After tailing Steve to the kitchen and helping him bring back an absurd amount of liquids—seriously, there is no way Peter is going to drink two different flavors of Gatorade, a bottle of ginger ale, a glass of water, and a Tetra Pak of pineapple-coconut water—plus a box of crackers, Tony leans against the door jamb to watch while Steve tries (and fails) to not fuss.
"Call if you need anything," he says and Peter gives him a long-suffering look.
"Okay, Dad. I'm fine. Really."
"C'mon, Rogers," Tony says, because the energy from jumping out of bed has officially abandoned him and he is beat. Harvey's expecting him at eight AM because he's a damn sadist and after that he's expected in Lab Four to check on a new polymer they've supposedly developed that's waterproof, but membrane-thin. Which is probably bullshit, he thinks, because that lab is not known for making incredible discoveries, but, eh, it's worth checking out at least. Every once in a blue moon they don't totally suck at what they do, which is why he keeps them around.
His brain focuses on the here and now again when Steve hesitates an arm's length away.
Oh no, they're getting out of here. Now.
Tony reaches forward and snags the band of Steve's sweats, yanking it out and letting it snap back into place. He gets a dirty look for it, which he ignores, and says, "Come on, Steve, he's okay, you heard him. And if he somehow manages to keel over, despite JARVIS' monitoring, and your creepy asleep-but-watching-you shtick, I'll ground him for eternity and...make him join the football team or something, okay?"
"Oh my god," Peter moans and catches Steve's eye. That makes Steve smile, which is something anyway. "Go, before Dad's whining makes this headache worse, please."
Steve's hand stops dead en route to Tony's hip and he turns back, mouth opening, but Tony grabs hold of his arm and snaps, "Oh, for God's sake, bed, now, or...or else! I don't know what else right now because I am clinging to coherency, but else! Lots of else!"
"But Tony—"
"ELSE."
This time it's Steve with the long-suffering in the form of a sigh, but he settles and says, "Peter, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. Even if you think we're asleep—Tony, get your hands off of my ass, I'm coming."
"Probably not tonight," Tony snarks in return and shoves him out the door. He waits until Steve is walking toward the bed, shooting dark looks at him over his shoulder before he ducks his head back in the bathroom. Peter's chuckling and moaning in equal measures and it makes Tony feel soft and warm in the middle. "Love you, Pete," he says. "Feel better, all right?"
Peter wiggles his hand free of the comforter to give the most pathetic thumbs-up Tony's ever seen. "You got it, Pops."
Tony narrows his eyes. "Don't call me that."
Peter just laughs him out of the bathroom. Tony feels a sense of vindication when it breaks off mid-way for another round of puking, which is probably both immature and grossly unfatherly, but a little flu-bug never hurt anybody.
"God, I'm tired," he says, and flops down face first on the bed.
Steve turns the light out, even though JARVIS could do it just as easily, and then turns and runs his fingers through Tony's hair, planting a lingering kiss on the back of his neck. It makes Tony tingle from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. "You've been pushing it lately."
"I slept, like, five whole hours last night!" Tony whines. Steve lets out a huff of laughter that billows heat up into his scalp and down his spine, makes him shiver.
"And how many the night before that? Three?"
"Two," Tony grumbles and hooks his foot around Steve's ankle, dragging himself closer. The combined power of Steve's heat and scent works like a drug and he feels drowsier than ever, his whole body growing loose and heavy as he drapes his arm over Steve's waist.
"You know you can't rack up sleep debt the way you used to," Steve says and Tony barely registers the words, spoken as they are against his temple.
He grunts. "Had a gold freakin' apple jus' like everybody else. Maybe the ones we got were faulty."
Steve chuckles. "Please don't ever tell Thor that when I'm around."
That doesn't require a response, so Tony doesn't bother, letting the feeling of Steve's chest rising and falling against his cheek slowly pull him closer and closer to the brink of sleep. The gold apples had been sort of a wedding present from Thor in the sense that it had enabled them to have a wedding, because by extending Tony's life (and the other Avengers') Thor had given Steve the chance to let himself want something he'd been too afraid to consider. So if it weren't for Thor, they may have never gotten here. Tony he shifts his arm, snuggling closer to Steve by tugging at his hip and Steve sucks in a breath.
