Work Text:
"D-Daddy?"
Tony Stark looked up from the television to see his nine year old son standing in the doorway, pale faced and clad in Power Rangers pyjamas.
"Petey? Come here," Tony said, opening his arms and gesturing for his son to cross the room. “Kiddo, you should be asleep it's almost 10:30." He pulled his son onto his lap, taking note of how he quickly buried himself into his father's shirt.
"I-I-I don't f-feel good..." Peter mumbled. Tony inwardly winced at his sons' stammer, despite having heard it hundreds of times a day since he’d been adopted.
He immediately placed a hand on his forehead, pressing a kiss to his son's hairline. "You're a little warm, buddy."
Peter whined quietly as he tried to bury himself into his father's chest even more. "Talk to me, Petey, tell me what hurts."
"M-My tummy," he said quietly, small fingers curling around the collar of his father's shirt. Tony’s hand instinctively moved towards his son's rounded stomach, wincing as it gurgled beneath his palm. "You think you're gonna be sick, buddy?"
Peter shook his head, "N-No, b-but..."
Tony waited for him to finish, but Peter didn't continue. "What's the problem, buddy? You can tell me, I won't be mad."
"Um, m-my, um..." Peter was looking at his hands, "-my poop. I-It's all w-watery."
Tony pulled his son into a hug. "Oh, buddy, that's okay, you're going to be fine. We'll get you some fever reducer, put you to bed and you'll be right as rain tomorrow."
"B-But my tummy hurts," he whined as he squirmed in his father's lap. Tony set him down on the couch, turned on Power Rangers and told him he'd be right back, he just had to make a phone call.
He quickly made his way to the hallway, pulling his phone from his pocket and searching for the number he wanted.
"I'll be right there, buddy!" he heard from the other end of the phone. "Tony? Is everything okay?"
"Diarrhea cure for a nine year old?" he asked, sensing the tone of urgency.
"Oh, god, Peter has it too?" he said with a sigh. Tony sighed as he glanced into the living room at his pale son, watching the TV with hooded eyes, a thumb curled in his mouth. He reluctantly looked away from his son, instead concentrating on the voice on the other end of the phone.
"Cooper’s been in the bathroom all night. If he's not on the toilet, he's kneeling in front of it."
"Cooper’s been throwing up? Peter hasn't-" he cut himself off when he heard the short coughs coming from the living room.
"Never mind, there he goes..." Tony said, sounding defeated. "Any miracle cures?" he asked, quickly, wanting to get back to his small son.
"Yeah, I'll be there in a second, Coop! Um, sorry about that, Tony, uh, just fever reducer and something to settle his stomach if he can keep it down. A good night's sleep should fix them both right up," Clint said quickly. "I'll let you go, call me or Laura if there's any problem."
Clint was gone before he could even say thank you.
Tony shoved his phone back into his pocket and turned the corner into the living room. He quickly made his way over to his son who was lying on the couch, eyes squeezed shut and breathing hard, a small pool of vomit on the hardwood floor in front of him. Tony pulled his son upwards and hugged him close as the boy buried his head into the crook of his father's neck.
"You're gonna be okay, buddy, I'm gonna make you feel better," he murmured, heading towards the stairs. "You feel like you're going to be sick again?"
Peter shook his head. "I-I-I need t-to go p-potty."
Tony climbed the stairs even faster. He carried his son into the bathroom and set him down, pulling down his pyjama pants and taking note that the boy had forgotten to wear underwear again. He put his hands underneath his son's armpits and sat him down on the toilet, noting how little time passed between the time he sat down and the time he heard his son's sickness hit the toilet water.
"G-Go a-away, D-Daddy," he said, not meeting his father's eyes.
Tony quickly turned towards the door. "I'm gonna go and get you some medicine, okay, buddy? Call me if you need something."
Peter didn't answer, instead he just stared into his lap, hiccupping quietly.
Tony descended the stairs as fast as he could. He went to the medicine cabinet and grabbed the stuff he needed from the bottom shelf, the 'Peter Shelf'. The shelf full of pill bottles, old and new. The prescription of iron pills he had refilled yesterday, the old bottle of antibiotics from when he had gotten blood poisoning from continually pulling the scab from his knee last year, the prescription shampoo for the psoriasis on his hairline.
