or drugged

fallenspock asked:

Imagine Bucky taking care of a sick Natasha while everyone else is on mission.

Natasha wakes up nesting in a few quilts and many pillows. Noting the unreasonable muscle pain she’s feeling, she sits up, dislodging quite a few strategically placed pillows on the way.

“Hi,” Bucky Barnes says from a comfy chair across from the couch that Natasha lies on. “Um… so you’re sick.”

“Okay,” Natasha says. Her throat feels like it’s been freshly sanded.

“I’m just here to make sure you get your fluids and antibiotics, don’t have a dizzy spell and crack your head on a doorjamb or something,” Bucky says. “You’re an adult. You’re good.”

“Thanks for the consideration,” Natasha says, and follows his gaze to the television. “I gather that you’re also here for the Netflix?”

Bucky shrugs.

“I’ve honestly just been marathoning Mad Men since you really started sleeping,” he offers. “It’s pretty okay. I think Sharon oversold it.”

Don Draper stares into the middle distance, eyes wet and smile sadly sardonic. Bucky Barnes just about meets his glance, eyes only a little dryer. Natasha rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Waking up only a little bit later from one of the worst dreams to involve fucking Alexander-era Colin Farrell, Natasha is disoriented and has a bad headache. She stumbles to her feet, one quilt wrapped around her and another one dragging behind, ready to start the journey to the cabinet with the drugs, when Bucky comes out of the kitchen with a cup of tea and a couple of fat blue pills Natasha remembers not taking after her last hospital stay.

“Nice,” she grunts, downs the pills with a brisk gulp of tea. He raises his eyebrows.

“Better get back on the couch,” he says. “Those are going to hit you like a truck.”

“Doubt it,” Natasha says. She is seventy to eighty-percent sure that she was hit by a truck once, and the experience is hardly comparable.

“Your accent is coming out,” Bucky says later. Natasha has appropriated him as an extra pillow in the really excellent couch nest.

“Don’t be rude,” Natasha mutters. “Men in glass houses.”

She looks at the television in disgust.

“My Netflix recommendations will be worthless now,” she says. “Tree of Life and Breaking Bad and the like.”

“Yes, it was truly criminal to break up your Steven Seagal marathon,” Bucky laughs.

“No more prestige film,” Natasha mutters. “No more HBO.”

Breaking Bad is AMC,” Bucky says.

“You disgust me to my core,” Natasha says, and shuts her eyes.