Work Text:
“Is this – like, really Germany?” Peter asks, one hand wrapped around his cell phone and the other pulling along his suitcase. “I’m not sure what I was expecting.” He fumbles around with the device and flips it around, attempting to capture his face in the video with minimal success.
“Move along, kid,” Happy grumbles from a few paces ahead of Peter.
“Oh, right.” He taps the recording off and hurries to catch up with Mr. Stark’s Forehead of Security. Peter’s pretty sure that Forehead of Security isn’t an official position, but what does he know?
“You’re not going to show that to anyone, right?”
“Who would I show it to?”
Happy rolls his eyes at the question and snaps his fingers impatiently. “Thought you’re supposed to have super speed or something.”
Blushing, Peter gives a quick shake of his head and pockets his cell. “No, sir. I mean – I – I guess faster than the average -”
“Didn’t ask, don’t care.”
“Right. But, uh, didn’t you ask?”
Sending another growl Peter’s way, Happy leads him up to a hotel – one that's incredibly nicer than any Peter’s ever stayed in. Granted, Peter’s really only stayed in a few motels here and there, but still. It looks awesome.
To top it off, there are a few of those fancy spinny-doors ( “they’re called revolving doors, kid,” ) at the entrance. Peter loves those fancy spinny-doors. When he was younger, he used to chase around them until he fell over from dizziness. He almost cracked his skull on one at Macy’s.
The only reason he doesn’t play around now is because he’s fairly certain Happy already hates him, and there's no reason to aggravate the man any further. So, instead, he gets off after one go-around and skips after the gruff man who leads him to the check-in desk.
“Hello,” says a woman with a thick German accent. She smiles softly at Peter before turning her attention to Happy. “Do you have a reservation?”
The man glances from side to side and then leans forward, tapping his thick fingers on the counter as he does so. “Under T. Stark,” he breathes, like he’s letting her in on a secret.
Anna – according to the enamel name tag pinned to her blouse – nods in understanding. “Ah, yes, we received a call from this... T. Stark.” She winks. “For a PP and HH?”
Happy grumbles his acquiesce and exchanges the relevant information to prove his identity as “HH.” Meanwhile, Peter’s craning his neck and absorbing the splendor of the interior of the building. Glass chandeliers hang from the ceilings, light reflecting and sparkling off of the prisms. The green wallpaper is slightly off-putting, but Peter’s sure it must have cost a fortune and recognizes that he’s no interior designer. There are even thick books adorning the glass-topped tables – some in English, and some in what Peter figures is German.
And if he cranes his vision, in the desk back there, behind the couple with the matching fanny-sacks, Peter spots a black and gold plaque that reads: Concierge.
“Happy!” Peter hisses, while Anna punches in his card number. “They have a concierge!”
“And?”
“I - can I go check it out?”
“Check it out – Peter, you’re staying in your room until the Boss needs you. No – no exploring Germany.”
Peter crosses his arms petulantly and walks a few feet away while Happy’s still busied with checking in. And then he spots something magical.
“Please, Happy, just for a few minutes -”
“No exploring Germany or the hotel’s hot tub.” Before Peter can get another word in, Happy adds: “Or any other amenities here. This isn’t a retreat, it’s a mission.”
Anna’s eyebrows shoot up to her scalp, but she quickly averts her eyes and continues entering in the information.
“Okay, but, I mean – the cover story is that it’s an internship retreat and I really – I really am an awful liar, so I think if I get as close as possible to the truth -”
“Here are your room keys,” Anna interrupts, nervously glancing between Happy and Peter. “Have a wonderful stay.”
“Thank you!” Peter grins. He slides his card off the counter as Happy grumbles his gratitude and takes his respective key.
A bellboy marches up to Peter with a cart and gestures to Peter’s suitcase. “May I take your luggage?”
“I mean, yeah, sure!”
The man struggles slightly under the weight of Peter’s bag before plopping it down on his cart and smoothing down his jacket. “Enjoy your stay,” he adds on.
“Thank you,” Happy calls out, his tone gruff as ever, and he grabs Peter’s elbow and yanks him through the hallway.
Once they’re in the elevator and out of ear shot, Peter continues their previous conversation: “Come on, I’ve never had a massage before! And can you imagine the jets on that hot tub -”
“If I find out that you leave your room tonight, I’m going to be pissed.”
The doors ding open to reveal a row of rooms, and Happy doesn’t so much as spare Peter a second glance as he heads down the hallway, swiping his key card in front of a door and walking right in. “Yours is to the left!” Is the last thing Peter hears before the door slams shut.
Peter grumbles as he heads into his own room, still a bit miffed that he’s forbidden from taking advantage of any of the hotel’s services - and there’s also that knot of anxiety all tied up in his gut. Which is understandable, considering the fact that he’s about to go head-to-head against literal Avengers.
