Because I'm excited about Loki tomorrow, I figured why not do a double chapter :)

Steve VIII: CF Years

Steve had gone to CF clinic every three months for his entire life. He knew the routine as well as he knew how to spell his own name. That didn't mean he liked it. When he was a little kid, it maintained some allure because he got to see Dr. Erskine and all of his favorite staff members and they gave him prizes for completing all the different steps, but eventually it devolved into the boring chore it was. Nowadays it carried extra stress because he knew his PFTs pretty much determined whether or not he got listed for transplant. If they stayed below a certain threshold for long enough, he'd almost certainly get added.

Steve usually chatted politely with the nurses here, most of which he knew by name, but today he just didn't feel up to it. He just could not muster within him the energy to put on a brave face. Dad obviously noticed, but he didn't say anything. If Mom were here with him instead she'd probably pester him about it, and Steve was almost relieved that she wasn't. He didn't think talking about it would help, especially since he wasn't even sure what it was.

This time, they started with blood draws because today marked the visit for his annual glucose tolerance test. Steve hadn't eaten anything this morning because they needed to measure his fasting blood sugar beforehand. Ever since he was ten, this had become a part of his check-up regimen. CF already prevented his pancreas from releasing digestive enzymes, and over time scarring from all the thick mucus could cause it to stop releasing insulin too. Thus, they checked his glucose tolerance every year to ensure he hadn't developed CFRD, cystic fibrosis-related diabetes. And every year Steve hoped he remained free of that particular complication. The last thing he needed was to layer another chronic illness on top of the one he already had.

A nurse handed him the glucose syrup and Steve drank down the nasty concoction as fast as he could without choking. He'd learned over the last several years that it was better to get it over with. While he endured the rest of the tests and exams for a typical clinic visit, they made sure to take a blood sample every half hour until the two hour mark. By the time they reached the end of that portion of the appointment, Steve was exhausted. Then they had to wait for Dr. Erskine to look over his results and have "the Chat" with them.

"The Chat" could include so many different things, many of them decidedly not good. When he was six, "the Chat" involved telling his parents that he wasn't gaining enough weight on his own and needed surgery to place his feeding tube. Several times throughout his life, Dr. Erskine informed him during "the Chat" of a new bacteria they'd cultured from his throat, which meant either a course of oral antibiotics or a hospital stay. After that fateful asthma attack in middle school, "the Chat" consisted of referrals to concentrator distributors and handing over pamphlets on oxygen therapy. And of course, any given day, "the Chat" might end in a referral to an endocrinology team to teach him to manage CFRD, the finding of antibiotic resistant bacteria or fungus in his lungs, a warning about declining body weight, or Dr. Erskine telling him he needed to be listed for transplant. Steve strongly suspected that this particular chat might include that last one. These last few months, he'd felt sicker than ever before, and it was getting more and more difficult to pretend he wasn't hoping for a way out.

If Steve had the lung capacity, he would've held his breath for almost the entirety of "the Chat."

"The good news is, your blood glucose is normal. No CFRD," Dr. Erskine began. Steve sagged in relief, but tensed right back up because an introduction like that meant there was probably bad news to accompany it. Steve nodded for him to proceed. He explained that his chest x-ray looked about how they expected, the left still worse than the right. For whatever reason, that side had been disproportionately damaged by infections and exacerbations compared to his right. Steve had been able to feel the difference since he was eleven or twelve. "However, your PFT value remains in the low thirties and you haven't put on as much weight as I would like to see this far out of a hospital stay," Dr. Erskine concluded.

All things considered, it wasn't the worst news Steve could receive. He'd expected to hear that. Dr. Erskine continued, forwarding advice from Steve's nutritionist to up the quantity of his tube feeds. Frankly, Steve preferred that over being asked to eat more. These days he found it difficult to muster the motivation to eat as much as he did already. Letting Roger do the work for him sounded much easier and less stressful.

The ultimate conclusion, though: still not sick enough for transplant. Steve wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried that he still had further to fall before he could have some hope of a healthier future. Ultimately, he chose to see it as a win. If he kept going like this, he was extending his life through his own effort and not the generosity of a dead stranger. That said, he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his own efforts up before they exhausted him completely.

~0~

Once Bucky solidified his Make-a-Wish trip plans, he raved about it for days on end. Steve adored watching him get this excited, and he couldn't wait to hear all about this trip in June. At lunch one day they were all talking about it, and Bucky asked a question Steve never expected. "Why have you never gotten a Wish?"

