re still in it.”

Her lips trembled. The last fragile piece of control inside her snapped. She sobbed into him, shoulders shaking, every ounce of grief that she had bottled up, finally spilled over. Every quiet breakdown, every forced smile, every moment she pretended she was okay when she wasn’t. The pain of knowing that she couldn't give them the child they were both so desperate for.

He held her through all of it.

His hands stayed warm and steady on her back, like he was memorising the shape of her pain so she didn’t have to carry it alone.

Eventually, her breaths evened out into shaky inhales, hiccuping remnants of sobs catching in her throat.

He pulled her back into his arms and held her through the quiet storm that followed, every ounce of grief, every silent negative test, every moment she had felt like time was leaving them behind.

They stayed outside until the air felt easier to breathe.

Her tears slowed, then stopped, leaving only the dull ache behind her ribs, the kind that never fully disappeared, but didn’t feel quite so sharp when she wasn’t carrying it alone.

Lando didn’t rush them back inside. He just stayed beside her, their fingers loosely intertwined, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles against her skin like he was reminding her that he was there and she was safe.

© rosietoesf1 — please do not repost, translate, or copy without permission ♡

As you pushed your fist against your stomach, you hoped that the pressure would make the pain ease up. It didn’t do much. The sensation swiftly switched to feeling like it was searing. Without even realizing it, you’d let out a small whimper. That paired with your frequent movement woke Daryl up and he lifted his head. The tent was still dark, but the moment his eyes adjusted, he saw the pinch between your brows. His baby was in pain. Your boyfriend’s voice broke the tense silence.

“What’s wrong, darlin’? You hurtin’?”

Despite not wanting to come off as pathetic as you felt, hot tears of frustration and hurt ran down your cheeks. You were so tired of feeling like this. Surviving an apocalypse was hard enough, a pain flare was the last thing that you needed. The second that Daryl heard your sobs, his hands cradled your face and his thumbs brushed away your tears. His voice was soft in a way that it only was for you.

“Oh, honey. I got you.”

You weren’t able to talk yet, so you just kept crying. It felt as if someone was stabbing a heated blade into your abdomen and twisting. Before the outbreak, you would’ve taken some painkillers and whipped out your well-loved heating pad. That wasn’t an option anymore. At this point, you weren’t sure what would help.

Daryl took a moment to think and come up with a way to help you. It was breaking his heart to see you in this much agony. Your eyes were glassy, cheeks streaked with tears, and your jaw was clenched so tightly that it made his teeth ache. After exhaling shakily, you managed to talk through gritted teeth.

“It really fuckin’ hurts. I-I’m not bein’ dramatic.”

“Sweetheart, listen to me, I ain’t think that you’re bein’ dramatic. Not even a little bit. If you say you’re hurtin’, I believe you.”

Even though you knew that Daryl would never accuse you of lying about your pain, you were used to others downplaying the severity of your experience. He wasn’t doing that, though. Instead, he was sitting in it with you and making an effort to comfort you. It broke his heart that this wasn’t something that he could fight or fix. The whole situation made him feel out of control in a way that he hadn’t in years.

Your boyfriend’s hand was clasped in yours as he finally turned on a lantern. The second the tent was lit up, and Daryl was able to see the full extent of your current state, his chest felt tight. Your skin was pale and there was a slight sheen of sweat coating it. Taking a steadying breath, he reached over, and his hand hovered over your abdomen. He spoke up hesitantly.

“Can I touch you? Does that help, or would it make things worse?”

“You- you can touch me. Please touch me.”

Daryl’s large, warm palm splayed across the expanse of your stomach. He applied a bit of pressure and rubbed slow circles into your skin. Since his mother had passed when he was younger, there were parts of periods that he didn’t understand. The two of you had gotten together before the outbreak, so he’d had time to learn. One of the first things that he’d done was go to the library and use one of the computers to read up on chronic pain.

