Mrs. Evans’ Boys
A Mrs. Evans story
*A Chris Evans fan fiction*
Future Chris helps take care when one of the kids is sick and creates a simple solution to a little problem
Warnings: Daddy Chris, fluff, sick kid, breathing treatment
Word count 950
This Mrs. Evans story is told from Chris’s point of view, a change from other stories in the series
Author Note: I’ve been sick A LOT lately, which accounts for several of my stories lately being about sickness and the healing powers of Mr. Evans. When I had to get a breathing treatment done, I remembered a family moment from long ago that had slipped my memory… with author’s license for embellishing a few details, this is really the tale of how my Hubs got Kid to take his breathing treatments.
Through the crack in the door, Chris listens to the cough in the little boy’s chest and it pains him to hear it. His big Daddy heart just can’t take it when the boys are sick, but he knows it’s even harder on his wife, so he steps up to the plate.
He steps into the room and asks, “Whatchya doin’, Bud?”
He knows she hates that nickname, always telling him the child and the dog cannot have the same nickname. But it’s too late to get rid of it now.
“Just colorin’, Daddy. Nonna Lisa brought me a new coloring book this morning.”
“Oh, she did; that was nice, we’ll-”
“Yea, yea, Dad; I already thanked her,” he rolls his blue eyes, already trained well in the art of appreciation from his mother.
Chris holds in his laughter. “Ok, then. Hey, son, do you know why your mother sent me up here?”
The little boy throws the covers over his head and snuggles down under the blankets. “‘Cuz I was bad and it’s time for more medicine.”
Chris’s heart cracks. He shoves the books to the side and sits on the edge of the bed, setting his package on the floor and pulling back the blanket. The tiny face staring back at him is like looking through his mother’s old photo albums. An exact carbon copy of himself at that age. “You know we don’t say ‘bad.’ You weren’t bad; you just got scared and acted out in a way that’s not okay.”
“Mommy was so mad at me, she was crying,” the tow-headed toddler explains, sitting up and leaning closer to his own personal hero.
Picking the little one up, Chris sets the boy in his lap and wraps the blanket around them both. “Bud, here’s a secret. Mommy doesn’t like it when she has to take you to the doctor. I usually do it, don’t I?” The little boy nods. “It makes her sad when she knows you have to get shots and things. It made her sad today that you didn’t like the breathing treatment. When you started crying, she was sad with you, not mad at you, and that’s why she was crying too.”
The boy can’t believe what his father says. His face is incredulous. “Really? She wasn’t mad ‘cuz I didn’t wike the medicine?”
Chris chuckles at the use of “wike.” The little one doesn’t even have a speech impediment but it’s such a part of the family vernacular, he uses it anyway. Chris kisses the top of his head, and the fever is still raging. “She was worried about you… I’m worried about you, and your little brother is missing his best friend. And Dodger is about to go crazy since you can’t run around the yard with him.”
“Daddy, Dodger’s an old man, he doesn’t run and play like he used to,” the boy interjects.
Chris’s heart officially breaks in two. He chuckles, “Bud, I know, but let’s not say that. Mommy can’t handle it if I start crying too, and you and Dodger are best buds and the idea… Well. Ok.”
Chris stops himself. Focus. Kid. Sick. Medicine. Worry about the aging dog later.
Chris changes the subject. “You know how Mom never lets you watch TV in your room?” The tired little one snuggles against his chest and tugs on the hairs on his arm. “Well, this room has TV and I brought you a treat.”
“I don’t wike this room,” he says quietly, coughs shaking his body again.
Rubbing his back, Chris replies. “I know, Bud, it’s not your room, but you get to stay in the cool guest room for a few days so you don’t get your brother sick. And I’m gonna stay here with you all night, and I brought a movie you might like. I watched it with Grandpa Bob when I had to stay home sick when I was a little boy.” Chris reaches down to the floor, and hands his oldest son the gift bag.
The boy pulls out a movie, Star Wars- Episode IV and a Darth Vader mask- a special one. Chris took time in the garage to drill a hole through the mask in order to fit the tube for the breathing treatment. “There’s a guy in the movie and he wears this mask, and he makes a funny breathing sound, just like you do. And you know since you don’t feel well, you’ve been kinda mean and grumpy? Well, he is too. Maybe if he took his breathing treatments, he wouldn’t feel so bad.”
“Daddy, that’s dumb. Not breathing right doesn’t make you mean. It just makes me sleepy. Maybe this guy needs a nap.”
Chris laughs heartily at the child’s logic and the little boy bounces off his lap, falling face first onto the bed and he giggles as his Daddy tickles him, stopping when the coughing takes over. “Alright, come on. Sit back up. Let’s do this. It only takes five minutes, and then Mommy said we could have ice cream later.”
“Fine. But I won’t wike it,” the feisty blonde claims as his best friend in the whole world places the Darth Vader mask over his face and gets the treatment ready to administer.
Hours later you check back on your boys, and Dodger raises his head as if to say ‘I got this.’ They are sound asleep, curled up next to one another and the Darth Vader mask is on the floor next to the empty ice cream bowls. Not a peep. Little one hadn’t fussed once about the breathing treatment when Daddy did it. Good thing he’s scheduled to be home for the next ten days because you know you can’t do this without him.
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