A/N : I'm alive! Just super busy at the moment, but not too busy to start a little fic from octoberfangirl's prompt. This lovely reviewer would like to see some Dadneto with a poorly Peter. So here you are - and don't worry everyone, he'll be just fine xx

1.

"Dad will you please just back off! I'm fine!"

Peter pushed his father's hand off his forehead impatiently, annoyed at the fuss he was making. True, he'd overslept by about three hours and sent all the other early risers into confusion. And true, he had been lying in bed for the last fifteen minutes trying to will himself into getting up and dressed, but really all this mithering was totally uncalled for. Undeterred, Erik reached to gently press his fingertips under his son's jaw, earning another bat of the hand and a decidedly sulky frown.

"Your glands are swollen," he muttered, "Stay there, I'm getting Hank"

"Oh no you don't!" Peter told him, finally threw the covers off his legs and pushed his father aside, "See? I'm up. I'm totally fine"

To prove it, he jumped to his feet, and was suddenly very glad that his father was there after all as his head swum and his vision greyed out. The next thing he knew, he'd been tucked back up in bed and Hank McCoy was bending over him with a stethoscope pressed to his chest.

"I'm fine…" he insisted drowsily. Hank gave him a wry little smile, popped the scope out of his ears and stood upright.

"If by 'fine' you mean 'have the 'flu' then yes, you are" he told him. Peter rolled his eyes, tried to struggle out of bed again and was restrained by the strong hands of both Hank and his father. "Lie down. Now. You're running a fever and your lungs are congested. If you try to zoom about you're going to work yourself into a collapse, and we both know what happens then don't we?"

"Yeeeeeeeess…." Peter drawled wearily, rolled his eyes again, "You lock me up in the sick bay with a needle in my hand. Got it. No zooming"

Satisfied, Hank nodded, moved over to the closet to pull out a couple of extra blankets and spread them over the bed. Peter made a concerted effort not to shiver, but truthfully he felt like he was lying on a waterbed filled with ice, couldn't help pulling the fluffy teddy-bear fleece Hank draped around his shoulders tightly to him.

"Bedrest for today, we'll see how you are tomorrow and rethink. Clear?" the doctor told him, received an ungracious little nod, "Good. Are you going to be able to eat?"

"Definitely"

"Then do – plenty of fluids, plenty of rest. You'll be fine in no time" Hank patted his shoulder comfortingly, didn't see the stuck-out tongue aimed at him as he turned to Erik, "Make sure he's resting for me will you? I'd rather not sedate him, but if it's needed give me a call"

"I don't think that will be necessary" Erik told him, a faint suspicion of a smile on his face. Nodded to direct Hank's eyes back to his patient, who having snuggled into the heap of blankets had closed his eyes and seemed to be drifting back to sleep even as they watched.

"There's nothing to worry about, Erik," Hank said kindly. Knew that though he hadn't said so, the man would be fretting about his beloved son, "The fever is going to make him feel exhausted until it breaks, but as long as he's keeping warm and eating well there won't be a problem. Just let him sleep and get some food into him when he wakes up"

"Someone say food?" Peter muttered, half-opened his eyes, "I'm starving man, can one of you grab me some breakfast?"

"What do you want?" Erik asked him gently, received a bundled-up shrug in reply

"Anything. Everything. Seriously just fill a tray, you know what I like"

"Grease and sugar coming right up" Hank grinned, "I'll do it – you stay and keep him company"

Leaving them in peace, Erik shook his head in despair at the boy trying to struggle into sitting, bent and scooped him under the arms to lift him and propping him up with pillows, rearranging the blanket around his shoulders. Peter muttered a thanks, refusing to show that he had really needed the help. Taking a seat beside him on the bed, Erik cast an eye over him again. He looked dreadful – a pale, sickly grey colour on his skin and red rims to his eyes, seeming tinier than ever curled up like that. Erik could hear the little wheezing hitch in his breathing now, though it seemed to be frustrating Peter more than bothering him.

"Do you need anything?" he asked quietly, "Tylenol? Any pain?"

"For the last time Dad –"

"I know. You're fine. Now do you have any pain anywhere?"

"Kinda…" Peter admitted, "Well, all over really. I have a headache, my joints hurt, but it's okay. Manageable, anyway – and Tylenol won't touch me so don't bother, mainly it just makes me puke"

Erik had momentarily forgotten how badly most normal medications affected his son – and that he was virtually impossible to help with pain. Just one more of those features that came with his speed and made his daily life a hassle on occasion, though Erik considered it would be considerably less of a hassle if he wouldn't keep getting himself hurt so often. Whilst he'd been laid out in a faint, Hank had told Erik that the same mechanisms that kept him cool when speeding would be going into overdrive to try to keep down his fever, warned him that he would have to stay extremely warm so he could use every available calorie to recover and fight off the virus, rather than to try to warm his body up once his insane heat-conduction had cooled it too far.

"You're gonna hang over me like Florence freakin' Nightingale until I get better, aren't you?"

Peter murmured. Erik gave him a smirk that his son didn't see, perched on the side of the bed, and gently tucked the covers in more tightly.

"Of course," he said, saw a little twitch of a smile.

"Good" his son told him, sighed, and gently shifted to rest his head against his father's arm.

By the time Peter had devoured the trayful of food Hank had soon returned with, Peter had been starting to agree that just for now, he might possibly need a little looking after. He'd gladly have got up and fought through it, if it hadn't been for the fact that even trying to adjust his position a little had made him break out in a sweat, arms feeling jellied and weak, starting to realise exactly how bad it felt to get out of breath. Hank had assured him this was going to get better by itself, but in the meantime he felt like some unkind person had filled the bottom half of both lungs with concrete, forcing him to breathe faster than ever to get enough air. Even that was exhausting, and it hadn't been long before he had allowed his father to tuck the covers in, and slip an arm gently around his back to cup his shoulder in one hand, letting him rest his head against his chest, asleep within minutes. Erik couldn't help but think of Nina, six years old and snuffling with a cold, hot little brow resting on him just as Peter's was now. Smiled sadly down at him and rested back against the headboard, stayed still and quiet whilst his son snoozed. At least he wasn't feeling too wired and agitated to sleep – that would just have been adding insult to injury. Reminded yet again of how adorable Peter could be when he was quiet and still, Erik's other hand had come up to run gently through the soft curling locks of hair at the back of his neck, hardly aware that he was humming an old melody he had once soothed his daughter with until the boy had stirred and murmured

"S'that you?"

"Yes…" Erik told him, a little embarrassed, "Sorry"

"It's okay" he felt Peter smile against his chest, one of his blanket-swathed arms shifting to grasp onto his father and preclude any idea of moving, "S'nice. You don't have to stop"

"Peter, you're going to have to move I'm afraid" Erik told him, felt the smile fall. Puffy half-open brown eyes turned up to him, "Really. I have to go to the bathroom"

"But I'm comfortable!" Peter whined quietly. The arm grasped harder, pressing down uncomfortably on Erik's bladder, "You're not allowed. M'sick, you've gotta stay"

"You'll regret it" Erik warned. No response came, and an experimental shove revealed that his son had not only dozed off again but had pulled his usual trick of becoming an absolute dead weight. Suddenly, he seemed a lot less adorable. "Honestly, Peter, please move"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhh" the boy told him, "Sleeping. Wake me for lunch."

This was going to be a very long few days.