The light massage was easing the hurt ever-so slightly, but you needed more. You shifted beneath his palm and groaned softly. Why wasn’t the pain going away? Realistically, you knew that the flare was far from over, but you were desperate for things to go back to baseline. Daryl tried to soothe you further by running his fingers through your hair. He pressed a kiss to your temple and asked softly.

“Is this helpin’ any?”

“Kinda. Fuck, this is a nightmare.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know. I wish that I could take this from you.”

He placed another kiss to the side of your head and continued rubbing your skin. It’s times like this that you wanted to go back to before. Life wasn’t perfect, but your condition was much more manageable. Daryl could tell that you craved more pressure, and he came up with an idea.

“Hear me out, darlin’. What if I lie on top of you? It’ll kinda be like that weighted heatin’ pad that we used to have. I can be like a fuckin’ furnace, if you need me to be.”

The idea was so ridiculous, but helpful at the same time. To Daryl’s surprise, this elicited a small laugh from you. The sound was a welcome change from your agonized sobs. He smiled and gave you a chaste kiss to the lips. His tone was slightly cocky when he spoke again.

“C’mon, it’s a great idea. If you hate it, I’ll hop off immediately.”

“Fuck it. Let’s give it a try.”

Not having to be told twice, Daryl shifted on top of you and settled some of his weight on your lower belly. The heat from his stomach combined with the pressure from his weight provided relief almost immediately. You sighed deeply and got comfortable. This was working shockingly well. Your breathing evened out, and your voice lost that distressed tone.

“Holy shit, Daryl. That’s so much better. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’d do anythin’ for my girl.”

You didn’t have a clear view of his face from this squished position, but you could practically hear the grin in his voice. Daryl was ecstatic that he’d relieved your pain and given you some comfort. He was even happier when he realized that you were starting to drift off again. Kissing the top of your head, he whispered into your ear.

“Just rest, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

It didn’t take long for you both to fall back asleep. Daryl’s methods had worked wonders, and you were beyond grateful for how loved you were.

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You felt the AC hitting thr back of your neck, sending goosebumps through your body. You hadn't had the best of days. It had started rough with bouts of nausea. You had to get up for work so you took a few different pills before getting ready and hoping they'd actually work today. You hadn't communicated properly to Wanda all day so when you finally came over to her place after work and she was still in her home office doing paperwork you became rather whiny since you were at your limit for talking which got you sent to the corner. 

You're not sure if it's better or worse that she didn't make you face the corner as tears welled up in your eyes as you stood there just wanting her. No matter how hard you tried, words just weren't happening and whining was making it worse. 

That is until Natasha walks through the door, you scowl a bit. You and Natasha bumped heads a lot and you weren't with her. Just Wanda. They'd opened up their marriage in hopes to find someone for the both of them and yet Natasha allowed this, allowing you to just be with her wife. 

"Wands, why is she in the corner? She looks like a kicked puppy." 

"She isn't communicating properly and so I sent her there." Wanda spoke without looking up. Natasha looked you over, really looked you over. 

"Wands." Natasha spoke, a sturdier pitch to make Wanda look at her wife. "Look at her. I don't think she can right now."

Natasha waits until Wanda actually looks at you.

Really looks.

Your shoulders are up around your ears, fingers twisted into the hem of your shirt so tight your knuckles are pale. Your breathing is shallow, uneven, the kind that says you’re holding yourself together with thread and stubbornness. There’s a sheen of sweat at your hairline despite the AC blasting, your stomach audibly protesting as you swallow back another wave of nausea.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just… tremble. Wanda’s chest tightens immediately.

“…malyshka?” she murmurs, tone softening without her meaning to.

Natasha steps closer, crouching slightly so she’s at your eye level without invading your space. She keeps her hands behind her back open, non-threatening.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “You’re not in trouble right now. Okay?” Your lower lip wobbles. A sound tries to come out, something between a whine and a sob, but it dies in your throat. You shake your head, overwhelmed, eyes glassy. Natasha exhales through her nose and straightens, turning to Wanda. “She’s past words,” she says firmly. “This isn’t bratty. This is a shutdown.”

