This is a prequel, so there aren't really any surprises and you can probably tell by the title of this chapter what's going to happen. I still feel the need to place a warning that this chapter contains character death, namely a child's death, because I know how difficult a topic it can be.
Chapter 9: Sweet Dreams, Ant-Man
Steve survived the first five months of fourth grade without a hospital stay. Not quite a personal record, but any year where he made it through flu season was considered a good year. There was a close call, but he managed to avoid being admitted with a course of oral antibiotics and upping his regimen to four treatments a day for several weeks. In addition to before school, he fit in the other three immediately after school, before dinner, and right before bedtime, which often got pushed to later to give him time to fit in all the treatments. It was exhausting, but it allowed him to continue going to normal school.
Inevitably, his streak came to an end, and Steve said goodbye to all his friends before heading to Gravesen. Scott and Clint, now sporting matching bald heads, greeted him. Clint had grown in the nine months since Steve last saw them, but not Scott. If anything, he looked smaller. He was certainly skinnier; they both were, but their spirits were as high as ever.
"Go fish," Scott said, sticking out his tongue at Steve to rub it in. This was the game Steve found himself playing after Clint and Scott begged him to join them. Steve drew a card from the pile in the center of the table and sighed.
"Ant-Man, do you have any nines?" Clint asked.
"Since when do you call him that?" Steve questioned. The nickname was kind of cute, but could also easily be offensive. He glanced to Scott to see which way he interpreted it. The kid's smile had not wavered, so Steve assumed he liked it.
"Since the last time I played this game with him and he asked me if I had any queens," Clint explained.
"Ants love their queen," Scott added. "The Ancient One taught us that." Steve had forgotten that kids this young even did school here. Scott handed over two nines and Clint put down a book of all four.
"Steve, do you have any twos?"
"Go fish."
"I wish I could go fishing for real," Clint sighed.
"Clint, do you have any sevens?" Scott asked.
"I want to catch a really big one. As big as Scott!"
"Clint! Sevens?" Scott repeated.
"Sorry. I didn't hear you. Here you go." Clint handed Scott a seven. The game continued, Clint building on his early lead and bringing it home for the win. Afterward, Scott grabbed Steve by the hand and dragged him towards his room.
"I have to show you something," he insisted. Steve followed, and what he found was certainly not what he expected. Scott unzipped the outer pocket of his kid-sized suitcase and pulled out Nurse Peggy's ID badge.
"Where did you get this?" Steve asked concernedly.
"I took it off her scrubs while she was numbing my port," Scott explained jubilantly.
"How?"
"I just took it. She didn't even notice."
"Scott, that's stealing."
"I'm going to give it back, but only when they realize it's me."
"They?"
"I have Dr. Potts' pen too."
Logically, Steve knew he shouldn't be encouraging thievery in a five-year-old, but he was so impressed that Scott could even pull that off that he couldn't find it in himself to tell him to stop. Plus, he was curious just how far this could go. Over the next week, Scott amassed six more pens, Happy's ID badge, and a stethoscope. He wouldn't tell Steve whose neck he took it off of, but he must have told Clint. The two of them giggled together constantly, even when they were hooked up to chemo. Steve went with them when they received their infusions and marveled at how ordinary they found it. They were so young that it was possible they didn't even remember much before cancer.
Towards the end of that week, Scott went for scans. Mr. Lang was a nervous wreck, pacing the hallways while Scott was busy drinking CT contrast. Steve understood these results were similar to those he got when he went to clinic; they informed the doctors how Scott was doing and what kinds of treatments he might need in the future. Steve and his mom took a walk around the hospital, and he glimpsed Dr. Potts leaving her office looking more stressed out than he'd ever seen her. Steve learned later it was because of what showed up on Scott's scans. He started a new, stronger chemo regimen just as Steve's lung function popped back up to baseline and he finished his round of antibiotics.
