Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Shh, little buddy, it's okay. Just go back to sleep," Tony murmured, kissing the unruly mop of curly brown hair tucked underneath his chin. Peter let out a whimper as he shifted in his wrap, spitting out his dummy in the process which Tony quickly replaced. "That's it, just go on back to sleep now."

Peter huffed, his little body squirming one final time before slowly relaxing against Tony's. He tilted his head back, his eyes squeezed closed in that, "I'm sleeping!" expression he often assumed when he was trying to sleep while getting over yet another one of his bad colds.

And this one had been particularly nasty, complete with all of the whining, running-like-a-faucet nose, watery eyes, disgustingly junky cough, and lack of sleep that everyone just loved when they were sick.

And the whole time Tony had hardly let Peter out of his sight, giving him plenty of cuddles, chicken soup, steam baths to help keep his lungs open, and in general trying everything humanly possible to keep him out of the hospital. Peter had been in the hospital for over six weeks after he was born, and had been readmitted three times since then when his breathing got too scary-bad for Tony's comfort, so this time around Tony had pretty much exhausted himself with trying to keep Peter from getting to that point. He and Peter had both had enough of hospitals to last three lifetimes.

Unfortunately, all of that meant that Tony was way behind on the presentation he was scheduled to give in two days' time to the Joint Chiefs, one that had already been rescheduled twice because of Peter being sick, much to Obadiah's dismay.

Maybe I'm just not cut out for this whole super-dad thing.

"Mmm!" Peter whined, spitting out his dummy again as he turned his head to face the other direction, rubbing his itchy cheek against Tony's shirt. Tony sighed as he pushed the rubber and plastic soother back into his son's mouth, bouncing a bit harder on the exercise ball that had long since replaced the fancy Italian leather and cherry wood desk chair in his spacious office, which Tony knew drove Obie nuts. Obie didn't much care for the cordoned-off play area either, complete with a portable crib and enough toys for at least three toddlers, complaining that it was "unprofessional" for the CEO of such a large and important company to have his toddler son banging away on his toy xylophone or pushing trucks across the polished marble floors while his father was on conference calls with the Joint Chiefs. The fact that all seven of the military officers thought that Peter was absolutely adorable, and would spend several minutes cooing at him every time they were on the line with Tony seemed to have no bearing at all on Obie's opinion.

But none of it had been used in the last week or so, as Peter had barely allowed being put down long enough to have his diaper changed, much less play with toys away from his dada when he didn't feel good.

And Tony actually preferred it this way. It was much easier for him to keep an eye on Peter's breathing when the boy was wrapped up on his front than when he was five metres away in his crib. As a former premature baby who was born with underdeveloped lungs, Peter still suffered from lingering lung issues, all of which got about a hundred times worse when he was sick.

"Shh, Petey, it's okay. Daddy's got you," Tony whispered as he patted Peter's bum, squinting at something on his monitor as Peter attempted to scratch at one of the itchy eczema patches on his neck. Thanks to his cold, the eczema that Peter had battled for most of his life had flared up again, covering his little body with the scaly red patches that only added to his—and Tony's—overall misery.

"No, no, buddy, no scratching," Tony said as he grasped Peter's hand, tucking it down into the wrap. He supposed he would have to give Peter one of the bleach baths that evening that his dermatologist had prescribed. He'd been trying to avoid it, as Peter screamed like he was being murdered every single time he tried it, but they really did help to clear up his skin.

A few minutes later Peter finally settled, a handful of Tony's shirt clutched in his chubby hand and his breathing still a big ragged but otherwise even and steady. Tony heaved a sigh as he carefully leaned closer to his huge monitor, making a few minor changes to the latest design of Stark Industries newest surface-to-air missile, one that according to Obie, "could change the entire course of the war on terror".

"More like line his pockets," Tony mumbled under his breath, planting another kiss on Peter's head when the boy sniffled in his sleep. Objectively, Tony knew this newest missile was quite revolutionary, containing its own internal guidance system to avoid the dependence on radar guidance when fired at enemy aircraft. With no radar, the missiles could theoretically be impossible for the enemy to find and destroy prior to firing, giving the U.S. Armed Forces a critical advantage.

