#clumsy!reader

It’s a young woman, her mousy brown hair up in a braid. She adjusts her glasses. “Hi.” The way  she speaks is soft, a stark contrast to the deafening sounds outside the room. She gives you a small smile. “Um, I’m Dr. King. What’s brought you here today?”

“I, uh, I fell and hit my head,” you point to the left side of your temple. “It’s been hurting a lot. 

“Okay,” she nods and slips on a pair of blue gloves, approaching the side of your bed. She feels along your temple, feeling the bump that has formed there. She sits down on a rolling stool. “How long has it been hurting?”

“Like nine hours? A little more, I think.”

Dr. King hums. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I was a bit dizzy at first, but then it went away.”

“Did you lose consciousness when you fell?”

You open your mouth to answer. Before you can even make a sound there’s a knock on the door that is more a formality than asking for permission and the curtain is drawn just so that a head and half of a torso can poke in and say, “Mel, our patient from North 4 is back from his MRI, he’s–”

Frank freezes when his eyes finally stray away from Mel and he realises that her patient is not a random person. The change is barely noticeable– his back straightens, shoulders rolling back and gaze sharp as he analyses every inch of your body in a matter of seconds. He checks you for any obvious life-threatening injuries from head to toe, stares a moment too long at the ugly bruise that peeks out from the waistband of your low-rise shorts, and then his eyes finally go up to your sheepish smile. 

“Hi, Frankie,” you say quietly. Frank’s jaw relaxes the tiniest bit.

Mel looks uncomfortably between the two of you, eyes going back and forth between her coworker and patient. “Oh, um, do you have the results?” she asks. Frank hands her the tablet he was holding without sparing her a glance. “Right…” she mumbles.

She taps and looks at the screen for a few seconds before looking between the two of you again. “Um, I’ll just…” she makes a weird gesture to the door and gives you an awkward smile. “I’ll be right back,” she tells you, though you both know she won’t be coming back now that Frank is here.

She cradles the tablet against her chest and fumbles with the curtain in her hasty getaway. She practically scampers away, closes the door behind her with a tight smile and then it’s silent. 

Frank stays rooted to where he’s standing for a long, tense minute. You gnaw at the inside of your lower lip and watch him near the hospital bed you’re sitting on. His fingers brush along your exposed thigh on his way to grab your hand. In a hushed voice, he asks, “What happened?”

“I…” You look everywhere but his face– the ceiling, the floor, the rolling stool Mel had been sitting on. You settle on the wall, but Frank moves his head so that you have no choice but to look at him. “I fell. In the shower,” you mumble, embarrassed.

His hold on your hand tightens. “Baby,” he sighs. “I told you to get a shower mat,” he scolds lightly. 

“I haven’t found one in the shade I want,” you explain for the fight time with a whine. The high-pitch of your own voice makes your head throb and you wince. 

Frank catches onto your grimace immediately. His hand cradles the right side of your head and you lean into his touch. “D’you hit your head?”

You nod. “It’s been hurting since I fell.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “You might have a concussion. I’m gonna do some tests, all right?”

He lets go of your hand and head and you already miss the warmth of his touch. He takes out a small flashlight from the pocket of his scrub and turns it on. He points the light tight at your left eye and then switches to the other side. “Okay,” he says and turns the flashlight off. “Follow my finger.” 

You follow it dutifully. He moves his finger up and down on one side, slides it along the other side and repeats the same motion. “Good, now stand up, honey.” You get up from the bed, but the small jump to the floor makes the bruise on your hip flare up and you grimace. Frank’s eyes are already on your side, calculating. “We’re gonna do an x-ray,” he concludes. 

He then moves to the other side of the room and stands against the wall. “Walk towards me in a straight line.” You do as he says. Every step makes you wince a little, but you’re 98% sure it’s only because of the bruising and not because a concussion has altered your facial nerves. 

Once you reach him, you smile at Frank. “How did I do?” 

“Too slow. We might have to open up your skull to fix it,” the corners of his mouth twitch. Knowing you’ll worry too much until he confesses he was only joking he assures you, “Everything looks normal. I’m still ordering an MRI to make sure there’s no damage inside, though.”

His hand gently goes to the back of your head and he uses his hold on you to bring you closer to him, his lips brushing against your forehead. You sigh. “Is it gonna take long?” Frank raises an eyebrow questioningly. “It’s just– I have my ceramics class in an hour,” you explain.

“It’ll be at least an hour, maybe two. We’re a little backed up today.” And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds with a pointed look, “If you had come in earlier you wouldn’t miss your class.”

You have the decency to look ashamed. 

