I finished writing Without Gravesen! It will be a series of 13 mini-chapters that I'll post after this story is over. It ended up being inspired by the What If series in more ways than one. Now I will attempt to congeal my scatterbrained thoughts and ideas for Beyond Gravesen into an actual narrative that I can one day publish.

Chapter 13: A2

After Parker's birthday, they continued working on the book. That weekend inspired them to make Parker the character they were throwing the party for, and by the end of August they had a basic story outline that they really liked. Steve had drafted a few more illustrated versions of Bucky and the other characters, but he had yet to settle on a design that he felt truly encapsulated the vibe of their story. Just nine days after Parker turned twenty-one, they got to celebrate his third Breatheday together. Then, his trimonthly transplant clinic appointment showed a dip in lung function.

Bucky was terrified. On a fundamental level, he understood that lung transplant wasn't a cure and Steve would never be truly healthy, but these last three years he'd certainly seemed it. Steve was scared too, and that only amplified Bucky's own worries. Yes, he'd been there for nearly every illness before transplant, but he'd never been this close before. Now it was his husband that was sick, not merely his best friend.

His team booked Steve for a bronchoscopy and biopsy as soon as possible, and the results indicated acute cellular rejection, rather than chronic, and only a moderate case at that. They classified it as A2 on a scale of A0-A4, and prescribed three days of IV steroids followed by a gradually tapered dose of the oral steroids he was already on. Steve was not enthused, to put it lightly. He didn't want to take off work, and he didn't want Bucky to have to either, but neither of them had a choice. Left unchecked, rejection could very well kill him. It was that fear that followed them all the way to the hospital on the day of his first infusion.

Not knowing how long it would take, Bucky had packed a book for each of them, copious snacks, enzymes, the American flag blanket, and Steve's sketchbook and pencils. He could tell how desperately Steve wished he were anywhere else, but his husband kept his manners cordial, even when the nurse missed the vein on the first try. They started him on a standard infusion rate, but when his blood pressure started to creep up, they had to slow it down. Steve refused his sketchbook and every snack Bucky offered him. He accepted the blanket for all of four minutes before he started to sweat from the meds and tossed it aside. The only thing he accepted was a book, but Bucky could tell he wasn't really reading it, just using it as an excuse not to make conversation. In an attempt to cheer him up, Bucky took the sketchbook and drew out his own cartoon interpretation of them like Steve had been doing for the past months. The final product was barely a notch above stick figures. When Bucky showed it to Steve, he exhaled through his nose with a quiet snort that could be interpreted as a laugh, but right away returned his gaze to the book, blocking Bucky out.

It took three hours for the entire dose to administer, and by the end Steve was red in the face and grumpier than Bucky had ever seen him. He spent the ride home in sullen silence. Bucky did not look forward to doing this all over again tomorrow.

"How are you feeling?" he asked when they finally got home.

"There's a metallic taste in my mouth that won't go away," he said, voice a flat monotone.

"Do you want to eat or drink something to mask it?" Bucky knew how easy it was for him to drop weight even after transplant, and he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast that morning.

"No."

"Okay." Though his every instinct screamed to make Steve talk, he let him go. Bucky didn't feel much like eating either. Not knowing what else to do, he called Sarah.

"Hi Bucky, how's it going?" she asked.

"Could be better," he admitted. "Did Steve tell you what's up?" Bucky had told his parents, but he didn't know if Steve had done the same.

"Yeah. Is he doing okay?"

"We just finished day one of three of IV steroids. He's not having a good time."

"I can imagine."

"I don't know what to do. He's so…sullen. I've never seen him like this before. Was there anything that helped cheer him up as a kid?"

Sarah tutted. "I'm afraid I can't help you there. Because the answer to that question is you and if he won't respond to you, there's not much that can be done."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Bucky, I'm sure. My advice is to just let him stew, as long as he's not jeopardizing his health. He'll come around."

"Okay. Thanks, Sarah."

"Any time. Tell him I hope he feels better."

"I will."

Bucky decided that skipping two meals in one day definitely counted as jeopardizing his health, so he made dinner and then tracked down Steve to get him to come eat. He knocked on their bedroom door. No answer. Bucky opened it anyway. Steve, in fresh sweats and with wet hair indicative of a recent shower, sat cross-legged on the corner of the bed, idly picking at the tape holding gauze over the site where his IV had been inserted.

"Hey, you wanna come eat? I made that egg casserole with the tomatoes and the spinach." Breakfast for dinner was one of Steve's favorites, which is why Bucky had chosen it tonight.

"Not really," he muttered without looking up.

Bucky finally put his foot down. "What if I'm not asking?"

Steve merely shrugged.

"Steve, you need to eat something before you go to bed."

"Just leave me alone, for God's sake. You're worse than your mother," he growled.

Bucky stood paralyzed in the doorway. Not once had he ever heard Steve speak to him like this, barring that one argument in high school, but he didn't count that. He knew high dose steroids could cause moodiness and behavior changes, but he never expected them to be this immediate and this drastic. Not wanting to poke the bear any further, Bucky retreated and ate his dinner alone.

~0~

He slept in the spare bedroom and, upon waking to the sound of his alarm, took several moments to remember why he woke up alone. Bucky sprang out of bed and rushed to get ready to leave in time for Steve's appointment. The container of leftover casserole he'd left in the fridge was only half as full as it used to be, so at least he knew Steve had eaten at some point between last night and now. "Or maybe I'm a sleep eater," Bucky muttered to himself. Looking at the clock, he grabbed one of Steve's supplement shakes from the fridge to serve as breakfast. Steve himself was nowhere to be found, but about twenty minutes before they needed to leave, he opened the front door and walked in smelling of sweat and salt.