Wanda’s breath stutters. She’s out of her chair in an instant.

“Oh…oh no,” Wanda says, guilt flooding her voice as she crosses the room. “Malyshka, Mama didn’t realize… I’m sorry. I should’ve checked in. I should have felt it.”

You flinch slightly when she gets close, not because you don’t want her, but because everything feels like it’s too much. Wanda freezes immediately, hands hovering in the air.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, Mama’s here. I won’t touch unless you want me to.”

Natasha watches the exchange carefully. There’s something in her gaze that softens, not jealousy, not resentment, but concern.

“She must have been nauseous all day,” Natasha says gently. “Look at her. She’s exhausted.” You’re surprised Natasha says it first. Eyes flicking to the red head and then back at Wanda.

Wanda nods rapidly, eyes shining. “Baby, can you give me anything? Color? Sound? Point?”

Your fingers twitch. Slowly, shakily, you lift one finger and point at Wanda. A soft, broken sound leaves her chest. As if she should have known immediately, as if she should have just looked up for a moment and noticed before Natasha walked in.

“Okay,” Wanda says immediately. “You want Mama.” She turns her head slightly. “Nat… can you turn the AC down a bit? It’s too cold for her.”

Natasha doesn’t hesitate. She adjusts the thermostat, then grabs the soft throw blanket off the couch and drapes it loosely over your shoulders—careful, gentle, like she’s handling something fragile and precious.

“There,” she murmurs. “Better.”

You sag a fraction under the weight of it, tears finally spilling over. Wanda closes the remaining distance and pulls you into her chest, slow and deliberate so you can pull away if you need to. You don’t. You cling, burying your face against her shirt, whining softly as the day crashes down on you all at once.

“I’ve got you,” Wanda croons, rocking you gently. “You’re safe. You don’t need words. Mama understands now.”

Natasha watches you melt into Wanda’s arms—and something shifts. She clears her throat quietly. “I’ll make some ginger tea. And maybe toast? Plain. Easy on the stomach.”

Wanda looks up, surprised… and grateful. “Thank you.”

Natasha meets her eyes, steady and sincere.

“She doesn’t have to be mine,” Natasha says softly. “To matter.” Then she glances at you—curled into Wanda like you belong there—and adds, quieter, “But… she does.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

But when Natasha passes by again, mug warm in her hands, you don’t scowl this time.

You lean just a little closer into Wanda’s hold instead.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Wanda doesn’t rush you.

She keeps one arm firm around your back as she guides you down the hallway, the other hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades—grounding, steady. The bedroom lights are dimmed before you even notice her reaching for the switch. Soft. Safe.

“Okay, baby,” she murmurs. “We’re gonna get you comfy.”

She helps you sit on the edge of the bed and kneels in front of you to untie your shoes, sliding them off with care like even that might be too much stimulation. When she reaches for your hands, she waits—eyes on your face—until you nod faintly.

Your clothes come off slowly, replaced with your softest pajamas. The ones that are worn thin from washing, fabric smooth and familiar against your skin. Wanda presses a kiss to your knee as she pulls the pants up, reverent.

She grabs the trash can next; your trash can and sets it right beside the bed within easy reach. No comments. No judgment. Just preparedness.

“There,” she whispers. “Just in case.”

You sag with relief.

Wanda helps you lie back, propping pillows exactly how you like them without being asked. Then she slips in beside you, lifting the blanket so you can choose.

You hesitate for half a second before crawling toward her, instinct taking over.

You end up half on top of her, cheek pressed to her chest, your body angled left to keep the nausea from cresting too high. One leg thrown over her thigh, one arm tucked beneath her ribs. She adjusts instantly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting warm and solid on your hip.

“Good,” she hums. “Mama’s got you.”

Your breathing evens out just a little.

You lift your hand weakly and point toward the TV.

Wanda reaches for the remote without shifting you at all. “Put on whatever you want, baby.”

You fumble with the buttons, movements clumsy and slow, until the screen fills with something familiar. Something you’ve watched so many times you know every line, every beat. The sound is low. Predictable. Safe.