"I—I don't know," Steve admitted. He'd always associated the organization with other, more acute, illnesses for some reason. Having been sick his whole life, he was way past feeling like the universe—or a benevolent volunteer organization—owed him something in return for his suffering.

"If anyone deserves a completely self-indulgent vacation or whatever, it's you," Bucky said.

Steve waved him off.

"Self-indulgent is not in Mr. Righteous's vocabulary," Jim said pointedly.

"That may be, but say somebody referred you and you got accepted, what would you use the Wish for?" Bucky asked.

Steve genuinely had no idea. He didn't want for much, at least not tangibly. A cure for CF would be nice, but not even the magic of the Make-a-Wish foundation could accomplish that. "I dunno," he admitted.

"Come on, you have to want something," Timmy said.

Steve shrugged. "Not really." Everything he did want existed far beyond the scope of what money or kind-hearted people could obtain for him.

"You can't even think of one even slightly selfish desire?" Jim said in disbelief.

"What would you have said if you'd been offered a Wish when you were younger?" Gabe asked.

"Probably to meet the Paw Patrol or something equally as stupid," Steve said. He'd been basically obsessed with the show from ages three to seven, and still got happily nostalgic whenever he saw the characters on food labels or kids' tee shirts.

"How would that even work? They're animated," Jim pointed out.

"Probably people in costumes, since you can't be around real dogs," Bucky said. "But Steve, you can't really expect us to believe that there's not a single famous person you want to meet, place you want to see, or crazy experience you want to live. You're not a robot."

"I know, I know. It's just that…I dunno. I've just never really thought about it before. If I had that kind of power, I just don't think I'd want to use it all for myself."

"You could, I don't know, maybe invite some of your best friends along," Jim said suggestively.

"Yeah, I guess." Steve really didn't know what to say. What he really wanted was to make a lasting difference in the world before CF plucked him from its surface, but he didn't exactly see how the Wish people could give him that. "I know it sounds stupid, but I'd rather give a Wish than receive one. It would make me happier to know I made a difference in another sick kid's life than to watch people try to make a difference in mine."

"Why am I not surprised?" Timmy asked with a shake of his head.

"It's physically impossible for you to be selfish, isn't it?" Bucky said.

Steve shrugged. "It's not like I'll be able to treasure the memory for that long." He hated bluntly referencing his life expectancy like that, but the truth needed to be said. "I don't have a goal that would be helped along by any one person like you do, Bucky."

"That suggests you do have a goal of some sort," he countered.

He remembered what Peggy said to him after he got Wade to take down the dead pool poster. Steve had told her he wanted to be around for those kids as long as possible. If he really thought about it, that was his ultimate goal: to continue paying it forward to the kids at his second home. "I just want to help," he said with a shrug. "For as long as I physically can."

"I'm surprised you haven't broken into the hospital to show off the 'ol Rogers Razzle Dazzle to all the kids who show up when you're not there," Bucky chuffed.

"That's it!" Steve exclaimed. "If I had a Wish, I'd use it to immortalize the 'ol Rogers Razzle Dazzle." One of the main things that bothered him about the possibility of dying was the fact that he wouldn't be there for future generations of Gravesen kids. He didn't want traditions like the Gauntlet to die out without him there to explain them.

"I think that's the first time I've ever heard that phrase come out of your mouth."

"Maybe it is."

"So that's your hypothetical answer? If you had a Wish?"

"Sure, whatever." Steve didn't know why they'd been so desperate to drill that out of him, but the conversation soon drifted away from the topic.

"Who's excited for baseball season?" Timmy asked. Everyone at the table said yes, and they launched into their annual Yankees versus Mets argument. Though he'd never admit this to any of them but Bucky, Steve always rooted for the Dodgers. No, he'd never had any connection to Los Angeles, but the team used to be based in Brooklyn, so it wasn't technically treason against his city. When he was younger he'd go to some of the games with his friends. Even though stadiums were huge and inevitably germ-riddled, since it was springtime Mom usually allowed it. However, now with his health so fragile he doubted she'd let him go. Frankly he didn't even want to go. It wasn't worth it to catch a bug that put him in the hospital again. Besides, watching on TV offered a better view.

Jim had tickets for them to go to the first Yankees home game of the season, and Steve politely declined the invitation. So did Bucky. Instead, he came over to Steve's to watch it from home with him. "Why didn't you join Jim and the guys to go for real?" Steve asked after the third inning.

