Work Text:
"I'm dying."
Steve had heard those two words at least a dozen times an hour for the past six hours.
"You're not dying," he replied, not even looking up from his sketchbook. The first few times, he'd been on his feet instantly, retrieving kleenex or juice, NyQuil, not brandy or whisky even though Tony had asked. The urgency had faded somewhat with repetition. "You're sick. You're not dying."
"Steeeeve," Tony whined, and despite himself, despite the annoying sound, Steve smiled. "Still not dying," he sing-songed.
Tony harrumphed, which made him cough and completely negated the attempted imperiousness of the sound. "I'm dying and you don't even care."
Steve chuckled and shook his head, finally looking up from his sketchbook. "If you were dying, I would care very much, Tony. But you're not dying. We've been over this. Clint wasn't dying when he got this; Natasha wasn't dying when you made fun of how she sneezes. And you're not dying now."
Steve's fingers twitched and he suddenly wished that he had a camera within reach, because Tony was pouting at him, actually pouting, and Steve wanted to draw that expression.
The pout, unfortunately, disappeared as Tony's eyes fluttered closed. "Ah... damn it..."
Steve snagged a kleenex from the box on the night-stand and pressed it into Tony's hand. Tony brought it up just in time to catch a signature trio of sneezes, and then whimpered before blowing his nose.
Steve handed him another kleenex and stroked his hair back. "Bless you."
Tony tossed the used kleenex in the general direction of the trash can, and glared balefully at Steve.
"I'm dying."
****
Two days later, Tony was chafing against his enforced inactivity. "I feel fine. You're killin' me, Steve. Why can't I just - ah -" He broke off to sneeze, predictably three times, and then swore as he reached for yet another kleenex. "Fuck."
"Because the exertion would make you cough," Steve deadpanned, and Tony gave him the finger.
"I've had sex when I was sicker than this," he muttered petulantly. "Besides, it'd be worth it. We haven't done anything in a week!"
"Four days," Steve corrected him. "Believe me, I know how long it's been."
Tony smirked at him as he tossed the kleenex into the garbage. "Then quit with the Nurse Ratched routine and come to bed. Come on, it's not like you can catch it."
Steve shook his head. "I can, it just won't last very long. And no, not until you're well. I'm not screwing around with your health, Tony."
Tony pouted at him - again - and then sighed, suddenly serious. "All right. Will you just... come lie down with me? Seriously, babe, I promise I won't try to start anything, even though I want to. But..."
Steve put his sketchbook aside without hesitating, and stood to stretch before crossing to the bed. "You promise?" he asked, but his smile made it clear that he'd already given in.
Tony grinned at him and held up two fingers. "Scouts honour," he said, ignoring Steve's amused snort. "I promise."
Steve toed off his runners and climbed into bed, settling on his back and holding an arm out for Tony. "Come here, then."
Tony scooted over and fitted himself against Steve's side, sighing as he slung an arm across Steve's belly and tucked his head against Steve's shoulder. "Ahh, that's more like it. See? I can behave."
Steve chuckled and brought his arm up around Tony, hugging him closer. "It's been fifteen seconds, Tony. Give it some time."
Tony poked him in the side. "Oh ye of little faith. Mmm. Yeah, this is good. I can handle this."
Steve hummed in agreement and sighed, letting some of the past days' tension slip out of his spine. "Me too. Mmm." He closed his eyes, enjoying the quiet while it lasted. With Tony awake, things were never quiet for long.
A few minutes later, his brow furrowed and his breath hitched. Tony felt it and lifted his head. "Steve?"
Steve shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and then turned his head away suddenly to muffle a surprisingly powerful sneeze in the crook of his elbow.
Tony blinked at him, then sputtered on a laugh, and Steve groaned.
"Great. Now I'm dying."