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Yelena’s never been good at slowing down.
Her life has never allowed it. Not as a Widow, not as an operative for Valentina, and certainly not as a de facto team leader on the New Avengers whatever-they’re-called now. It’s a headache to think about, and she already has a headache today. A fierce one, actually, and she chalks it up to the sheer amount of time she spends squinting at paperwork and diagrams and screens to do her fucking job.
Things have been so busy lately that Yelena’s hardly slept, pulling all-nighters or squeezing in a few naps here and there. It’s too hard to relax when everyone’s counting on her, when one poor planning mistake on her part could spell the death of a teammate. The stakes are high, like always.
It isn’t like Bucky doesn’t pull his weight. He’s done so from the minute the team formed. But ever since she developed feelings for him and they’re…together (it’s still weird for Yelena to think about, sounds too good to be true) her anxiety over ensuring everything is perfectly done has only increased. What if she screws up, and he gets hurt? It’s a risk she can’t take.
“Come to bed,” Bucky admonishes, catching her up late again in the living room. “That can wait.” He squeezes her shoulders, tries to rub some of the tension out of them.
“No, it can’t,” Yelena grumbles, though she leans into the touch. “Briefing’s tomorrow, and Valentina wants all this approved and done before that, too.” It’s press season and the team’s first international mission in a while.
“Yelena.” Bucky sighs. He’s spent half the day trying to reduce her workload, but it seems there’s always something else. “You’re wearing yourself out.” She’s not sleeping, isn’t eating unless reminded. He’s had to force a plate into her hand to get her to consume anything other than coffee and the occasional energy bar.
He hates Valentina for a lot of reasons, but at the top of his list is the burden put on Yelena. Not just to lead and plan ops and do fucking paperwork, but the constant comparison of her to Natasha. Val’s really leaned into the “new Black Widow” thing lately, which the media seems to like.
Yelena pretends it doesn’t bother her, but he knows it does. Knows the weight of Natasha’s shadow is heavy, and also that she doesn’t think she could possibly come close. A raging insecurity she’s confessed before, in few words but enough to understand—she is hardly a new Natasha, and the ever-present reminders sting.
Yelena softens, turning to look up at him. She brings her hand up to his cheek, offering a tired half-smile. “Alright. I will be in soon. Just need to finish this. Don’t wait up.”
He leans down to kiss her forehead, nodding. He doesn’t believe her, which is why he does wait up and comes back an hour later to find her asleep on the couch, tablet in hand.
—
Yelena doesn’t slow down, and now she has a headache and chills. She rolls out of bed early, while Bucky’s still asleep, realizing he must have carried her back from the couch.
She smiles at his sleeping form, sprawled out and peaceful. If she can’t rest, at least he can.
But the headache is a killer, even after she downs a few cups of coffee and puts on a sweatshirt and leggings despite the fact it’s late summer and in the mid-seventies. She can’t get warm, and she’s unsteady on her feet, frowning at the kitchen because it’s a little blurry. She’s cold and yet her skin is tingling, burning almost, and her brain is foggy. The details of today’s briefing are hazy, confused, and she pinches her nose between her fingers and tries to take a breath, clear it all away.
It only gets worse as the morning progresses, but she’s nothing if not good at hiding things.
Ava looks funnily at her clothing when she shuffles into the kitchen. “You look cozy.”
“The AC is freezing in this place,” Yelena says defensively, and Ava shrugs. A violent wave of fatigue shivers through Yelena, and she hunches over the counter, fingers shaking slightly on her mug.
Stay alert. Keep your shit together. You’re fine.
In the Red Room, illness was treated as either an inconvenience or a crime, depending on how bad it was. Yelena remembers training with a high-grade fever, a runny nose, a stomachache, you name it. But if a girl had a severe sickness, something genetic or one that had too long of a recovery time…
She tries not to wince. Everyone knew that Nina was killed because she was weak, because her sickness slowed her down and showed no signs of improvement. And once the girls got older, they got a poisonous mix of drugs to keep their immune systems high, every vaccine one could think of. Yelena’s been injured more frequently than she’s been sick, and the possibility makes her panic a bit.
Weak. You are a weak link. If they see it, they’ll shoot you.
