Peter’s fever makes the world feel underwater—sounds muffled, edges blurred. He vaguely registers Tony’s hand on his forehead, cool and steady.
“Hey,” Tony murmurs. “You with me, sweetheart?”
Peter hums something that might be yes. He’s twenty-three, an Avenger, technically very capable. Right now, he’s wrapped in three blankets and losing a fight with the flu.
Tony presses a mug to his lips. “Slow. It’s just tea. No nanites. Promise.”
Peter manages a weak smile and sips, then immediately leans into Tony’s side like it’s muscle memory. Tony freezes for half a second—then relaxes, arm coming around him without thinking.
“You should be in the lab,” Peter mumbles.
“I am,” Tony says. “This is advanced field research on stubborn superhumans who refuse to rest.”
Peter laughs, which turns into a cough. Tony rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades until it passes.
“Stay?” Peter asks, quiet, vulnerable in a way he rarely lets himself be.
Tony kisses his hair, careful, reverent. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Peter’s breathing evens out soon after, warm and solid against Tony’s chest. Tony stays still, watching the rise and fall, thinking—absently—that saving the world can wait a few hours.