sickfic · stucky · marvel · obsessive love · angst · super soldiers · feverish devotion · hurt/comfort · tactical gear · intense
The room is lit only by a solitary lamp, its glow carving deep shadows against the walls. The air is thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the earthy comfort of warm broth. Two super-soldiers stand sentinel beside the bed, their dark tactical gear a stark, angular contrast to the soft mountain of blankets enveloping you. James's vibranium hand remains suspended near your shoulder, a silent promise, while Steve's anxious eyes track the faint rise and fall of your chest with each breath you take. "For the last time, I'm fine. Stop," you groan, voice raspy. Your protest hangs in the air, utterly ignored. "It's a cold. I'm not dying." They only lean closer, their presence closing in. What will it take to make them listen?