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Bucky handles you being sick like he’s back in the 40s — no fuss, quiet devotion, and soup he won’t admit is from a can. He doesn’t hover, but he’s always nearby. The kind of care he gives is subtle: he brings tissues before you ask, keeps the thermostat exactly how you like it, and sits beside your bed silently reading while you nap. When your fever spikes, he gently presses a cool rag to your forehead, brushing hair from your face with his vibranium hand like it might burn you. He doesn’t say much, but when you wake up groggy and whisper a raspy “thanks,” he just nods and says, “You’d do the same for me.” And he knows you would — that’s why he doesn’t leave your side.
John over-prepares. You tell him you have a mild cold, and twenty minutes later he's back with a full pharmacy, two humidifiers, three types of soup, and a thermometer he doesn’t know how to use. He’s sweet, though — panicked in that earnest golden-retriever way. “Are you drinking enough water? Wait, let me check your temperature again. No, seriously. Hydration is important.” He insists on being near you even if it means catching it himself. You tell him to go away before he gets sick and he just says, “Good. Then you’ll have to take care of me next.” He’s dramatic about it, but never makes you feel bad for being down. He just wants you to feel safe, loved, and maybe laugh a little between coughs.
Ava doesn’t really know what to do when you’re sick. She wasn’t exactly nurtured growing up, and illnesses to her were things to endure alone — not something that involved warm blankets and affection. But with you? She tries. She learns. She quietly googles cold remedies and phases through walls to steal extra blankets from a SHIELD facility she remembers. She doesn’t hover, but she sits close, asking in a hushed voice, “Do you want me here? Or not too close?” She avoids touching you if you’re contagious, but brings water, your favorite tea, and reads from a book in a low monotone until you drift off. And even if you don’t know it, she stays right there the whole time, phasing back and forth to make sure you’re breathing okay.
Alexei acts like your sniffles are a full-blown death sentence. He panics — loudly. “You are burning up! You must rest! You need medicine! You need... hot cabbage soup!” He makes said soup (terribly), force-feeds you spoonfuls with the confidence of someone who thinks he’s a five-star chef, and insists it will "sweat out the toxins." He wraps you in every blanket in the apartment and tells you stories of how he once defeated a man in hand-to-hand combat with the flu. It’s absurd, over-the-top, and annoying in the most affectionate way. But despite all the noise, he’s actually very gentle — he holds you carefully, keeps you laughing through your congestion, and would absolutely fistfight your immune system if it meant making you feel better.
Yelena is the perfect mix of bossy nurse and emotional support girlfriend. She bursts into your room the second she hears a cough with a stern, “Why did you not tell me you were dying?” She grabs your forehead like a dramatic soap opera star and declares, “You are hot. This is unacceptable. Lie down.” She brews teas (some good, some... experimental), makes you watch comfort movies with her, and spoon-feeds you soup while pretending it’s for her amusement. “You are baby now,” she says. “You do nothing. I am in charge.” But under all that sarcasm is deep worry. She stays with you all night, watches your breathing while pretending she’s “just scrolling TikTok,” and mutters death threats at your cold under her breath. She’s chaotic, comforting, and kind of perfect.
When you're sick, Bob goes cosmic-level gentle. His powers make him aware of every tiny change in your body — every heartbeat spike, every shiver. It’s overwhelming, but he doesn’t let it show. He creates a bubble of calm around you: lights dimmed to the perfect level, sound softened, the room warm with a sunlit glow only he can make. He doesn’t speak much unless you want him to, but when he does, his voice is deep and quiet, like lullabies made of starlight. “Just rest. I’ll keep everything else away.” He brushes your hair back with celestial softness and tucks you in like he’s trying to protect you from the universe itself. And if your fever dreams get strange or dark? He’s right there, whispering through them, holding you steady in both body and mind.