Happy Sunday! Not sure if this is your kinda thing, if not, totally okay, but would you consider writing a fic where Laura Barton is driving Bucky and he’s sick with the flu and throws up in the car? Have a great day!
This is Powers/No Powers
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Steve's at work. Bucky's bracing himself over the bathroom sink, steeling himself up to make the decision between straightening up and grabbing his toothbrush, or collapsing sideways and curling his body around the toilet bowl. Right now, he's at 50-50. Or more like 33-33-33, if continuing to stand still is an option. He'll throw the extra point to the theoretical asteroid that could crash through the ceiling at any moment and strike him dead. If anyone actually cared to ask, he'd prefer the asteroid.
Bucky glares at a dent in the tube of toothpaste. Mint. Better than bile? His mouth tastes like salty snot that keeps dragging thickly toward the back of his throat, threatening to gag him if he doesn't keep a conscious hold on his swallow. Peppermint. It's Steve's toothpaste. He hates the flavor at baseline. His own spearmint and tea tree is tolerable, but the stairs to get to the ensuite... definitely are not.
Somewhere out in the living room, Bucky's phone begins to chime. Not a call, please not a call, he thinks. No. The tones are short. It's a text. Two texts. He knows who the probable sender is, then. Backwoods cell towers and sharp country air aren't always kind to cell signal. A single message is often split into two.
"Coming," Bucky groans, wrapping an arm around his stomach and limping toward the coffee table. He forgets to turn off the light in the bathroom; the helpless look he gives it over his shoulder doing nothing to assist. The couch is far too large an obstacle to navigate around again. He's already so close. And he's curious about what Laura has to say. More curious now than nauseated. And that's saying something.
Good morning, the first message reads. Then, I have coffee money. And gas money, too.
Bucky sighs. He wonders if she's left the farm house's long gravel driveway yet. Laura's not one to dawdle, so he may already be too late to tell her it's not worth the trip. Sweet of her to think of him, and usually her charm and coaxing do the trick to drag him out of the shadows, but today? Drinking coffee sounds about as thin and slippery as pouring lighter fluid down his throat. Worse than toothpaste. And probably more disastrous.
His hand shakes as he picks up his phone. Sorry, Bucky manages to tap out. I'm sick.
Laura doesn't hesitate with her response. What kind of sick? Do I need to worry?
Bucky sighs. He could write her off as being nosy. But he knows better, and he knows her intentions better than that. Head is fine, he answers quickly. Then he wrinkles his brow and regrets his wording. No, headache. Bad. Flu, maybe.
I got it, Laura writes. Don't worry.
"Mmph." Bucky lets out his breath. His nose drips, either watery mucous or fever sweat. Disgusting either way. He swipes it with his sleeve. Then his phone buzzes again in his hand.
I can be there in an hour. Take you to urgent care?
Bucky swallows down sourness again. Just the idea of the VA waiting area sets off his sense of distaste. Not sure it's worth it...
I don't trust the VA. Laura must be reading his mind. The kids' doc always has sick appointments. There can't possibly be enough patients around here to keep him busy.
Bucky stares at the message for a moment. A pediatrician? What is she thinking? He's not a kid. Maybe he needs handling like one sometimes, but... Bucky shakes his head, which hurts. Do you think I should?
There's a pause, then Laura's reply lands. Yes, she writes. I think so. I just have a feeling about this one.
Bucky's fingers tremble. Ok, he taps, grateful for the autofill offering him the choice response.
On my way.
Laura's there in 45 minutes. Bucky doesn't ask if she chose to speed on the highway. More than likely, she was further down the route than she admitted when she texted the first time. She knocks politely on the townhouse's front door, respecting Bucky's dislike of the doorbell.
It takes Bucky a minute to be ready to leave. Does he need a jacket? A box of Kleenex? Nothing extraneous. Shoes, though. Probably necessary.
"Sorry," he mumbles when he opens the door.
"Oh, James," Laura says softly. "Don't worry about it."
She reclines the passenger seat a few degrees and pulls out the seatbelt so Bucky can settle in the car before they get moving. "You ok? Feeling ready?"
"Um. I guess?" James wishes he felt more sure. His stomach seems to be wedged tightly between his lungs, constricting them against the tight slats of his ribcage. He swallows, for safety's sake, but the flow of gunk coating his esophagus remains in limbo, refusing to break off and go down all the way.
Laura takes her seat behind the wheel. "Tissues in the console. Bags in the glove box. And both kids and Clint have barfed in this car before, so whatever happens, it won't be revolutionary." She grins.
"Hm." Bucky gives a small nod. "Ok."
"I've changed diapers in the trunk before. And took the bleeding dog to the emergency vet in the back seat." Laura holds a straight face, then breaks into a wide smile again. "That was on a blanket, though."
It's two miles of loops and stoplights out of the suburbs to the main drag, then just a blitz and a turn to the expressway. Bucky feels Laura's eyes on him as she excellerates and moves the vehicle into the center lane.
