A/N: Victoria and skinny!Steve AU. Idea: "Asthma attack without the inhaler in the middle of the night and the other one sings to calm them down." [Characters from my story The Original Three.]
Take a Breath
It was ten o'clock at night when Victoria heard the knock on her apartment door. She paused wiping down the kitchen counters down and slowly straightened up, listening carefully. The sound of someone at her door was new. She and her father rarely received visitors. Victoria didn't have any relatives in the country and after her mother had died, the visitors had trickled away over the years. First many people had come, quite a few of them nosy women with casseroles—and husbands. Victoria had always felt like reminding them of this when she saw the predatory way they looked at her father, the way women who crave a little bit of power look at vulnerable men. But she needn't have worried. The visitors faded away over the years, just like her father did.
Victoria was fifteen now.
The knocking became louder and more persistent. Victoria glanced in the direction of the dark hallway that led to her father's room and sighed. He would be of no help even if it was someone dangerous. She called, "I'm coming," wiped her hands on a ratty dishrag and hurried to open the door, making sure her robe's knot was tied tightly.
She opened the door a crack and peeked out—only to stare into a set of very familiar blue eyes. "Steve." She stepped back in surprise, opening the door wider. Despite having lived above Steve her whole life, he almost never came to her door. Bucky almost never did, either. She supposed it was the depressing atmosphere of her apartment. She'd always gone to their places. And once Steve's mother had died a little over a year ago…they'd both started spending more and more time at Bucky's house, where Mrs. Barnes was always happy to feed the both of them (who she always proclaimed to be looking more and more "peaky" every time she saw them).
Steve didn't look so good, she noted in shock. His eyes were watery and red and at first she thought in horror that he might have been crying—and she certainly didn't know how to calm down a crying boy!—but then she realized his cheeks were rather red and his voice sounded raspy as he weakly grinned and said, "Hey."
"Are you okay?" she asked, astonished. "Come in." She ushered him in and waited for the awkward feelings to come, since she never liked anyone seeing how dark and silent and stale her home was—but the feelings didn't come. Perhaps it was because she knew Steve would now understand. After all, his home was silent and empty now. She wasn't even sure how long he'd be able to pay for the apartment on his own after his distant relatives stopped helping him out.
"I got locked out of my apartment," he said sheepishly, sneezing into his hanky. Steve was a bit odd that way; he carried hankies wherever he went. Other, bigger boys mocked him for it, but for a boy who was sick as often as Steve was, it really was just sensible. Victoria would have liked to knock some sense into them—her temper always flared whenever people made fun of Steve—but she could never follow through on her feelings. The thought of stepping out into the limelight…drawing attention to herself…it made her chest feel tight.
"Isn't Bucky home?" she asked. A moment later, she blushed. "Not that—not that you're not welcome here! But you usually…go to Bucky's, right?"
He shrugged and nodded and said, "Yeah, but…it's late…and I think he may be out, anyway, he said he had a date, so…I didn't want to bother his mother, you know—"
"No, of course not," Victoria agreed. "Well, you'll just have to stay here, then. We can help you break into your apartment tomorrow."
"I don't have enough money for a locksmith," Steve said dubiously, twisting his hanky round and round in his slender fingers.
Victoria stifled a giggle. "I was going to suggest smashing the door down."
Steve rolled his eyes and sneezed. "Of course you were. Sometimes, for someone so quiet, you have the most violent ideas, you know that?"
"May I take your coat, sir?" she joked, holding her hand out.
"Of course, my good lady," Steve snarked back, grinning nonetheless and handing over his awful tweed jacket that Victoria hated with a passion. She wondered if now was a good time to "accidentally" destroy it.
She hung his coat in the front closet, knowing her father would never notice it (New York City could go up in flames and her father still probably wouldn't notice), and when she returned, she was horrified to see that Steve looked to be in bad shape. His breathing sounded wheezy and his eyes were closed as he leaned back on her couch, one hand pressed to his stomach, skin pale. "Are you sick again?" she asked, kneeling next to him and pressing a hand to his forehead, pushing his sweaty blond hair from his face.
"Allergies," he groaned. "I feel like there's cotton in my lungs."
"Where's your inhaler?" she asked, looking around as if it might just poof into existence in front of her.
"Locked in my apartment," he said.
"What are you going to do?" she demanded. "What if you have an asthma attack? How do you deal with them without an inhaler?"
"Well—my mother used to sing to me, when I was a kid," he mumbled. A faint flush crept up his neck, as if he hadn't meant to mention this. "But—never mind. It's okay. I won't have an attack. I can usually…feel one coming on. And I don't…"
"Are you sure?" she asked, feeling worried nonetheless.
He nodded.
"Okay. Let's get you to bed," she said, standing up and offering Steve her arm as if she were the gentleman and he were the lady. She helped him stand up and led him to her bedroom. He followed her without a word. She'd known Steve so long that it would have been unthinkable to force him to sleep in the living room. She knew that if any of the ladies in the building knew that Steve was sleeping in her room—especially at this age—there would be endless gossip and scandal. But she didn't really care. Steve mattered more than those nosy ladies. Besides, they'd never find out. It wasn't as if her father was actually going to open her door and look into her room. He hadn't checked on Victoria in years, really.
Still, she hadn't been expecting guests. Steve collapsed on her bed and she scurried around, grabbing piles of clothing and stuffing them into her closet and under her bed, sweeping crumpled page after page of failed Lady Liberty drawings into her desk drawers. She didn't want Steve to see them; he was such a good artist, after all. She wasn't really good at anything. Except…
Her hands tingled slightly and she clenched them.
