fanficition cove

Originally written/posted: October 2014
Fandom: Captain America (2011)
Universe: AU: Modern Setting, Office
Pairing: Steve/Bucky
Rating: T
Word Count: 3,116
Warnings: Medical crisis in an office setting (nonlethal), gross misrepresentation of medical professionals (probably)
Notes: Not reread. This includes Pre Serum Steve Rogers, as a heads up

This is the most embarrassing moment of Steve’s life.

He doesn’t even remember how it happened, just that one minute he was reviewing process documents while waiting for potential clients to get back to him and the next he woke up on the floor by his desk, chest heaving and his hands shaking against the carpet, scrambling to push himself up. He looks up at the lights for a while, sees his vision dance a little more than he likes, and thinks he should probably tell somebody that he’s on the floor and can’t move.

Sam’s hovering over his face, brows pinched, his mouth a thin, stable line. “Steve,” he says, slowly.

“Heya, Sam,” Steve wheezes, and okay, so his chest a little too tight, too. He tries the breathing techniques he learned as a child because of the frequent panic and asthma attacks he used to get, but they’re not working. His vision is starting to swim, a little more now, and Sam is now looking more like a vaguely Sam-shaped blob than anything he could pick out.

There’s a distinct snapping noise above his head, and it takes longer than it should for Steve to realize Sam is trying to get his attention. “Shit. Steve, stay here. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

Steve makes an indignant squawking noise. “I’m–”

“You’re really not.” Sam pats his shoulder lightly, and he hears the faint noises of conversation above him as Sam, presumably, calls 911.

He drifts in and out, thinking about all of the clients he has to get back to by the end of the day about the status of their paperwork and what would be the best time to schedule a meeting with them, and all things considered, Steve really doesn’t have time to be laying on the floor like this. He still can’t find purchase on the carpet and sighs. It’s very possible Steve will be here for hours.

He’s just about to voice this concern to Sam, because he has responsibilities, ones that he can’t exactly ignore just because he’s feeling a little faint, when the blob is back in his line of sight again.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes. Have you drank enough water today?”

If Steve had the energy to, he thinks he’d probably scowl. As it happens, he can barely make his eyes focus enough to glare. “Yes.”

“Eat?”

“Yeah.”

Sam clicks his tongue like he doesn’t believe him, and Steve can’t even be offended by it. He does have the tendency to forget to feed himself when he’s working, especially if the clients are high stress and need more attention than the normal one, he can be a little lenient when it comes to caring for himself. It drives Sam up the wall, has him running to the cafe down the street to get Steve a sandwich, but he doesn’t mind.

By now a small crowd of his co-workers have gathered around him and Sam, peering through the tangle of computer cords curiously. Steve flushes bright red, and ignores them as best as he can. He likes his coworkers, but they’re a nosey bunch; give them an inch, and they’ll take the whole damn building down with them.

“Wilson,” Barton says, somewhere to Steve’s far left. Steve likes Barton the most, other than Sam, of course. He always remembers his coffee order whenever it’s his turn to go down to Starbucks and get it. “They’re here.”

Right. Steve forgot that Sam called an ambulance, and that means dealing with paramedics, and the hospital bill if they deem it serious enough to take him to one. He is so not looking forward to that.

“‘M okay,” He says, again, once the paramedics get closer.

They have a stretcher with them, like Sam made it sound serious enough that he needed one, and before Steve can get upset about it, he has two vaguely concerned faces looking down at him. He can’t make out any distinguishable features, but the guy has dark brown hair, he thinks, and the girl to his left has hers (it is fiery red, Steve notes absently) tied back into a messy bun.

“Hey there, buddy,” the guy says, voice velvet smooth. Steve thinks his vision might go double again, at that. “Heard you took quite the fall.”

Steve glowers. “It was a ‘wo foot drop,” he retorts, because he isn’t a child. He’s always been tiny, but that doesn’t mean he can’t handle a drop from his chair to the floor. He’s not useless. It’s just that his head is a little woozy, now, and the lights are making it hard to focus. “When did ‘t get so bright in here?”

The guy casts a worried look on his colleague and snaps gloves into place. He turns his gaze to Sam. “How long ago did he fall?”

“I’m not sure,” Sam says, and gestures to where Steve is laying, quite pitifully, now that he thinks about it, on the floor. “I heard commotion out here from my office and when I came to go check on it he was already down there.”

Steve can see clearly enough now to know that the guy’s expression is not happy, his mouth twisted downward in a frown. “That’s not what I like to hear,” he says. “From the sounds of it, he probably has a concussion. It’d be safest for everyone if we brought him in just so the docs could get a better look at ‘im.”

“No,” Steve croaks. “‘M fine. Fit as a whistle.”

The guy actually snorts, and he takes a flashlight out of the kit he brought up with him. “This is probably gonna sting,” he starts apologetically, “But, I need to make sure your concussion is mild and not putting you immediately in danger, alright?”

Steve grumbles on under his breath about office health procedures and how he better get a raise from all of this, which the guy must hear, going by the chuckle he lets out. “Alright,” Steve concedes, because the guy isn’t going to continue until Steve gives him the go ahead, and he gets that.