In fact, the President himself had even personally expressed his interest in the new missiles, and Tony knew that Obadiah was especially anxious about the presentation, wanting to make sure that everything was as perfect as possible.

As he often did, Tony quickly became engrossed in his work, not even noticing the passage of time until he was startled back to reality by a loud knock on his office door, with Obie poking his head inside a second later.

"How's it—?" Obie started, frowning deeply when he noticed Peter sleeping on Tony's front.

"Don't you even think about asking me how it's going," Tony warned him. "I told you that I'll have this ready, so it'll be ready. There's no need for you to be looking over my shoulder every ten seconds."

"I'm not trying to look over your shoulder, Tony, I'm only stopping by to see how things are going," Obie protested. He made a beeline for the tumbler of Scotch that Tony still kept in the office for some odd reason, pouring himself a generous shot. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you how important—"

"No, you goddamn don't," Tony hissed, patting Peter's back when he flinched in his sleep. "It'll be ready."

Obie's bushy eyebrows knitted together as he took a gulp of his Scotch, smacking his lips as his eyes flicked down to Peter's curly head poking up out of the colourful wrap.

"You sure you're gonna be able to tear yourself away from the kid long enough to actually give the presentation?" he asked. "'Cause I really don't think the Joint Chiefs will appreciate being put off for a third time. This missile is gonna change the course of the entire war on terror, and they're already pretty eager to sign on the dotted line, so we gotta make sure that—"

"Peter hasn't spiked a fever in two days now, so as long as his nose keeps clearing up we should be fine," said Tony. "If he's still fussy by then I'll just have Rosa keep him here in the office during the presentation."

"You think she'll be able to handle it?" Obie asked warily. "Seems to me like she pretty much flips out every time the kid cries."

Unfortunately, Tony had to admit that Obie had a point. Rosa was a pretty good nanny, and Peter did fairly well in her care as long as he was feeling okay. But she did have a tendency to freak out every single time that Peter sneezed, or if he tripped and bumped his head, or refused to eat something she thought he should eat, or started to cry for apparently no reason.

Basically, anytime he acted like a toddler.

"It'll be okay, Obie," Tony repeated. "Now, if you don't mind—"

"I thought you were s'posed to get rid of those things once they were two?" Obie cut in, pointing to Peter's dummy which had once again slipped from his mouth. "Aren't they bad for the kid's teeth or something?"

Tony shot him a deep scowl as he set the dummy on his desk. In fact, he had asked that very same question at Peter's eighteen-month well-child visit, almost frightened of the answer. Peter was very attached to his "moo-moos", as he called them, and Tony was already dreading the day that he would be forced to take them away from him.

Thankfully, Peter's paediatrician had assured him that as long as he was just using it when he was sleeping or in the car that it wasn't that big of a deal, and far easier to wean from than thumb-sucking.

"Eh, Petey's doc isn't worried about it, so neither am I," said Tony. "Besides, he's only twenty-two months old, so not even two yet."

Obie rolled his eyes as he drained the rest of the Scotch in his glass. "Close enough, isn't it?"

"No," Tony said firmly. "Now, if you don't mind, go away. I'm trying to work."

Glowering, Obie set down his empty glass and headed for the door, turning back one final time as he reached it.

"You will be ready," he said, his tone almost threatening. "This is a huge deal, Tony, one of the biggest we've had, and we can't afford to mess it up. The entire reputation of the company is at stake."

"I'm not even gonna justify that with a response, Obie," Tony said, his eyes firmly on his monitor. "Now, get the hell out!"

With a huff, Obie turned on his thousand-dollar heel and exited the office, practically slamming the door closed and causing Peter to cry out as he startled awake.

"Goddamn you, Obie," Tony muttered as he gave Peter his moo-moo and resumed his bouncing and shushing, even as he knew it probably wouldn't work.

Which it didn't, because a few seconds later Peter popped his head up, squinted up at Tony, sneezed, then proceeded to rub his nose and cheeks all over Tony's chest before popping up again.

"Petey up," he said, looking so proud of himself that Tony couldn't even find it in him to be frustrated.

"Yeah, Petey's up," Tony said with a sigh. I guess some nap is better than no nap. He pressed his lips to Peter's forehead, relieved to find no evidence of fever. Hopefully they were finally free of the germs.

