Witchcraft was not immune to the common cold.

And right now, neither were Bucky’s nerves or Steve’s overachieving Florence Nightingale tendencies.

"I'm fine," she croaked from the couch, bundled in enough layers to make her resemble a sentient throw pillow. Her nose was red, eyes watery, and her magic was fluctuating enough that the lights kept dimming and flaring every time she sneezed.

"You summoned a miniature thunderstorm in your sleep," Bucky said flatly, carrying over a steaming mug with gloved hands. “That’s not ‘fine,’ sweetheart.”

“It was barely a drizzle,” she muttered, voice raspy as she accepted the tea. The mug changed color with her temperature. Right now, it was a rather dramatic shade of red.

Steve emerged from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, face tense with concern. “You should’ve told us earlier you were sick. Chaos and Order magic pulling against each other? That’s a hell of a recipe for—”

“Accidentally melting the toaster?” she offered, sheepish.

“I liked that toaster,” Bucky grumbled.

“You threatened to shoot that toaster last week,” Steve countered, placing a cool hand on her forehead. The magical static zapped his fingers.