For the pure fluff prompt: How about one where Tony brings a sleeping Peter over to a meeting for whatever reason? Maybe because he's sick? (I've read multiple of fics but none of them have been because Peter's sick. And since you are the queen of sickfics, I'm offering you this prompt)
Anyways, hope you have a great day!
I finally made it through my last mini-fic prompt. I'm not sure it's exactly what @bluequeen0803 had in mind, but I think it turned out pretty cute! And! It's longer than the others I posted today, clocking in at 944 words!
Koala Care
“Alright, Kiddo. Time to go inside,” Tony said. When Peter didn’t move he rolled his eyes and released the seat belt himself. “Come on, Bud. I know you don’t feel good, but you can’t just stay in the car.”
Apparently, Peter had arrived at school with a minor case of the sniffles that had exploded into the full-blown flu by second period. He was stuffed up, sneezing, and had a fever high enough to alarm the school nurse. As expected, they’d tried to call May. But when they were unable to reach her, they’d pulled up his secondary contact information instead. That’s how Tony ended up ducking out between meetings to pick a sick kid up from school.
“I’m serious, Peter. I’ve got a meeting to get to, and I refuse to leave you in the garage,” he nagged. When the sole response he received was a pathetic whine, he huffed an annoyed breath. He’d already missed the second half of the R&D meeting he’d been putting off for weeks. Pepper hadn’t mentioned anything about it when he’d left the room. Although he was sure, her generosity had been more for Peter’s sake than his own. Either way, he wasn’t likely to get away with skipping out on mandatory board meetings as well.
“Do you want me to carry you?” he sarcastically inquired. Peter perked up slightly and mumbled something at a nearly inaudible level. “Was that a ‘No, Mr. Stark. I’m perfectly capable of dragging myself to the penthouse?’” he asked. He was surprised when Peter blinked up at him, his cheeks bright red with fever, and shook his head. “Wait, you do want me to carry you?” he asked, sure he’d misunderstood the response.
Peter hummed in the positive and sat up a little taller in his seat. “I’m tired,” he croaked, “and everything hurts.”
Tony considered cracking a joke about how the kid was entirely too big to be carried to bed. Then he got a good look at Peter’s glassy eyes and sighed sympathetically. “Alright, Kid. Just this once,” he said before hopping out the car and walking around to open the passenger side door.
After coaxing Peter out of the car, Tony crouched down to offer access to his back. The kid wrapped his lanky legs around his waist and his arms around his neck before propping his chin on his shoulder. He could feel heat from Peter's body radiating through the layers of his three-piece suit. “It’s like I’m giving a piggyback ride to a furnace,” he mumbled under his breath as he crossed the garage into the elevator.
The plan had been to unceremoniously drop Peter onto his bed, grab him some meds and then rush downstairs to attend his meeting. However, once he arrived in the penthouse, Peter refused to let go. “Peter, you have to get down,” he prompted. “If I don’t get to this meeting Pepper’s going to have my head. You don’t want to be responsible for my beheading do you?”
Peter giggled quietly but didn’t let go. If anything he held on more tightly.
“Okay, I guess you’re coming with me then,” Tony said, half expecting the kid to slide off of his back and slink into his bedroom. When that didn’t happen, he grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and pocketed a couple of tablets. Once he reached the elevator, he paused and craned his neck to try and get a look at the kid’s face. “Alright, Clancy. This is your last chance to disembark.”
“I don’t feel good and you’re super comfy,” Peter mumbled, half asleep, into his neck. Tony scoffed at the accusation and swayed his head.
Resigning himself to his fate, Tony sighed and entered the boardroom with a confident stride. All eyes were on him, more so than usual, as he strode across the room with his sleeping teenager attached to his back like an overgrown koala. “What?” he asked, then pulled a chair out and whipped it around so he could sit down without squashing Peter. “It’s ‘bring your kid to work’ day. Did you not get the memo? You all should really check your email more often.”
“Tony,” Pepper smilingly chastised. “There is no such day on the calendar. What are you doing?”
Tony shrugged and reached awkwardly over his shoulder to brush Peter’s sweaty bangs off of his forehead. “The kid’s sick,” he flippantly explained. Then grinned widely. “Actually, don’t people usually get time off when they have a sick kid?”
“He’s fifteen, Tony. And he’s not your kid,” Pepper laughed and Tony gasped theatrically.
“You can’t talk like that in front of my son!”