"So, what're you thinking that you wanna do now, little buddy," Tony asked a couple minutes later. Peter had made no attempt to move, proving that he wasn't even close to a hundred percent yet. Normally the kid never stopped fidgeting.

Or climbing, as Tony had recently discovered when Peter came looking for him in his workshop late one evening at home, having managed to climb out of his crib. Since then he had discovered Peter on top of his worktable, the kitchen counter, his office desk, and one time was even about two-thirds of the way up DUM-E when Tony finally found him, giggling maniacally the entire time.

"Mmm," Peter answered, burrowing back down into the wrap, with fistfuls of Tony's shirt clutched in both hands and his ear right over Tony's heart. Rhodey liked to joke about Tony's heart being Peter's happy place, which Tony couldn't argue with at all. Peter had been an incredibly colicky baby, and there were many a night—or day, as it were—where the only way he could get Peter to stop screaming was to wrap him up on his front so he could hear Tony's heartbeat.

"Well… are ya hungry?"

"Nuh uh."

"Okay. Then… how about getting down and playing a bit while Daddy works, yeah?" Peter often worked up an appetite while he played, so…

Peter shook his curly head, burrowing even further. "Nuh uh."

Tony pursed his lips. As much as he enjoyed snuggling with his boy, Peter's interest in food had been pretty much nonexistent the whole time he'd been sick, and at only the tenth percentile for height and weight he didn't really have any weight to spare.

"Okay, tell you what. If you let Daddy put you into your highchair and eat a snack, then I'll let you up on my back once you're done. Deal?"

Peter scrunched up his nose, thinking. He enjoyed being worn on Tony's back even more than his front since he could see so much more, and often would spend hours just watching Tony work, fiddling with Tony's t-shirt collars and babbling away the entire time.

"Uh huh," he finally said, giving Tony's shirt one final squeeze. Tony smiled and kissed his head again before lifting him out of the wrap and carrying him airplane-style over to his highchair, earning an adorable giggle.

"Here you go, buddy," Tony said, handing Peter a yogurt tube and a his sippy cup of diluted apple juice. Peter immediately squeezed the yogurt tube, squirting at least a third of it all over the tray of the highchair, which he then tried to grab with his fingers.

"Nope, see, that doesn't work all that well, does it," Tony said patiently. He gave Peter a baby spoon, helping him scoop up the smeared yogurt and bring it to his mouth. Tony was well aware that mealtimes with a toddler often resulted in more mess than actual meal, and that getting upset about the above-mentioned mess didn't help anything.

"Uh huh," Peter said through his mouthful of yogurt, causing some of it to dribble onto his chin. "Is yum."

"That's my boy," Tony said, smiling as he ruffled Peter's already fuzzy hair. "Gotta make sure you keep growing, huh, little buddy?"

Peter shrugged his tiny shoulders in such a perfect imitation of Rhodey that Tony couldn't help but laugh. Peter adored his Unca 'Ames, and often tried to imitate some of Rhodey's goofier mannerisms.

"Petey is this big!" Peter said as he raised his hands up over his head. "I so big!"

"Yeah, you sure are," Tony agreed, not without a hint of melancholy. As much as he enjoyed being out of the colicky phase, he honestly wasn't fond of how fast Peter seemed to be growing already. Hadn't he just brought him home only a few months ago?

Much to everyone's surprise, and especially Tony's, after the mild-to-moderate freakout—probably on the more moderate side, now that he thought about it—that he had on the day he brought Peter home, he'd been able to adjust to being a single father of a high-needs infant pretty quickly. Even on the nights when he could barely get Peter to stop crying long enough to eat, and he was so exhausted that he found himself catnapping on his feet, propped up in the corner of the kitchen, he still never regretted for a moment his decision to claim Peter as his son and take him home. All it had taken was one good look at his tiny little boy lying there in that incubator, and Tony was a goner.

The fact that Peter's mother had given birth to him almost two months' premature and then disappeared without a trace, again, was something that Tony chose to conveniently ignore most of the time. The two of them were just fine on their own, thank you very much.

