Chapter Text
It was just past three in the morning when the vent in the living room rattled, then slowly lifted away from the wall. The apartment was quiet, and no one was awake to see him approach the bed and the two people who were both sound asleep. Tony was sprawled on his stomach, face mashed into the pillow at an angle that had to make it hard to breathe, while Steve was flat on his back. Fortunately for the sake of young eyes, the covers were pulled up to both of their waists.
“Uncle Steve?” Clint whispered, bending over the bed. He stifled a cough, holding his breath and biting his lip until the urge to keep coughing had passed.
There was no response. Clint studied them both for a moment longer, jerking a little when Tony snorted and shifted around. But he settled again without ever really waking up, and Clint quietly exhaled and started to back away. It had been a mistake to come here. He’d fought against the urge all last night and all day today, and it wasn’t until he started coughing to the point where he could hardly breathe that he’d given in and sought them out. That had been a mistake on his part.
He wasn’t watching where he was going in an unfamiliar room, and he stumbled over a pair of shoes that had to be Tony’s. He didn’t fall, but just the sound of the shoes shuffling against the floor was enough to wake Steve. He snapped upright, looking around the room, and Clint flinched and darted a quick glance at the door. It suddenly seemed so much further away, and he’d never hated the large rooms of the tower more than he did right then. There was no way he’d make it.
“Clint?” Steve said at almost the same time, sounding a little confused. “What’s going on?”
“I – nothing.”
Steve squinted at him. “It must be something. Are you okay?”
Clint chewed on his bottom lip and said nothing, wishing more than ever that he’d just stayed in his room. Steve and Tony were tired after a long day – they all were – and didn’t need to be disturbed. He shook his head in silent apology and took another two or three cautious steps backwards. The door was almost within reach when he felt it; the tightening of his chest and the sudden explosion of coughing that bent him double.
By the time the coughing stopped, Steve was beside him. A big arm was wrapped around his waist, steadying him, while a gentle hand rubbed up and down his back in a steady pattern. “Easy, buddy, there you go,” Steve said softly. “It’s okay, just let it happen.”
“My chest hurts,” Clint croaked, wincing at the effort it took to talk. His throat stung every time he tried to swallow, like there was a big piece of glass jabbing him from the inside.
“I think that cold you’ve been dodging has finally caught up with you,” Steve replied, setting the back of his hand against Clint’s forehead. “You don’t feel warm, but I bet you miss your daddy something awful.”
The tears that Clint had been fighting back all week – ever since Phil had pulled him aside and told him that he and Natasha were being sent on an op, but that Clint couldn’t go because there wasn't enough room – welled up and finally spilled over. Mortified, he ducked his head and tried to pull away, but Steve was having none of it. He scooped Clint up with ease and carried him over to the bed, setting him down beside Tony.
“Tony, wake up,” he ordered, giving Tony’s shoulder a shake.
Bleary brown eyes opened slowly. Tony blinked a couple of times. “Steve?” he mumbled, then pushed himself up and stared at Clint. For someone who had drool on his face, he got what was going on a lot faster than Steve had. “Oh, hey, kiddo.”
“Stay awake and watch Clint while I go get some medicine,” Steve said, already walking towards the door. Clint looked after him beseechingly, wishing that he’d stay. He wasn’t exactly used to Steve when he feeling little, but he’d never been around Tony like this when Tony was still big. It had been the other way around a couple of times, sure, but not like this, and he didn’t know what to do.
“Mmm, staying awake is a tall order,” Tony said through a yawn, rolling over and wrapping an arm around Clint’s shoulders. He flopped back down, pulling Clint with him, and started absentmindedly combing his fingers through Clint’s hair. It felt… really nice, actually, soothing away the tension that had been building in his forehead. Clint closed his eyes, letting his head rest on Tony’s shoulder.
He dozed for a couple minutes, too uncomfortable to really fall asleep, and woke up to the sound of Steve coming back with a couple of gel pills meant especially for colds. Normally Clint tried not to take medication, but the stern look on Steve’s face told him that saying no wasn’t an option. So he took the dumb pills and then settled back down beside Tony, who kept stroking his hair even though Clint hadn’t asked him to. Steve got back in bed too, on Clint’s other side, and even though there were three of them it wasn’t a tight fit, just comfortable.
