Hug The Gremlin
It started with a sneeze.
Just one. Small. Almost polite. Harry blinked, paused, then glared at the air around him.
"That wasn't me," he muttered, wrapping his hoodie tighter. "That was betrayal from the atmosphere."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Did the air insult you?"
"It coughed in my direction. Rude."
Everyone laughed.
They shouldn't have.
Because the next morning, Harry didn't show up for breakfast.
No hoodie gremlin in the lounge. No judgmental tea mug. No offhand sass thrown at Clint before 9 a.m. Just eerie quiet and a full box of Pop-Tarts untouched.
Tony panicked.
"Jarvis, locate Harry."
"He has remained in his room, sir. Movement has been minimal for the past six hours."
"Minimal?! Why didn't you tell me he was dying?!"
"He is not dying. He has a mild fever."
"MILD?! Do you hear yourself? That's practically a near-death experience for someone his size!"
"Sir, with respect, you stubbed your toe last week and requested an emergency trauma team."
"That was a sharp table leg. It had intent."
"Understood. Shall I initiate what you labeled Protocol: Dramatic Gremlin?"
Tony was already halfway to Harry's room with three bottles of water, a thermometer, and a fleece blanket printed with tiny foxes.
—
He didn't knock.
"Harry!"
From within the blanket nest, a muffled, raspy voice croaked, "Go away, I'm dying. Let me pass in peace."
Tony threw open the door.
Harry was bundled in blankets like a defeated marshmallow, face flushed, hair a disaster.
"You look like you lost a fight with a haunted tea kettle," Tony said.
Harry squinted up. "I'll haunt you next."
Tony sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the blankets down just enough to check his forehead. "You're burning up. Are you drinking water? Eating? Taking anything?"
"I had tea."
"You're British, that doesn't count."
"I resent that stereotype," Harry croaked.
"You named your mug."
"And?"
"You called it Mr. Steeperson."
Harry groaned and rolled deeper into the blankets. "I hate this."
Tony sighed. "Let me take care of you."
A beat.
Then a quiet, reluctant, "...fine."
By noon, everyone knew.
Harry had the flu.
And the Tower lost its collective mind.
Steve tried to administer a full military-grade wellness exam until Natasha stabbed a thermometer into his hand and told him to sit down.
Bruce brought ginger tea.
Harry sniffed it. "This tastes like earth sadness."
"It's anti-inflammatory."
"It's anti-joy."
Clint tried to make soup. He failed so spectacularly that JARVIS locked him out of the kitchen.
Bucky—Bucky appeared like a silent guardian and took over everything. Clean pajamas. Fuzzy socks. The only blanket Harry hadn't rejected.
He made broth. Actual broth. From scratch.
Harry looked up at him like he'd been handed a newborn star.
"Are you real?"
"Eat," Bucky said.
"You love me," Harry mumbled.
"Obviously."
Pepper showed up at 3:00 p.m.
Tony met her at the door like she was delivering a holy relic.
"He's in quarantine," Tony said solemnly.
"He has a cold."
"He sniffled, Pepper. That's emotional terrorism."
She kissed his cheek, stepped over him, and walked straight into Harry's room.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Harry, bleary and sniffling: "I think I'm melting."
"I brought cough drops and Jell-O."
Harry lit up like a lantern. "You're my favorite person."
Tony stood outside the door, betrayed.
"You said I was your favorite last week!"
"You didn't bring Jell-O!"
By nightfall, Harry was tucked on the lounge couch, half-asleep, head in Bucky's lap, feet in Steve's, and a heating pad somewhere in the middle.
Natasha brought more tissues. Clint guarded the juice.
Tony hovered, pretending to check his tablet, but really just watching him breathe.
"You're all ridiculous," Harry mumbled, barely awake.
Tony reached down, brushed a hand through his hair. "That's our job."
Harry smiled. Small. Sleepy.
"Thanks for the hug protocol," he whispered.
And for once, no one made a joke.
They just stayed.
Wrapped around him like a fortress.
Exactly where he belonged.