Disclaimer: Marvel Characters are property of Marvel. Original Characters are mine. Just for fun, not for profit.


Psychosomatic

"I know you hate pants. I hate pants, too. But sometimes we have to wear them, and when people are coming over to your house is one of those times," Bucky explained exasperatedly. It was entirely too early in the morning to be having this discussion. Brooklyn crossed her arms over her chest and frowned furiously at her father.

"But people are always coming over," she pointed out. "Why can't I just be naked?" Bucky sighed.

"Because, you just… can't," he replied. "How about your helicopter dress?" Brooklyn set her jaw and shook her head. Bucky sighed.

"You can have ten more minutes to be naked," he warned her. "But once I'm done getting your brother dressed, it's your turn." Brooklyn made a "humph" noise and jumped off the top of the dresser. Bucky grabbed a shirt and pants out of Jameson's side and went into the living room. His son was sitting on the couch, watching a nature program on the television with Herbert sitting on his lap.

"Come on, buddy, let's get ready for the day," Bucky encouraged. Jameson let Bucky pull his pajama shirt over his head, leaning to the side to see around him to the television screen. Bucky deftly popped the shirt over Jameson's head and guided the boy's arms through the sleeves.

"Where's Mommy?" Jameson asked distractedly.

"I think she's not feeling so well, so we're letting her get as much rest as she can before she has to be up with you and all of your friends," Bucky informed him. It was very unlike Nyssa to sleep so late, especially when she had daycare children expected to arrive. Bucky was due to be downtown in less than half an hour, so he was cutting it closer than he liked, but Nyssa had developed a worrisome wheeze overnight.

"Ta-dah!" Bucky turned to see Brooklyn flouncing into the room, twirling to show off the helicopter dress she was now clad in. Bucky grinned at her.

"Well, look at you," he commented. "You got dressed all by yourself."

"Uh-huh." Brooklyn did a cartwheel into the couch. "I did it myself."

"Great, honey." There was a knock at the door. Bucky swore under his breath. The other children were starting to arrive, earlier than expected. He was somewhat relieved to open the door and see Steve standing there with Saoirse in his arms. "Hey, come on in. The kids are dressed, at least." Steve obediently stepped through the door. He glanced around with a frown.

"Isn't Nyssa here?" he asked in confusion. Bucky grimaced.

"Yeah. I'll go wake her up," he muttered, pacing back towards the bedroom. She was buried under the quilt, the only sign she was there an intermittent muffled wheeze. Darshan, who normally was not allowed on the bed, was curled up on the pillow near her head. He whined softly as Bucky drew near. Bucky pulled back the covers. Beneath them, Nyssa was pale, flushed and sweating, her hair stuck in damp ringlets to her face. Bucky cupped her face in his hands, brushing the tips of his fingers across her temple. He registered with shock that her temperature was nearly a hundred and four degrees. "Nyssa." She stirred, blinking open unfocused, fever-bright eyes. Confusion flickered across her face at first.

"Mmm? Wha's going on?" she mumbled, interrupted by a short burst of harsh coughing.

"I was going to wake you up because I have to leave soon and the kids are here," Bucky informed her as she settled down, her coughing subsiding into gasping wheezes. "But I think my plans just changed. I'm taking you to the hospital."

"I'm not that sick," she protested breathlessly. "I just need a few minutes… to get myself going." Steve appeared in the doorway.

"Everything okay?" he asked, a concerned wrinkle creasing between his eyebrows. Bucky shook his head.

"Tell Fury I'm not going to be in today," he requested of his friend. Steve nodded, regarding Nyssa with alarm. Bucky rubbed his wife's upper arm. "If you want to put on some clothes or a robe or something, do that now. We're leaving for the hospital as soon as I get the kids situation figured out." Bucky stood up and crossed the room to where Steve was still lingering in the doorway.

"Is she okay?" he asked worriedly. Bucky paused.

"Remember that winter you got double pneumonia and almost died?" he asked carefully. Steve's eyes widened.

"I mean, barely," he admitted. He glanced over at Nyssa, who had moved to the edge of the bed and paused to catch her breath.