His yogurt tube and juice finished, Tony quickly got Peter cleaned up and changed, then popped him up onto his back, winding the long, colourful wrap around both of their bodies until Peter was nice and snug with his head just peeking up over Tony's shoulder. Peter's nanny had taught Tony how to wrap Peter when she first started working for him, and aside from Peter's moo-moo's, the wrap was the one thing that he could always count on to help soothe him when he was fussy. Rosa called it a sort of extended hug, which for a former preemie like Peter was especially important since he had spent the first several weeks of his life being essentially touch-starved.

"You good up there, little buddy?" Tony asked, bouncing to test the knot he'd just tied.

Peter gave an answering bounce, kicking his little legs.

"Uh huh. Me good."

"All right, then let's get this missile built, yeah?"

"Uh huh," Peter said. "Missy."

Tony cringed as he sat back down on his exercise ball. The fact that his toddler son already understood the word "missile" was more than a little unnerving, and in fact had caused Tony to stop and think about what kind of example he was setting more than once. He had even brought it up with Obie, which ended up being a mistake of gargantuan proportions. Obie liked to remind Tony that he had also grown up in the world of guns and rockets and other weapons, and in fact had spent a good amount of his childhood sketching out various schematics and models, some of which had even managed to make it into the general production lines at Stark Industries.

But then again, Howard Stark hadn't really given enough of a damn about Tony to care about what he was getting exposed to at such a young age, while Tony on the other hand… Well, Obie liked to say that Tony cared too much about what Peter saw, and often chose to complain about it.

But then again, was it really possible for a father to care too much for his child?

Tony sure didn't think so.

Huffing out a sharp breath, Tony pulled up the missile's schematic and got to work, narrating everything he did while Peter listened intently, his little chin resting on Tony's shoulder.

"So see here, this is the fuel compartment that stores the fuel that helps it fly, and this right here is the brand-new internal radar that's gonna revolutionise the whole war on terror, like Obie likes to say, and here's the—"

"Ter-roar," Peter suddenly piped up. "Is bad."

Tony's jaw snapped closed, a deep frown marring his forehead. "Well, yeah. Terror is… well… it's terrifying, to put it bluntly. That's the main reason why we've got to have a bigger stick than the bad guys. So we don't have to be scared."

"No scary," Peter said, shaking his head. "No like scary."

A lump rose in Tony's throat, and he patted Peter's little foot. "No, buddy, I don't like it either."

There was a pause for a couple heartbeats, abruptly halted when Peter reached over and snatched Tony's glasses clean off his face.

"Peter!" Tony exclaimed, reaching blindly behind him to try and locate them. Peter let out a giggle, wiggling against his back as he slid the glasses onto his own face.

"Petey cute!" he exclaimed. "Like Dada!"

"Dada is not cute!" Tony said, chuckling as he untied the wrap and swung Peter back into his arms. He leaned in, nose to nose. "Your father is handsome, and distinguished, and charming, and—well you get the picture. Petey's the one who's cute. You got that?"

Peter nodded, his face scrunched up into the sweetest giggle that Tony could possibly imagine.

"But, that means that I'm gonna need those back, okay?" Tony added. He plucked the glasses from Peter's face and placed them into his pocket. The sun was starting to set through the surrounding skyscrapers, so it was just about time to be heading home. He could work some more on the presentation once he got Peter to bed for the night, and then hopefully Peter would be well enough to stay home with Rosa the following day so he could put the finishing touches on everything without distraction.

Arriving at the old Stark Mansion about an hour later, Tony set about getting Peter fed and bathed, a monumental feat when Peter caught a whiff of the bleach solution Tony had poured into his bathwater to help treat his eczema. For such a small, compact child, Peter could put up such a massive fight when he put his mind to it that a stranger walking by the house would've thought he was being beaten if they didn't know any better. By the time the tortuous bath was over, Peter was red-faced and sniffling, side-eyeing Tony like he'd been betrayed, and Tony was covered in splashes of bleach water that he just knew was going to ruin yet another one of his favourite t-shirts.

"All right, all better now, little buddy," Tony said soothingly as he slathered Peter's arms and legs with his special anti-eczema cream. Then he dressed Peter in his favourite Captain America pyjamas, a set Peter had found when they were out shopping not too long ago—Caca Maca, Dada! Caca Maca!—and just had to have, much to Tony's dismay—and tucked him next to him on the squashy armchair in Peter's bedroom to read him his bedtime story.