At least, he assumes he is. Mr. Stark hadn’t explained very much about the mission.
Throwing himself onto his bed, the suitcase discarded by the closet, Peter fishes out his cell phone and dials May’s number. She picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, baby,” comes her soothing voice, and it drapes a blanket over Peter’s worries. “How’s the internship going?”
“Y-Yeah, it’s awesome.” Then, just because he’s feeling salty: “I’m not allowed to even do anything at the hotel, though, I’m just supposed to wait for Mr. Stark to come get me.”
“Hm. It is always better to be professional.”
“I guess.”
“Anyway, how was the flight? I know you have that plane anxiety -”
“I do not!” Peter exclaims, defending himself from an invisible force of judgement. “It’s - I – I just don’t get -”
“Peter. You’re allowed to be afraid of things. If Stark said anything, I swear to God -”
“May, Mr. Stark wasn’t even on the flight! And his, er, head of security was... chill. I guess.”
“He didn’t even get on the flight? I don’t know, I have a bad feeling about this, Peter.”
“I’m fine, really.” Peter glances over at the clock on his bedside table, gaping when the time reads 12:10 AM. Granted, Germany’s six hours ahead of New York, but he still feels robbed of a quarter of his day. “I should head to sleep now, I guess, it’s midnight here already.”
“You should already be asleep, then, mister.”
“Yeah, whatever. Lama you.”
“Lama? That’s a new one.”
“I dunno, I’m tired.”
May chuckles. “Don’t let me keep you up, sweetheart. I lama you too.”
They hang up.
Peter falls asleep clutching his phone to his heart.
It’s not that Happy doesn’t like the kid.
There’s nothing specifically wrong with him, if a little overeager. He’s just pissed that Tony’s demoted him to babysitting a mutant teenager. Or mutate. He’s too old for this shit.
So, yeah, maybe he could be a little nicer to Parker. Key word being could. That’s just not his style.
“Parker!” Happy yells, rapping on the door. “Open up!”
There’s no response right away, so he waits a few more moments, before a shadow of a boy opens up the door. Happy blinks. Then again.
Oh, fuck. That’s Peter.
“Uh. Kid?”
Peter stumbles and catches himself on the wall, looking out at Happy through sweaty eyelids and limp bangs. He licks his lips and tilts his head to the side, finally asking: “Who’s 'kid?'” The words come out slurred and unclear.
“Fuck. Okay, you need to get back in bed -”
“I’m not sick!” Peter immediately responds. Happy’s sure that he’s not even entirely conscious, but he’s still that goddamn stubborn. Jesus Christ. And now he’s gotta deal with it.
There’s a few ways to go about this, but he eventually decides on: “Okay. You’re not sick.”
Peter extends a clammy hand up to his face and slides it down his cheek, swiping away some of the rivulets of sweat. “’M not.”
“Yep. You’re just – you need to go to sleep. It’s bedtime.”
This is definitely the wrong path to choose. The kid immediately sinks down against the closet, bracing himself with his palms placed flat on the floor. “Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope -”
Maybe he’s gotten himself in a trance at this point. Peter continues to whisper nope to himself, eyes frenzied, until Happy snaps his finger in front of the kid’s eyes.
“Alright. Stay there. Not... asleep, I guess.”
“Ben?”
Happy cringes. He’s not sure who Ben is, but from the kid’s hopeful-heartbroken tone, it doesn’t seem like the guy’s still around. “Nope. Happy.”
“Ben, y-you're happy up there? ‘N you don’t blame – blame me?”
God, what is he supposed to do? “Don’t... blame you. I’m just going to step out for a sec, kid, I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Can you get Mom and Dad?” Peter asks, still seemingly in a haze of sickness.
“Sure. Yep. Sure.”
Backing away slowly, his hand covering both his nose and mouth, Happy eventually hits the door and scrambles with his fingers to grab the knob and pull it open. He throws himself out of the room that's basically crawling with sickness.
Now what is he supposed to do? Happy’s pretty sure that Peter needs... immediate medical help. He was fine just yesterday! God. And this is the last thing the Boss needs right now. What if Happy gets demoted just because the kid is getting his ass beaten by some germs?
Well, there’s really no option. Even if Happy were a heartless creature who couldn’t give a shit if the kid died from this illness, Tony would still find out about it anyway. He’d also most likely be even more furious to encounter a corpse, rather than a... well, a half-corpse at this point. And Happy, though he’d never admit it within the kid’s line of hearing, isn’t a heartless monster, and doesn’t want the kid to be in pain – or, God forbid, die.