The tension in your shoulders eases as the opening plays.

“That one?” Wanda asks softly.

You nod, face still buried against her.

“Good choice,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You can just listen. Or watch. Or not do anything at all.”

Her thumb starts tracing lazy, repetitive lines along your side the exact same pattern every time. Your favorite. The nausea doesn’t disappear, but it dulls, pulled back into the background by warmth and familiarity and Wanda’s steady presence beneath you.

From the doorway, Natasha pauses.

She watches the way you’re draped over Wanda like gravity itself put you there. The way Wanda’s entire body is curved around you, protective and unyielding. Natasha doesn’t interrupt. She just quietly sets the mug of ginger tea on the nightstand, within reach, and leaves the door cracked.

Wanda notices. Her grip tightens just a fraction.

“You’re doing so good,” she whispers to you. “Just rest. Mama’s here all night.”

Your fingers curl into her shirt.

You slowly start to fall asleep on her after having some of the tea. Tea had never been your favorite, but the two women insisted it helped with things. You'd much rather have ginger ale though. The exhaustion of the day crept in slowly. As your breathing evened out of Wanda you heard the door open. Too exhausted to open your eyes. You knew it was Nat.

Natasha settles carefully, every movement measured so she doesn’t jostle you. The mattress dips just enough for you to register her warmth at your back, solid and grounding. She props herself on one elbow, eyes immediately flicking to you—your slackened grip on Wanda’s shirt, the slow rise and fall of your shoulders, the faint crease between your brows that hasn’t fully smoothed even in sleep.

“She crashed hard,” Natasha murmurs. “That’s good. She needs the rest.”

Wanda nods, fingers still tracing that same familiar pattern along your side. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even look away from you.

“I hate that I missed it,” Wanda whispers. “She was hurting all day and I…I corrected instead of cared.”

Natasha exhales softly and reaches out, resting her hand on Wanda’s forearm. Not stopping her. Just anchoring her.

“Wanda,” she says quietly, firmly. “You corrected behavior. You didn’t punish her. You didn;t put her over your desk and spank her or give her lines. The moment you saw it, you shifted. That matters.”

Wanda swallows. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It never does,” Natasha replies. “When you love someone like this.” She glances down at you again, voice lowering. “She didn’t pull away from you. Even in shutdown. That tells you everything.”

Wanda’s eyes shine. She bends her head and presses a gentle kiss to your hair, lingering there.

“She chose me,” Wanda whispers, almost to herself.

“Yes,” Natasha agrees. “And she trusts you to learn.”

For a moment, the only sound is the low murmur of the TV and your steady breathing. You shift slightly in your sleep, nose nudging closer into Wanda’s chest with a soft, needy sound. Wanda stills completely, then relaxes again when you settle.

Natasha’s expression softens in a way few people ever get to see.

“She likes ginger ale better,” Wanda adds quietly, a hint of fondness slipping in. “Next time, we keep some cold in the fridge.”

Natasha huffs a small, breathy laugh. “She always makes a face with the tea and yeeet she still drinks it,” Natasha says. “Because you ask.”

Wanda nods. “Because she’s good.” 

“Because she’s trying,” Natasha corrects gently. Natasha shifts closer, careful, until her shoulder brushes Wanda’s. She drapes the edge of the blanket over all three of you, tucking it in near your back when a faint shiver runs through you.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” Natasha says quietly. “You just have to keep showing up.”

Wanda’s hand tightens protectively at your hip. “I will. Always.”

Natasha rests her head back against the pillows, eyes never leaving you. And even half-asleep, even drifting under, your body knows the difference. You sigh softly, deeper this time, content, warm, held from both sides.

Safe.

But you push through. At least you try to. Steve has been talking about going to this restaurant for months now. It was a big deal when he secured a reservation, and you don’t want to be the reason he misses it.

Your breath comes in ragged pants as you pull your dress on. The fabric scratches against your skin, feeling like nails. You stifle a whimper as you lean forward to pull it down your torso.