"Mister Bown Can Moooooo!" Peter exclaimed, kicking excitedly as Tony open the first page of Peter's favourite book, Mr Brown Can Moo, Can You?

"Moo, moo!" Peter said as Tony read, pausing at the appropriate times. "Buzz, buzz! Pop, pop, pop! Dibble, dibble, dibble, dopp!"

Tony planted a kiss on the top of Peter's head before turning the next page. "Boom, boom, boom. Mr Brown is a wonder. Boom, boom, boom. Mr Brown makes thunder!"

"Like Thor?" Peter said, his huge brown eyes filled with wonder. "Mister Bown make thun-dar like Thor?"

"Well… yeah, little buddy, I guess he can," Tony answered, impressed. Peter had about a million picture books, and Tony already knew that Peter was smart, but to make a connection like that from just looking at pictures, well…

"You're pretty smart, you know that?" he said as he playfully tweaked Peter's nose. "Daddy's very proud of you!"

"Uh huh," Peter said, and proceeded to let out a yawn that almost enveloped his entire face. It was definitely time for bed.

"All right, little buddy, time for night-night," Tony said once he'd finished the rest of the story. He picked his boy up, tucking him close as he walked him to his crib. "You sleep good, yeah? Daddy loves you."

"Uh huh. Love Dada," Peter answered, winding his skinny little arms around Tony's neck and planting an extremely messy kiss on Tony's cheek, right above his facial hair. Tony had decided not too long ago that arms-around-the-neck hugs from a toddler where the best kind of hugs that someone could ever hope to get, and he savoured each and every single one.

"Night night."

"Night night, sweet boy," Tony whispered as he laid Peter down and brushed the curls from his forehead, his eyes already at half-mast. "Sleep tight."

Tony stood in the doorway for a few minutes, just making sure that Peter stayed lying down before refilling his coffee cup and heading to his lab, DUM-E beeping an affectionate greeting as he entered.

"Gonna be a long night tonight," Tony said, patting DUM-E's neck. He took a sip of his coffee as he pulled up the slides for his presentation and started going through them, making some minor adjustments to the formatting. Obie had been bugging Tony about hiring an assistant for several months now, saying that it would help Tony by taking some of the busywork away and keep him on a better schedule. And, while Tony agreed that he probably could use someone to assist with that kind of thing, he couldn't seem to set aside enough time in said schedule to actually interview anyone, so he just kept plowing forward and hoping that he wouldn't forget anything too important.

Like… showing up at the office on time, since apparently Tony realised a bit too late that trying to pull an all-nighter right after his kid was finally feeling better was a very bad idea.

Who knew?

"Goddamnit, Tony! I can't believe you!" Obie ranted as soon as Tony stepped through the door of his office. "Did you at least leave the kid at home this time?"

"You don't see him here, do ya?" Tony snapped as he rushed past Obie to his desk, his arms laden with blueprints.

"Well, at least there's that," Obie said with a frown. He gave Tony a sharp once-over. "And I do hope you at least got fitted for a new suit for tomorrow. This is one presentation that we can't mess up, and you know what they say about first impressions!"

"I made my first impression with the Joint Chiefs a long time ago," Tony replied. "And I highly doubt that they're gonna give a damn about the suit I end up wearing either, so why don't you just calm down before you pop a vessel or something, yeah?"

Obie huffed, his frown deepening. "Fine. Just… the presentation starts at 10am sharp in the conference room, so don't be late."

Tony looked up from his blueprints, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "I won't. Now please go away and let me finish this!"

He heard Obie sigh again, but didn't look up. Finally the older man took the hint, turning on his heel.

"Okay, but do you want me to send a car out to the house in the morning?" he said once he got to the door. "That way I'll know that you'll be on time, and—"

"I said, out!" Tony repeated, pointing to the door. "And don't come back till tomorrow!"

As soon as the door clicked shut Tony dropped his chin to his chest, letting out a heavy sigh. Obie had no idea, which Tony intended to keep that way, but it had been almost impossible to pry Peter off of his leg long enough to get out of the house that morning. Peter's pathetic begging to come with him nearly had Tony in tears by the time he'd managed to hand him over to Rosa, and even now, almost an hour later, he could still feel the lump in his throat from having to say no.

