[Okay. So I want to write a book. Like an actual book, with chapters and a cover and everything. Send me a plot along with a famous person who'll be the protagonist. I won't accept everyone's suggestion, but I'll certainly try to do as many as possible!]

Captain America does not get sick. He's a super solider, hardened by the war and the death of his friends.

But Steve Rogers does. He's still that skinny, sickly boy who could barley run without wheezing and likes to draw more than to fight.

It's early in the morning when he wakes up with knots in his stomach. And then he's running to the bathroom, throwing up whatever he had consumed.

You had come to check on him when he didn't show up for the gym. You found him in the bathroom, asleep and clutching the toilet for dear life.

He then coughs, scaring you half to death as he bends over the toilet and begins vomiting. You had left to get crackers and ginger ale, returning to watch as he crawls to his bed and slowly climbs on to it.

It's almost funny, but you shake your head and cover him with a blanket.

"Did you rinse your mouth?"

"Mhm."

"Brush your teeth?"

"Mhm." He groans pathetically and buries his face in the pillow.

"Here," He turns, shakily takes the glass of soda and takes a small sip before squinting. "What, you don't like ginger ale?"

"No," He huffs, but takes a large gulp and hands back the empty glass. "Thank you."

You nod. "No problem, Stevie," He rolls onto his side, making crabby hands and you grin. Climbing onto the bed, you sit up and rest his head on your lap, running hands through his silky hair. "Just don't throw up on me, okay?"