"I'm sure it's… not that bad," Nyssa panted dryly. "They probably just need to switch my antibiotic. We'll go in, they'll give me something new, we'll be back in time for you to go to the afternoon session of negotiations." Bucky shook his head. He didn't think they would just be sent home, but even if they did, he wasn't about to leave her alone in this condition. "Don't be so dramatic, Steve. This is not my deathbed," Nyssa continued, giving Bucky pause. Despite her abilities, she usually tried not to eavesdrop on others' internal dialogue, and she certainly never responded to it in such one-sided conversation. He had seen her ill and out of her head only once before. "This is nothing like Wakanda, you're being ridiculous. I'm not hallucinating, I'm not remotely out of touch with reality…." He and Steve were both staring at her now. Nyssa stood slowly, weaving slightly at the foot of the bed. "Wait, wait. Neither… neither one of you said anything out loud, did you?"

"Nope," Bucky confirmed. Nyssa sagged back down on the bed.

"Shit," she breathed softly. "So… I am really that sick."

"Yep," Bucky confirmed grimly. "So wait here while I check on the kids. Then we're going." He made his way back out to the living room, where he found that Marquis had arrived. The four-armed man was sitting on the couch, listening with an amused smile as Brooklyn regaled him with a very animated story. Bucky paused, waiting until his daughter stopped to take a breath.

"You're on your own today, Marquis," he informed the other man quickly, before Brooklyn could resume her tale. "I'm taking Nyssa to the hospital." Marquis frowned.

"Is everything okay?" he asked. Bucky shrugged, trying to seem more casual than he felt.

"That's what we're hoping the doctors will tell us," he quipped, then went to go gather Nyssa.


The ride to the hospital was quiet, giving Bucky plenty of time and space to worry and go over disaster scenarios in his head. Nyssa had managed to throw on pants and a thick sweater, but was still shivering in the mild morning air. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, with a rhythmic wheeze. She slumped miserably in the seat, leaning back limply with her eyes closed. At first glance, she appeared to be asleep, but Bucky heard quiet moans coming from her as the car went over bumps or around corners. Even at this early hour, traffic was heavy, and Bucky was beginning to wonder if he should have called an ambulance instead of driving her himself. The car hit a pothole and jolted both of them. A louder moan came from the passenger seat.

"You weren't feeling this bad last night," Bucky observed, though there was a question hanging in the air between them. Nyssa shook her head, keeping her eyes closed.

"Last night, it was still just a cough," she whispered hoarsely. "Maybe a little… tightness in my chest. Now, it hurts to breathe, and I can't… can't catch my breath." Bucky glanced over at her, but forced himself to return his attention to the road and the other drivers.

They finally reached the hospital, but the emergency department was crowded. Nyssa was moving slowly, weakly. Bucky scooped her up into his arms and carried her towards the triage station. A harried-looking nurse took Nyssa's vital signs. As soon as she heard Nyssa's cough, she handed her a mask, which Nyssa obediently donned.

"Any travel out of the country in the past month?" the woman asked. Nyssa let out a short bark of laughter that quickly devolved into a coughing fit.

"Yes," she finally managed as the coughing subsided. The nurse raised her eyebrows at her.

"Any travel to India, Japan, China, Myanmar, New Zealand, Thailand, Chile or Venezuela?" she asked. Nyssa nodded, not trying to speak again. Bucky had heard all those countries mentioned in the news lately, with local epidemics popping up, new viruses that had epidemiologists baffled. "Which one?" The corners of Nyssa's eyes crinkled behind the mask.

"All of them," she replied.


Once the nurse checked Nyssa's vital signs, things started to happen more quickly. They covered her face with an oxygen mask, and they were shown back to a room. This one had walls, not just curtains, and was surprisingly quiet given the level of chaos in the rest of the department. Nyssa curled up on her side in the cart, closing her eyes. Bucky pulled a chair up beside her, his hand creeping under the thin sheet to hold hers. He felt her fingers close around his in response.

"If this is something I brought back with me, you'll need to have the kids tested, too," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible behind the oxygen mask, but he could still hear the guilt in it. He nodded.

"It'll be okay," he said reassuringly, rubbing her shoulder. She heaved a sigh.

"I would believe that if you did," she said ruefully. He responded with a comforting squeeze of her hand. Before he could come up with a good response, they came in to draw blood. It was somewhat disconcerting to watch the pile of tubes filled with her blood mount ever higher on the technician's cart.

"What are they testing for?" he asked curiously. The phlebotomist checked her list.

"Basic metabolic panel, liver enzymes, lactate, complete blood count with differential… and a bunch that I'm not super familiar with," she admitted. "I just draw the blood, I don't interpret the results." Bucky nodded thoughtfully.