He fell asleep to the thump of Tony’s heart in his ear, just barely audible over a hushed conversation between Tony and Steve, but it wasn’t the most restful night’s sleep he’d ever had. Definitely not the worst – nothing could compare to the handful of nights he’d spent in Budapest – but he kept waking up to cough. The last time he woke up, the sun was shining through the windows and only Tony was beside him. He was sitting up, working on a tablet, but he looked at Clint as soon as he opened his eyes.
“Feeling any better?” Tony asked.
“Not really,” Clint said hoarsely, wincing again. His voice was all raspy and didn’t even really sound like him. He swallowed and coughed a little.
“Here.” Tony gave him a mug, holding it to help him sip. It was tea flavored with what tasted like honey and lemon, and it made swallowing a lot easier. Clint drank about half of it, savoring the temporary ease while it lasted, before he turned his head away.
“Where’s Uncle Steve?” he asked.
“Making breakfast. He thought oatmeal with honey might go over better than anything else.” Tony grinned when Clint made a face. “Hey, I said the same thing, but Steve says you have to eat.”
“Don’t wanna,” Clint grumbled, kicking at the blankets until they came free. He was hot and sticky, and he sighed as his feet were exposed to the cooler air of the bedroom. His head was hurting again. He pulled the pillow over his eyes.
“Sadly, I don’t think it’s optional,” Tony replied. “You have Steve’s mother hen instincts cranked up to full gear.”
“Shoulda stayed in my room.”
“So you could suffer on your own? And then Uncle Phil could kill us both?”
Clint peeked at him. Tony didn’t seem to realize what he’d called Phil, or if he did he wasn’t reacting. “What if I make you sick?”
“Been sick before, kiddo, and I’m sure I’ll be sick again. It’s hardly the end of the world. Besides, we can just blame it all on Bruce. It’s technically his fault.” Tony sighed, rolling his shoulders and reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “I spent so much time in his lab before he got sick that I’ve probably already been contaminated.” He sneezed then, as though to underscore the point, and scowled.
“Uncle Steve’s gonna make you stay in bed, too,” Clint said.
“I’m not the one who’s sick here,” said Tony, pushing the covers back. “Come on. If you don’t want to stay in bed, then it’s better to get up now. He’s less likely to send you back to bed, but if he catches you still in bed he'll make you stay here.” It sounded an awful lot like a change of subject, a way to distract him from Tony being sick, but Clint decided to let it go. If Tony had the same cold that Clint did, he wouldn’t be able to hide it for long.
He sat up, swaying a little from the head rush, and swung his legs off the bed. Tony pulled a t-shirt on to go with his boxers and then helped him to stand up, and Clint leaned against him as they walked slowly to the bedroom door. His nose was too stuffed up for him to be able to smell anything, but Steve was standing at the stove when they got to the kitchen. He was stirring a pot, but it didn’t stop him from glancing up with a disapproving look already in place.
“You should be in bed.”
“Aw, come on, bed is boring,” Tony whined, and it sounded like he was the four-year-old in distress, not Clint.
Steve rolled his eyes. “Fine. But as soon as you eat – and both of you have to eat, Tony – Clint is going straight to the sofa to rest.”
“Fine by me,” Tony said, winking at Clint, and pulled out a seat for the two of them. Clint smiled back and sat down, discovering that two glasses of orange juice had already been poured and set out for them, along with two more cold pills at Clint’s plate. Evidently Tony wasn’t as sneaky as he wanted to think that he was. He picked up the glass and took a couple of smaller sips to test his throat. It didn’t hurt too bad, so he took the pills.
Tony took a deep breath and drained his glass of orange juice non-stop, then put the glass down and made a beeline for the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup of coffee, drank that down in a couple of deep gulps even though it had to be too hot, and then sat down cradling a second cup like someone might try to steal it. His eyes, which had looked a little glassy before, were more focused, enough so that he was able to savor this cup. Steve just shook his head and served them all up a bowl of oatmeal flavored with honey and cinnamon.
Normally Clint wasn’t a big fan of oatmeal, but it was hot and soft and felt good going down. He was surprised to discover that after the first couple mouthfuls hit his belly, he was hungry after all. He ate about half the bowl and drank another glass of orange juice. It helped that he had entertainment in the form of Tony pouting because Steve made him drink a glass of water before he had his third cup of coffee. Apparently the whole ‘coffee counts as hydration’ argument hadn’t made as much headway as Tony wanted it to.
