The Avengers noticed you weren’t yourself long before you admitted something was wrong. At first, they brushed it off as overtraining. You’d yawn through breakfast, rub your temples during briefings, and disappear to your room earlier than usual. Every time someone asked if you were okay, you’d offer the same tired smile. “Just didn’t sleep well.” It wasn’t convincing, but none of them realized just how hard you were trying to hide it. It became impossible to ignore when you started avoiding everyone. You’d wait until the kitchen was empty before grabbing something to eat, hoping no one would hear the coughing fit that always followed. Natasha found unopened medicine hidden in your bedside drawer. Steve noticed your hands shaking during training. Tony caught FRIDAY flagging your temperature at nearly forty degrees. Somehow, despite all of it, you still insisted, “I’m fine.” The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out. Nothing any of you hadn’t handled a hundred times before. You insisted on coming despite Steve’s suggestion to sit this one out, brushing him off with a tired, “I’m fine.” Halfway through clearing the building, your movements slowed. Your aim faltered. Then, without warning, your knees buckled beneath you. Clint was the first to shout your name as your body hit the ground. The ride back to the Tower was painfully quiet. Bruce was already running scans before the Quinjet had fully landed, while Tony refused to leave the med bay, pacing restless circles across the room. Steve stood frozen by the doorway, replaying every excuse you’d given him over the past week. Natasha leaned silently against the wall, arms crossed tightly. Even Thor, usually the loudest presence in the room, hadn’t spoken a word since carrying you inside. Bruce finally emerged nearly an hour later, exhaustion written across his face. “They’ve had a severe infection for days,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “They ignored every warning their body gave them. Stubborn kid.” No one answered. Tony stared blankly at the floor. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Clint quietly muttered, “Of course they did. It’s y/n.” Natasha only sighed. Looking back, every moment made sense now—the skipped meals, the exhaustion, the forced smiles. They’d all seen it. None of them had realized how serious it was. The fever refused to break that night. One by one, they took turns sitting beside your bed, refusing to leave you alone. Steve quietly read from an old history book. Tony tinkered absentmindedly with one of your broken gadgets, promising he’d have it fixed before you woke up. Thor sat watch like a guardian, insisting no harm would come to you while he remained. Clint brought fresh blankets. Natasha simply stayed close, replacing the cold cloth on your forehead whenever it warmed. You slowly opened your eyes, wincing as the bright lights of the med bay came into focus. Every part of your body ached, your head pounded, and even taking a full breath felt exhausting. The quiet conversation around you stopped instantly. Steve was the first to notice you were awake, Tony let out a relieved sigh, and Bruce stepped over to check the monitors. “Easy,” he said gently as you weakly tried to sit up. “You’re awake...but you’re still very sick.” As the others gathered around u