You were almost late that day. The night before, Bucky had stayed up with you as you stressed over a textbook and tugged at your hair. He wanted to make sure you weren't overworking yourself, but you just wanted to make sure you understood organic chemistry.
"C'mon, doll, you'll have all weekend to study. Come lay down with me—just ten minutes. I'll set an alarm and everything."
You knew he was lying. His hands were far too gentle on your shoulders and his eyelids were drooping.
"Buck, you go to bed, okay? I don't want you to be tired at your game."
He had scoffed at you. "Yeah, sure thing. How am I supposed to sleep when I know you're out here? I can barely sleep when you stay at your dorm."
That had become a bit of a problem. A few months into your relationship, you began spending the night at Bucky's apartment very frequently. Sam pretended to complain about it at first, but soon he just greeted you in the kitchen as if you lived there. The only issue was that Bucky now found it hard to sleep when you weren't there.
So when you were in his living room, bundled up in the throw blankets from the couch, how was he supposed to sleep? You were right there; could anyone really blame him for wanting to keep you as close as possible?
You both ended up falling asleep on the couch. Your textbook was hanging off your lap and Bucky had his hands tangled in your hair. You woke up a few hours later to Sam's panicked tone, urging Bucky to get ready for the game. He did so haphazardly, throwing his gear together and tossing you one of his sweaters.
He didn't really have time to check everything over like he usually did.
Luckily, there was no traffic. Bucky gave you a swift kiss on the head before jogging out on the field. His movements were a bit sluggish and his uniform was wrinkled. He downed an energy drink before warming up and you felt awful about keeping him up. You had no idea how he could call you stubborn when he stayed up until four in the morning just to watch you look at a textbook.
Men.
"What's up with you today?" Wanda nudged your side.
"What? Oh, I'm just tired. I stayed up all night trying to study for Smith's test."
"For organic chem? Y/n, it's not till Monday."
You gave her an unconvincing smile. "I need all the help I can get. Trust me."
Natasha showed up a few minutes later with a very large coffee in hand and a little smirk on her face that told you she didn't believe your story. "Why's Bucky so tired? He's not in your class."
"Oh please," you dismissed. "You know how he gets. He wouldn't go to sleep while I was still up, so we passed out on the couch. We're not all like you, Natasha."
She snorted and handed you the coffee. It warmed your hands and gave you enough energy to at least keep your eyes open. You knew Bucky would take you to lunch after this and then insist you took a nap at his apartment. Honestly, you weren't going to fight it; a calm lunch followed by Bucky's arms sounded much better than crying over chemical bonds.
It took about fifteen minutes for the game to start. Everything was going smoothly with the guys on the field and you prayed that the sun would start warming you up. Morning games definitely weren't your favorite. But you'd still never miss one.
When it was the team's turn to bat, Bucky sent you a tired smile as he ran in. You would never get over how naturally charming he was; how his smiles left you nervous and his laugh made your stomach flip. You were pretty sure he knew what he was doing.
You perked up as Bucky made his way to home plate. His batting gloves were tight against his hands and his bat hung loosely off his fingertips. And there was a haughty skip in his step as always; still showing off, even when he was dead tired.
The first pitch was a ball, landing way too far to the left. You noticed that the pitcher from the opposite team was unreliable. From the pitches you'd seen, very few were actually hittable.
But what worried you was the way Bucky's helmet seemed to shake as he stepped back. The guys all had custom helmets from their sponsors; that thing should be airtight on his head.
You held your breath as the second pitch came. It was too close; Bucky had to jump back so it didn't hit him. You felt your chest tighten as he jumped, hands a little shaky. This wasn't unusual. Bad pitches happened all the time. But there was something wrong, you could just feel it.
The third pitch came, and the crowd let out a collective gasp.
The 90 mph ball had somehow clipped Bucky's helmet and sent it toppling off his head. And it seemed to have made direct contact because Bucky was then lying on his back in the dirt, unmoving.