He holds up his left hand that Steve thinks looks a little off, but that could just be the glare of the blinding flashlight that is suddenly shoved in his face. “Ow,” he complains, half-heartedly.

“Sorry,” the guy says, sounding genuine, and it’s then that Steve focuses on his left hand.

“Follow the path of my finger with your eyes, ‘lright? Not with your whole head.”

“I’ve been to the doctor before,” Steve mutters, but does what the guys asks, or at least he tries to. As it turns out, following a finger with just his eyes is hard when his entire body wants to go along with the movement.

“We’re gonna have to take him in,” The guy decides, and turns to the girl that he brought with him. “Get him prepped.”

Steve blinks. “I don’t need a hospital,” he protests, again.

Again, the two paramedics ignore him in favor of running gloved hands over his head to make sure he didn’t seriously injure it on the way down and he sees a splash of red liquid wash up on one of their blue gloves. Steve bites on his lip and looks over at Sam, who is mother henning to the extreme right now, watching over the three of them like if he doesn’t Steve might try to make a (wobbly) run for it. He wouldn’t be wrong.

“Unfortunately for you, pal, I’m the medical professional in this situation, so you gotta listen to me.”

Sam makes an agreeable noise and addresses them instead of Steve, “He’s cleared for work for the rest of the day. Take him.”

“Traitor,” Steve hisses, and he feels more than hears the guy laugh as the two paramedics work on getting him strapped in on the stretcher.

“Play nice, Steven,” Sam fires back.

Steve wants to say something in return, he does, he has it all planned out in his head, but between the two of them clicking belts into place and making sure the bleeding hasn’t escalating with moving him, Steve passes out.

*

He comes to in the ambulance.

His mouth is full of cotton, or it feels like it anyway, and the guy from before is peering down at him curiously, a clipboard on his lap. The girl isn’t anywhere to be seen so she must be driving. Steve relaxes back into the pillows, and notices while his hands aren’t shaking nearly as bad as before, his head is killing him, knives grating on the edges of his skull. The things he would do for some ibuprofen right about now are just about endless.

“You really don’t need to do this,” Steve says.

“The thing is, I really do,” The guy replies, and smiles at him. “You kinda did yourself in, here.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “‘M fine.”

“You’re dehydrated,” The guy starts, “Minor head bleeding. A concussion that could be serious. Should I go on?”

He very firmly decides not to focus on the guys face and instead focuses on the window. His vision is better now, not swimming nearly as much so Steve can actually make out his face. The guy is very attractive, with a strong jaw that’s colored with a little peach fuzz like he couldn’t be bothered to take care of it this morning, wide-set, pale grey eyes that Steve couldn’t find a name for if he tried, and a too-red mouth like he’s spent the entire morning eating strawberries. Steve isn’t sure he’s seen somebody so attractive.

“How much longer until we’re at the hospital?” Steve asks, groggily.

“‘Bout another ten minutes or so,” he says, and it’s then that Steve notices his arm. His left arm is entirely metal, but it’s not like the normal prosthetics Steve’s used to seeing. It has a flexible elbow that has the range of motion of Steve’s own, and dexterous fingers that handles the IV drip with ease. Steve’s fingers twitch at his side to draw it.

“Am I going to be here overnight?”

The guy makes a face. “Can’t say for sure, pal,” he says, and looks down at the clipboard. He bites on his bottom lip, choosing his next words carefully. “Since you’re pretty tiny they might decide to keep ya just to keep an extra eye out.”

Steve makes a face, feeling the familiar rise of anger fill up his chest. “I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he smirks, “But even I have trouble taking care of myself when concussed.”

Steve blows out an unsteady breath through his nose, and doesn’t say anything for a while. He turns his focus instead to the way that the guy is filling out the charts, putting in his body temperature and things like that, and tries very hard not to notice the way his IV nudges against his skin the wrong way every time the truck goes over an uneven patch of road.

“What’s your name?”

“Pardon?”

“Your name,” the guy repeats, “We never got it back at the office and I need it for your paperwork.”

Steve blinks. “Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“Thanks,” he says, jotting it down. His hand moves in jerky, sure movements. “Name’s Bucky.”

“I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you, but I’m in an ambulance against my will, so,” Steve snarks.

Bucky smirks, and before he can say anything, he hears the girl call from the front, “I like him, Bucky! We’re keeping him.”

Much to Steve’s amusement, Bucky turns a very interesting shade of red.

*

When they pull up to the hospital, Steve is still a little fuzzy from hitting his head, fading in and out of consciousness to the point that it was hard to keep a decent conversation going, but Bucky doesn’t look too put out when he comes to for good.

“We’re here, buddy,” Bucky says. The smile on his face seems real, if a little exasperated.

“Is it too late to ask you to turn back?”

“Afraid so.”

Steve sighs, and then nods at him. “Alright, then. Lay it on me.”

Bucky laughs, low and rich, and it vibrates through the stale air between them. “We’re going to wheel you through to the ER now, alright?”