The entire boardroom went quiet, save for Pepper’s giggling and Peter’s quiet snoring. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” Pepper said. “Take Peter upstairs and tuck him in. I’ll reschedule this meeting for when he’s feeling better.”
Tony opened his mouth to offer a snarky remark, but before he could Peter lifted his head, eyes still closed and said, “Thanks, Ms. Pott.”
Pepper smiled softly, crossed the room and placed her hand on Peter’s forehead. “You’re welcome, Kid,” she said, then smirked in Tony’s direction. “You did a great job getting your dad out of his meeting.”
“Yep,” Peter replied, followed by a sleepy sigh. “And now he has to take me upstairs and tuck me in.”
Still grinning, Tony turned towards the exit. He knew Pepper had a lot of explaining to do on his behalf and he was sure he’d hear about it later. But for the time being, he was more than happy to carry his clingy feverish kid up to his bed.
Summary: Hotch is sick and grumpy at an FBI function, and Jessica doesn't exactly help when he gets home.
Warnings: Nothing really. He's got a fever and he's coughing, taking OTC meds, very tame for my usual writing.
Pairings: None
Words: 1.7k
**
The noise in the convention hall was overwhelming, between the music floating through the air and the voices chatting about any number of various topics, no two alike. Each group finding one another, even dressed in their tuxedos and gowns, cliques just as bad as a high school prom. Age didn't change people, and as Aaron watched from where he sat nursing an ice cold glass of soda water he marveled over the simple humanity of it all. His team was out there mingling, making nice with other departments, doing everything expected of them and predictably, he sat alone keeping a watchful eye, avoiding being pulled in. Normally it was simply because he had no interest in socializing most of the time, he did it because he had to and only when it was of some benefit, but tonight he was loathe to talk. Saving what little was left of his waning voice for the speech he was set to give alongside Rossi in tribute to Erin Strauss, the grief over her sudden loss still fresh in their hearts. He sipped his soda water, wrinkled his nose at the way the bubbles burst and stung in his sore throat. The DayQuil he'd chugged like a beer in the hands of a frat boy was wearing off, he could already feel his fever returning and it was only a matter of time before the rest followed. Checking his watch, he noted mournfully that there was nearly a full hour left until he and Rossi had to give their speech, which meant an hour and fifteen minutes before he could gracefully make his exit.
Stifling a cough, clearing the tickle from his throat he took another sip. It had been working like a charm, feel a cough, sip the soda. The bubbles had been helping. Now, it was doing nothing and he carefully slipped out of the main hall and into the bathroom to cough into his silk handkerchief. A handkerchief, Hotch? Were you ever young or were you born an old fogey? Prentiss had asked once when she watched him pull the squared silk from his pocket in order to pick up some piece of evidence at a crime scene he didn't want to mess with his fingerprints. He'd only glared at her, grumbled something about black lipstick and gone back to work. His grandmother had made him the handkerchiefs he still used, hand sewn, laced edges, they may have been a little worse for wear but he'd never had cause to regret keeping them handy. He let out a barking cough after checking that the stalls were empty, drug in a long wheezing breath through aching lungs and felt a sudden fit of coughs shudder through him. It felt like it went on forever, he couldn't seem to catch his breath from one to the next, his sides ached from the force of it and he bent over the sink for some relief. Finally it ended, and he popped a menthol cough drop into his mouth, sucked at it fiercely trying to make sure another round stayed put.
When he heard the door handle begin to move, he spat the cough drop into the trash can, straightened himself up and walked out with his head down. It went like that for nearly an hour, he would feel the cough rising in his throat and excuse himself to the bathroom, letting loose the barrage of coughs in private before returning to the party each time looking worse for the wear. People were beginning to notice and keep their distance, so he took it as his opportunity to go outside and get some fresh air.
Sucking the cold air into his lungs was instant relief, he felt them seize in his chest and then relax, allowing him a minute of reprieve. He popped a cough drop in and the combination of the cold air and the menthol was immediately soothing, his lungs frosted, throat icy. Inadvertently he smiled, the relief sweeping over his fevered, aching body. It didn't last long, just long enough to settle his back against the wall and look up at the night sky, lose himself in the depth of the constellations twinkling in the milky haze of the moon.
“Hotch?” Blinking slowly, he turned his head to the side and saw Morgan regarding him suspiciously. “You okay out here? Rossi's on the hunt, says he needs you...” It took him a minute longer than it should have to reply, foggy brain pouring over the information.
