#mohini-musing

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Updated June 2021

This is not an exhaustive list (and in no order whatsoever) of the brilliant fic that is out there. Please let me know of any i have missed or any recs to put in and I will endeavour to add it. I have not included warnings or ratings. Please make sure you look at the tags, judge for yourself and as always take care of yourself first. (16 authors under the cut)

Prompt: Shake

Fandom: MCU- Stucky, somewhere in the years of the tower that never was

Submitted by @mohini-musing

Warnings: medical equipment, vomiting

———

There are only a few things he remembers clearly from before they went to war. This is definitely one of them. Steve on a bed, shivering and telling him it’s fine. It is definitely, absolutely not fine. The doctor - who keeps telling him he’s not the medical kind but that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone else so Buck’s choosing not to let it matter to him either – swears that it’s okay. Goodness knows he’s asked him every question he can think of to be sure of it, but there’s still a man in the bed, shaking like he’s coming apart. There are IV lines snaking out of his arms and fluids running in at unholy rates to try to replace what he’s losing. The medical care should make him feel safer. It doesn’t.

Fandom: MCU

Warnings: vomiting

This is so much easier when it’s his kids. Popsicles are novel enough to trick them into getting frozen fluids down and they’re not yet aware enough of privacy to care if he parks them all in one spot to make the cleanup, if not easier, at least centralized.

But no. That would be too easy. Instead he has Nat in one bathroom, clinging to the toilet and growling at him in a dozen different languages every time he suggests she move to the bed. Bucky fucking Barnes is in another bathroom, barfing like it’s his job and cursing in at least a few languages Nat hasn’t offered up. Great news, everyone, aerosolized HYDRA engineered biotoxins will actually take down their former Winter Soldier.

Better news! Same aerosolized biotoxins will send the spangled one to worship the porcelain throne. He’s camped out next to his best friend and they’re competing for which one of them can miss the toilet most spectacularly. Clint made the executive decision a while ago to leave them to their misery until things settle down. Hopefully Tony’s bots won’t mind some very, very unfortunate housekeeping tasks.

At least he was able to pawn Tony off on Pepper. Small mercies and all that.

An ominous thud comes from one of the bathrooms and he heads off to investigate. Nat is holding the side of her head and looking confused on the floor next to the sink.

“Did you forget I told you not to get up?” Clint asks, and the glassy eyes she turns on him make him regret the sarcastic tone immediately.

“You okay?” he asks, switching to a less irritated voice with conscious effort. It’s not her fault she feels like hell.

“M’sleepy,” she tells him, and looks for all the world like a sad little kid and not a deadly menace. He’s about to ask if she wants to go to bed when she goes wide eyed a fraction of a second before gagging and lurching back toward the toilet.

Clint kneels behind her, wincing when she coughs and gags so hard there are tears leaking from her tightly closed eyes.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” he tells her when she flops backwards against him and lets out a shuddering sigh that sounds dangerously close to a sob.

He wants to wrap her up in a hug and offer comfort. He wants to pick her up and get her off the hard floor and put her to bed. Nat’s not a cuddler in the usual course of things. She’s tactile, but only on her terms and Clint’s not convinced she’s present enough to set the terms at all. He settles for sitting still and as she catches her breath with his hand on hers and her overwarm body against his chest.

“I think, can you get me a bucket? I want to sleep,” she finally offers up, the words halting and her voice scratchy from the acid she’s spent the last couple hours choking up.

“I’ve got you covered,” he tells her, and they fumble their way to standing, Nat clinging to him. The trip to her bed takes longer than either of them would probably like, but they make it before the nausea wins again. Clint takes a moment to be grateful that having kids has taught him to always bring the bathroom bin as he sits on the edge of the mattress with Nat retching emptily into it.

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Warnings: vomiting, fever

The third time Tony nicks something in the arm with one of the tiny precision tools he’s fiddling in there with, Bucky uses his flesh hand to grip the man’s wrist and tug it upwards, away from complex wiring that’s not taking any to kindly to the uncharacteristically inept handling.