No, Victoria. Don't ever let it show.
She took a deep breath, forced the powers down, and then spun, smiling brightly at Steve. "Alright, well…why don't you lay down, and—"
"What?" Steve had lay down on her bed to rest while she cleaned like a whirling dervish but now he popped up, his eyes flying open wide. "Victoria, no!" He coughed. "I'm not sleeping on your bed! You are. I'll sleep on the floor," he said firmly.
"You will not," Victoria said just as firmly. "Sleeping on the hard ground isn't going to do your breathing any favors."
Steve crossed his arms and gave her an obstinate look. "I am not letting a girl sleep on the floor while I sleep on her bed. Do you think I was raised by animals?"
Victoria groaned. "Steve. This is no time to be a gentleman." He raised an eyebrow and she bit back a sigh. To Steve, it was always time to be a gentleman. He was astonishingly chivalrous, which was…well, honestly, something Victoria had always found sweet. But right now…it was just a nuisance! "Steve, please," she said. "I have plenty of blankets, I'll be fine. It's for one night, I'm not going to die—but you might, if you sleep on the ground. What kind of monster would I be, if I forced the sick person to sleep on the ground?" He still looked stubborn so she added, "Please. Don't make me feel like an atrocious hostess."
"Fine," he sighed, relenting. "But only because…" He eased himself back down onto her bed. "I feel like my lungs are filled with—"
"Cotton," Victoria finished, smiling to herself. "I know."
She switched her main lights off but kept one tiny lamp on while she carried in blankets from the linen closet and made a little bed for herself on the ground, layering three thick blankets for a base and one light one for on top. It was summer and it was hot. The tiny golden light cast thin golden rays over the room, dipping parts of the room in gold while other parts remained shadowy. The blond in Steve's hair glinted gold and his face was shrouded in shadows. Victoria bent over him to make sure he was still alive and noticed that not only was he breathing, he was already asleep.
Boys, she thought, stupefied. Honestly. How does one fall asleep that quickly? And didn't he need to do anything else before bed? Girls needed ages to get ready for bed: taking off any makeup (which Victoria was too self-conscious to wear), brushing their hair, changing into nightdresses, moisturizing…
He hadn't even taken his shoes off. Victoria rolled her eyes and yanked them off, tossing them in a corner. Then she took her robe off and clambered into her makeshift bed, leaning over and switching the lamp off. She tossed and turned under her slow moving fan and tried to get comfortable in this oppressive heat…
She woke to the sound of wheezing and choking in the dark. For one terrifying moment, she had no idea where she was or what was going on. She wasn't on her bed—it was dark—there were strange, choking noises—and she flailed out in a panic, snapping the little lamp on and looking around wildly. When she saw Steve sitting up in bed, her hammering heart slowed slightly. Right—Steve had been locked out and then he—
Hang on—
"Steve!" she whispered urgently, sitting on the bed and gripping his shoulders. "Oh my God! Steve!" He was shuddering and wheezing, his skin deathly pale and sweaty, an expression of pure terror on his face, one hand clasped to his throat, struggling to get a breath in. Tears immediately sprung to Victoria's eyes in a panic and she desperately tried to grab his hand, smooth down his hair, touch his shoulder, anything. "Steve," she begged. "Tell me what to do! Do you need—the hospital? Should I ring for an ambulance? Call Bucky? Do you need medicine? Steve, please!" She'd seen Steve have asthma attacks before but it had never looked quite this terrifying, nor had he ever been without his inhaler.
Suddenly she remembered what he'd said to her earlier: Well—my mother used to sing to me, when I was a kid.
Victoria didn't have a beautiful singing voice and she'd definitely never sung out loud in front of anyone, not even Bucky and Steve—it was far too embarrassing—but now was no time for being self-consciousness. She took a deep breath, gripped Steve's face in both hands, and began to quietly sing. Her voice started out whispery and shaky, fear of her father waking up and fear for Steve's life silencing her. But as she sang, she gained slight confidence and noticed that Steve seemed to be regulating his breath in time to her voice, his eyes wildly darting around but slowing down a bit.
She sang her mother's favorite sad song, slow and sweet. She didn't have her mother's singing voice—she didn't have her mother's anything, she often thought sadly—but she was doing the best she could. She sang the slow, soft song about little boys on golden horses rocking across the deep, dark sea, stars like pearls in the water, little princes winking from twinkling rooftops, lost children finding their way back home to their mothers…
She and Steve ended with their foreheads pressed together, Steve's forehead sweaty, and he struggled in to breathe as she sang and she noticed that he was silently crying. She'd never seen Steve cry in public like this—he hadn't even publicly cried when his mother had passed—but she quelled her shock and kept singing, her voice trembling slightly every now and then.
Steve's breathing slowly became more rhythmic and controlled, coming easier and easier with every slightly-hitched breath. Victoria kept singing. She didn't know why but it was reminding her of her own mother and she hadn't even noticed but her own tears had spilled over onto her cheeks at some point. She held Steve's face in her hands, her palms slick with his sweat and tears, and their foreheads stayed pressed together, as they locked eyes, Steve looking exhausted, Victoria still softly singing. Finally her voice died out and they stayed locked in that position for a while before Victoria pressed her lips to his salty cheek and kissed him gently. Then she pulled away and turned away before he could see her face, turning out the light and saying, "Goodnight, Steve," before clambering back into her bed on the ground in the pitch darkness.
She listened to the sound of Steve's normal, peaceful breathing as she stared through the darkness up at her ceiling and suddenly, long after she thought he'd fallen asleep, he murmured, "Goodnight, Victoria."
She couldn't help but feel like something had changed tonight.
