Bucky has twenty patients to monitor at the moment but the only one that truly interests him on a personal level is in 104. Stephanie Rogers is a young, slim girl that's only a couple years younger than he is but they couldn't be more different. She's fighting off TB and asthma and a host of other things and here he is walking around with health to spare.
He keeps her to last on his rounds so he can spend a little extra time with her and he knocks lightly on her door before coming in.
"Came to check your lungs, Miss Rogers," he says. "You wanna sit up for me?"
"My lungs are where they've always been, Doctor," Steph quips with her usual dark humor, pushing herself up to seated with difficulty but waving him off when he tries to help. She's fine. She's sick, not dead. And absolutely bored out of her mind. There's a battered paperback on the bedside table and the day's newspaper, and she's already doodled on the margins of every page.
She watches his face as he works. She likes watching him. He's probably the youngest of the many doctors she's gone to see over the years, and rich as fuck — she can tell from his hands, those are the hands of someone who's never known true labor — but he's kinder than most and easier to talk to.
"What color are your eyes, really?" Not that she would know what blue actually looks like, colorblind as she is.
"Blue, Miss Rogers," Bucky says with a bit of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I want you to take a few deep breaths for me all right? Stethoscope's going to be cold."
He slips the instrument up the back of her pajama top and takes a listen. There's still a rattle and wheeze there that he doesn't like, not one bit, and he wishes he could take all the illness from this young woman who can't be more than a few years out of school.
"I'd like to order another x-ray," he says after he draws the stethoscope away. "Your lungs aren't quite as clear as I'd like. Means you'll be spending a little more time with me even though I was coming to discharge you. Sorry Miss Rogers."
"Blue," she repeats, thoughtful. "I don't know what that looks like."
But she sits still and doesn't give him a hard time, despite sassing him on the regular. She does that to everyone. In fact, according to her late mother, she especially does that to people she likes.
"How much longer?" She doesn't mind getting to see him some more, not at all, but she has some real concerns on the matter. Such as: "I can't afford..." she trails off, biting her lower lip. It's so embarrassing to admit. "Can't I just stay home? Not do any heavy lifting, open the windows to get some fresh air in?" Actually her apartment is cold and cramped, and she's going to have to work double time once she's discharged, but what else can she do?
"I wouldn't advise it," Bucky says. "You might catch another infection if you leave the hospital right now and you can't afford that. You're too weak right now to fight anything off."
Bucky's face softens a little. "I would prefer if you stayed here under my care but if you insist on leaving, then we need to set up appointments for you to see me and follow up on your progress. I'll do house calls."
"I'm not weak," she huffs, but it's a futile protest, and she sinks back into her pillow. She hates this stupid body, hates that it keeps trying to kill her but also won't go all the way and just finish the job. Is this all her life is going to be? Days on end in a hospital bed?
She looks up at him and he's watching her, expectant. She also hates that she can never know what his eyes are truly like. "I can stay for a few more days, I guess," she says begrudgingly. As if they're not talking about extending her time in a hospital.
She glances at her stuff on the bedside table. "Can I have more paper? And pencils?"
"Didn't say you were weak, Miss Rogers, just that your lungs are. You're fighting off a very serious infection that your body isn't prepared to fight against. I've given you as many antibiotics as I can without making you more sick. For now, you have to stay."
When she asks for more paper and pencils, he knows he's won the fight, and he gives her a smile.
"As much as you want. I'll bring some for you later when I get a chance. Is there anything else bothering you right now, any other symptoms?"
You are bothering me, she wants to snap, and it's not even because he's doing his job as her doctor. No, it's because he's so good-looking, it makes her angry. He must have a girl, rich and posh like him. He must have many girls. He would never take a second glance at a poor, scruffy little thing like Stephanie Rogers if she wasn't his patient.