"Doing alright?"
"Uh." Bucky's jawline feels fairly numb, but the touch of his knuckles under his chin clacks his teeth together, and that gives him a little faith. "Enough."
"You're going pale on me," Laura says. "Keep me in the look, ok?"
"Yeah..." He's fine. He's been going pale for months, Bucky thinks. It's the depression; it's the staying inside. He'll let Steve take him to a corporate golf scramble or something.
Bucky's gut moves uncomfortably. Scramble. Stupid. What is a golf scramble, anyway? Whacking balls down the green with frying pans? Bucky tries picturing it to distract himself. Probably after catered brunch...
"James?"
"Mm?" Bucky jerks his head up, and his stomach goes into free-fall as pressure builds behind his sinuses.
"I can hear you grinding your teeth." Laura reaches across him to open the glove compartment. "I have supplies. I'll pull off at the next exit. It's actually a trailhead with a place to stop and enjoy the view, so there's grass and gravel and every thing."
Bucky can't force out a sound. He can't draw breath. He manages to blink, and excess fluid drips down from the corners of his eyes.
Laura bats what appear to be several folded paper footballs out of the glove box. "Ugh. Sorry. I forgot Clint did that..." She pinches one by the corner and starts to shake it. Some of the folds release, and Bucky recognizes the crumpled Walmart logo.
He recognizes the horrible feelings inside his body, too. Bucky's too hot; he's prickling all over. He tries taking the bag from Laura, but overshoots and slaps it out of her hand. He struggles to do whatever he can to contain the mess he knows is coming, and he presses the still flat bag over his mouth like a crinkly handkerchief.
Sick slips everywhere, up Bucky's face to cover his cheeks, and down across his chin. The bag isn't absorbant in the slightest, and he's holding it too tightly against himself to let it be a barrier between the mess and everything else.
The second heave spills into Bucky's lap, and stinging bile spreads up into his eyes. He squeezes them shut and lets out an involuntary moan.
"James, it's ok." Laura puts her hand on Bucky's knee, which is drenched. "I'm pulling off right now."
Bucky feels the car swerve, leaving smooth asphalt and grinding to a slow stop in what can only be a parking lot in desperate need of repaving. The movement doesn't agree with him in the slightest, and it elicits another retch from deep within him.
"Breathe," Laura reminds him.
Bucky tries, but he inhales a bubble of mucous, and he breaks off hacking.
"It's ok." Laura thumps him on the back. "James, it's alright. I know you're feeling really bad."
Bucky forces out a sharp cough that moves his entire body, and he finally gets a gulp of bitter flavored air. "S-sorry," he gasps.
"No talking," Laura says gently.
Bucky breathes again. Then twice more. He strains against his seatbelt in an enormous dry heave, but only a thin line of saliva comes up.
"Keep breathing."
"'m done," Bucky whispers, his voice cracking. "'m done. Have to be done."
"Ok." Laura massages between Bucky's shoulder blades. "Why don't you give me that, then." She carefully takes the pitiful, dripping bag from between Bucky's fingers.
"O-oh." Bucky's eager to give it up, but he feels terrible for her to have to handle it at all. "I'm sor--"
"Hey, no apologies." Laura taps the button for the center console with her elbow. "There are tissues in there. Probably fast-food napkins as well." She gives Bucky a sad smile. "Why don't you start mopping yourself up, if you feel up to it? I'll get this in the bin where it belongs."
Bucky manages to get a single Kleenex wadded into his eye socket by the time Laura returns. He almost doesn't notice her reappearance, except that she starts piling napkins over the thighs of his jeans.
"Didn't get very far, I guess..." Bucky spit-talks, then wipes his mouth unceremoniously on his shoulder.
"No expectations." Laura expertly scoops away most of the visible dregs of Bucky's stomach contents, wads up the napkins, and drops them out the driver's-side door. "I'm littering. Don't tell anyone."
"I puked in your car," Bucky half laughs, half groans. "Don't tell anyone that."
"Mmm..." Laura tilts her head to one side. "Say to the doc that it happened before we left your house?"
Bucky hesitates. Catches her eye. Laura wears a dubious smile, but her eyes are genuine.
"Yeah," Bucky agrees gratefully. "Yeah. That's... yeah."
"Done deal." Laura pulls out another wad of napkins and gingerly reaches up to wipe Bucky's face. "This'll probably do it. Then do you think you feel up to getting back on the road?"
"I... I think so?" Bucky feels... not better, exactly. Better than he did. But disgusting nonetheless.
"There's a rest stop, a nature preserve, and a National Park before we get to Paris. As it exists on the map, with, you know, buildings and such."
"Ok." Bucky nods slowly. He gets her drift. "I think I can manage that," he says.
"Ok, then." Laura offers Bucky half of the napkins in her hand. "Let's manage it together."