“Figured as much,” He says, and promptly ignores the jolt of sadness that goes through his chest at the thought of probably never seeing Bucky again. It’s stupid, because Steve hasn’t been able to hold an actual conversation with him that hasn’t been largely reliant on complaining about his hatred for hospitals, but he doesn’t exactly want to leave, either. He thinks he could blame it on his head injury and get away with it; those can cause random bouts of sudden codependency, right?

Steve is quiet as his partner comes from the front and helps Bucky get the stretcher out from the back of the ambulance, beginning to wheel it inside the hospital doors. He wraps a hand around Bucky’s wrist shakily and tries to smile.

“I never said thanks.”

Bucky smirks. “Thank me by listening to what the doctors have to tell ya, yeah?”

Steve snorts, but nods, laying his head back down on the pillows. The lights of the hospital are blinding, and he feels exhausted.

“Yeah, okay,” He breathes.

*

It’s nothing serious.

The doctor scolds him for not drinking anything substantial since two nights before, when Steve had a spare moment to think about how dry his throat was in between client files, and reams him out again for forgetting to eat something other than the odd apple slice here and there, and writes him off on a clean bill of health as long as he regularly remembers to feed and water himself.

Steve’s embarrassed by it, he is, because he’s an adult and while he’s never let it get as far as actually passing out and getting a mild concussion at work, the doctor doesn’t let him leave until he promises to take care of himself.

He thanks her for her time and apologizes for all of the commotion he’s caused, which she waves off with a flick of her wrist and an amused grin curling her painted lips upwards.

“Just don’t let it become a habit, Steven.”

He makes a face at the name, but nods politely. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Good,” she presses her lips together, and shoos him away. “Now get out of here. I have patients to see that might not see the light of day tomorrow.”

Steve must look as mortified as he feels because once she catches sight of his expression she laughs. “Just a bit of doctor’s humor, Steve. Now, really, get.”

He’s not proud of how fast he scurries out of there.

*

Steve rounds the corner to the waiting room and stops in his tracks.

Bucky is leaning up against the far wall, sipping from a cup of what is undoubtedly horrible coffee, eyes focused on the TV in front of him. Now that his head isn’t swimming at the slightest movement he can appreciate just how damn gorgeous Bucky is–not that he didn’t notice before, but it was compromised by the fact that he couldn’t focus on anything for more than a few seconds without his head feeling like it was about to cave in at any second–and that same, strong jaw makes Steve’s chest tighten.

He’s changed out of his uniform by now, dressed in a pair of worn-in, comfortable looking jeans, and a white v-neck that hangs off of the breadth of his shoulders nicely. Steve forces his gaze to Bucky’s face and sees a smirk curling his mouth. He resists the urge to punch him right then and there, and instead walks up to him.

Steve really hopes Bucky is here to see him and just doesn’t make a habit of hanging out in hospital waiting rooms regularly. That would be monumentally embarrassing, even for Steve.

“Hey.” Bucky grins at him.

“Hey.”

“Have you been here all day?”

“I hadta finish my shift, Steve,” Bucky points out, and Steve flushes a bright, bright red. Right. Not everyone could skip their shift because of a moronic mistake of extreme dehydration and a mild concussion. “I got off twenty minutes ago and thought I would wait for you since Sharon said you’d be off soon.”

Steve furrows his brows. Bucky waiting for him doesn’t make sense, and he voices as much.

Bucky bites on his bottom lip and Steve firmly does not want to know what it feels like between his teeth. He’s a responsible human being, and he can handle attraction to a virtual stranger, okay? He’s not going to let some walking wet dream with a CPR license destroy him–well, y’know, explicitly, of course. Steve thinks there are things better left unsaid for his dignity, and wanting to defile Bucky with his mouth is one of them.

“Thought maybe I’d ask you if you’d go get coffee with me sometime.” Steve blinks. No one ever wants to get coffee with him. Well, except for Sam, but Sam is his co-worker, and also his best friend, and there’s an obligation there that he doesn’t like to think about most days.

“Why?” Steve asks. He really doesn’t have the slightest clue why Bucky is trying to willingly spend time with him. It just doesn’t add up in his head.

“Natasha says life is too short not to ask out cute, but slightly moronic patients,” Bucky says, a little self-deprecatingly, hand at the back of his neck and at Steve’s blank look, adds, “My partner. The girl with the red hair.”

“Oh,” Steve sighs. “You really want to go get coffee with me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised his head doesn’t dislodge from his neck. “Against my better judgment, I find your constant complaining endearing.”

Steve glares at him. “Asshole,” he mutters.

“Is that a yes? I think that’s a yes.”

“That’s a, ‘you can buy me a coffee and a croissant because you’re an asshole’ asshole,” Steve grumbles.

“You eat croissants? That’s adorable.”

Steve’s heart stutters in his chest, and he shoves Bucky hard enough that he stumbles a little where he stands, but when Bucky looks at him expectantly, he still follows him out the doors of the hospital, and into the cool, crisp fall air.

*

As it stands, getting coffee with Bucky isn’t exactly a hardship, especially not when he later pushes Steve against a wall in a deserted alleyway, full on good coffee and too many pastries, pliant and warm, and so very close.