All of this medication made up his nine year old son, his baby boy. He knew that soon there would be more bottles, more tubes, more cures. But he knew that nothing could cure the grief that that boy felt, that he feels, will always feel. He knew he couldn't help his son not miss his birth parents. Wouldn't want to, to be perfectly honest. Wouldn't want him to forget his friends. Tony had taken Peter in at the age of 5, when a mission gone wrong left him without a home. He couldn't help him feel better emotionally, but he could let him know that he wasn't alone. That even though his birth parents aren’t here anymore, he still has someone to take care of him.
He grabbed the bottles he needed and walked into his bedroom, pulling the hot water bottle from the bed and moving to the kitchen to heat it up.
When he had gathered everything he needed, he headed back up the stairs. He knocked on the bathroom door, "You done, buddy?" he called. There was a pause. "Uh-huh..."
"Well, uh, make sure you wipe properly. I'll wait in your room."
He heard Peter moving around behind the door as he made his way towards his son's room. He pulled out fresh pyjamas from his drawer and grabbed some underwear from the closet. As he sat down to wait for his son, Peter shuffled into his room, wiping his damp hands on his shirt.
Peter made his way towards his dad, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face into his neck. Tony rubbed his small son's back before pulling away and dragging his shirt upwards.
"Let's get you out of these pyjamas, buddy, then we can go to the bed."
Peter stood, shivering on the wooden floor as his father stripped him of his sweaty pyjamas and into new ones.
Tony grabbed his son and gently placed him into his bed, watching as he winced as he sat down. "How're feeling, kiddo?" he asked, pouring the medicine into the small cup for him. "M-M-My tummy hurts," he said quietly.
"Well, let's get you feeling better, then," he said, handing the cup to the boy, watching as he immediately downed it. "I brought the bucket, in case you feel sick, and the hot water bottle to help your tummy. You want me to lay with you?"
Peter gave a small nod as he lay down, moving over so his father could lay beside him. As soon as Tony settled, Peter burrowed into his side, pressing his forehead into his father's ribcage, a tell-tale sign of a sick Peter. Tony wrapped his arm around his boy, making sure he knew he was there.
———
Tony opened his eyes to feel an uncomfortable heat on his hip bone. His hand instinctively moved down and he quickly made contact with his son's sweat-drenched pyjama shirt. Tony pulled his son away from him and noticed how much paler he had gotten in the three hours he'd been asleep.
Tony moved slowly, carefully, and gently pulled the shirt over his son's head and threw it in the direction of the hamper, he then pulled his son's pyjama pants down, leaving him in just his underwear.
Peter whimpered before latching onto his father's shirt again. Tony sighed as he wrapped his arm around his boy once again, praying that he would be feeling better by the morning.
The next time Tony woke up he felt a light tapping on his shoulder.
"Nngh... Petey? What's the matter, kiddo?"
"D-Daddy, m-my tummy..." he stammered, breathing deeply, a hand curled in his father's shirt.
"You think you're going to be sick?" Tony asked, rubbing his child's back.
"Hnnn... I don't know, i-it feels weird," the boy whined.
Tony pulled the bucket from the floor towards his son. He gently pushed the boy so he was leaning over it and continued to rub his back.
"Just relax, buddy, relax and you'll be okay, Daddy's here..." he shushed as his son trembled beneath him.
Peter whined, panicked, before his stomach lurched and vomit poured from his mouth. Peter knelt on his bed, shaking in his small underwear as his father rubbed his sweaty back, waiting for his stomach to settle.
He was sick three more times before he sat back against the wall and curled around himself.
Tony brought the bucket into the bathroom and cleaned it out, grabbing a damp towel and moving back towards the bedroom.
"You okay, buddy?" Tony asked gently, pulling his son towards him and wiping his face. He then dressed him in a different pair of pyjamas and let his son lay down again.
"Uh-huh..." Peter mumbled, eyes closing. Tony lay down beside his son and allowed him to bury into him again, noticing how it wasn't as desperate as it was earlier, how Peter wasn't as warm as he had been, how he was going to be okay.
When Tony opened his eyes again, it was bright outside and he noticed that Peter wasn't pressed against him, instead he was sat beside him, leaning against the wall and reading a book.
"How're you feeling, buddy?" Tony asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Okay, I think..." he said slowly, turning his attention back to his book.
Tony couldn't help but smile at the lack of stammer.