No, I'm definitely not cut out for this whole super-dad thing.

As per his usual, Tony worked through lunch as he made a few more tweaks to the ignition system of the missile, and was just getting ready to go through his presentation slides again when his office phone buzzed.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Stark," the secretary said. "But your son's nanny is on the line and she sounds pretty upset."

"Yeah, then put her through!" Tony said, wincing at his harsh tone. Please don't tell me that Pete's been crying this whole time.

"What's going on, Rosa?"

"Mr Stark!" Rosa exclaimed, and Tony's heart gave a painful lurch when he heard Peter crying in the background. "I'm so sorry to have to bother you, but I've tried everything that I can think of and he just won't settle down!"

"Yeah, okay, Rosa, just try and calm down a bit, yeah?" Tony said. "Tell me what he's doing. Is his breathing okay? Has he eaten anything today?"

"His breathing is okay, and no, he hadn't eaten much," Rosa said, sniffing. "I've tried giving him all of his favourites, but he just pushes them away. And he feels warm to me, and he's been pulling on his ears too. Both of them, like they're hurting him."

"Oh Christ, he's probably got an ear infection," Tony said, his shoulders sagging. "Christ, I should've known this would happen. He sometimes gets an ear infection after he's been sick."

"Okay, so do you want me to call his doctor?" Rosa asked.

"No, I'll do it." Tony glanced at the clock; if he was able to get Peter to the paediatrician within the next hour or so, then he'd likely be able to get in two doses of whatever antibiotic she prescribed and would hopefully be already feeling a lot better in the morning. "No, I'll leave for home now and call her from the road. Just have Pete ready to go when I get there, okay?"

"Yes, Mr Stark," Rosa said. "Thank you."

His heart thudding, Tony gathered up his blueprints and laptop computer and hurried from the office, nearly crashing headlong into Obie as he rounded the hallway corner.

"Tony? Where in the hell—?"

"Not now, Obie!" Tony called over his shoulder, nearly dropping one of the blueprints as he got into the elevator. "Gotta take Pete to the doctor, think he's got an ear infection."

"But—! You mean now? Why can't it wait till after the presentation?"

Thankfully the doors closed so Tony didn't have to dignify that question with a response.

No, it can't fucking wait, Tony thought bitterly. Would you wanna wait if it felt like someone was stabbing at your ears with an ice pick?

Peter was so red-eyed and snotty when he got home that Tony's heart nearly cleaved in two at the sight of him. He was still wearing his pyjamas, having refused to get dressed, and was alternating yanking on his ears with clapping his little palms over his jaw.

"Dada, hurts!" he cried as he slapped his little jaw again. "Hurts!"

"I know, little buddy," Tony murmured as he caught Peter's wrist. He pressed his lips to Peter's forehead, alarmed at how hot he was. "And Daddy's gonna make it all better, okay?"

Peter gave a nod, his lower lip sticking out as he tucked his head under Tony's chin. It took almost five minutes of cajoling and bargaining before Tony could get him strapped into his carseat, and the onslaught of New York City rush hour traffic meant that they didn't end up getting to the doctor's office until nearly an hour later, by which time Peter had managed to scratch the hell out of the sides of his face with his fingernails in his attempts to make his ear pain go away.

The ear pain that wasn't actually an ear infection.

"Teething?" he said, his jaw dropping in shock. "What? But Pete's never had fevers when he's teethed before, and he just got over another cold, so I just thought—"

"That may be, but the two-year molars are often something else," the paediatrician said, a kind, patient woman who reminded Tony a lot of his own mother. She gave Peter's hand a reassuring pat. "His ears are as clear as a blue sky, Mr Stark, but his gums are red and swollen. It's definitely the two-year molars."

"Okay, but… how long are they gonna take?" How long is my baby going to be miserable?

"I wish I could tell you," the doctor said. "Sometimes it takes only a day or so, sometimes up to a week. It's impossible to tell. But I will say, once they're in you shouldn't have to worry about teething again until he starts to lose them."

"Well, at least there's that," Tony muttered. "All right. Thank you."

"Baby paracetamol will help with the pain and fever, and all of the other tricks for teething, of course," she continued. "Otherwise, all you can do is wait."

"Yeah." How many times have I heard that before?