"Probably screening for exotic diseases," Nyssa rasped, her speech drowsy and slightly slurred. Her eyes were still open, but looking slightly glazed.


Five hours later, Bucky felt like they were no closer to answers, but Nyssa would be admitted. She had tested positive for three of the viruses, though the doctor didn't seem to believe that was actually possible, suggesting that one or more of them may be a false positive. Bucky drove home with a mission from the doctor – to bring all the people she had been around since her return to a clinic to be screened for the same diseases. He sent a group text off to the Avengers, informing them of their likely exposure. They were adults, so they could take care of themselves. Letters would go home with the children, informing their parents of the possible exposure. Bucky had already made an appointment with their pediatrician to have Brooklyn and Jameson screened. They weren't excited about the impromptu trip to the doctor, but their tests thankfully came back negative. Bucky's was positive, but he hadn't experienced any symptoms thus far, so they let him go home with a list of things to watch out for and instructions to call immediately if he noticed any of them.


Elijah came over the next morning to watch the twins, and Bucky headed back to the hospital. This time, Nyssa was in a room on the third floor. A metal cart stocked with protective gear was stationed outside. Bucky paused, watching as the nurse donned a gown, gloves, respirator and face mask before going into the room that contained his wife. He glanced at the cart as he hesitated outside her door, considering whether to gear up himself. He dismissed the notion after a moment. He had already been exposed; his fate, whatever it was to be, was sealed. He went through both sets of doors leading into her hospital room. The nurse exited as he entered, hurriedly closing the door behind her before taking off her protective gear.

Inside the room, Nyssa was huddled in a tiny ball of misery in the bed, eyes closed. Her face was still engulfed by the oxygen mask, obscuring her petite features. An IV pole with three pumps on it stood beside her, pumping fluids and medicine into her frail form. A tray of food perched on the tray table by the side of the bed. Bucky investigated and found it was cold and untouched. He frowned. He seated himself by Nyssa's bedside. She appeared to be asleep, but he wasn't entirely convinced.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, quietly enough that it wouldn't wake her if she were sleeping.

"Like patient zero in the zombie apocalypse," she replied, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Not sure what hurts the worst, my chest, my back, my head, the nurses' fear, or knowing that I've exposed everyone I care about." Her voice cracked, and she made a noise akin to a sob, but began coughing, shielding her face from him in the pillow. The numbers on the monitor on the wall began dropping, marked by an alarming beep. He waited until her fit subsided. She took a deep, shaky breath, and a few moments later, the beeping stopped.

"If it's any consolation, nobody else has any symptoms," he pointed out.

"Yet," Nyssa countered raggedly. He sighed.

"You just concentrate on getting what you need so you can fight this," he rebuked. "Don't worry about the rest of it. The sooner you get well, the sooner you can come home." Nyssa nodded; her response interrupted by more coughing.

"The doctor says it will be a week at least," she wheezed. "Maybe longer." She moaned, shaking her head on the pillow. "I hate hospitals."

"I suppose you've spent more than your fair share of time in them," he reflected. Her head moved in a slight nod.

"There is that, too," she agreed. "Also, it's the highest concentration of misery, suffering and death in the city, all gathered into one building. And right now, I don't have the strength to keep it out." Bucky considered this for a moment.

"Just being in New York City must be challenging for you," he observed.

"Some days are harder than others," she acknowledged grudgingly. He frowned slightly.

"So why would you want to live here?" he asked. "Wouldn't it be easier to live somewhere the people are a little more… spread out?"

"Easier, yeah," she admitted. "But this is where I'm needed."

"Where others needed you, needed your help," Bucky rephrased. She nodded, an almost imperceptible movement of her head. "What about what you need?" He sighed and shook his head. "You don't give yourself much time or space to recharge, but you probably need more than most." She didn't respond, but he followed his train of thought a little longer. "Maybe we need to move. Get out of the city, find someplace with more space, fewer people… somewhere you can decompress and let your walls down without being flooded by the thoughts and feelings of a million people." Nyssa turned her face towards him, frowning.

"But… New York City is your home," she protested. "I couldn't ask you to leave it, when you're finally back after so many years." He leaned closer to her, reaching out to stroke her cheek.