Utter bullshit, of course, fed to her by a traumatized mind reacting to a familiar trauma (the danger of being sick as a Widow) in a new environment. The mandated therapy sessions might be helping, she thinks deliriously. It won’t change the past, but it helps her fucking label things.
“Yelena?” Ava says, frowning when it takes her a second to answer. “You okay?”
“Yeah, you don’t look too hot, Blondie,” John comments as he sweeps into the kitchen, intent on making an egg-white omelette or whatever fancy shit he found online.
Yelena flips him off. “I’m just tired.”
“Yelena, you must sleep more!” Alexei adds unhelpfully.
“My God, anyone else want to tell me I look like shit?” Yelena snaps. “Jesus, I get it.”
Bob holds his hand up in mock surrender, chuckling nervously. “No comment.”
“Smart man,” Yelena says approvingly. “Ugh. It’s not like I’ve been out partying.”
“Yeah, you’re doing Valentina’s punishment work,” Ava grumbles. “It’s too much. It’s not fair.”
“Why are you the only one who does paperwork?” John asks, sounding like a kid who has been left out of something.
“It’s terrible,” Yelena retorts. “It’s not like you want to do it, Walker, so don’t bullshit me.”
“You’re right,” he says, shrugging. “I don’t. But pulling all-nighters can only be okay for so long.”
Yelena groans. “You are all annoying. I can manage my own sleep schedule.” But her stomach turns at the eggs and toast Bob offers her, encouraging her quietly to eat something, and she only manages a few bites before she shoves the plate away. There’s no time to eat, anyway. She puts finishing touches on the op plans and heads to the meeting room, trying to blink away the pounding in her skull, the lightheaded stars that blink in her vision.
Bucky’s already in the conference room, apparently skipping breakfast, which is somewhat hypocritical of him. Yelena offers him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and sits beside him, knowing he’s frustrated. Hell, she’s frustrated with herself. It isn’t like she enjoys being stubborn or being unable to let down her guard.
He slides a glass of water over to her. “Did you eat breakfast?”
Yelena bristles. “I’m not a kid.” Everything hurts and she just wants it to stop, just wants to get through this meeting. She wants to curl up in his lap and go to sleep, because he’s one of the only people that actually makes her feel safe, but there’s no time and she doesn’t want to admit she’s doing shitty.
“That’s not what I asked,” Bucky insists. “And you know that.”
She sighs, leaning her head on his shoulder, reminds herself that she’s just not used to someone caring about her, trying to tell her what to do because they’re worried, not because he thinks of her as a weapon who needs maintaining. And when he wraps an arm around her and hugs her tightly, she relaxes a fraction, closes her eyes and inhales his scent.
“I’ll eat after,” she promises. She shoves away the nausea that hits her at the idea, tries to act as normal as possible. She puts her face against his shirt, careful he doesn’t feel her forehead and give away her fever. She’s no longer denying it to herself—she’s sick, but life goes on.
“And sleep,” he adds sternly.
“And sleep,” she agrees, listening to his heart beat against her cheek. “Only if you join me.”
He softens a bit. “Of course I will.”
They don’t get much time to themselves. Everyone files in a few minutes later, and the meeting starts with a brief conference call with Valentina. Unpleasant as usual, but fortunately brief. The team loosens up the minute it’s done, glad to get that part out of the way.
By the time Yelena’s ready to start her part of the briefing, she wants to faceplant on the conference table and never get up again. Her muscles are weak, and everything hurts so fucking bad.
“Yelena?” Ava asks, confused. It’s clearly not the first time the woman’s addressed her. Did someone ask a question? She didn’t hear it.
“Sorry,” Yelena says, grabbing her tablet. “Let’s get started.”
Her brain is on fire, hot and foggy and distorted. Her head pounds, her skin burning, and she’s still fucking shivering. The room sways a little when she stands to address everyone, taking a moment to stand straight.
Keep it together.
She’s almost halfway through the briefing when she realizes she’s zoned out completely. By the nonplussed expressions in the room, she’s been talking about the correct things, but she has no memory of doing so.
“So once we’re into the compound,” Yelena says, frowning as the room spins, black spots at the corner of her vision. “We…”
Yelena sways, blinking hard. Bucky stands, sensing that something’s wrong.