"No," she says, though after a moment, she amends, almost reluctantly, "It just gets really cold here sometimes." Her apartment got really cold too, but her Ma had made her a nice blanket, one she'd been painstakingly repairing over the years. He probably didn't need blankets. His house probably had proper heating all day, every day. Or he had a woman back home who kept him warm. That makes her angry, too. It wasn't fair how some people had everything, and others nothing.
"I could have a nurse bring you by more blankets. That is not a problem. If I had known, I would have brought them myself before coming in for the exam."
Bucky flips through her chart again, takes stock of all her medical conditions. Everything interacts with everything else and he's afraid she'll have complications.
"You'll need to rest when you go home. No going back to full time work immediately."
"So I die in bed or die in debt," she mutters, and not quietly enough for him not to hear. She deflates some more, pulling up the blanket to her chin as she thinks about what to do next. She doesn't have the luxury of rest. If anyone took her art seriously maybe she could make a little extra. Or have someone take care of her, at least financially, if she got married. But she had no prospects for either option.
Still, she's not ungrateful. "Doctor Barnes," she calls out when he turns to leave, reaching for the book on the table and taking out a loose sheet of paper tucked into the pages. She holds it out to him with a small smile, her fingers shaking a little. "Thank you."
It's a pencil sketch of him. Suddenly shy, she averts her gaze and mumbles, "I was bored."
Bucky comes back to take the sheet of paper and it stuns him for a moment. It's a well drawn likeness of him, his hair falling over his forehead as he writes in a chart. He can see the strong lines of his profile, even the elegance of his hands wrapped around the pen.
"This is far better than just being bored, Miss Rogers. This is a beautiful portrait. Do you do this all the time or just when you're in the hospital and don't have the ability to get out of bed? Because I would be willing to buy these."
"All the time," she admits, ducking her head self-consciously as she holds out the newspaper. On the empty spaces of the margins she'd drawn little portraits of the hospital staff. Not as detailed as the one she'd made of him, but nonetheless well done. It's a talent of hers.
She shakes her head at the offer of payment though, even if it would've been the answer to her financial concerns. Wasn't that what the artists of old did, find themselves patrons, rich people who paid them for making art? However: "I don't want your money." Let that be very clear. She might be poor, but she has her dignity.
And, more importantly, "It's a gift. I know it's not fancy like what you're used to, but I'm grateful for your help and I want you to have it."
"I would rather have something like this than something expensive. You spent your time on it. That's more precious than money," Bucky says, touching the lines of the drawing. It looks real, like a photograph of him, except it's softer and conveys emotion that a photograph would never convey.
"You should sell these, though. They're really good, Miss Rogers. I know plenty of people who would want to buy a portrait like this because it looks...alive."
She bites the inside of her cheek, considering. She's delighted that her talent is being recognized, and by this doctor she's taken a shine to, no less. Making money out of her art would also help with her financial problems. But she doesn't want his pity. She wants to be his equal, not a charity case.
"You don't gotta do that for me," she mumbles eventually, still unsure about how she feels about the whole thing. Maybe if he insists? That would mean he's serious, right? Not just saying stuff to make her feel better.
"Well, just think about it," Bucky says, giving her a soft smile. "Because this portrait is really good. I'm actually going to frame it in my house when I get home because I've never been given something like this before."
"I can do another one of you, if you like," she offers, blushing. He's framing it. She's never thought her drawings would catch anyone's attention, let alone be showcased in the home of someone she likes.
Then she adds, taking the plunge, "It's better if you sit for it, though. That way I can get the details right." Very smooth, Stephanie. Only just a tad bit lovestruck.
She reaches for the paperback on the table and offers it to him. She'd drawn faces on practically every blank space. Mostly people she knows or has seen around the hospital. There are several more of him in it, too.
"Well, if I sat for a portrait it would have to be after my shift is over and that might be very late for you, Miss Rogers. When I come by a little later this afternoon to check your lungs, I'll have that sketchpad and those pencils. I want to encourage this talent of yours."