“Are you full, Clint?” Steve asked him.
“Um, yeah,” Clint said, pushing his bowl away. He didn’t like leaving food behind, but his stomach was warning him that if he ate anymore he was going to be sorry. And he hated throwing up even more than not finishing what was on his plate. “Can I go watch cartoons?”
“Sure, buddy. I’m going to clean up the dishes and then I’ll be right in.”
Clint nodded and went into the living room. Tony had an awesome television in every room of the house. He didn’t think he’d ever get over being able to watch Phineas & Ferb on a 100" television if he wanted to – and better yet, JARVIS could call up pretty much any show at any time. He sat down on the couch, then sort of slumped over sideways until his head was on a cushion, watching contentedly as JARVIS automatically called up a new episode. The screen burst into colors. He’d watched all of one episode and most of another before it became too hard to keep his heavy eyes open, and he drifted off.
Steve woke him up later. Clint blinked up at him, feeling fuzzy and disoriented. There was a blanket tucked around his shoulders, and Steve must have been down to Clint's and Phil's floor because his favorite stuffed puppy was pressed up against his side. The room was dark, and the sound of the television had been lowered to a dull murmur. He rubbed his eyes, wishing that his daddy was here. His uncle was nice, but it just wasn’t the same.
“What’s goin’ on?” he mumbled, coughing a little.
“Sorry to wake you,” Steve said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “But Bruce is sending some special tea up for you that’s supposed to help with colds, and he said you should drink it hot.”
“Bruce knows I’m sick?”
“Just that you’re sick,” Steve said gently, patting his shoulder. “Same thing he had, remember? Tony told him. You don’t have to see him. Tony’s going to bring it up for you.”
“Leavin’ his workshop and everything. Sure I’m not dying?” Clint asked. It was meant to be a joke, but he could tell from the look on Steve’s face that most of what he’d said hadn’t been audible. His throat was so raw that his voice kept breaking, and fragments of his sentences never actually made it out. He shook his head, rubbing his neck now, wishing he could just temporarily remove his throat when he started coughing again.
“Do you need to pee?” Steve asked him when the coughing fit was over, and Clint blushed a little because he suddenly realized that he had to pee really bad – bad enough that another bout of coughing would likely result in a wet couch. He usually wore pull-ups when he felt little, even though he was pretty good about making it to the bathroom, but there had been once or twice when he was really sick or injured that he wasn’t so good about it.
He sat up slowly and winced at the renewed pressure from his bladder. It was a good thing Steve had woke him up, because he wasn’t sure how much longer he would’ve made it. Steve helped him to stand and sent him off to the bathroom, but not before asking if needed help. Blushing even harder, Clint shook his head and silently fled. He shut the bathroom behind him and peed, sighing in relief. At least there was one thing he could do to ease the aches in his body.
There was a knock at the door. “Clint? I’m leaving a pull-up here for you. I’d like you to put it on under your pajamas, okay?”
“Don’t need one,” Clint muttered to himself, knowing Steve wouldn’t be able to hear it. He washed his hands and then opened the door a crack, spotting the pull-up on the floor. It was embarrassing to have Steve bring it to him, though it shouldn’t have been. Tony wore diapers and was regularly changed by Steve, and sometimes even Phil, and this wasn’t as bad as that.
He took his pajama bottoms and boxers off and stepped into the pull-up. It crinkled as he pulled it up around his hips, settling snugly into place. Phil had purchased them online from a special store, so it was patterned with little bows and arrows. Much as Clint didn't want to admit it, having it on made him feel better. More comfortable. And at least now he knew for sure he wouldn't do something stupid like take cold pills, fall asleep and then risk peeing himself.
After putting his pajama bottoms back on, he left the bathroom and went into the kitchen. Tony and Steve were already there. A cup of steaming tea was sitting on the table, but it looked nothing like the tea Clint had drunk earlier. He sat down and made a show of sniffing at the contents cautiously, making a face. It definitely didn't look that good, and the smell was worse close up, bad enough that he could smell it even with a blocked up nose. He looked up at Tony accusingly.
"Don't look at me. Bruce made it, not me," said Tony. He had grease smeared across his t-shirt, up and down his arms, along his neck, and along his jaw on the right side. "But he claims that it will help, and he's the doctor."