Steve invited Clint and Scott for one last round of go fish before he went home, and Scott declined, citing he felt too sick and tired. In the smallest voice possible, Scott asked if Steve would read him a story instead to help him fall asleep. Without question, Steve picked up Scott's favorite book and read until the boy's eyes closed and his head slumped onto his shoulder. His breaths grew even and slow and the lines of discomfort on his young face smoothed out. Steve gently extricated himself from Scott's bed, rearranging the pillows to support Scott in his current position. Mr. Lang, who'd fallen asleep in his chair, didn't stir either. As Steve sat in the car on the way home, he felt guilty for leaving him when he needed more comfort than ever. Hopefully, this rough new treatment would work.
~0~
Steve finished out the school year with only one sinus infection to mar his health history. Summer was fantastic, Steve feeling physically better than ever. He spent most days running around in the park with Bucky, Jim, Timmy, and Gabe. When he grew tired or if it was too hot to go outside, he pulled out his sketchbook and drew whatever came to mind. He drew lots of pictures of Scott, his thoughts never straying too far from the boy and how he was doing. Steve often asked his parents for updates, but since they weren't friends with Mr. Lang, they didn't know a whole lot.
He started fifth grade excited to finally be one of the big kids on campus. Bucky still towered over him by a good four or five inches, but Steve hoped he wouldn't be mistaken for a third grader anymore. As fall crept inexorably towards winter, the Rogers exercised all of their usual precautions to protect Steve from germs, but ultimately failed. Steve fell ill in mid-October and he could tell without even having scans, throat cultures, or bloodwork at clinic that he needed to go to the hospital. Only this time, he was determined to do his PICC line insertion without sedation. It wouldn't take as long if they didn't need to put him to sleep, and he wouldn't feel so tired and woozy afterwards. Dad tried to talk him out of it, but Steve insisted he was old enough to handle it. When the doctor said they could always sedate him during the procedure if he got anxious or things otherwise weren't working out, Dad acquiesced.
They took Steve to a procedure room and laid him out flat on a table, his right arm extended. The doctor who would be inserting the PICC was so heavily gowned and masked that Steve could barely even make out her face. He felt completely at ease until she draped the rest of his body except the arm. She explained everything as she did it, so he understood the need for sterility, but he still didn't particularly like it. The ultrasound probe was cold against the skin of his arm, and it seemed to take her forever before she finally found what she was looking for.
"You've had so many of these before that good veins are getting hard to come by," she stated. Steve didn't think that sounded good. What would they do if he ran out of veins completely? Now that she'd identified the vein, she prepped the site for insertion, first thoroughly cleaning it. A terse warning, and then she stuck him with numbing medicine. Steve bit his lip and waited for the stab of the needle to subside as the effects took hold. Sure enough, within moments, he could no longer feel what she was doing. However, that scared him even more than pain. Now, he couldn't help but tilt his head just enough to see his arm.
The needle looked way bigger than he thought it needed to be, but he didn't even feel it as it went in. He didn't feel the catheter either as she slid it further and further into his arm, but the idea completely freaked him out. A distressed whimper escaped his throat.
"Steve, are you okay?" the nurse on the other side of him asked.
"Yes," he insisted. But as he pictured the thin tube in the doctor's hands crawling its way through him towards his heart like a snake on the hunt, his breathing started to pick up.
"Don't watch; look at me," the nurse prompted. Steve obeyed, and by the time he looked at the nurse his eyes were full of tears.
"Let's go ahead and push the sedative," the doctor prompted.
"No, don't! I can do this," Steve said through gritted teeth. The doctor and nurse exchanged a glance, but neither of them gave him any medicine. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't watch the tube advance, but he'd already seen it and the image stuck in his head. Deep breath in, and exhale. Without even trying, he slipped into the breathing pattern he used when he did his vest treatments. Which, of course, resulted in him coughing. And, because he was sick, that cough was far less controlled than usual. He jerked on the table, reflexively reaching to cover his mouth, and the doctor muttered a word Steve had been told never, ever to say. When the coughing subsided and Steve glanced back at his numb arm, he found it dripping with blood. The sight of it elicited another whine, this one not so much distressed as panicked.
"It's okay," the nurse assured him. "Everything's under control. We're just going to have to try again."