“I'll be right in,” he croaked in a voice that sounded like it was on its last leg, the last gasping breath of a dying star. Morgan's eyebrows shot toward his hairline and he shook his head.
“Dude,” he muttered. “You sound like shit...you really about to give a speech sounding like you swallowed a mouthful of glass? C'mon man, your pale ass looks like one of those vampires from Garcia's stupid movies, you should be home in bed.”
Before Hotch had a chance to come up with what he knew would be a witty retort if he could just force it through his protesting vocal chords, Rossi approached hot on Morgan's heels.
“I thought something seemed off about you earlier,” Rossi interjected, eyeing Hotch suspiciously. The handkerchief was still wrapped around his hand, like he'd walked right out of a Jane Austin novel, and he leveled his hawk-like gaze at Rossi. He was, mostly, just tired of the two of them picking on him.
“Jack and Jessica were both sick last week,” he offered, clearing his throat painfully. “I'm sorry Dave, I tried, I know how much it meant to you that I say something about Erin.” His voice broke in and out often enough that only every other word was somewhat clear, the rest was hardly more than a hoarse whisper and small bursts of air. By the end of it, there was almost no sound and he stopped, pressed his hand to his lips and cleared his throat to try and get some of his voice back.
Rossi smiled at his friend, dark eyes twinkling in the moonlight. “I appreciate the sentiment,” he replied, patting Hotch on the arm. “But you should be home resting. I should have seen the signs sooner, I would have asked someone else to speak with me. I can do it on my own.”
“Excuse me,” Blake said, appearing out of nowhere behind Rossi. Hotch glanced around, as if someone else might pop out of the woodwork, maybe the entire team wanted to see him huddled against the wall shivering in his tuxedo. “I don't mean to barge in but they're looking for the both of you, the tribute to Chief Strauss' years of service is next. If I may be so bold, Hotch I've been wondering all night if you were going to make it and it looks like my suspicions were correct.” She paused, turning toward Rossi without further regard for Hotch and Morgan's presence. “I'd like to offer my services, I've known Erin for many years and while there was a lot of bad blood...it would be an honor to stand beside you, Agent Rossi.” Rossi smiled, nodded and wiped a tear from his eye. The night wasn't exactly going as he'd planned, but somehow he knew Strauss would have found it amusing. Classic Hotch. Somewhere in the great beyond he pictured her rolling her eyes at the stubborn man before him, one last laugh at his great stand of defiance against his own humanity.
“It's settled then,” Morgan added, uncomfortable by the sudden flow of emotion. “You're leaving, and they're talking. Done deal. I'll drive you home...”
“I can drive, Morgan,” Hotch whispered, lips hardly moving. He was more or less just grumbling now. “I'm not dying.” There were a few moments of quiet back and forths, Morgan insistent until he was sure Hotch had enough spit in him to make it. Annoy him into being alert enough to drive with the promise of a phone call to Jessica, just to ensure he made it home safely and a promise to tell Garcia all about it, let her handle it, if he heard that Hotch did anything other than go straight to bed. Hotch muttered to himself, called Morgan mom more than once and stalked off toward his car, keys already in hand.
Things only got worse when he entered his apartment, throwing his briefcase and keys down on the floor just inside the doorway. Jessica came flying out of the kitchen, still on the phone with who he presumed to be Morgan and pushed her finger directly into his sternum rather forcefully. He let out a soft grunt that lead to a fit of little coughs, stifling them while pushing the cough drop to the side of his teeth with his tongue. The last thing he needed was to choke on the only thing that gave him any relief. She hung up her phone and shoved it into her pocket, staring hard up at him with fire in her eyes.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I knew you were sick this morning. Didn't I tell you that you were acting funny? But you kept saying noooo, no you were just thinking about the party and your speech, definitely not sick...” He forced a small smile and nodded a little sheepishly before she began tugging at his tie and his jacket, undressing him right there in the front room. His skin was flush, warm with fever and she let him shuffle toward the bedroom while she gathered a cool washrag and the Tylenol.
"I hate to say I told you so..." she called from the bathroom while he fumbled his way into bed, still in half of his tuxedo. He didn't have the energy to do more. Tugging the blankets up to his chin, he shivered beneath them.
“No you don't," he groaned, pressing his face into the pillow. "You love it. You find joy in my misery.”