“You with me?” he asks, when Tony looks up, startled. His eyes are glassy, and if he didn’t know better, Bucky would be certain he’s running a fever. But superhumans don’t run fevers. Or. Wait. Despite appearances - carefully contrived appearances, Bucky’s less kind thought stream points out, Tony is not a superhuman.

“Alright, not with me. Obviously. Who should I call to deal with you?”

“I’m fine, Sparky,” Tony mutters, a statement not exactly corroborated by the flush of his cheeks and the pinpoints of moisture gathering at his temples.

“Sit,” Bucky growls at him, using a register he knows functions as a damn near dead drop for most of humanity.

Tony shrugs, glances behind him at the stool he should have been sitting on to begin with, and drops onto it. He grumbles in the general direction of the floor that he’s not a child.

“Stop acting like one,” Bucky shoots back. “Who do I call to parent at you?”

It’s the wrong choice of words. Tony’s on his feet and swinging with speed someone that obviously unwell should not possess. The positive, though, is that the speed lacks anything resembling coordination.

Bucky deflects the first few blows, blocks the next few with a little more force, and grabs Tony by the biceps when the next round sends the guy off balance and toppling towards the floor. Tony’s panting, exhausted by the relatively brief exertion, and the heat coming off him is definite proof that the man’s running a lot warmer than he ought to be in ways not at all related to his temper or Bucky’s inept attempt at banter.

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

He’s trying to get Tony maneuvered toward one of the benches, hoping once he gets him sitting again he can call Pepper, or Rhodey, he’d settle for Sam at this point, though all that is good and right in the world knows that’s a match that’s made only in desperate times. Instead, he hears a noise that has been warning him of bad things on the horizon since the 1930s and a tin can of an apartment with a skinny, sickly Steve.

Tony hiccups a few times, giving Bucky time enough to at least get him facing away from anything likely to be irreparably damaged by whatever is coming. All the gods in all the heavens are smiling on them, and when Tony lets out an ominously wet belch there’s little but a spurt of mucus to show for it. He’s shirt’s a loss as a result, but Bucky gets him to the bench and a metal trash can in his hands before the next heave brings up a gush of blue tinged liquid. There is nothing in the natural world that makes that particular shade, so Bucky decides Tony made a go at medicating himself into functionality at some point.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket as he stands awkwardly next to a now emptily retching Tony, scanning the contacts until he finds Pepper. It only rings once.

Fandom: MCU (AU – regular humans)

Warnings: vomiting

He doesn’t need to look at the glowing numbers of the bedside clock to know it’s not been nearly long enough since he closed his eyes. He slept like a baby in the middle of a war zone, but here in this quiet room it’s as if his body has forgotten how to power down long enough to recharge in the slightest. The story is becoming monotonous, and though he dutifully recites it each time he visits the worthless VA therapist, he keeps on saying it in hopes that eventually, someone will offer a solution better than melatonin (useless) or sleeping pills (the less said about that disaster, the better).

Steve’s good about it, has the sense not to mention it when he wakes up to Bucky’s side of the bed long since cold. He just brews the coffee, passes a warm mug across the table, and goes on about the day. He stopped coming to check in overnight a while ago, after Bucky told him it just makes him feel guilty about disturbing his rest, too.

Bucky gets up, wanders down the hall to the living room. There’s a book on the side table, a scrap of paper tucked between pages where he left off last night. He’s most of the way through The Things They Carried and his mind is starting to wander toward what he wants to read next when shuffling feet and a dull thump get his attention.

Steve’s not always the most coordinated when he’s sleepy, so he thinks little of it until the second time the toilet flushes. Odd. Then a cough and the unmistakable splash of liquid meeting liquid. He puts the book down and heads for the bathroom. Steve’s knelt over the toilet, one hand braced against the side of the sink and the other clutching the rim. His throat’s working frantically, trying to swallow while his shoulders hitch upward in a motion Bucky knows means Steve’s definitely not winning this round.

“Hey, let it happen,” he tells him, a hand going to the space between Steve’s shoulder blades, fingers pressing in lightly and moving in small circles.