Steve steeled himself. "Okay."
"We can still put you to sleep if you want. I know that was scary."
"No."
"Alright. But if you change your mind, let us know, okay?"
"Okay." Steve bit his lip as the doctor set on him again with the cold ultrasound. This time, it took her even longer. He couldn't feel her cleaning the new site, and he didn't dare to watch any of it this time. Instead, he closed his eyes and counted. He made it to three hundred sixty one before the doctor announced she was there and just needed a chest x-ray to make sure it ended up in the right place. A chest x-ray Steve could do no problem; he'd done those countless times at clinic. Everything looked good, so she capped the line where it stuck out of his arm and applied the dressing.
"All finished. You did great."
Steve said nothing, though inside he was filled with relief that it was over and pride that he'd successfully done it without sedation. However, he wasn't entirely sure it was worth it. They took him back to his room and Dad asked how it went. Steve didn't answer, but the nurse told him that it had taken two tries, but Steve was a trooper through all of it. Given that he spent a decent amount of time crying like a baby, Steve disagreed, but he didn't contest. He just never wanted to do it again.
Antibiotics up and running, Steve asked if Scott was here and how he was doing. The look that Nurse Peggy gave him when he asked told him the answer, but it wasn't a good one. After a pleading look from Steve, she told him. "Scott is very sick."
"Is he gonna die?"
She pursed her lips, paused, and nodded.
"Can I go see him?" Steve got approval, but he was afraid. He didn't know what to do or say to a little kid in that situation. In fact, he chickened out of going until Scott's dad sought him out and invited him to come and visit.
"Scott heard you were here and he wants to see you," he said.
"Okay," Steve croaked weakly. He allowed Scott's dad to guide him to the room and lead them inside. All Steve could think about when he laid eyes on Scott was how little he looked swamped by so many tubes.
"Steve!" Scott perked up when Steve entered, but "perking up" was a relative term when he looked so sick.
"Hey," Steve greeted, trying not to let his voice shake and reveal how afraid he was for the kid. Scott reached out a hand and his dad almost imperceptibly nudged Steve closer. He stepped forward and sat in the chair closest to the bed, where Scott's father had undoubtedly been sitting for the past few days. Cautiously, he took Scott's hand in his own, worried that one wrong move would break something inside of him.
"I'm glad you're here," Scott said. "Clint's not here, so it's lonely."
"I'm happy to keep you company."
"Daddy said I'm going to sleep soon." The casual tone with which he talked about something so horrible made Steve want to cry, but he knew that doing that in front of Scott wouldn't help matters any. Scott's dad choked on a sob before restraining himself, but Scott didn't seem to notice. He was staring, wide-eyed, at Steve like he held the answers to the universe.
"Yeah," Steve said. Someone as young as Scott couldn't possibly understand the magnitude of what he faced, but Steve, with his six extra years of wisdom, did know.
"I won't have to do treatment anymore."
"That sounds nice." For a kid who knew nothing but suffering like Scott, that must seem enticing.
"Uh-huh." Scott's eyelids drooped with exhaustion, but he seemed determined not to fall asleep with Steve still here.
Steve took a deep breath, knowing that he couldn't stay here much longer without overtaxing Scott or destroying his own composure and frightening him. He gave his little hand a squeeze and said, "Dream some good dreams, okay?"
"Aye aye Captain," Scott replied, bringing his other hand to his forehead in a salute. Steve gave him a warm smile and turned to leave.
"Thank you," Scott's dad whispered. Steve looked up at him and saw the same expression he'd seen in Logan's parents' faces: harrowing grief mixed with gratitude from knowing that somebody cared. Despite the pain it caused him, Steve took pride in assuming the responsibility to be that person who cared.
But two days later when the pain hit in full force, he questioned whether caring was worth it. He knew before Dad broke the news that Scott had died. It happened early that morning, peacefully and painlessly. Steve looked up to the ceiling, whispered, "Sweet dreams, Ant-Man," and then broke down crying in his dad's arms. No little kid should have to suffer like Scott did only to die. It just wasn't fair.