Tony blinks and lifts his head, pulling his hand away. "Shit, sorry, Steve," he slurs.
"I'm fine, Tony, go to sleep," Steve murmurs in return and starts drawing lazy circles on Tony's back with his knuckles.
Tony's head sinks back down of it's own volition and he manages to mumble, "Love you."
Then he's down for the count.
For a long time, Steve doesn't sleep. He keeps one hand busy tracing patterns over the muscles of Tony's back, watching the lights of the city shift over the ceiling while he listens to Peter shuffle around between bouts of throwing up.
When he was younger, Peter used to take up residence in his and Tony's laps when he felt under the weather. Steve smiles remembering the first time Peter caught the flu when he was five. "You just let me know if you need to throw up, all right, buddy?" Tony had said. Peter had agreed and then immediately lost his lunch right down Tony's front without saying a word.
Tony had been in one of his favorite t-shirts at the time and snapped, "Goddamnit, Peter!"
Steve's sharp, "Tony!" was utterly unnecessary because the second Peter's tiny face screwed up, tears bubbling from beneath his eyelids, it was obvious Tony had caught his mistake, his expression turning stricken.
"Shit, shit, sorry, Peter, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, buddy, I didn't mean to yell." Peter was wholly unmoved by the apologies, reaching for Steve, each wail rising in volume. "No, wait—" Tony protested, pleading, when Steve hooked his hands under Peter's arms and lifted him out of Tony's lap. "Steve—"
"It's okay, shh. Daddy's not mad," Steve assured Peter and started stripping him out of his ruined shirt. "Get out of those clothes," he told Tony, brushing the tears from Peter's cheeks with his thumbs. Tony complied without a word. Steve rubbed Peter's back, laying kisses in his hair while Tony pushed out of his jeans. "Just leave them there," Steve told Tony when he bent to gather up the clothes and Tony swallowed and straightened back up, rubbing at his nose and failing to stifle a sniffle.
Steve rose, hefting Peter onto his hip, little over-heated arms looped around his neck and his face turned into Steve's neck. Tony shriveled up when Steve stepped toward him.
Ignoring that, despite the pang it caused him, Steve murmured into Peter's temple, "Can you look at Daddy?"
Very reluctantly, Peter peeked up at him, his chest still hitching a little with every breath, face flushed with crying and fever.
"Not me, pal; Tony. He wants to say something to you, okay?"
It took a moment, but Peter finally looked at Tony, his tiny fingers gripping Steve's shirt tighter.
"Tony," Steve said, catching his eye.
Tony glanced at him, dropping his eyes when his chin trembled. He took a shaky, hitching breath, the sheen in his eyes growing even more pronounced when he met Peter's gaze. "I'm sorry, Peter," he croaked. He blinked and one tear slid free, streaking down his cheek to disappear in his goatee as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Daddy's so sorry," he whispered. "He shouldn't have yelled."
Peter sniffed, his head turning toward Tony as his grip on Steve's shirt loosened, his eyes focused on the wetness Tony wiped jerkily from his cheek. He pressed one fist to his mouth and then said softly, "It's okay, Daddy. Don't cry."
Tony choked out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and Peter reached out for him. When Steve handed him over, Tony pulled Peter tight to his chest, letting out a whaling breath. "I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Daddy," Peter mumbled, wrapping his arms tight around Tony's neck. "Sorry I threw up on you."
"Don't be," Tony said immediately. "It's not your fault. You didn't do it on purpose. Daddy overreacted."
"I love you, Daddy," Peter whispered and the noise Tony had made had nearly broken Steve's heart.
"I love you, Peter. I love you so, so much."
After that Steve had shepherded them to the bathroom and into the shower to clean up. Tony's always tender with Peter, but following that particular incident he'd been even more indulgent, letting Peter curl up in his lap for nearly three days straight, despite repeats of the throwing up incident, despite his aching back, and despite the unbearable heat of Peter's skin. When Peter had finally fallen asleep that first night, Steve had kissed Tony until some of the misery melted from his expression. "You did what you needed to," he'd said.