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” you whisper with a small shrug. What you really mean is ‘I didn’t want to be a bother again’. You’ve been to the ER twice this week. Four times already this month, and you don’t even want to think about how many times you’ve ended up in the hospital the past year. 

It’s no secret you are a clumsy person. When you were younger, it was endearing. Now, it’s embarrassing. Annoying. You try your best to avoid potential accidents: you wear flip flops instead of slippers so you don’t slide along the floor and use oven mittens every time you bake to avoid burning your hands– just to name a few adjustments you’ve made to your everyday life. But no matter how hard you try, you still trip over your own shoes and cut yourself while cooking and bump into tables and doorways and hit your head when kneeling down to reach something under the dinner table. 

You hate it. But Frank, oh sweet caring Frank who understands and tries his best to help. He’s switched most of the glass bottles and tuppers and glasses for plastic or aluminium so that when you inevitably drop something while cooking or setting the table you don’t cut yourself. He’s added padding to the legs of the couch and bed to protect your toes. When you go out, he pays close attention to you and your surroundings: he steers you away from a light pole you would’ve hit and stops you from crossing the street with a red light on. 

He’s done all that and much more. Without you even asking. And he’s never once complained about your penchant for unfortunate mishaps. He never got mad at you. How could he, when it’s your own clumsiness that brought you to him in the first place? 

He knows you don’t do it on purpose, that it’s not something you do because you think it’s cute and fun, nor an elaborate plan to sneak into his workplace. He doesn’t enjoy the fact that you get hurt so often, of course he doesn’t, but he understands that it’s not something you can control. And what is he to do but take care of you when you need him?

Frank exhales sharply. “You’re not a bother.” You try to say something but he cuts you off before you can make a sound, “You’re not. Not to me.”

“Frank, it’s the second time this week I’ve come here,” you deadpan.

He blinks, baffled. “What do you mean second?” Shit. His face turns serious, really serious, and you know he’s angry now. “When the hell were you here?”

You scrunch your face at your accidental confession. “Tuesday,” you mutter.

“Tuesday,” Frank parrots. “And why am I finding out 3 days later, exactly?”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you!” you exclaim, but your loud voice makes your head throb once more. You clutch your temple and close your eyes, the fluorescent light suddenly too bright. 

Frank combs his fingers through his hair in frustration and pulls at the roots. His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Come here,” he mumbles. With a hand on the small of your back he leads you back to the bed and, once you’re sat, he turns the light off and sits down on the stool. “Better?” 

You nod. He stares at you, elbows on his knees, and licks his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” He’s talking about your Tuesday visit to the ER, but he also means why didn’t he know you were there today.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you repeat. You play with your fingers as you speak. “You are so busy and I don’t want to annoy you with my silly stuff when you have patients that really need your help. Like, right now, you are here with me and there’s somebody out there probably dying that needs you.”

“You need help too, you might have a concussion.”

“Yeah, because I fell in the fucking shower like an idiot,” you scoff. “It’s always something stupid that happens to me and those people out there are actually sick and I take up your time because I’m too stupid to even shower by myself.”

Frank sighs and gets up, hands reaching for your face. He cradles your cheeks in his palms, heart twisting at the angry tears gathering in your waterline. “You are not stupid,” he says firmly. “You just have a… particular proclivity for accidents involving stationary objects.”

You snort. The corners of his mouth tick upwards, satisfied that his comment managed to cut through the tension. 

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Softly, he tilts your chin up and leans down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss that makes the pain in your head subside. When you part, you rest your forehead against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, one of his hands gently massaging your scalp while the other rubs your back up and down. It’s the first time since your fall this morning that you feel any sort of relief. 

“I’m serious,” his voice rumbles beneath his sternum. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And I want to take care of you when you need me. You could never bother me when you’re in pain.”

He’s been your doctor for almost a year, even before you started dating. He’s not planning on stopping taking care of you, especially not when it’s one of the things he knows how to do best.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Next time you get hurt, come find me, okay?”

• Sevika pretends she’s not hovering. She is absolutely hovering. Always within arm’s reach, always watching out of the corner of her eye. The second you stumble, her hand is already there like she knew it would happen.

• She develops this habit of placing her hand on the small of your back whenever you’re walking together. It starts as a “just in case” thing, but it becomes instinct. Grounding. Protective. A quiet I’ve got you.

• Corners, table edges, uneven pavement… all her enemies now. She memorises your usual paths and will subtly guide you around anything remotely dangerous. You don’t even notice half the time.