You stood before you even recognized it, your remaining coffee now cold and covering your shoes. You couldn't move for a solid thirty seconds, too many thoughts racing through your mind. Would they even let you on the field? Would you be in the way if you went? Why was everyone moving so slow? Why wasn't he moving?
Your feet seemed to make a decision before your mind could, and you were stumbling down the concrete steps and racing past the fence in seconds. The dirt from the infield kicked up on your shoes and created mud where the coffee stained. Your breath was coming out in staggered puffs and your throat hurt and why wasn't he moving?
There were a few people kneeling around him at this point—a medic and Steve, you thought. You couldn't really tell with how your vision was blurring. The opposing team were all taking a knee on the field and you quickly joined them as you skidded to a halt by Bucky's waist.
The medic had a flashlight beaming into Bucky's eye and Steve was talking to him in a low, rushed voice. When your shoulder bumped into his, Steve pulled your head to his chest.
"He's gonna be fine, y/n. Just a little bump on the head." He let you reach out and grab Bucky's hand, but he kept you firmly against him.
"Why isn't he awake, Steve? Why isn't he awake?" You directed your second question to the medic ahead of you. You sounded hysterical.
"Hey, it's fine," Steve assured. "Probably just a concussion. They'll take him to—"
A low groan cut him off. Bucky's eyes were fluttering and his face was twisted up in pain. You ripped yourself from Steve's grasp and shuffled up toward his head.
"Bucky? Hey, can you hear me?" You reached up to brush at his cheek, but the medic swatted you off.
"You need to move away. He needs to be able to breathe."
"Don' talk to m'girl like that," Bucky slurred. He was trying so hard to open his eyes.
A few tears rolled down your cheeks and you sniffled as Steve spoke. "Hey, pal. They're gonna take you to the hospital, okay? Someone'll bring y/n and we're all gonna meet you there."
"'S she cryin'?" He moved his hand away from yours and blindly felt for your damp cheeks. "No cryin' doll. 'M fine."
You kissed his palm. "I'm not crying, Buck. You just freaked me out."
"Mm, sorry, baby. Chin strap got loose."
You choked out a wet laugh as Steve placed firm hands on your shoulders. "C'mon, we gotta let them take him."
He pulled you away on stumbling feet as the stretcher came and hoisted Bucky up. He would be fine. He was talking to you just moments ago. He had to be fine.
You turned to Steve with tear-stained cheeks. "You have to keep playing then?"
That was usually what happened. Last year Tony was trampled while he was sliding into third base. His hand was broken, but they had to keep the game going when he went to the hospital; one player didn't make up the entire team.
Steve looked at you with sympathetic eyes and confliction clear on his face, but then Natasha spoke up from the fence line. "I'll take her."
"Go with Nat," Steve gently suggested. "We'll all meet you there when the game's over."
You gave an unsteady nod and followed your best friend to your car. She would definitely have to drive; you were too shaken up and your eyes were still having trouble focusing. On the way there, Natasha reassured you several times that Bucky was fine. That the team got injured all the time.
She was right, but this was your Bucky.
The waiting room was awful. Bucky's parents were out of town so they couldn't come and no one was allowed in his room until he was fully checked over by the doctor. They wouldn't even tell you how he was doing since you weren't family.
You were left to sit in the uncomfortable chair with your knee bouncing anxiously and your phone gripped tightly in your palm. Natasha kept eyeing you from her seat and trying to make conversation, but you felt too sick to respond. Until you knew Bucky wasn't having a brain aneurysm in the other room, you couldn't really speak.
"For Mr. Barnes?"
You got up so quickly the chair behind you slid into the wall. "Yes, that's us."
The doctor gave you a warm smile. "Hi, I'm Dr. Cho. Mr. Barnes is doing just fine, but we'd like to keep him overnight for observation. With most sport-related head injuries, the swelling is too high for us to fully examine the damage at first. CT scans show no bleeding on the brain, but we just like to make sure."
"So, he's going to be okay?" Natasha asked.
"Yes," Dr. Cho explained. "Confused and sporting a headache for a while, but he's just fine. You can go see him if you'd like."