After a quick stop at the pharmacy to stock up on paracetamol and a couple of teething toys, Tony turned his phone back on to find no less than ten messages from Obie, all marked as urgent, which he deleted without even listening to them. He was in absolutely no mood to listen to all of Obie's vitriol at the moment.

Not when his poor boy was whimpering in pain in his arms, and he had to try to get him to take his medicine.

"Shh, buddy, Daddy's got you," he whispered into Peter's fluffy curls as he cuddled with him on his bedroom armchair. It had taken over twenty minutes, and they were both now splattered in grape-flavoured liquid, but he had finally managed to get Peter to swallow a complete dose.

"Mmm," Peter murmured past his moo-moo. He was curled into a tight ball against Tony's chest, almost like he wanted to make himself as small as possible. "Hurts."

"I know, buddy." Tony tipped his head against the chair, rubbing circles on Peter's back as he went over his presentation in his head.

"Do you think you wanna try and sleep now?" he asked about a half hour later. Peter had at least stopped whimpering, but his death grip on Tony's shirt hadn't lessened in the slightest.

"Nuh uh," Peter said, scratching his cheek against Tony's chest. "Stay with Dada."

Tony bit his lip, cursing the lousy timing of it all. Of course this would happen right before the most important pitch of his life—or so Obie kept saying—and while Tony knew that he couldn't postpone the presentation again, his first priority had to be Peter. The thought of Peter relapsing and possibly having to be admitted to the hospital again was far more scary than any tantrum Obie could dish out.

"Okay, buddy," Tony whispered. He grabbed the blanket off the back of the chair, tucking it over them both. "Then why don't you just try and sleep a little here, okay?"

"Uh huh."

And so began one of the longest nights Tony had had since Peter outgrew his colic. He would finally get Peter to sleep, only for him to wake up screaming twenty to thirty minutes later, yanking so hard on his ears that Tony was afraid he might pull them off. The paracetamol only seemed to take the edge off, and Peter had no interest at all in the frozen washcloths or any of the other tricks he had tried before. By the time the first slivers of dawn started to shoot across the sky, Tony was so exhausted and so completely fried that he honestly didn't know what to do. Postponing the presentation yet again could very well cause the Joint Chiefs to cancel the whole thing, which would mean that all of his hard work would've been for nothing.

But then again, Peter was not going to tolerate being away from him long enough to give the presentation, and Tony was not about to torture him by trying to keep him away. His boy was in miserable pain, there was no way he could leave him.

Tony would just have to take Peter in with him. He had done it before for conference calls, a live presentation wouldn't be all that much different.

And if the Joint Chiefs had a problem with it, well, then they didn't deserve his new missile anyway.

And so, after taking the fastest shower imaginable while Peter cried and pounded on the door, Tony got himself and Peter dressed, helped him eat a couple of ice pops, and drove to the office, nearly causing Obie's eyes to bug out of his head when he walked in at ten minutes to ten with Peter in his arms.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, Tony!" Obie exclaimed. "What's the kid doing here? Where the hell is the nanny?"

Dropping his blueprints on the desk, Tony locked eyes with Obie and pulled Peter's wrap out of his briefcase, hoisting him up and tying him to his back over his dress shirt and tie.

"Pete's staying with me," he said once Peter was secure. "He spiked another fever yesterday, but the doc says he doesn't have an ear infection and that it's his two-year molars instead, so—"

"So he's just teething?" Obie yelled, causing Peter to cower behind Tony's shoulder. "Are you kidding me right now? You're gonna ruin this entire thing because of your sick kid, only he's not actually sick he's just teething?"

"It's not 'just teething', Obie, not to him," Tony snapped. "He was in so much pain last night that I couldn't—"

"No!" Obie cut in, his face as red as an overripe tomato. "I'm putting my foot down, goddamnit, and I'm saying no! We can rub some Scotch on his gums, and then the secretary can watch him or something. Or, I can find—"

Tony raised his hand, pointing his finger right in Obie's face. "There is no way in hell that I'm putting Scotch in my son's mouth, Obadiah!" he said firmly. "And if I'm not mistaken, I'm the CEO of this company, which means that you don't get to put your foot down with me. I get to make the final decisions, you got that? And I've already made it." He took a step back, breathing in a deep breath as Peter laid his head down on the back of Tony's neck. "Now, if you'll excuse me, the Joint Chiefs are already waiting in the conference room, and I have a presentation to give."