"You went for a run?" Bucky asked.

"Yeah. I do every Tuesday morning," he said shortly.

Bucky said nothing. That was true, but most Tuesdays they didn't have to wake up ninety minutes earlier than usual to get to an appointment. And most Tuesdays, Bucky ran with him. "Are you gonna shower before we leave?"

"Yeah. I'll be quick."

While he was gone, Bucky made sure the same book from yesterday remained packed, since it had been the only thing Steve was willing to do during an infusion, and threw in the cooling towel from his soccer bag. If today was anything like yesterday, it would help a lot more than the blanket for making Steve comfortable. He heard the shower turn on and then back off again a mere three minutes later, and Steve emerged dressed in another set of fresh sweats. Bucky reminded himself to do laundry tonight because at this rate they were going to run out.

"The casserole was really good," Steve said. He grabbed another piece from the fridge and ate it cold, swallowing down his morning meds and enzymes with Gatorade. Bucky didn't want to jeopardize this improved mood, so he replied only, "Thank you."

This second infusion proceeded much the same as the first, but they started off at the slower rate that Steve'd had to switch to yesterday. His blood pressure stayed within his normal range throughout, and he was marginally more willing to chat compared to yesterday. The other side effects were just as bad, though. Bucky made him drink another Gatorade because he was sweating so much, and luckily he didn't snap at him when he did so. He also actually thanked him for thinking to bring the towel. His appetite improved dramatically, actually soared to above his normal, much to Bucky's relief. The last thing they needed to worry about on top of all of this was Steve dropping weight.

Day three was actually the best because it was the last day and Steve was so excited to be done with IV steroids. He still had a higher dose of oral meds that he'd taper down over the next few weeks, but life could actually go back to normal. "I'm sorry, Bucky," he said on the way home after his final infusion. "For what I said, and everything I'm probably going to say. These stupid meds just…they turn everything red sometimes."

"It's okay. I forgive you."

"There's actually a name for it. 'Roid Rage.'"

Bucky chuckled. "Yeah, I know. I looked it up."

"You've been so great. Thank you for putting up with me."

"You're welcome. That's what husbands are for. In sickness and in health, that whole thing."

"Yeah."

Bucky thought every day would get easier after that, but he forgot just how potent oral steroids could be. He hadn't been around much during Steve's first year after transplant, when he'd been on higher doses, so he wasn't as familiar with the effects. Steve, on the other hand, knew them well, and knew how much he hated them.

Within days, he was noticeably moon-faced. Bucky pretended not to notice, but his efforts couldn't counteract what Steve saw in the mirror every day. Their routine returned to normal, working out together in the mornings, leaving for work, then reuniting for dinner and relaxing in the evenings. They worked on the book some more, even started reaching out to publishers with the premise and concept art. Nobody, not even their closest friends or their parents, knew about this secret project yet. Bucky and Steve had decided they wanted it to be a surprise when they one day got it published—hopefully. Steve got a hold of the drawings Bucky had made back at the hospital and touched them up until they were actually decent. He even added little, "I love you," dialogue bubbles.

The moodiness remained, though Steve grew much better at controlling it. He stepped away to take a breather instead of snapping at Bucky (most of the time). Bucky still took the occasional hit, but he didn't mind. He knew Steve didn't mean it. But when Steve proposed buying a motorcycle, Bucky thought he'd well and truly lost his mind.

"Since when do you want a motorcycle?"

"A few months now. I've actually been researching them. Got my license too."

"When did you get a motorcycle license?"

Steve shrugged. "Last month."

"And how did you get one without having a motorcycle to pass said test with?"

"My dad's buddy has one. He taught me."

"How have you been going to motorcycle lessons with your dad's buddy and I didn't notice?"

"I usually get home from work about an hour before you, except Wednesdays. There's no way for you to know if I only got home ten minutes before."

"I guess you're right. So…what kind are you getting, and is it big enough for two?"

Steve spent the next hour telling him all about the model he wanted—which was, in fact, big enough for two. Bucky had no idea he'd ever even considered this sort of thing, much less done this much research into it. But it clearly excited him, and Bucky loved nothing more than seeing Steve excited about something.

A month later, a Harley-Davidson Street 750 joined their little Chevy in the driveway. Steve even requested Bucky take his picture with it, and Steve never asked to be in pictures. For the next two weeks, Bucky hitched a ride with Josiah both to and from soccer because Steve wanted to ride that thing to work and couldn't carry both Bucky and his soccer bag along with him. Though he knew Steve to be a safe driver, Bucky found himself afraid for the first time ever that something other than cystic fibrosis might kill his husband. No matter how close to the speed limit Steve drove, the car was undoubtedly safer. Once the novelty of the bike wore off, Bucky convinced him to use the car for his daily commute and save the bike for joyrides and other outings.

Steve completed his steroids course and was back to his regular anti-rejection dose. A follow-up bronch showed no more signs of rejection, and they rejoiced. The joyride to end all joyrides followed that announcement, and just like that, things were looking up again. All they had to worry about now was stopping Tony from going all mechanic and turning the Harley into a war machine the next time he visited.