Steve makes a sound that’s probably meant to be disagreement before his body makes other plans and he chokes up a long stream of mostly digested slurry. Another heave brings up more, and then he’s coughing hard enough to make his face go bright red in an effort to empty whatever remains.

Bucky wants to tell him to settle down, to breathe, but he knows better than to try. Instead he keeps his hand moving slow and steady, waiting out the desperate heaving until Steve spits the last of the frothy bile up and out.

“You good?” he asks when Steve rocks back onto his heels and fumbles for the flush.

“Nuhuh,” Steve mumbles before scrambling back over the toilet to bring up another rush of fluid.

When he’s finished this time, Bucky gets a hand on his forehead to gauge whether this is weird dream (not uncommon, for either of them), or picked up a bug. The heat he encounters points strongly toward door number two.

Fandom: MCU (Canon? What canon? Disregards everything post CA:TWS)

Warnings: concussion, headache, vomiting

His ears are still ringing from impact when he argues his way out of medical. It’s a concussion and all they can do is watch him. He argues that Buck can watch him just fine in their space. It’s Tony who finally wins, telling the staff that there’s a perfectly functional surveillance system to keep watch for anything that requires he report back to medical.

No one has a good argument against JARVIS, so Steve leaves before one can be made. He makes it to the elevator before the room is spinning harder than he can ignore. One hand braced on the metal wall, he grits his teeth as the other hand stifles an ominously wet belch.  

When the doors open, the floor is still a bit wobbly but it feels solid enough beneath his feet to chance it. He’d like to hold the walls, but that’s a recipe for overbearing AI interference if ever there was one. The apartment door is blessedly close and the couch is only a few stumbling steps from it. Tony dislikes the space for its jumbled, homey style. Steve loves it. Especially now, because a big open space would be impossible to navigate.

“Stark says you have a concussion,” Buck comments as he sits beside him, pulling Steve in for a hug.

“Yeah, bad one.”

“Bathroom or bed?”

Bless Buck and his inability to be subtle.

“Bed, thanks.”

Even if his stomach decides to revolt, he’d rather not be in the bathroom all evening. It feels like such an imposition to ask Buck to sit with him in the tiled space. At least their room is soft and warm.

He’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, exhausted and absurdly relieved to be able to be vulnerable and safe here. Buck won’t think less of him if he needs to rest, needs to be sick, just needs.

He wakes to the rattle of a pill bottle. Buck’s tilting his head back and swallowing a handful of something by the time Steve gets his eyes to focus in the dim light.

“You okay?”

“Just a headache,” he tells him, a soft smile not quite making it to his eyes. The headaches have been a companion since he returned to Steve. Banner thinks it’s something to do with the wipes. Even a superhuman brain can only handle so much voltage before things take permanent damage.

Steve tries to sit up, instinct driving him to offer comfort. Instead the room spins violently and his stomach rockets upwards into his throat, bile splashing against his palate and nailing the sheets in front of him before Buck can grab the waste bin. Cold metal fingers grip his arm to keep him upright while he empties his stomach into the bin, guilt at making a headachey Buck take care of him doing the pain in his own head no favors.

When he’s finished, the bin goes back to the floor and Buck pulls him down to the pillows.

Fandom: MCU

Warning: vomiting

Traveling like normal people has its perks. They can stop when they want, no complex international itinerary to track, no photo ops to stay fresh for. When they were kids, they talked about doing this very thing, driving from one end of the country to another, seeing the roadside attractions and taking in the little things as they went.

There are, however, significant downsides. This evening, the downside is the search for a hotel in the middle of absolutely nowhere, while Steve hunkers down in the passenger seat with eyes squeezed shut and plugs shoved into his ears. His color has degraded to a shade rarely seen outside hospitals, and Buck long ago lost track of the number of times he’s pulled to the side of the road for Steve to retch into the gravel and dust.

A call to Natasha (and her subsequent call to medical) declared it to be some combination of motion sickness and headache. Steve has always been prone to them, and though the serum largely stopped all the usual things from wreaking havoc on him, it hadn’t quite stopped his brain’s occasional desire to bring the world to a screeching halt. Add in an innate tendency toward motion sickness and you got this. A pitiful lump of sad Steve and an only slightly frantic Buck trying to locate the right exit for something called a Holiday Inn.