"My home," he emphasized, "is wherever you are. I can always come back for visits." He sat back in the chair. "To tell the truth, it might be nice to have a little more space. Once you're better and can come home, we can see what's out there." He refused to contemplate any other outcome than that she would be coming home.

"You really want to move to the middle of nowhere?" she countered. He shrugged good-humoredly.

"I mean, we could discuss the edge of nowhere," he said with a smirk. Under her oxygen mask, she smiled.

"That might be nice," she sighed. "Miles of green space, being able to… finally relax. Just you, me and the kids." One corner of her mouth quirked upwards. "Sounds like heaven." Her head tilted to the side. "But would that mean you wouldn't be working with the United Nations anymore? It would be hard to train new recruits for planetary defense from the middle of nowhere." Bucky contemplated this for a moment.

"You let me worry about that part," he replied, attempting to be reassuring. "Nothing is settled yet, but I'm sure I can work something out." She sighed and closed her eyes.

"So, you're going to be off training the next generation of soldiers the most efficient ways to kill aliens. Meanwhile, I'm stuck at home, being… useless," she observed. He scoffed disbelievingly.

"You consider raising our children useless?" he said hotly, choosing to ignore the dig about killing aliens, though he bristled at her tone. He was usually willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, and especially now when she wasn't feeling well. But she seemed to be pushing all his buttons today.

"Hardly," she returned. "But most of our society does. Especially compared to what I used to do. My trip reminded me how much I've been missing it. But then it landed me here, so…." Her voice caught, and she started coughing again. Her thin frame shook with the assault of her illness.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his tone, though he knew she would be aware of it anyway. She sighed.

"I don't know," she admitted. Eyes closed, she lay still in the bed for so long Bucky started to think she had fallen asleep. The monitor beeped intermittently. She coughed, then moaned. "I just am… so weary of war. Of death." She gestured weakly. "I've been in combat situations before, you know that. But the Vruuxel Invasion was my first full-scale battle. And I don't know if I was prepared for the reality of it…"

"Nobody's ever really prepared for it," he interrupted, shaking his head. "You can't be." She nodded agreement.

"Because of… what my job was, during the battle," she continued, "I had to keep track of everyone and what was going on. I couldn't block anything out. I felt… everything. Every injury, every fear, every moment of terror… every death. Ours… and theirs." Tears trickled from her eyes and disappeared under the oxygen mask. Bucky's eyes widened. The situation had been terrifying enough limited to his own experience. He couldn't imagine the magnitude of what she had gone through. He slipped his hand into hers, and she clenched her fingers around his as if he were a life preserver. He was caught off guard by a wave of guilt, grief, shame and self-directed rage as their linked hands exposed him to her internal world. "I could sense what was about to happen. To Clint, and to Ignatius. I still couldn't stop it." Her voice cracked. Useless, I'm so fucking useless. The stray thought hadn't been directed at him. He wasn't sure she had even meant for him to pick up on it. His heart wrenched, and he brought his other hand up to clasp hers. She swallowed hard, struggling to take a deep breath, then shook her head. "And every time I fall asleep… it all happens all over again."

"Do you want me to ask the doctor if there's something you could take to help with that?" he suggested. She shook her head, sighed, then shrugged.

"Maybe. I was thinking I just had to give myself time to process it, but I feel like I've been stuck. And not sleeping has not been helping," she admitted. Though I don't think there's a pill that will make me less… useless. He was again blindsided at the wave of despair that rolled over them both. Nyssa dissolved into another coughing fit, her labored breathing punctuated by the monitor's beeping, which was becoming incessant. Bucky caught a glimpse of movement outside the doors as the nurse began getting the protective gear on again.

"Why don't you just concentrate on getting better?" he suggested. "You're not exactly useful if you're burned out. Or worse."

"You can say it," Nyssa said raggedly, still gasping for breath. "I'm pretty useless if I'm dead." She lay in the bed for a moment, fighting to catch her breath. "If I don't… get better, promise me…"

"No, that's not going to happen," Bucky said firmly. The nurse finally made it into the room and silenced the beeping. She adjusted the oxygen meter on the wall.

"Your saturation levels keep dropping," she observed. "I already notified the doctor, but I'll page respiratory to come give you a nebulizer, okay?" Nyssa nodded.

"Thank you," she panted.

"No more talking," Bucky said reprovingly. "Save your breath." He cleared his throat. "Could she get something for pain? She'll never ask, but she's really hurting." Nyssa made a small noise of protest. The nurse nodded, then turned and left.