For some reason he's drawn to this woman who seems to be hanging on to life with bare claws but can make things so beautiful that he feels like he shouldn't even be able to touch them. The portrait of him is better than any photograph; it aches with feeling.
"I want you to get some sleep and then I'll bring those supplies. Do we have a deal?" he asks, holding his hand out for a handshake.
"You work too hard, Doctor. Your wife must miss you a lot."
She's not seen a ring, but she just wants to make sure. Especially since he's getting her a whole sketchpad. She was just hoping for some spare paper or more newspapers for margins to doodle on.
She stares at his hand for a moment when he offers it. Yeah, no ring. "Alright, I guess," she says, shaking his hand. Her fingers are thin and rough from hard work, and she's suddenly embarrassed at having gotten her hopes up. But it's just a silly crush, right? Surely a sickly girl who might die anytime soon can be excused.
"No, I don't have a wife. Nobody at home to worry about me working too long," Bucky says, flashing her a smile. "So I can pull as many hours as I like and often do because all the other doctors are married."
He lingers around the hospital because he has nothing to go home to when he goes back to his brownstone even if it is perfectly ready for a wife and children. He had a fiancee once but that had fallen through.
"I almost got married once," he says quietly. "She didn't like the hours."
"She should've been proud of you. I would," she huffs, angry on his behalf even if it's none of her business. Realizing that she'd said all that out loud but also refusing to take any of it back, she just leans back into her pillows and brings the blanket up to her chin. "Many of us here would be quite literally dead without you."
It takes her a moment to place the irrational surge of emotion: jealousy. Not over him, specifically, but at the fact that somewhere out there was a woman who turned him down. What wouldn't someone like Stephanie Rogers give for an opportunity like that? To have a good man and a good life? It really isn't fair that others get to squander what people like her would hold so dearly in their hands.
"She doesn't know what she's missing," she mumbles bitterly.
Bucky laughs softly and shakes his head. "Oh, she was proud, but I think it was more of the diamond on her finger than of me. Women want a husband who both makes a ton of money and come home at night, Miss Rogers. Since I have the money and never come home, I only fill half the requirements."
He doesn't know why he's having such a personal conversation with a patient but he is and he is locked into it. She has a way of getting him to talk that others don't.
His explanation only makes her huffier. "Not all women," she grumbles. It's such a stupid generalization — even if she acknowledges that it would be nice if she had a husband with the means and who liked spending time with her enough to come home.
But she has to smile at his admission. "That's alright, it's making me feel better. You know, about being single and probably never ever getting married. That's your job, right? To make me feel better?" she jokes. Because she doesn't want him to stop. It's nice, to have a conversation like a normal person, instead of all the prodding and the medical talk. Or just to have a conversation at all; she's never really had visitors.
He's also... well. She likes listening to him talk. He can read the phone book and it would rivet her attention.
“I guess we can be single together, Miss Rogers. It isn’t as if I have time to meet anyone when I’m here all the time. My fiancée was someone I went to college with,” he tells her.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a guy coming around to bring you sketchpads, though. I haven’t seen anyone at all come visit you except for me and I don’t count. I don’t think that’s particularly right.”
He shouldn’t do it but he touches her hand lightly. “Don’t worry about being single for long. You’re talented and can hold one hell of a conversation. Men would be stupid not to go for that.”
The touch surprises her. He's not supposed to be doing this, is he? Or telling her that they can just be single together. Ha.
"Men do not want to spend their lives taking care of other people," she says, with bitterness in her tone. She realizes she's talking to a doctor, who does exactly that, but that's a different situation entirely. "Doesn't matter that I know how to cook, how to sew a shirt and a wound, how to please a man—" She pinks at the admission, but continues, "—when I'm sick half the time to manage that anyway. Nobody wants a woman like that for a wife."
She should pull her hand away, shouldn't she? But she doesn't want to. So she plays dumb, like he's just checking her pulse or something. Doctors do that, right?