“Buck,” Steve warns, a hand lifting toward the door handle for the umpteenth time.

Tires bounce over the rumble strip and onto the shoulder, Buck reaches over to free the seatbelt from its catch and grabs Steve’s shoulders to keep him from tumbling out. Steve sputters, coughs, and shakes his head frantically before heaving up a gush of soda and jolly rancher candies. Nat suggested when Buck called her that having something in him would be useful, if only to reduce frustration. The candies had been an addition demanded by Steve after the first time he brought up frothy lemon lime chemicals.

There’s not much in him, so the bout is over quickly and Steve flops back into the seat, cursing softly as Buck replaces the seatbelt across him and coaxes the car back onto the pavement.

“Couple more miles,” he tells him, “And we’ll stay put until you’re back to normal.”

“Mmhmm,” Steve grumbles, eyes still closed as tight as they can get.

Fandom: MCU (AU assuming all living in compound post CA:TWS)

Warnings: emeto, fever, past trauma references (nothing explicit)

She wakes to warmth, too much warmth. Something sticky and wet on the hand her face rests against. It takes her fever addled brain too long to connect the dots. She manages it just as her stomach rises into her throat a second time, and she has only enough awareness of what’s happening to push up onto her elbow and spray the sheets and comforter in last night’s meal. It’s not as if they’re not already covered in vomit, but it feels especially wretched to be barfing all over herself and the bedding when she’s awake enough to know what’s happening.

When she’s finished, she flops back onto the pillow, trying to figure out what she should do. She’s shaking, and her limbs feel made of barely set gelatin. Getting up isn’t an option right now, but lying in her own mess is making her stomach refuse to settle.

“Hey,” a voice says, closer than it should be.

“Go’way,” she whines, hoping that’s good enough. She doesn’t know where she is, but she doesn’t want help. Help comes with conditions.

“Tasha, tell me where you are,” the voice tries again.

 She knows that voice. It’s safe. Home. She’s home. But she’s shaking and oh, there comes the nausea again.

There are hands steadying her this time, as she rolls onto hands and knees, trying to bring up what isn’t already all over everything. She’s disgusting, and she can’t fathom why anyone would want to take care of her like this.

Familiar hands lift her from the bed when it’s over.

Her head rests against a strong shoulder, and she’s cradled like a toddler as the world rocks and sways. Cool tile beneath her as James puts her down in the bathroom.

“May I help you get changed?”

She trusts him, knows he would never hurt her, but she shakes her head anyway. She can’t let him touch her, can’t stand to have her clothing stripped away by hands that aren’t hers. He puts the flannel pants and soft shirt on the edge of the tub.

“Let me know when I can come back,” he tells her, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.

It takes an eternity, to shuck off the soiled shirt and pants, to pull fresh clothing onto her trembling, sweat damp body. She gets it accomplished, though, and calls his name in what she hopes is a passably grown up voice. She feels so much like a little child when she’s sick like this, and childhood holds no pleasant comforts for her.

He comes back, sits beside her, and she curls up on the bathroom rug with her head on his lap, too miserable to even attempt returning to bed. Too afraid of what awaits her if she does.

“I stripped the sheets off,” he tells her. “Bed’s made back up with the spare set.”

There are words unsaid there. Things like I know you’re scared. You’re not in trouble. I’ll take care of it. And you.

He doesn’t have to say them. He did, long, long ago.

She drifts, the fever high enough to stop her keeping any sense of time or space. The world contracts down to the little tiled room, the porcelain of the toilet James helps her hold onto, the plush softness of the thick rug beneath them, the cool comfort of the cloth he holds to her face and neck to ease the fever when Tylenol won’t stay down.

“I’ve got you,” he tells her as he lifts her up over the toilet to bring up stringy ropes of saliva and bile.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats when she whispers apologies for being a mess.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs as she cries tearlessly into his lap.