"I fucked up."
"Not for the first time and not for the last."
"You're gonna stick around? Call me on it?"
"I plan to," Steve said and smiled.
And so far he thinks he's kept that promise. Tony's repaid the favor more than a few times when Steve pushes too hard and expects too much of Peter. It's been a constant struggle to find a balance, but they keep trying.
Steve realizes Peter's been quiet for a while and his eyes move toward the bathroom. The light's still on. "JARVIS?" he whispers and Tony snuffles, nuzzles into his shoulder. His mouth hangs open and Steve knows there will be a wet spot before long.
"He's fallen asleep, Sir," JARVIS replies softly. "You would do well to follow his example."
Steve huffs. "I'm trying."
"Try harder, Sir," JARVIS advises.
The room darkens gradually as the shades lower, whirring quietly, and Steve smiles because JARVIS can mother with the best of them. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and relishes the quiet that's settled over the apartment, drifting with the images of his latest drawings.
Steve wakes suddenly and fully, heart beating hard against the wall of his chest. To the left he can hear a soft rustling, the sound of someone trying to step silently. Tony's head is pillowed on Steve's stomach and he's curled up on his side facing the headboard, the blue light of the reactor effectively blinding Steve.
Moving with great care, he gets his hand around Tony's bicep, ready to fling him clear of danger if that's possible. But the footsteps are moving away, out toward—
And at last Steve realizes: Peter.
He breathes, tension draining away, and as he releases Tony's arm, he lifts his head to check he hasn't woken him. He hasn't.
Steve lets his head fall back, lifting one hand to rest against his forehead as he breathes through the ebbing adrenaline rush. He winces as the stitches start to throb. "JARVIS," he says and his voice is rough with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Five thirty-nine, sir."
Steve sighs and closes his eyes again. It's barely been four hours. "Peter?"
"Watching TV, sir."
He must be feeling better, Steve thinks, and lets sleep claim him again.
Peter's slumped on the couch, swaddled in his dads' comforter watching an infomercial for knives through a haze of exhaustion when he hears the door open behind him. He pushes upright, despite the effort that costs him and tips his head back to look over the couch back. It's Tony.
"Hi, dad."
Tony looks up from the tie he's securing around his neck and smiles, says, "Hey, kiddo. How you feeling?"
Peter shrugs because he's not throwing up, but he's worn out just from sitting up to look over the back of the couch, so. It's all relative. "Okay," he says. "Where are you going?"
Tony sighs and heads into the kitchen, where he digs a nutritional shake out of the fridge before coming out into the living room to lean on the couch back. "Got a meeting with Harvey. Been trying to get together for months, but our schedules are always conflicting." He takes a sip of the shake and then reaches over to feel Peter's face. His hands are cold and they feel good on Peter's overheated skin.
"D'you even know what you're looking for when you do that?" Peter mumbles.
Tony gives him a look of mock surprise. "Wait, you mean I'm supposed to have an ulterior motive? I thought it was just an excuse to touch your pretty face."
Peter snorts and lets his eyes drift back toward the TV.
"Well, now," Tony says, "They're still selling knives that cut through drywall?"
"And wood, according to this infomercial, but I'm pretty sure they're using balsa."
Tony lets out a bark of laughter and then leans forward, catching Peter's head with his hand and planting a kiss on the crown. "Anything you need before I go, Bambi?"
Peter shakes his head. "Nah, I'm all right, Dad. Thanks."
"No problem. See you in a couple hours." He kisses Peter again and then he's gone.
Realizing that if his dad's heading to work, Doctor S is probably up, too, Peter paws around in the blankets until he finds his phone.
Hey, Doc, he texts, I'm showing definite signs of symptoms. Severe fatigue set in sometime Sunday morning and at 0100 this morning I started vomiting. Sounds like Phase 1 to me.
He takes a look at the Band-Aids covering the bites on his left hand and ignores the urge to scratch it. The redness and swelling has started to creep out from underneath. None of the research mentioned a rash around the bite, but then, all the animals the Doc tested had fur.
I think I'm having a reaction around the bites, too. I've got a rash. Did you ever see that on the test animals?