"Sickness and health," Bucky says. He doesn't let go of her hand even though he should and he shrugs a little bit.
"I made a whole career out of taking care of sick people. When you meet the right person, it doesn't matter. You want to take care of them because you love them. If someone can't get past your health, that's not a person you want around anyway. They just want someone who cooks, cleans, and pleases them in bed without any of the important stuff. You don't want people who don't see past the shallow things."
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doctor psl - dysmorphics
He keeps her to last on his rounds so he can spend a little extra time with her and he knocks lightly on her door before coming in.
"Came to check your lungs, Miss Rogers," he says. "You wanna sit up for me?"
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She watches his face as he works. She likes watching him. He's probably the youngest of the many doctors she's gone to see over the years, and rich as fuck — she can tell from his hands, those are the hands of someone who's never known true labor — but he's kinder than most and easier to talk to.
"What color are your eyes, really?" Not that she would know what blue actually looks like, colorblind as she is.
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He slips the instrument up the back of her pajama top and takes a listen. There's still a rattle and wheeze there that he doesn't like, not one bit, and he wishes he could take all the illness from this young woman who can't be more than a few years out of school.
"I'd like to order another x-ray," he says after he draws the stethoscope away. "Your lungs aren't quite as clear as I'd like. Means you'll be spending a little more time with me even though I was coming to discharge you. Sorry Miss Rogers."
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But she sits still and doesn't give him a hard time, despite sassing him on the regular. She does that to everyone. In fact, according to her late mother, she especially does that to people she likes.
"How much longer?" She doesn't mind getting to see him some more, not at all, but she has some real concerns on the matter. Such as: "I can't afford..." she trails off, biting her lower lip. It's so embarrassing to admit. "Can't I just stay home? Not do any heavy lifting, open the windows to get some fresh air in?" Actually her apartment is cold and cramped, and she's going to have to work double time once she's discharged, but what else can she do?
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Bucky's face softens a little. "I would prefer if you stayed here under my care but if you insist on leaving, then we need to set up appointments for you to see me and follow up on your progress. I'll do house calls."
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She looks up at him and he's watching her, expectant. She also hates that she can never know what his eyes are truly like. "I can stay for a few more days, I guess," she says begrudgingly. As if they're not talking about extending her time in a hospital.
She glances at her stuff on the bedside table. "Can I have more paper? And pencils?"
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When she asks for more paper and pencils, he knows he's won the fight, and he gives her a smile.
"As much as you want. I'll bring some for you later when I get a chance. Is there anything else bothering you right now, any other symptoms?"
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"No," she says, though after a moment, she amends, almost reluctantly, "It just gets really cold here sometimes." Her apartment got really cold too, but her Ma had made her a nice blanket, one she'd been painstakingly repairing over the years. He probably didn't need blankets. His house probably had proper heating all day, every day. Or he had a woman back home who kept him warm. That makes her angry, too. It wasn't fair how some people had everything, and others nothing.
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Bucky flips through her chart again, takes stock of all her medical conditions. Everything interacts with everything else and he's afraid she'll have complications.
"You'll need to rest when you go home. No going back to full time work immediately."
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Still, she's not ungrateful. "Doctor Barnes," she calls out when he turns to leave, reaching for the book on the table and taking out a loose sheet of paper tucked into the pages. She holds it out to him with a small smile, her fingers shaking a little. "Thank you."
It's a pencil sketch of him. Suddenly shy, she averts her gaze and mumbles, "I was bored."
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"This is far better than just being bored, Miss Rogers. This is a beautiful portrait. Do you do this all the time or just when you're in the hospital and don't have the ability to get out of bed? Because I would be willing to buy these."
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She shakes her head at the offer of payment though, even if it would've been the answer to her financial concerns. Wasn't that what the artists of old did, find themselves patrons, rich people who paid them for making art? However: "I don't want your money." Let that be very clear. She might be poor, but she has her dignity.