Natasha pushed you forward. "You go. I'll wait for the guys to get here."
Your gaze was glued to Dr. Cho's back as she guided you down the hall. You had to take a few breaths to calm yourself. Bucky was fine. There was no bleeding on his brain. They were keeping him here just to be safe—that was a good thing.
"He's a little disoriented, but I think he's been asking for you. Are you his girlfriend?"
"Yes," you exhaled.
She laughed. "Oh, then he's definitely been asking for you. He seemed very worried about you for someone that just got walloped over the head with a ball."
"Sounds like him." Your chest still ached.
She stopped in front of the door and cracked it slightly, allowing you to go in. Bucky was very much awake. It was jarring. You had expected him to be passed out and cringing from the light in the room.
"Hey baby," he smiled lazily. "Been waitin' on you."
"We, uh, gave him a little something to ease the pain," Dr. Cho clarified. She slipped out of the room after that, giving you some excuse about looking at scans.
"C'mere, doll. Wanna hold you."
You took careful steps over to his bed. It just occurred to you how cold this hospital was; Bucky's sweater was hanging off your shoulder, and the air conditioner pricked at the exposed skin. Maybe you hadn't noticed before because your body was overheating as you stressed over your boyfriend.
"Hey, Buck." Your voice was soft as you brushed your thumb across his cheek. "You okay?"
He hummed. "Better now that you're here. I asked 'em to let you in, but they were busy poking around at m'head."
"Well, you got hit pretty hard. They had to make sure nothing was wrong."
"But you were cryin' on the field earlier. I don't remember that damn ball, but I remember that."
"I was crying because you scared the shit out of me," you said, exasperated. "Did you also forget how to put on a helmet?"
He squinted his eyes at you. "'R you mad at me? Can't be mad at me, doll. My head's all messed up.
"Oh, I see. So I can be mad at you after you've recovered?"
He pretended not to hear you. "Thought I asked to hold you."
God, you loved him. He looked all messy and there was an ice pack wrapped to his head, but he was so beautiful. He always looked beautiful. You almost gave in.
"You can hold me when we get home."
"Home!" he grumbled. "But they're keepin' me overnight, baby. I gotta wait that long? I miss you."
You couldn't contain your laugh this time. "Bucky, I'm standing right here and I was with you all night."
Apparently being on pain medication meant he no longer had to listen to you. He lowered the side of his bed and wrapped his arms around your middle, pulling you onto the blankets. You let out a surprised grunt at the action and tried to wiggle out of his arms, but he just rolled over and pressed you against him.
"Buck!" you exclaimed.
He pressed his nose to your neck. "D'you think I could sue the guy tha' hit me?" You could barely understand him, his words muffled by your skin.
"I don't think that's how sports work." You resigned yourself to your position. Bucky's arms were comfortable anyway.
"But he hit me right in the head."
"I know that. But you kinda signed up for it. And you had your helmet on wrong."
"Can I sue 'em for making you cry?"
You breathed out a laugh, running your fingers across his knuckles. "I don't think that's necessary."
He didn't say anything after that. His chest began a steady pattern and his body grew heavy behind yours. You had the sneaking suspicion that he was only awake when you came in because he was waiting for you; that he wanted you to know he was fine before he knocked out.
You shimmied your phone out of your pocket and read the messages from Nat. Your mind was still too active to follow him into sleep, and you certainly didn't want to stare at the hospital wall. She told you the game was still going. It went an extra inning after Bucky left; the team was a little shaken up by his injury.
You sent her a quick text back and then flitted through a few apps before you felt Bucky's breath pick up on your neck. He squeezed you a little closer to him and shifted his body around.
"Buck?" you asked. He didn't answer you. The pain meds were probably causing him to drift in and out of sleep.
You focused back on your phone and listened to the faint buzzing of the light above you—until you felt his lips moving against your skin. He was saying something, but it was almost impossible to hear. You could make one part out.
"Think 'm gonna love you for the rest of my life, doll."