Work Text:
In the faint light of early dawn, Shanks was woken by an unusual rustling sound beside him and slightly labored breathing. Groggily, he reached out to touch Law beside him, but his hand met empty space-Law had an extremely early morning surgery today and had left before dawn.
Just as he was about to roll over and go back to sleep, he felt the little one sleeping between him and Law-Lawrie had sneaked in again last night-tossing restlessly.
"Papa..." Lawrie's voice was thick with congestion, soft and weak.
Shanks was instantly wide awake. He propped himself up and looked at his son in the dim light filtering through the curtain gap. Lawrie's little face was flushed-not a healthy pink, but an unnatural, feverish red. He reached out and touched his son's forehead; his palm met burning heat.
"Lawrie?" Shanks's heart clenched. He kept his voice extremely soft. "Baby, how do you feel?"
"Hot... dizzy... uncomfortable..." Lawrie half-opened his amber-golden eyes, watery and listless. He burrowed into Shanks's arms, his small body trembling slightly.
Shanks immediately got out of bed and found the ear thermometer. After a beep, the screen showed 39.2°C, making him draw in a sharp breath.
"It's okay, baby. Papa's here." He quickly calmed down, first giving Lawrie some warm water, then finding children's fever reducer and carefully administering the correct dose. Lawrie was very good-although uncomfortable and whimpering, he still took the medicine from Shanks's hand.
"Papa... hold..." After taking the medicine, Lawrie stretched out his short arms, tears welling in his eyes. His feverish, dazed state made him look terribly pitiful.
"Okay, Papa will hold you." Shanks's heart ached unbearably. He immediately picked him up, blankets and all, and slowly paced around the room, gently patting his back and softly humming an off-key lullaby.
The fever reducer would take time to work. While holding and soothing his son, Shanks operated his phone one-handed, first sending Law a brief message explaining the situation (he knew Law might not see it immediately during surgery), then immediately contacting the family doctor. After confirming it was just seasonal flu causing the high fever and that home care, observation, and timely medication were needed, Shanks relaxed a little, but looking at his listless son in his arms, his heart still clenched.
He canceled all external appointments and meetings for the day, informed his secretary to send urgent documents electronically, and postponed everything else or delegated it to the vice president. Then, he relocated his office to Lawrie's children's room.
The children's room was bright and cozy, but its little master was now sickly curled up in the bed with its starry canopy. Shanks moved a comfortable armchair beside the bed, placing his laptop on a small side table. Just as he sat down, ready to handle the most urgent emails, Lawrie let out a feeble whimper from the bed.
"Papa..."
Shanks immediately abandoned the mouse and leaned over: "What is it, baby? Need water?"
"Hold... Papa hold..." Lawrie was dazed with fever, instinctively seeking the comfort and security of his most cherished embrace.
How could Shanks refuse? He simply brought the laptop onto the bed, leaned against the headboard, carefully lifted Lawrie into his arms, wrapped him snugly in a soft blanket, and let him rest against his chest. The little one's burning forehead pressed against his neck, his breaths hot and rapid against Shanks's skin.
"Okay, Papa's holding you. Papa's right here." Shanks adjusted his position to ensure Lawrie was comfortable, then held him with one arm while awkwardly reaching the computer with the other, beginning to work.
This was absolutely the most difficult and distracted working experience of his life. The little furnace in his arms kept squirming uncomfortably, making small animal-like whimpers; he had to pause frequently to give Lawrie water, wipe his little hands and face with a warm towel to cool him down, monitor his temperature, and also pay attention to his breathing and mental state.
When Lawrie was sick, he was more than ten times clingier than usual, unwilling to leave Shanks's arms for even a moment. Whenever Shanks tried to put him back in bed, even just to get a glass of water, he would immediately wake up, pout, and the tears would start falling. His fever-flushed little face was full of grievance and panic, arms reaching out wanting to be held-the sight almost broke Shanks's heart.
So there he was, the president of the Figarland Group, holding his sick son in an incredibly awkward position on the children's bed, struggling to reply to emails, review reports, and conduct brief voice calls. He kept his voice low and brief, his tone unprecedentedly gentle-so much so that it was practically terrifying for his subordinates-all to avoid disturbing the child lightly sleeping in his arms.
"Papa, are you in a meeting?" Lawrie asked vaguely, hearing Shanks quietly speaking into his headset, confused by the fever.
"No, baby. Papa is telling the uncles and aunties that today he needs to stay home and fight monsters with Lawrie." Shanks kissed his burning forehead and quickly said to the bewildered executive on the other end, "Proceed as planned. Details later," before ending the call.
At noon, Law called during a break between surgeries, his voice tired and worried: "How's Lawrie?"
"The fever hasn't completely broken, but he seems a little better. He just had some congee." Shanks looked at his son, who had fallen asleep again in his arms, and reported softly. "Super clingy. Wants to be held all the time. How about you?"
"Surgery went well. One more this afternoon. I'll try to finish early and come back." Law's voice was full of apology. "Thank you for handling this, Shanks."
"Don't say that. I'm his Papa." Shanks's tone was light, but the concern in his eyes was unmistakable. "Focus on work. I've got things here. Oh, by the way, Sham heard Lawrie was sick and said he'd come by this afternoon to check in and drop off some documents."