"It looks gross," Clint whined between coughs.
"Just try it," Steve said. "Maybe it won't be that bad."
Both Clint and Tony shot him a disbelieving look, but Clint obediently picked up the mug and took a sip. He screwed his face up and spit it back out immediately. It was disgusting.
"No way," he said firmly, not caring that speaking louder made his throat burn.
Steve sighed. "Clint, it's good for you."
"I don't care. It's gross and I'm not drinking it."
"Clint -"
"I don't want to and you can't make me!" Clint yelled, feeling tears well up in his eyes. "I want my daddy. He wouldn't make me drink this!"
He started to jump up, planning to beat a hasty retreat into the vents, but illness and fatigue made him slow. Steve grabbed his arm, holding just tight enough to keep Clint from being able to get free, and gently pushed him back in the seat. Then he crouched down so that the two of them were on the same level.
"You know that's not true, buddy," he said softly. "I'm sorry your daddy's not here when you're not feeling well. I called him this morning and he said he'd come home as soon as possible. In the meantime I'm the best you've got, and you and I both know that your daddy would want you to drink that tea. Bruce says it will make you feel better, and he's usually right about this kinda stuff."
Clint blinked hard, but two big, fat tears still rolled down his face. He hadn't known that Steve had called Phil. He sniffed hard and coughed again.
"How about this? If you drink the tea, I'll make you a milkshake," Steve offered.
"A milkshake?" Clint echoed.
Steve nodded. "My ma used to do that for me when I wasn't feeling good. She said medicine always went down better when it came with a reward."
"Can it be a strawberry milkshake?"
"Whatever you want," Steve said, smiling. "But you gotta drink the tea first."
Clint looked at him, then at Tony, then at the cup. It still smelled horrible. But the thought of a milkshake was very tempting. He picked up at the cup again, hesitating, then slowly brought it to his lips. He wrinkled his nose as he drank some, trying not to taste it, wishing he could just breathe through his nose and gulp it all down at once - except he couldn't, because his nose was too stuffed up. He coughed again.
"Good job bribing the kid. That’s a great supper," Tony said, sounding amused as Steve walked over to the refrigerator.
"I'll remember that you disapprove of my methods the next time you feel little," Steve said dryly.
"I didn't say -" Tony cut himself off abruptly as he sneezed again. And again. And again. Each sneeze got progressively louder and more forceful, and he curled inwards convulsively, folding his hands over his mouth and jerking with every sneeze.
"Tony, are you okay?" Steve asked, stepping towards him.
"I'm fine," Tony gasped, turning away, sniffing loudly and groping for a paper towel. "I -" Again, he cut himself off at an explosion of sneezes. Except this time he did something weird, around the third sneeze he doubled over like he'd been hit, and Clint wasn't sure why until he saw the wet spot growing on Tony's jeans. He lowered the mug and stared.
By the time it stopped, Tony was panting and there was a small puddle of urine around his feet. Though he was still bent over, he didn't seem to realize what had happened at first. His eyes were all watery and red and his nose was running. It only dawned on him when he went to brace his hands on his thighs and felt the damp fabric of his jeans. He straightened up, eyebrows drawing together in momentary confusion, and then a dull red flush swept across his cheekbones and up his neck that had nothing to do with illness.
"Clint, finish your tea. I'll make you a milkshake when I come back," Steve said, immediately stepping forward and wrapping an arm around Tony's waist, both to give him support and to prevent him from bolting for the workshop. He steered Tony towards their bedroom.
The tea was marginally less awful when it was lukewarm than when it was hot. Clint was content to sip at it between coughs, finding that it really did ease the pain in his throat even better than the tea he'd had earlier that morning, and listen to the distant murmur of voices coming from the bedroom. His ears were a little blocked, so he couldn't make out most of it without getting up and moving closer, which Steve would undoubtedly notice right now and which would only serve to veto his milkshake karma.
But after the first minute or two, he clearly heard Steve say, "Tony, do you want a diaper or not?" And then there was a long period of silence, followed by Tony's voice speaking in tones too low to be made out, and then Steve repeated his question even more firmly than before. Then there was even more silence. Clint smiled to himself and kept drinking the tea until it was all gone except for the icky tea leaves at the bottom of the mug.