The golden rays of the sun filtered through the window of Steve's bedroom early in the morning, casting a bright light upon his face. He slowly awoke, blinking his eyes open and yawning tiredly. He glanced around blearily, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear the blurriness from his vision. Rolling onto his side and looking at the alarm clock, Steve saw that it was 9:04 AM. He let out a soft groan, sitting up. He knew it was probably time for him to get out of bed, even though he was sick.

For the past few days, Steve had been sick with a raging fever and a viciously upset stomach, which wasn't normal considering the fact that he wasn't supposed to be able to get sick. Fury and Banner had come up with the idea that it was a different type of illness, a stronger, more damaging kind of sickness. They'd ordered him to stay in bed and stop working until he was better, but he knew that his team needed him. He couldn't afford to take any sick days. He sat up quickly, immediately regretting the quick movement.

Steve's heartbeat suddenly picked up speed, and his palms started to turn sweaty as a rush of adrenaline flowed through him. He gagged, running to the bathroom and lifting the toilet seat. He dropped to his knees, grasping the toilet bowl with both hands as hot vomit climbed up his throat and spilled out of his mouth. Steve coughed and choked, spitting a little to get the rest of the vomit out of his mouth. Once he was sure that he was done, he leaned back, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. He felt like he couldn't breathe, and his throat burned horribly.

A voice followed by the sound of his door opening echoed into his ears. "Steve?" It was Natasha. "Bruce asked me to come check on you." She walked into the room, peeking her head around the corner and peering into the bathroom.

Steve turned his head to face her, revealing his pale face and vomit-stained lips. "'Tasha…?" He croaked. Seconds later, he found himself leaning over the bowl again, gagging as more vomit came out of his mouth.

"Oh, Steve," Nat sighed sympathetically, coming into the bathroom. She kneeled down on one knee beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He threw up again and again, and Natasha found herself rubbing his back and whispering soothing words in his ear. "Just let it out, Steve. Let it all come out,"

About a half an hour of this and Steve was finally done throwing up, his stomach muscles sore from the violent vomiting. "I don't feel good Natasha," He mumbled as he got to his feet, his face flushed. He swayed a little and Nat placed her hands on his shoulders, holding him steady.

"Well what do you expect Steve? You're sick. Now let's get you back in bed," She replied, guiding him back to the bed.

"What about the team? They need their captain, Natasha. I can't afford to take any sick days."

She shook her head, sitting him on the bed and forcing him to lie down. "The team is just fine. And we will continue to be fine until you're better,"

Steve swallowed dryly, staring into her eyes with his bright, feverish ones. "What if I don't get better?" He whispered, a hint of fear in his voice.

"Don't say that Steve. You're going to be fine." Natasha promised, though she wasn't too sure if it was true. She started to leave the room, but stopped in her tracks when Steve started to cough violently. Immediately, Natasha turned around to see him sitting up with his feet hanging over the edge of the bed. She walked over to him, noticing that he was sweating profusely and that his breaths were coming in quick, short gasps. He swayed even though his sitting. "Steve?" She stated worriedly.

"Can't…..can't….." He gasped, shaking his head and holding his chest. "….hurts…..can't breathe…."

"Okay, okay. Should I call 911?"

He nodded vigorously. "H-heart attack….." He whispered.

"Shit. Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure, Steve?" Natasha asked quickly. He nodded again. Instantly, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911, doing everything that they told her to do. As she set the phone on the bedside table, Steve fell forward onto the floor, landing on his stomach with his left arm tucked under him and his right arm sprawled out to the side. Quickly she rolled him onto his back, checking his pulse. There wasn't one, and he wasn't breathing. "Steve!" She cried.

She began CPR, starting with the chest compressions. Then she tilted his head back, pinched his nose closed, and gave him two breaths. (She'd just recently been trained in CPR, seeing as Fury had ordered all of the avengers to obtain this training a few weeks ago).

As she continued CPR, Bruce, followed by Tony and Clint, came into the room, gasping at the scene.

"What happened?" Tony demanded, kneeling beside Steve as Natasha kept doing CPR.

"Heart attack." She replied breathlessly as she continued chest compressions.

Sirens could be heard outside and Bruce ran to the door, allowing the paramedics to flood into the building. Two were rolling a gurney over to Steve. One asked Natasha to move out of the way. As she did so, the one paramedic charged up the defibrillator, strapping two wires to Steve chest after removing his shirt. Then they shocked him. His back arched off the floor with the force of the shock. The paramedic closest to him placed two gloved fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse. When they didn't find one, they shocked him again. Then again. On the fourth and final try, they got a pulse. He started breathing again, and the paramedics gently lifted Steve's head, strapping on oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. Then they lifted him onto the gurney, rolling him outside and bringing him into the ambulance.

All of the avengers tried to follow him, but the paramedics would only allow one of them to come. Natasha volunteered then climbed into the ambulance, sitting beside Steve and holding his limp hand. As they drove away, she stared at Steve's slack, pale face, tears gathering in her eyes. He didn't deserve this. He really didn't