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"You just stay there, don't move, and I'll take care of everything else." • • •
Setting: sometime after TWS
You'd been pretty under the weather the past few days, but you'd held off on telling your boyfriend, Bucky. Why? Probably because if you even sneezed in front of the guy, he thought it was a life or death illness.
Sure, it was cute the first few times; he'd freak out and do everything he could to get you feeling better. He still did it—even two years after being together. That was what concerned you. Bucky would drop everything in order to dedicate his time to taking care of you. Romantic, huh?
This time, you weren't telling. No, you were going to let the cold run its course without Bucky even finding out. He barely seemed to notice; you'd been doing a fantastic job at keeping the cold a secret. . .until it turned out to be something far worse than an ordinary cold.
There you were, laying on the couch while he was supposed to be off on a mission with Steve, with about a thousand tissues surrounding you and spilling over into the floor. You'd taken your temperature and for now, had yet to put the thermometer back in the bathroom of your apartment. You also were snuggled up in Bucky's favorite blue sweatshirt and a fuzzy, Iron Man blanket that Tony had gotten Steve as a joke.
It was funny at first, until Steve made you take it to your place. You had no idea why, but you figured it had something to do with the fact that Steve was a little too serious to take a joke.
"Sweetheart, I ended up not being needed. So, I suppose I'm yours for the day." Bucky spoke as he came through your apartment door.
If you didn't feel like shit, you probably would've made an attempt to hide the tissues and thermometer. But that wasn't the case, and as soon as Bucky looked at you and the mountains of used Kleenex surrounding the couch he rushed over to you.
"What's wrong, babydoll? You're sick. Why didn't you call me?" Bucky's baby blue eyes looked you over as he knelt beside the couch.
His lips pressed to your forehead protectively, checking your temperature himself.
"You're burning up." He said worriedly, standing up and tucking the blanket tighter around you.
"I feel like I'm freezing."
"Well, that's what a temperature will do to you." He sighed, picking up the television remote.
He cut off the Cops marathon that you'd been watching and set the remote back down on the coffee table.
"You," he turned back to you, his eyes soft and the worry lines on his head forming, "just stay there, don't move, and I'll take care of everything else."
"No, Buck." You sighed. "I don't want you doing the thing where you freak out over nothing and go all crazy."
"I don't go craz—"
You shot him a look, and he instantly knew you were right.
"Okay, maybe I do tend to go a little crazy. . .but it's only because I love you so much, and I don't want my girl to be sick." He frowned, sitting next to you on the couch.
"Back rubs?" You smiled, partially giving him the puppy dog eyes.
You knew he couldn't refuse. He never had it in him to say 'no.'
"Anything for you, doll." Bucky lifted up the back of your—his—sweatshirt and began massaging your back.
You immediately felt the tension melt away as he worked on your back. If there was one thing Bucky Barnes could do perfectly, it was giving a good back rub, and you wondered if it had anything to do with his metal hand. The coolness of the metal even felt good against your skin, a sigh escaping your lips.
"You have the hands of a god, Bucky." You joked, sniffling as your nose started to run again.
"I think Thor would object to that." He chuckled, taking one hand off of your back to reach for a clean tissue.
He handed it to you as he returned to rubbing your back, determined to make you feel better.
"Probably." You laughed, but it turned into a coughing fit.
Bucky's brows pulled down and you sat up, coughing violently into the bend of your elbow. Your whole body ached, and you were beginning to think you'd underestimated your sickness.
As the coughing died down you felt Bucky turn your shaking body to face him. You had the chills and your cheeks felt flaming to the touch.
"I think you have the flu, baby." Bucky sighed, pulling you into his chest as he laid back on the couch.
All you could do was groan in response; the coughing fit had used up what little energy you had. Bucky's hands snuck under the hem of your shirt again, and he continued the back massage.
Despite feeling like death, you appreciated these little moments. You knew his concern was out of love, and though he tended to baby you whenever you were sick, you wouldn't deny liking the attention.
"Bucky," you pouted, the side of your face pressed against the soft material of his t-shirt, "can you stay home with me tomorrow?"
"Of course, I'm staying. Do you know me? There's no way in hell I'm leaving you alone like this."