So after much internal debate, Happy opens his phone and hesitates over Tony’s contact, finally relenting once he hears some of Peter’s pained moans through the door.
“Hap, I’m kind of busy here,” is his greeting.
“Yeah, yeah, Tony, I’m sure you’ve gotta be -”
“What happened to the kid?”
“How... did you know?”
“Just lay it on me, Hap, we’ll deal with it.”
“Okay. And this isn’t my fault, Tony.”
“Can we get on with this?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” There’s the unpleasant sound of a child’s whimpers and Happy massages the crook of his nose. “The kid is, uh, sick. Very sick. Extremely sick. Possibly... dangerously sick.”
A pause, and then: “You’re shitting me.”
“I’m not -”
“I can’t deal with this right now.”
“Tony, he’s either hallucinating or – or just – I don’t know, his brain isn’t working right, I’m not a doctor.”
“And I am?”
If Happy didn’t know better, he’d think that the man sounded frantic.
“No, but – can you just get here? I don’t know how to take care of this kid, and I’d rather not kill him.”
“Jesus, Hap, can you not... I’m there in five minutes.”
Tony hangs up.
“Hey, kid,” Happy calls, knocking again on the kid’s door. “Can I come in?”
No response. He’s not sure what he was expecting. So, Happy fumbles with the plastic card the lady at the front desk had given him and swipes it at the scanner attached to the door. A pinprick of a light glows green and buzzes the door open, revealing Peter... lying in a pool of his own sick.
Happy has a brief flashback to Tony’s party days.
(He certainly doesn’t miss the stench.)
“Uh. Peter? Can you hear me?”
Peter squirms around in the puddle and blearily blinks open his eyes. For a moment, Happy’s worried that they’ll just close right back up again, but instead they lazily navigate to his own.
“Hi, Ben. ‘M still not sick.”
“Sure, kid. But, uh, we need to get you out of that puke.”
Peter cocks his head to the side and glances down, eyes widening as he realizes what he’s sitting in. “Th-that’s not mine. Dunno how it got there.”
“Tell me again how the hell you still have a secret identity?” Happy grumbles, lifting Peter up under his elbows and carrying him over to the wall. Vomit clings to the kid's clothes, the back of his neck, and crusts in his limp curls. The nauseating smell just emanates from his body.
He burps a little wetly. Then all the hairs on his arms stick straight up and he promptly retches all over Happy’s shoes. Those are new shoes, dammit!
Peter seems surprised by this turn of events as well. He swipes his sleeve over his mouth, dry heaves a few more times over the carpet, and then mutters softly: “Wasn’t me. Not sick.”
Of course, this is the moment Tony chooses to enter the room. He throws the door open briskly, eyes glued to the phone in his hand, and then immediately stops in his tracks.
“Did someone die in here...? The kid threw up.”
“Yep.”
“No - no, it wasn’t me! Miss’r Stark, ‘m good! So so healthy!”
At the sound of the kid’s voice, Tony looks up and then promptly gapes and looks away. Happy scratches the back of his neck guiltily, as though he were somewhat responsible for Peter’s affliction.
“Give a guy a warning next time, Jesus, Hap.” Huffing, Tony pulls a thermometer out of his suit pocket, gingerly passing it to Happy with his forefinger and thumb. “I’m not getting within five feet of that.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He turns to Peter and waves the instrument with raised eyebrows. “Open up for the airplane, kid.”
Somehow, this works, and Peter peels his lips apart, even lifting his tongue up a bit. The kid’s breath reeks pungently of sickness, but Happy creeps a few feet forward anyway and sets in his jaw.
Peter whines and scrabbles at his chin with his fingers, but isn’t quite lucid enough to figure out how to remove the blockage.
“So, kid,” Tony begins casually, eyes stubbornly averted from both Peter and all traces of vomit. “You’re into science, yeah? Go to that STEM school. That’s impressive. Plus, your webs? Pretty cool shiiiii - shiz. Pretty cool shiz.”
The kid doesn’t respond. To be fair, he shouldn’t be opening his mouth right now. Tony still pouts.
It’s forty seconds later about five hours later and the thermometer beeps. Happy crouches down to pluck the thing out from Peter’s mouth. The boy smiles loopily.
The smile is a nice distraction from the shittiness of the situation – so sue him, Happy’s soft – until his eyes land on the number printed on screen.
104.1
“Oh fuck, oh man, oh fuck!”
“What is it?” Tony takes a step forward, glancing back toward Peter worriedly.
“He’s over 104, Tony, we gotta get him to a doctor.”
“What - I’m not a doctor!”
“I know you’re not a fucking doctor, that’s why I’m saying we need to get him to one!”
“’M not sick,” Peter chimes in helpfully.