• If you get even the tiniest injury, she reacts like it’s life-threatening. A small bump on your arm? She’s holding your wrist, frowning like she’s personally offended the world allowed that to happen.

• “You’re alright, baby,” she’ll mutter, softer than anyone else ever hears her. Thumb brushing over the spot like she can erase it.

• She lowkey starts doing things for you without making it obvious. Moving things out of your way, grabbing things from high shelves, steadying chairs before you sit. It’s seamless. Natural. Like breathing.

• When you get embarrassed about being clumsy, she shuts that down immediately. Not harsh, just firm.

“Don’t, sweetheart. Nothing wrong with you.”

• Privately though? She thinks it’s… kind of adorable. Not in a teasing way. In a that’s my wife and I will protect her from the entire world way.

• If anyone else laughs at you tripping or dropping something, Sevika’s presence alone is enough to make it very clear that’s a bad idea.

• At home, she’s even softer. If you’re tired or a bit out of it, she’ll guide you around with a hand on your hip or your hand tucked into hers. Always keeping you close.

• She murmurs things like “careful, doll” or “easy there” under her breath when she steadies you. It’s quiet, meant only for you, her voice softer than anyone else ever hears.

• When you stumble, she leans in just enough to whisper “I’ve got you.” Low, warm, instinctive.

-

You don’t even realise you’re about to trip.

One second you’re walking through the room, the next your foot catches on nothing, your balance tipping forward-

And then you’re… not… falling?

Sevika’s arm is already around you, firm and steady, pulling you back against her like she’s done it a hundred times before.

“Easy, baby,” she murmurs, low and close to your ear.

Her grip lingers even after you’re stable again. Solid and protective.

You let out a small breathy laugh, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t even see anything.”

“Didn’t need to,” she replies, glancing down briefly like she’s checking for injuries anyway.

Her hand slides from your arm to your waist, settling there like it belongs. Like you belong there.

“You alright?”

You nod, giving a small, sheepish smile. “I’m fine. Promise.”

Sevika studies you for a second longer, like she’s debating whether to believe you. Then her expression softens, just a fraction.

“Mm.”

Her thumb brushes lightly against your side, absentminded, soothing. She doesn’t let go.

You start walking again, slower this time, and she moves with you. Close. Her hand shifts to the small of your back, guiding without pushing.

It’s so natural you barely think about it.

Until you bump your hip lightly against the edge of the table.

You flinch.

Sevika’s reaction is immediate.

Her hand is on your hip in an instant, turning you gently toward her. “Hey-”

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, already feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping in.

She doesn’t pull away.

Instead, her fingers press lightly over the spot, careful, like she’s checking how bad it is even though it barely hurt.

Her brows draw together. “You sure?”

You huff a tiny laugh. “Vika, it didn’t even-”

Her thumb brushes over it again, softer this time. Slower.

“You keep sayin’ that,” she mutters.

There’s no bite to it. Just quiet concern. She can’t stand the thought of you in pain.

You look up at her, and she’s already looking at you.

Focused and loving. Gentle in that way she never is with anyone else.

“You’re okay, doll,” she says, more to herself than you.

Her hand lingers a moment longer before sliding back to your waist.

You don’t miss how she pulls you just a little closer after that.

Like if she keeps you there, nothing else can get to you.

And maybe it’s a little over the top.

Maybe you are just clumsy.

But the way she looks at you, like you’re something fragile and precious and entirely hers to protect-

You lean into her without thinking.

Her arm tightens instantly, automatic.

You kiss his scruffy cheek and nuzzle his neck, flinching when Peter screeches about a sniper on the roof. Peter drops the controller and stands with his hands in the air, smiling victoriously.

“I win again Barnes!” Peter cheers.

Bucky sits back with a plop and takes one of your hands that rests along his chest, kissing your knuckles.

“What’s shakin’ doll?” he whispers, turning his head to kiss your lips.

“Nothing much. I’m going to make you guys some snacks,” you answer with a sweet smile.

“Thank you baby doll. And I’m gonna kick this kid’s ass,” Bucky laughs, leaning forward again but not before cradling your cheek and kissing it.

Peter scoffs but sits back down, nodding when Steve and Sam say they want the next game.

You skip toward the kitchen, intent on making the boys both cookies and brownies. As you round the kitchen counter your enthusiasm causes you to bang your hip into the hard granite corner. You wince at the pain but try to muffle the sound.

Bucky immediately looks over. “What happened doll face? Are you ok?”

With a watery eyed nod, you rub your hip and hold his gaze. He blows you a soft kiss then looks back at the game. Letting out a huff of frustration at your clumsiness you start gathering the supplies to bake. You grab the stepstool and place it under the cabinet, opening it up and yelping when you finger gets caught between the bars.