Obie's mouth dropped open, then snapped closed again as Tony hurried past him, heading for the conference room. He stepped past the guards, pausing briefly at the door, his heart giving a flutter when seven pairs of eyes turned to look at him, with seven pairs of eyebrows raising simultaneously.

For several heartbeats the conference room was so quiet that Tony could've heard a pin drop, until one of them, the Chief of Staff of the Army, cleared his throat.

"Your little one having a rough morning there, Mr Stark?" he asked, jerking his head towards Peter. "Feeling poorly, is he?

"Ah, yes," Tony answered, his heart thudding as Obie stepped in, taking a seat at the end of the long table. "He's… well… he's teething, actually. It's the two-year molars, and—"

"Oh, Mr Stark," the Vice Chairman said. "Please don't feel like you have to justify having your ill child with you. In fact, I wish more fathers were as conscientious as you seem to be with your son." He peeked around Tony to glance at Peter. "Besides, he's never been any trouble before."

Relief washed over Tony like a wave, so strongly that it nearly knocked him over. See? he thought, glancing in Obie's direction. They don't care that he's here.

"Yes, well… I appreciate that very much." Tony cleared his throat, bringing up the first of his slides. "And now, gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the latest design in the Stark Industries lineup, and one that could possibly tip the scales in our direction in the war on terror."

"That definitely sounds intriguing, Mr Stark," said the Chairman. "Please, proceed."

The corners of Tony's lips curled into the slightest of smiles as some of the tension that he'd been lugging around on his shoulders for the last week started to ebb away.

It was going to be okay.

"Thank you, Mr Chairman."

And for the next ninety minutes, Tony proceeded to go through his entire prepared talk while Peter alternated watching quietly and snoozing, all safely from his perch on his daddy's back.

And once the conference was over, after the Chairman came forward to shake Tony's hand, asking how quickly he could start on the production of the new missiles before taking his leave, Tony breathed out the biggest sigh of relief in the history of sighs before collapsing into one of the conference room chairs and rubbing his exhausted eyes.

He had done it.

He had made the sale, and kept his poor teething boy close and comfortable at the same time.

Maybe he really could do this whole super-dad thing after all.

"Well, I have to admit that I am surprised," Obie said, startling Tony as he stepped back inside the conference room. "And never so happy to have been proven wrong. The Chairman told me right before they left that the President has already given us the green light."

Tony rolled his eyes, suppressing a smirk as he reached behind him to pat Peter's bum. He was still conked out, his head lolled against Tony's neck with a fistful of Tony's collar in his hand, safe and sound with his daddy.

"That's great, Obie," Tony said. And it was. Every dollar that Stark Industries made meant that more could be set aside for Peter's trust fund. But, unlike his own father, Tony understood that money wasn't the top priority when it came to taking care of his son.

It was simply just being there for Peter when he needed him, something that Howard, and Obie as well, never seemed to understand.

Money could never buy happiness, or love, as much as Howard had believed that it could. Tony had had every material possession that he'd ever wanted as a kid, and none of it ever made him as happy as he was now that Peter was in his life.

"It's all about priorities," he said softly.

"Hmm?" Obie asked. "You say something?"

Tony shook his head as he got to his feet, knowing Obie wouldn't understand. "I'm gonna take the rest of the day off, so… I'll see ya later, yeah?"

Obie opened his mouth, as if to argue, then snapped it closed again as he nodded.

"All right. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Yeah, we'll see about that, Tony thought as he carefully transferred his sleeping boy to his carseat, softly smoothing the curls from his forehead before kissing him. While he was hoping to not have a repeat of the previous night, experience had taught Tony that for some reason, pain and illness always seemed to get worse at night, so he wasn't about to hold his breath that Peter would be feeling any better tomorrow.

And if he wasn't, well, then Tony would just stay home with him, and Obie would have to get over it. Because while there would always be the next Board of Directors meeting, the next new missile development, or the next presentation for the military bigwigs, there would only ever be one Peter, and there was absolutely nothing more important to Tony than his boy.

And there never would be.