In the afternoon, Shamrock arrived punctually as usual. Dressed in his impeccably tailored suit, he carried not only his briefcase but also an exquisite fruit basket and a brand-new set of indoor air circulation system accessories, reportedly beneficial for children's respiratory health.
When he entered the children's room, this was the scene that greeted him: his always energetic, sometimes even flippant younger brother, was propped up against the headboard in a remarkably domestic pose, holding their nephew, wrapped up like a silkworm baby with only his little red-haired head visible, tightly in his arms. The laptop was crooked to one side, screen still on, surrounded by fever patches, water cups, medicine bottles, and damp towels. Dark circles were faintly visible under Shanks's eyes, and stubble had appeared on his chin. But the way he looked at the child in his arms was tender enough to melt.
"Shammy, you're here." Shanks looked up, his voice very low.
Shamrock nodded slightly, his gaze falling on Lawrie's flushed little face, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. "How is he?"
"Fever keeps coming back. The doctor says it's a normal process, just need to monitor." Shanks sighed. "But he's super clingy. Can't put him down."
As if confirming his words, Lawrie stirred uneasily in his sleep, his little hand unconsciously gripping Shanks's clothes tighter, murmuring, "Papa... don't go..."
"Not going. Papa's here." Shanks immediately soothed him, patting his back.
Shamrock watched silently for a moment, put down his things, walked to the bedside, reached out, and very gently touched the back of his fingers to Lawrie's forehead, feeling the temperature. His movements were a bit stiff but exceptionally careful.
Perhaps sensing his presence, the little guy groggily opened his eyes. Seeing Shamrock, his fever-misted golden eyes blinked, and he whispered, "Uncle..."
"Yes." Shamrock responded, his voice unconsciously lowering. "Feel bad?"
Lawrie nodded, burrowing further into Shanks's arms, but his eyes remained on Shamrock, carrying the dependence and vulnerability that came with being sick.
Shamrock paused for a moment, then took a small, metallic badge from his suit pocket. It had intricate gear reliefs on it-probably a souvenir from some tech summit or collaboration project. He placed it beside Lawrie's open little hand.
"For you. It is said that possessing it can help resist 'system overheating'." He spoke in his uniquely serious, matter-of-fact tone.
Although Lawrie didn't quite understand what "system overheating" meant, the shiny thing from his uncle caught his attention. He reached out his little hand and grasped the badge. Its cool touch seemed to comfort him slightly. He whispered, "Thank you, Uncle..."
"The documents are in the living room," Shamrock said to Shanks. "I have marked the urgent ones. The rest can wait."
"Thanks, Shammy." Shanks said sincerely.
Shamrock didn't stay longer. He glanced one more time at Lawrie, who had fallen asleep again clutching the badge, nodded at Shanks, and quietly left, leaving behind the device claimed to optimize air circulation and a room full of silence.
By evening, with the fever reducer and Shanks's continuous physical cooling efforts, Lawrie's temperature finally began to drop steadily. Although not yet completely normal, his spirits significantly improved. He had an appetite for some sweet juice and could half sit up in Shanks's arms, listening to Papa tell simple stories with exaggerated expressions, occasionally giving a weak smile.
When Law finally finished all his work and rushed home, carrying the smell of disinfectant and full of anxiety, this was what he saw: Shanks was leaning against the sofa in the children's room (finally able to put his son down for a moment), with Lawrie pillowed on his lap, covered with a blanket, still clutching that gear badge in his little hand, quietly looking at a picture book. The last rays of sunset streamed through the window, gilding the father and son with a warm golden edge.
Law's heart immediately settled back into place, filled with immense warmth and guilt. He walked over, first felt his son's forehead, relieved to find the temperature had dropped, then looked at Shanks, whose face was full of exhaustion but whose eyes were tender.
"Thank you for your hard work," Law said softly, his hand gently covering Shanks's.
Shanks turned his hand over and held his, smiling. Though tired, he was content. "As long as this little guy gets better quickly, anything is worth it."
Lawrie saw Daddy, his eyes brightening, and reached out his little hand: "Daddy..."
Law immediately bent down, picked up his son, blanket and all, and kissed his cheek. "Daddy's back. Still feeling bad?"
"Much better..." Lawrie snuggled into Law's arms and whispered, "Papa held me all day... Papa is the best..."
Hearing this, Shanks felt that the whole day's backache, worry, and anxiety were completely worth it, his heart melting into a puddle.
Night fell. Under the meticulous care of his two fathers, Lawrie's temperature finally returned to normal. He fell into a deep sleep, his sleeping face peaceful and calm. Only then did Shanks and Law have time to sit down and eat a belated, simple dinner.
"I really owe you today," Law said again, looking at the shadows under Shanks's eyes.
"Luckily Sham came by, helped me with some things, and..." Shanks remembered the badge and the air circulation device, and smiled. "Showed his concern in his own way."
This day, made extraordinarily long, heartbreaking, yet warm by their child's illness, finally drew to a close. The house returned to tranquility, with only the sound of steady breathing from the children's room proving that their little sun was gathering strength, preparing to shine again. For Shanks and Law, moments like this-supporting each other, jointly guarding their child-were the most ordinary yet solid foundation of happiness in their marriage and family life.