You take a breath to lean your head against your hand, unable to hold it up anymore as you struggle to catch your breath. Your limbs have gone all tingly, and pain shoots through your legs despite them sitting still on your footplate.

You brace yourself for the pain before attempting to wiggle the dress down your hips. The burning in your legs intensifies, and they shake from your attempted movement. “Baby, are you okay?” Steve asks.

Your eyes snap up to see him leaning against the doorframe, already dressed in a button down shirt and slacks.

“Yeah, of course,” you respond, your voice shaky and breathily. You try to force a smile, but it doesn’t convince Steve.

He makes his way over to you, resting one hand on your armrest and stroking your forehead with the other. “You’ve got a fever, luvie,”

You groan. You frequently get fevers when your ME/CFS symptoms flare, an undeniable sign of a crash.

“It’s fine! I’m fine,” you insist.

“We are not going,” Steve states, his voice quiet but firm.

“No, Steve, you’ve waited so long for this and-”

“None of that,” Steve scolds, “You are more important than any stuffy restaurant. And if I’m being honest, I’d rather stay in bed and cuddle with you,”

You know Steve is just trying to make you feel better, and it makes your heart swell. Steve gently grips the hem of your dress, careful to pull the fabric away from your skin as he peels it off. He pulls a pair of silk pajamas out of the closet before unhooking your bra. The act isn’t sexual, but it is heartwarmingly intimate.

You allow Steve to dress you, using those strong hands so gently. He loops one arm under your ass to pull you upright against his chest so he can pull your pants on. You wince against his chest, trying to stifle your sounds of pain and squeezing your eyes shut as everything spins.

“I know, darlin’, I’m sorry,” Steve whispers against your ear.

You reach for your push rims, but Steve reaches the handle bars first. He rolls you into your bedroom and parks your chair next to the bed at a 90 degree angle.

“You ready, baby?” Steve asks gently.

You nod, jaw already clamped shut. Steve sides one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and lifts you effortlessly from your chair.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Steve mumbles at your sharp inhales of pain.

“'S okay,” you grit out as he lays you down gently on the bed.

Steve disappears, and you don’t understand why until the overhead lights go off. You sigh in relief as the throbbing behind your eyes fades slightly.

“Lamp, fairy lights, or no lights?” Steve asks.

“Just one strand of the fairy light, please,”

A faint, warm glow lights the space as Steve plugs them in. It’s enough light for them to see each other's faces in bed, but not enough to burn her eyes.

The mattress sinks to your left, and you roll over to face Steve.

“Thank you, baby,” you whisper, “I’m sorry,”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Steve responds, laying down next to you while slightly propped up on the pillows.

“Can you hold me, please?” You whimper as the pain continues to rack your body.

“Are you sure, luv? I know you’re hurting and must be hot,”

“Please, I just need you to hold me,” you whisper, “you make it easier,”

Tears prickle Steve's eyes and he opens his arms. You crawl into the, face twitching with pain until you’re settled against his chest. His heartbeat is a comforting pulse under your ear, drowning out the ringing in your brain.

Steve watches as your face starts to relax and you melt into him. He can still see the lines of pain in your expression, and your breath hitches and catches frequently as your body attacks itself.

“My strong girl,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head.

“Can you talk to me?” You ask against his chest, your words slurring with fatigue and pain.

“About what, angel?”

“Anything. Everything. Something good. You,” You mumble.

“Okay, baby, tap my chest if it’s too much or I need to be quiet,”

Steve whispers in your ear for the rest of the evening. You drift in and out of consciousness, stirring away every so often from the pain before the bone crushing fatigue pulls you back under.

But every time you wake, Steve is still right there. You catch snippets of stories about his time in the army. His life growing up. Missions he’s been on. His dreams for his future with you. Stories other avengers have told you.

He wakes you once, coxing you to take your night meds and slow sips of cold water. Steve unplugs the lights at some point, and you’re grateful as the pressure in your head grows. But his strong arms and gentle words anchor you from sinking fully into the pain. He really is perfect.

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