Before you can even turn around Bucky is at your side and pulling you into his chest.

“Aw no baby girl. Pinched your finger?” he asks quietly.

You bury you face in his chest and grab hold of his Henley.

“Yea,” you mumble. “And my hip is sore.”

He gently pulls you away and looks you over.

“Lemme see,” he coos.

Lifting your shirt, he carefully smooths his fingers over your hip, noting the red bruise already forming. He leans down and kisses it softly before inspecting your finger and kissing that too.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you Buck and I’m sorry I keep interrupting your game!” you sniffle.

“Nah, it’s nothing. Sam and Steve wanted a turn anyway,” he assures you. “Need any help?”

“No thanks, you go play, I’ll have these ready in no time,” you tell him, shooing him off with a playful squeeze to his butt.

Once the brownies are in the oven you start on the cookie batter, whipping it up quickly and just in time for the brownies to ding in the oven.

“Wow! It smells so good in here,” Peter chimes, giving you a smile. “I can’t wait to eat those!”

You giggle and give him a thumbs up before opening the oven. The brownies cool while the cookies bake and the boys continuously eye the pan on the counter.

“They are almost ready I promise,” you tell them. “Bucky likes them when they are still gooey so I’ve got the timing down just right.”

Sam, Steve and Peter all laugh and eye Bucky with a knowing smirk.

“You’re all just jealous,” Bucky says smugly.

No one can deny that and Bucky throws you a wink.

You cut up the brownies and bring the tray over, placing it down on the coffee table. Before the boys can reach over you grab a corner piece and dash over to the couch and plop yourself in Bucky’s lap. He grins, snaking his arms around your waist and joining them again with the controller.

As he plays his game you feed him pieces of the brownie, each of his moans making you giggle.

“SO GOOD baby girl. SOOOO GOOD!” he mumbles through a mouthful.

The rest of them agree wholeheartedly, unable to do more than make yum noises through their stuffed mouths. You grab another brownie and nestle yourself against Bucky’s chest, giggling every time he moves or jerks around while playing the game.

The timer dings, alerting you to the finished cookies and you untangle yourself from Bucky’s arms, slipping off his lap. In an attempt to not block their view of the TV you scramble along the floor and stay low, but when you lift your head, thinking you’re in the clear, you knock it into the small corner table.

“OW!” you shout, thumping back on your heels and pouting.

“Shit, doll. I heard that,” Bucky tsks, now sitting beside you.

He rests your head on his shoulder and rubs the bump that’s already forming.

“You’re worse than me,” Peter says sadly. “Are you ok?”

You nod and close your eyes, leaning into Bucky’s touch. The sudden realization that the cookies are still in the oven comes over you and you leap off the floor and run to the kitchen. When you open the oven you’re hit with a blast of hot air but thankfully the cookies are ok.

After they cool you bring them over on a plate, laughing when four hands shoot out to grab one. Peter eats his one bite and you gape at him.

“Did you even taste it?” you ask.

“Sure did! Delicious!” Peter’s words come out all muffled as he sprays crumbs on the floor.

Bucky pats his thigh and you slide between his legs, sitting in his lap again.

“Thank you for making all this baby girl,” he whispers into your neck.

“THANK YOU,” Sam, Steve and Peter all yell at the same time.

“You’re welcome guys!” you laugh.

You sit with Bucky while he finishes his game then he carries you and the leftover treats back to your room. He puts you down on the couch and kneels at your feet.

“Let me see your finger,” he says softly.

You hold it out for him. He frowns when he sees the spot where you pinched it on the stool then kisses it with warm lips.

“What about that hip?” he asks as his hands smooth up your legs and lift your shirt.

A black and blue has already formed and he brushes his thumb over the spot, doing the same with his lips before he moves higher and checks your head. The spot is tender and when his lips meet your skin you wince.

“Aw doll. I hate when you get hurt,” he says, rubbing it gently.

You drop to the floor and curl into his lap, cuddling against him.

“I’m the clumsiest person ever!” you whine.

He stands and takes you with him, sitting on the couch and pulling you closer.

“I’m going to have to tell Tony to make you a bubble!” he teases lightly, kissing you all over your cheek. “This way when you hit things or bump into something you just go BOING!”

You laugh into his shirt. “I like this idea! But I want you to have one too so we can run into each other and bounce off.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “That does sound fun. Maybe we can roll down a hill too!”

Your laughter continues as Bucky holds you close and you two imagine all the fun you could have in your very own little bubble.