The room tilts, and Yelena’s legs go out from under her.
“Shit!” John, sitting closest to Yelena, grabs her arm as she collapses and stands to help catch her. She narrowly avoids cracking her head on the meeting table, and everyone’s on their feet within a second, alarmed. “Blondie down.”
Bucky’s at her side instantly, Walker shifting her over to him. She’s deathly pale, the color drained from her face, eyelids fluttering. Not entirely unconscious, but not lucid, either. The others gather close, concerned.
“Yelena,” Bucky says urgently, holding her close as he assesses her. “Can you hear me?”
Yelena groans noncommittally, screwing up her eyes in discomfort. “I’m…fine.” The words take monumental effort.
“Bullshit,” John mutters, and Ava elbows him.
“Jesus, you’re burning up,” Bucky mutters, pressing a hand to her forehead to confirm what he’s already guessed. Yelena squints up at him, unused to the stark worry across his face. “Meeting’s postponed. She’s got to get to the infirmary.”
There’s no argument from the team. Bucky lifts Yelena into his arms and makes a beeline for the infirmary, and it’s not until they’re in the elevator that his words break through Yelena’s fog, sparking anxiety.
“No…infirmary,” Yelena murmurs, looking feverishly up at him. She hates the infirmary, avoids it at all costs. It usually means patching herself up or, now that she has Bucky, letting him help her.
“You’re dehydrated,” Bucky counters. “Have to get some fluids in you, then we’ll leave, alright?” Most of her vision’s blurry, but his intense blue eyes are in focus, fixed on her as he moves with purpose through the corridor.
She nods off to the steady sway of Bucky’s arms, jolted awake when the hold loosens and she’s put on a hospital bed. Her body stiffens, eyes shooting open, memory overtaking reality.
The poor on-staff doctor gets a fright when he tries to insert an IV and Yelena jerks away with a curse—what are they trying to put in her? More chemicals to control her? More poison, more—
Strong arms catch her, hold her back from attacking the doctor. She’s pulled back against Bucky’s chest, his soothing voice in her ear.
“You’re safe, Lena, you’re alright.” Bucky hums, arms encasing her. “Just fluids to rehydrate you, I promise.”
He runs a hand up and down her arm, waits for her to calm down, until she holds out her elbow to the doctor and lets him insert the line. This is a routine they know well, a routine born out of necessity and the fact that Bucky is one of the only people who can talk her down when she’s freaked out, particularly in a medical setting. He’s the same way, hates needles and operating tables and anything resembling Hydra labs.
“You’re safe,” he repeats quietly, until her eyelids are heavy and she succumbs to the fitful sleep of illness.
—
Yelena wakes hours later, feeling more stable but not any less miserable. It takes her a minute to recognize her new surroundings: not a hospital bed but a soft, big one with a cozy comforter and blankets. Bucky’s room.
She tries to sit up but doesn’t have the energy for it; her limbs are heavy and aching, her head still pounding. All she manages is a pathetic whine, which is enough for Bucky to hear her from the bathroom, where he’s going through the medicine cabinet for sick supplies.
He hurries over, smoothing hair back from her face with gentle fingers. “Hey, Lena. Gave us quite a fright today at the meeting, hmm?”
She leans into the touch, cool against her burning skin. “Yeah.” She can’t recall the details, honestly.
“You’re doing better hydration-wise, and they gave you some other painkillers to take.” He gestures to the nightstand, where several bottles wait. “They could have done some intravenous, but…”
But Yelena hates strong painkillers, especially ones by IV that leave her feeling drugged and not in full control of her body. He knows this, and he’s waited for her consent before giving her anything. It’s probably why she doesn’t feel better yet, but she’d rather be sick than have another flashback.
“Okay,” she rasps.
He helps her sit up, leaning against the headboard, opens the bottles.
It doesn’t go well. She throws up the first one instantly, her body rejecting it, rejecting anything. Bucky rubs her back and holds back her hair, unfazed, and they try again.
“Third time’s the charm, I guess,” he says wryly when she manages to keep down the painkillers at last. He cleans up and settles into bed next to her, sitting against the headboard like he’s on guard duty.