And, more importantly, "It's a gift. I know it's not fancy like what you're used to, but I'm grateful for your help and I want you to have it."
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"You should sell these, though. They're really good, Miss Rogers. I know plenty of people who would want to buy a portrait like this because it looks...alive."
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"You don't gotta do that for me," she mumbles eventually, still unsure about how she feels about the whole thing. Maybe if he insists? That would mean he's serious, right? Not just saying stuff to make her feel better.
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He touches it again.
"What else do you have?"
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Then she adds, taking the plunge, "It's better if you sit for it, though. That way I can get the details right." Very smooth, Stephanie. Only just a tad bit lovestruck.
She reaches for the paperback on the table and offers it to him. She'd drawn faces on practically every blank space. Mostly people she knows or has seen around the hospital. There are several more of him in it, too.
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For some reason he's drawn to this woman who seems to be hanging on to life with bare claws but can make things so beautiful that he feels like he shouldn't even be able to touch them. The portrait of him is better than any photograph; it aches with feeling.
"I want you to get some sleep and then I'll bring those supplies. Do we have a deal?" he asks, holding his hand out for a handshake.
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She's not seen a ring, but she just wants to make sure. Especially since he's getting her a whole sketchpad. She was just hoping for some spare paper or more newspapers for margins to doodle on.
She stares at his hand for a moment when he offers it. Yeah, no ring. "Alright, I guess," she says, shaking his hand. Her fingers are thin and rough from hard work, and she's suddenly embarrassed at having gotten her hopes up. But it's just a silly crush, right? Surely a sickly girl who might die anytime soon can be excused.
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He lingers around the hospital because he has nothing to go home to when he goes back to his brownstone even if it is perfectly ready for a wife and children. He had a fiancee once but that had fallen through.
"I almost got married once," he says quietly. "She didn't like the hours."
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It takes her a moment to place the irrational surge of emotion: jealousy. Not over him, specifically, but at the fact that somewhere out there was a woman who turned him down. What wouldn't someone like Stephanie Rogers give for an opportunity like that? To have a good man and a good life? It really isn't fair that others get to squander what people like her would hold so dearly in their hands.
"She doesn't know what she's missing," she mumbles bitterly.
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He doesn't know why he's having such a personal conversation with a patient but he is and he is locked into it. She has a way of getting him to talk that others don't.
"I shouldn't talk about such things."
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But she has to smile at his admission. "That's alright, it's making me feel better. You know, about being single and probably never ever getting married. That's your job, right? To make me feel better?" she jokes. Because she doesn't want him to stop. It's nice, to have a conversation like a normal person, instead of all the prodding and the medical talk. Or just to have a conversation at all; she's never really had visitors.
He's also... well. She likes listening to him talk. He can read the phone book and it would rivet her attention.
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“I’m surprised you don’t have a guy coming around to bring you sketchpads, though. I haven’t seen anyone at all come visit you except for me and I don’t count. I don’t think that’s particularly right.”
He shouldn’t do it but he touches her hand lightly. “Don’t worry about being single for long. You’re talented and can hold one hell of a conversation. Men would be stupid not to go for that.”
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"Men do not want to spend their lives taking care of other people," she says, with bitterness in her tone. She realizes she's talking to a doctor, who does exactly that, but that's a different situation entirely. "Doesn't matter that I know how to cook, how to sew a shirt and a wound, how to please a man—" She pinks at the admission, but continues, "—when I'm sick half the time to manage that anyway. Nobody wants a woman like that for a wife."
She should pull her hand away, shouldn't she? But she doesn't want to. So she plays dumb, like he's just checking her pulse or something. Doctors do that, right?
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"I made a whole career out of taking care of sick people. When you meet the right person, it doesn't matter. You want to take care of them because you love them. If someone can't get past your health, that's not a person you want around anyway. They just want someone who cooks, cleans, and pleases them in bed without any of the important stuff. You don't want people who don't see past the shallow things."
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