The day after it happened, they sent him to talk with Dr. Wilson. Steve shared all of his thoughts and fears without hesitation, but even the best psychiatrist in the world couldn't tell him why cancer chose to go after Scott. However, he did share a technique for coping with loss called PERMA. He needed to focus on moving forward with five things: positive emotion, engagement, relationships, meaning, and accomplishment. Even though it wouldn't for Scott, life would continue for Steve and he needed to move along with it. Dr. Wilson assigned him to find at least one thing every day to make him smile or laugh, and to approach a loved one and tell them what they meant to him, even if it was just a simple "I love you."
Steve didn't hesitate to tell both of his parents that he loved them, and he thanked Nurses Peggy and Sharon for taking care of him so well. They looked back at him with shining eyes and thanked him for being such a great patient. His first major challenge arrived when Clint returned. It was the first time the two of them were together without Scott. Steve tried to engage him in some of the games they used to play, but Clint pushed him away. He visited Dr. Wilson every day; sometimes they would run into each other as Clint finished his session and Steve started his. By the time Steve was discharged, Clint had barely poked his head out from the shell he'd retreated into. Steve thought about him and Scott every night for months.
~0~
After his last admittance and the trauma of awake PICC line placement compounded with Scott's death, Steve did some research and decided he wanted a port. If he got one he wouldn't have to have a PICC inserted at the beginning of every admission and removed at the end. Instead, they would only need to access and deaccess the device, a much simpler process. He'd been as involved as possible in his treatment for his entire life, but this was the first time he'd actively sought out an alternative to his current plan. The next time he went to clinic, he brought it up, and his team supported the idea. For the first time in his life, Steve found himself looking forward to a surgery.
It was strange, checking into the hospital for something other than a tune-up lasting two weeks or more. Not since he was six had he intentionally entered the hospital for anything shorter (asthma attack admissions didn't count since they were unintentional). He repeated his name and birth date a bunch of times to whoever demanded it of him and mentally read off the long list of medications he'd taken that morning. Though he understood the process was necessary, he just wanted this over with. His stomach growled at him incessantly since he hadn't been able to tube feed last night or eat breakfast this morning because of today's procedure. The only thing keeping him going was the promise of a snack when this was all over.
He had no idea how much time had passed when he eventually woke, but he did remember thinking about food nonstop before the drugs knocked him out. "When can I eat?" were the first words out of his mouth. Mom and Dad laughed, but told him he needed to wait a little longer. Steve glanced down at his chest and found only a small bandage above a slight bump in his skin. Just one more thing that made CF, a supposedly invisible disease, visible for him. He got to go home just a few hours later, after a much needed snack and the all clear from the doctors. The site hurt just enough for it to be noticeable, but it didn't really bother him, and within two days he felt completely normal again.
He showed it to Bucky the next time he came over, pulling down the collar of his shirt to reveal the bump. "Did it hurt?" Bucky asked.
"A little."
"Is it permanent?"
"For me, probably. I'll be on and off of IVs for my entire life, so unless it breaks or gets infected it can stay in," Steve explained. Bucky listened intently and nodded along. They didn't talk about it much longer, instead returning to the math homework they'd been helping each other with.
Steve didn't get a chance to appreciate his decision until the beginning of summer break. His lungs had needed a tune-up for a while, but Steve had been so desperate to finish fifth grade without missing any more school that Dr. Erskine agreed it could wait. The day after he walked the halls of his elementary school for the last time, he was on his way to Gravesen. Instead of spending an hour in radiology for a PICC line placement, Steve merely had to sit still for a few moments while a nurse stuck a needle into the port. Now, it was an enormous needle, and it scared him at first glance, but Nurse Peggy made sure he had numbing cream beforehand so he barely even felt it go in. The taste of the saline flush was like nothing he'd ever experienced before, like accidentally swallowing ocean water, but the whole ordeal was over in a matter of minutes. He had a clear dressing on his chest over the needle and both arms free to move without him being paranoid about accidentally ripping a line out. Steve considered his first autonomous medical decision a roaring success.