She shudders, another chill going through her, like it’s in her very bones. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Your fever hasn’t broken yet,” he reminds her, securing the covers around her. Yelena burrows up next to him, head in his lap, trying to absorb some of his warmth. “Just try to rest, Lena. I’ve got you.”
The next time she wakes, she’s sweating, kicking the covers off to get away from the suffocating heat. The painkillers have helped a little, the general agony ebbing, but her body still aches. She still doesn’t have the strength to get out of bed.
“This is horrible,” Yelena moans, compressing into a ball like she can will the sickness away if she makes herself small enough.
“Your fever broke,” Bucky says, still watching over her. “That’s good.” He coaxes her into drinking a glass of water.
“I don’t want to be sick. I would rather be shot,” Yelena grumbles, because she’s had way more experience with that than riding out sickness. At least with an injury, she’s used to that kind of pain.
“Don’t say that,” Bucky says sharply, and she glances up at his tone. “You’ve done that plenty.”
She recalls with detached clarity the mission in New Mexico a few months ago, when she’d been shot in the thigh—not too deep, but enough to bleed a fuck ton and for John to half-carry her out. Bucky, waiting in the jet, had not-so-subtly freaked out when they returned.
“Yeah,” she admits, “that wasn’t fun, either. Are you going to say ‘I told you so’ now?” Because he’s right, was right when he told her she needed to rest, that she was going to wear herself out. He isn’t one to rub things in, but she knows he’s mad at her for it.
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch you kill yourself like this? You’re running yourself into the ground and lying through your teeth about it, saying you’re fine when you’re not. And then you keel over in the middle of the meeting—Jesus, Belova, you scared me.”
Yelena hums in acknowledgment, guilt eating at her. She lied to him, caused him to worry. “I just—I don’t want anything to happen to the team. I want to make sure everything’s okay, always prepared. Just in case.”
“Then let me help more,” he argues. “You can’t keep this up. It’s terrible for you.”
“I have to do it,” Yelena says wearily, a fact she’s absorbed like a burden. It isn’t that the team is a burden, but keeping everything afloat, shielding the rest of them from Valentina’s wrath, making sure everyone’s alive…this is a responsibility she took over without question, without considering the cost. “The team needs me.”
“So do I,” Bucky says, a vulnerable, sharp edge to the words. “I need you.”
His frustration’s bleeding out of him, a helpless anxiety over her that she’s only beginning to understand. She’s never thought of it like this before, but maybe it is selfish, hurtful even, to do this to him. To hurt herself and not listen to his attempts to get her to slow down, to rest.
It never used to matter what she did with herself, whether she took care of her health or not. But it’s not just her anymore, and she forgets this.
Yelena drags herself closer to him, sitting up with great effort and leaning on his shoulder for support. “I need you, too.” A whisper, a soft confession she hasn’t said out loud before. “Maybe that’s why I work so hard, so I know everything will be okay. That you will be okay.”
His brow furrows. “You’re only human, Lena. You can’t guarantee it. Any mission could go badly. But you can avoid working to the point of collapse.”
“I’m still remembering there are people who care about me,” Yelena says, frowning as she tries to string the confession together. “I just—I’m used to it being just me. I was too stubborn to just admit I was off.”
He huffs a dry laugh. “Stubborn is right, that’s for sure.”
“You were right,” Yelena says, fingers playing with the neckline of his shirt. “I should have told you.”
He wraps his arms around her, sighing as he pulls her close, the tension draining away gradually. He’s quiet for a long moment, burying his face in her hair, simply holding her. “Please don’t do this again.” It’s so soft, so pleading, that it tugs at her heart. It hurts, realizing she’s hurt him.
“I won’t,” Yelena promises, pulling back to look at him, and she means it. “I’m sorry, milyy. Forgive me.” She puts a hand to his jaw, runs her thumb along his cheek. He leans into the touch, pressing a kiss to her palm.
“You’re forgiven,” he says gently, tugging her close again. Not holding onto his anger, never saving it up to wield later. She’s used to angry men; he still surprises her because he’s not. “Now rest, Lena. You need lots of sleep.”
Yelena falls asleep like that, draped over him, encased in warmth and comfort. She still feels like shit, but she’s with one of the only people who’s ever given a shit about her.
Despite the fever, she has to admit it’s pretty fucking nice to be cared for.