"You know what that shit does to me," she hissed at him. He shrugged.

"What, takes away your pain? Helps you be more comfortable?" he countered. She shook her head.

"It does weird things… in my brain," she reminded him. "Everything gets jumbled together. I can't keep anything out…"

"Which is kind of where you're at already," he returned. "Look, you need to rest. You can't do that when you're in this much pain." He was getting little twinges of it every now and again as they held hands, though he was not as adept at it as she was, and he could do nothing to relieve it. But modern medicine could, and he'd be damned if he let her suffer needlessly. Nyssa sighed, and he could feel her relent. She didn't say anything to argue when the nurse returned with syringes of clear, pain-relieving elixir. By the time the respiratory therapist arrived with something to help her breathe better, she was resting more quietly, although the monitor continued its rhythmic beeping every few minutes. After the nebulizer, her coughing decreased, and she lay still. Bucky was dismayed when another figure in a protective gown, respirator and face shield entered the room. He stared at Bucky for a moment, his eyes disapproving behind his face shield.

"You should not be here, sir," he informed Bucky crisply. "Certainly not without the protective equipment we provided. This room is under quarantine." Bucky shrugged, but sat back, releasing Nyssa's hand. She didn't move or stir, and he was finally satisfied that she was really sleeping

"I brought her here this morning," he pointed out. "I've already been exposed."

"That doesn't mean we can be careless about further exposure," the man responded, his tone clipped. Bucky contemplated him a moment.

"You must be one of the doctors," he observed. The man nodded.

"Forgive me if I don't shake your hand, under the circumstances," he replied. "I am Dr. Zamfirescu, and I am with the Infectious Disease specialists. I happen to be the resident expert on exotic diseases." Bucky nodded.

"So, what's the prognosis, Doc?" he asked, his tone more flippant than he felt. It was hard to read the doctor's face behind the mask, but Zamfirescu shook his head.

"Guarded, at best," he declared. "Her pulmonary function tests were abysmal. The xrays show infiltrates in both lungs. She certainly has pneumonia, either from the virus or viruses, or possibly from an opportunistic bacterium. The cultures will take time to process. Her inflammatory markers are off the charts, but the immune response isn't what I would expect for what we're seeing. Given her history, I am not entirely surprised." Bucky took in a deep, shaky breath.

"So, what are our options?" he asked. Zamfirescu pressed his gloved hands together.

"Mostly, we must focus on supportive therapies, symptom management. Things to help the pain, help her breathing. Given her body's response, immunoglobulin therapy might be helpful…"


Bucky was in a dark mood by the time he left the hospital for home. He couldn't help but worry. Nyssa was in a much more fragile state than he had realized, physically, mentally and emotionally. He was kicking himself for not realizing how much his wife had been struggling. His humor was not much improved as he entered the parking ramp and saw a news crew lingering there. Pulling his hat low over his eyes, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as he trudged to where he had parked. Alas, he was too recognizable now. He had only made it a quarter of the way when the reporter made a beeline for him, the cameraman trailing just a few steps behind.

"Mr. Barnes, is it true that Dr. Taylor has contracted the SRFV virus? How is she doing? What is her condition? Her prognosis? Can we expect more cases now that she has brought it to New York? Is she under quarantine? If she is under quarantine, why did they let you leave?" He walked faster as the reported peppered him with rapid-fire questions. He stopped and turned, eyes blazing. The reporter faltered for a moment, but daringly shoved the microphone into his face. Bucky ripped the microphone out of her hand and threw it to the floor of the parking garage.

"Go home," he spat at her. "There's not a story here."

"So, your wife hasn't been hospitalized?" she returned boldly. He suppressed the urge to punch the self-assured look right off her face.

"I'm saying it's not your business," he ground out through gritted teeth.

"If Dr. Taylor has brought a highly contagious and potentially deadly virus back after her time overseas, isn't that everyone's business?" she challenged. With a growl, he pulled the camera out of its operator's grasp and hurled it to the ground. Glass and metal fragments skittered across the concrete.

"Leave it," he snarled.


I swear, I had this part planned before the Coronavirus was in the news! A note on the title: a psychosomatic illness isn't one that is made up or "all in their head." It's an effect where stress and mental health issues can make physical symptoms much, much worse. Thanks to karina001, DarylDixon'sLover, SomebodyWhoCares and my lovely Googling guest for your comments and feedback!