"I didn't feel like fighting crowds," Bucky said with a shrug.

"You used to think that was part of the fun. All the people and the enthusiasm and the cheering."

"I guess I've just grown out of it."

"Grown out of it? My dad knows several old men who would whack you with a cane for suggesting such a thing."

Bucky chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. Steve noticed he'd started doing that a lot since he got it cut. He didn't seem to miss how long it had been before cancer. The shorter length made him look older. Changing the subject almost entirely, he asked, "Isn't it lucky that I was into soccer and not baseball?"

"I guess you're right. Baseball seems like it would be practically impossible with…" Steve trailed off, not entirely sure why.

"With my disability?" Bucky filled in the blank for him.

Steve hesitated. "Yeah."

"It's not a dirty word, Steve. You're allowed to use it."

"I know, I just…don't really think about you that way." Steve had yet to see Bucky try something and fail to accomplish it. He'd even found a tutorial online for tying his shoes with one hand by using his opposite foot to keep tension on the laces. It took forever so he still kept them tied, but he'd just wanted to prove that he could. There was no "dis" in his abilities, especially when compared to what Steve could and couldn't do.

"You should," Bucky asserted. "By hesitating, or by trying to distance your image of me from the notion of disability, you're turning it into a negative thing when it isn't. It's just a fact. I wouldn't hesitate to call you disabled, no more than I'd hesitate to call you a stubborn son of a bitch."

Steve chuckled. "I concede."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to lecture you. I just have lot of feelings about this sort of thing."

"No, I deserved it. Thank you."

The end of the commercial break on the game drew their attention back to the television. Steve had been watching baseball for as long as he could remember, but he'd never seen anything like what was about to happen. A spectacular home run flew just inside the foul line—so close that they'd undoubtedly review it later—and landed among the crowd. People dove for it, and Steve and Bucky both held their breath waiting for a hand to emerge clutching the ball. When a hand did pop up victoriously from the throng of people, they both instantly recognized who it belonged to: Jim. He, Gabe, and Timmy jumped up and down like excited children, waving the ball and smiling at the camera.

They both instantly started cheering. Steve's dad rushed in from the other room to investigate the commotion. "Is that Jim?" he asked.

"Yes!" Steve cried excitedly. He looked over at Bucky to share in this joy, and for the briefest of moments he saw the regret in his best friend's expression. If he'd accepted the invitation, Bucky would have been right there with them screaming and cheering with a professional baseball in their hands. He quickly wiped it away, but Steve couldn't unsee it. Steve knew his earlier explanations had been complete bullshit and that Bucky had only stayed home so that Steve wouldn't be the only one left out. It stung to know he was the reason Bucky missed out on this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Hopefully Bucky wouldn't hold it against him.

The rest of the game elapsed much as the first half had gone, although Steve's dad stayed in the room to watch with them. "Jim's not going to shut up about this for months," Bucky said.

"I know. I wonder how many people at school saw this game and recognized him."

"I don't know. But I can guarantee the entire school will know what happened within a week. Jim and Timmy will make sure of that."

"We'll never hear the end of it," Steve bemoaned.

"Well, actually," Bucky began, pausing for melodramatic effect. "I think there might be one equally as exciting thing happening in the near future that could be a potential topic of conversation.

Steve looked at him in utter confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"You know how, for Make-a-Wish, somebody has to refer you?"

"Yeah."

"Well, usually it's a kid's parents or some other member of their family, but since I happen to know a deserving fella whose immediate family has completely neglected him in this respect, I talked to my parents and called in a favor."

"You got your parents to refer me to the Make-a-Wish people?" Steve had never heard something so preposterous in his life. They'd just had a purely hypothetical conversation about what he'd choose if given one, but he never imagined Bucky would take it this far.

"Maybe."

"Buck…I don't know what to say. I can't accept it."

Bucky's tone switched from cheeky to warning. "Oh yes you can, and you will. If you get approved, of course. Which you will. I can't believe I didn't think of doing this sooner. You only have a little more than a year before you're too old for one."

"Yes, sixteen is ancient," Steve said. Most people his age would add a heavy dose of sarcasm to that comment, but Steve actually meant it.

Bucky missed the lack of sarcasm. "Well you certainly act like an old man."

"Dude, sixteen is like… forty in CF years."

The comment evidently took Bucky by surprise. He stared at Steve with a combination of shock and horror on his face, but then he recognized the jest in Steve's tone and managed a half-hearted chuckle. "All the more reason to get you a Wish sooner rather than later."