#I forgot how tunnel vision-y fixations could be

[har-rison-s]

meds, baby

Request: hi would you please do a bucky or steve x reader where she forgets to take her medicine and then gets in that habit and doesn’t wanna take them and she ends up just staying in her room cause she is so tired x

A/N: hi hello everyone. having a bit of a crisis here :D. anyways, lovely request, it's a theme i like writing a lot, but don't get the chance to. maybe i should start writing my own ideas. i tried my best on this one, having, unfortunately, never been on prescription medicine because of my mental illnesses (this is my take on it). i should have a prescription. but this feels natural to write. this might be short. anyways, hope this does you and all of us good and enjoy! happy reading!

main masterlist

mcu masterlist

Warnings: dealing with mental illness, refusing to take medicine, results of that, eventual comfort

You stare at the pills. The little buggers in the classic yellow box that are supposed to make you feel better, take the pain away, make you do things, make you smile, make you eat. Make you live. Like anyone else, like a normal person. But you weren't that. And you were tired of putting up a fake effect that you were someone that everyone wanted you to be, expected you to be, someone you weren't.

Someone you forgot how to be. Your depression had taken over when you were young. And took away any trace of the person you could have been. You don't know who you are, who you would be, weren't it for your illness.

Some say depression is uncurable. Others say it is curable. But the ways, some of them, that work for curing the disease, don't agree with you. Don't agree with your mannerisms, your life, with how you'd like to be treated. Your teammates disagree with that - they say you should use every chance and different way to cure what you have. You may think they don't understand, but really, they don't understand the curing part.

How do they cure themselves? They fight, they almost kill themselves saving others, build new suits, new machines, get onto new science projects, train, work out, talk about other people problems. But you weren't them. You were not like them at all.

Not everyone was like that. Bucky was the only one who seemed to understand you best. He... Well, he may not be the exact same, but he was also going through the actual, real curing part of depression and trauma to deal with.

The man had a lot in his history. Had a lot to remember, a lot he's done, a lot he wants to forget, a lot that makes him who he is, actually. But not his illnesses. They don't make him who he is. You both have had talks about it. And you've told each other over and over that a mental illness is not a part of you. It's a parasite. Not a permanent part of you. And you have to work every day to get the parasite out.

No one ever said it's gonna be easy, or that it will happen fast. No one promised that, although it's all you ever hope for. A naive hope you had. Not now. Now you just can't wait for it to be over.

Somehow, with absolutely no logic, you think that disregarding your pills will help you on the way to curing yourself. But, the truth is, that action does not help you at all. It just makes you feel overwhelmed and makes you spiral back into your hole of depression and too many thoughts. When you take your medicine, you feel empty and strange, but it also makes you border yourself from the thoughts you want to escape.

Too many thoughts. Too loud. Too much noise in your ears, in your head. Too much of everything. Makes you tired, unable to function like a regular person. That's what you feel like without your medicine. And sometimes, being a mazohist, you even like the feeling. Laying on your bed or sitting on the floor, just staring ahead, as if there was some sort of long tunnel of space and stars staring back at you, never-ending. At least it felt like that.

Bucky had found you on your third day being like that. He was going around town, buying groceries, doing laundry, training and working on himself the past few days, a bit busy for him. Forgetting to check up on you, which he felt guilty about. So he came into your room. 

Saw you sitting down, your back against your bed, legs out-stretched, your arms by your side. And staring. Your blank, tired eyes staring in front of you. At first, he'd thought that something had happened or you had done something, cause the scene looked so wrong. 

He sat down beside you and thankfully, your head moved to look at him. Who it was. Ah, Bucky, the only one who speaks your language. His hands move to yours, examining every spot on your body to notice, not really hopefully, something new. There was nothing. He sighs and looks at you finally.

“Y/N...” he whispers quietly. You blink, hearing and acknowledging him. You were almost catatonic when you went into your trances. He hated it. He hated for you to be unreachable. “Have you eaten?” You shake your head. “What about water? Your meds?”

You shake your head violently then. “I don't want them. I don't want to take them. They're just... They're stealing anything that's left of me. I don't need them. I need to survive without them.”

“Hey, no, no, no, you look at me,” Bucky starts to say when your hands go into your hair and your knees against your chest. You're closing down on him, on hope. So Bucky takes your wrists in his and brings them down and away from your face so he can find your eyes. He knows that his always calm you, “you look at me, alright? Do you trust me?”

“I...” it takes a moment for you to calm down and realise your surroundings and what Bucky is trying to do, “I do, I trust you.”

“Okay,” he says, kissing one of your hands then, “if you trust me, then you have to do what I say. Because I want only the best for you. Okay?” You only nod. “If so, we're going to take two of your little pills together. Okay? Can we make a deal?”

You start shaking your head again, your face now warping into a scowl or a crying expression. But no tears come, so you're only scowling and shaking your head, incomprehensible whines and moans coming from between your lips. Whines of protest. 

“Y/N, they're meant for you to be okay, for you to get better—”

“NO! They make me—they make me feel nothing! They make me live like a blank page! Someone without a face!” You cry. “And I don't want that!”

“Do you want to sit in your room for the rest of your life and stare into a wall, then? Do you want your dreams gone? Not fulfilled? You want us to live without the amazing Y/N, the shining girl with a head full of dreams and ideas?” Bucky asks in a confronting way, looking dead serious in your eyes. And his words make you emotional. “Do you want that girl gone? Or are you going to let her live?”

You gulp and calm your breathing, though it takes a few moments. Moments you spend looking into Bucky's eyes, that truly do help you calm down. His fixated and empathic gaze fixates on your over-the-top full orbs, with storms and confusion and searching in them. He knows what you feel. He knows what you're going through, because he once went through it all as well. And he's telling you the words he would have liked to hear when he was like you. But no one told him those words. And he was alone. But he doesn't want you to be alone like that, in a mental state like that.

“We let her live.” You whisper, nodding. Bucky nods as well and drops your hands, they land in your lap. He scoots closer to you, the big ex-soldier actually scoots, and pulls you into his chest.

Warm, big, embracable. You collapse against it, and almost instantly fall asleep. You haven't known sleep for the past three days and this warmth, this comfort, this... giving makes you function again. You've been tired for such a long time, feels like ages, and now it's adding up. You realise that. And you don't mind sleeping now. You know sleep now. 

You'll take your pills, with Bucky's help, eat something, and then sleep. Rest for a while. Rest your heart, rest your mind and body and the storm in your head. You'll be okay.

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