No one pays him any attention.
“Okay, what – what am I supposed to do with the team? I can’t let them get away, and without me and the kid we’re impossibly outnumbered -”
“Tony, this kid needs medical attention.”
“Right, right, you’re right.” Tony casts a disgusted look back at Peter and the puke that adorns the entire room. “Right. Okay. Quinjet’s ready, let’s get him some care as quickly as possible.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
Peter’s eyelids drift shut and he hums softly. “L’ve you, Ben.”
Happy and Tony exchange a glance of confusion, before the panic kicks in and Happy crouches down, tossing Peter over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Sick stains his shirt and sticks to his skin, but he isn’t noticing it.
“Right, right, right,” Tony continues to mutter, hurrying out of the hotel room with Happy close on his tail.
They march through the hallway, rushing into the elevator and tapping their feet impatiently as the Muzak plays, and finally hurry through the lobby and into Tony’s car.
He hesitates, then tosses the keys to Happy and sets a hand on Peter’s cheek. “You drive, I’ve got the kid.”
With a nod, Happy secures Peter in the back and climbs into the driver’s seat. He glances in the mirror to find Tony hovering his hand over Spider-Man's shoulder, as though unsure of just how to comfort the kid. Not like it really matters, considering his unconscious state.
Speaking of, Happy needs to floor it.
“How’s he looking?” Happy asks, eyes fixed on the climbing speedometer.
“Uh. Sick? Pale. Clammy. Sick.”
“Great.”
Despite the situation, Tony chuckles. “Look how much you care about him, Hap, it’s sweet.”
“It’s - it’s not sweet, I just don’t want the kid to die. That's a lot of paperwork.”
“Sure.”
“Yes -”
The car arrives at the airport - where the Quinjet is stationed - in record time. Unfortunately, this also happens to be where the rest of the team is. Or maybe fortunately. Tony still hasn’t really told him much about these Accords.
There’s no time to wonder about this, though. Happy steps on the brakes and the car screeches to a halt just a few feet away from Cap and his merry band of misfits.
Tony’s wrenching open the door, Peter unconscious in his arms. The cold look on the billionaire’s face makes Happy gulp.
“Rogers,” he greets, adjusting Peter in his arms. The boy stirs for a moment, then nuzzles his vomit-encrusted face deeper into Tony’s chest. Tony cringes.
“And... who is this?”
A scoff. “Listen, I don’t have time for this. This kid has a temperature of 400 -”
“104,” Happy quietly corrects.
“And I need to get him medical care.”
“Bucky’s my friend,” Steve says coolly, licking his lips and inclining his head towards a man with stony blue eyes to match his own.
“We’ll figure this shit out, okay?”
“What -”
“Sign the accords.”
“Tony.”
“I’ll make ‘em go away. We just need to - Jesus, I sound like a fucking Care Bear - we just need to work together. Figure it out together. And as for the Terminator over there, I’ve got a large enough Tower.”
“... How can I trust you?”
Peter groans awake. Eyes widen. Quickly throws himself out of Tony’s arms. Bends down. And promptly spews chunks all over Steve’s shoes.
Steve gapes.
Tony smirks.
“Hey, look, Hap, you’re matching the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan.”
“I’m honored.”
Cap crosses his arms and clenches his jawbones. “Look, Tony -”
“Ben?” Peter mumbles from his position on the ground. “Th’r are so m’ny ‘f y’u.”
“Yeah, okay, I can’t really give a shit anymore.”
Tony snaps impatiently at Happy and glances down at the teenager. Happy understands the sign and picks Peter up, dabbing some of the vomit around Peter’s mouth with his jacket sleeve.
“We’re getting the kid to a hospital.” He turns on his heel. Hesitates. “Are you really going to throw away your entire future because you don’t trust me?”
Nobody says anything for a little while. They must reach a silent agreement – Happy hasn't been paying full attention, a little preoccupied with the kid in his arms – because the entire Avengers team soon boards the jet.
Is it really that simple? Tony’s been stressing about these damn Accords for months, and all it took this entire time was for Spider-Man to grow ill?
The floor under Happy’s feet vibrates and his stomach does one quick loop with the change of altitude. They’re in the air.
Peter must notice this, because he quickly says: “Airplane?”
“Nope, Quinjet,” Tony adds in from a few seats away. The rest of the Avengers are peering over at him and Peter curiously.
“N-No, c’n’t be in th’ - th’ air -”
“What are you talking about, kid, you were fine yesterday -”
“His parents died in a plane crash,” Tony whispers softly, eyes fixed on his shoes.
“Well -”
“Don’ wanna die, p-please, I d’n’t w’nna go -”
And then Peter keels over and dry heaves some more, his eyes wide and frantic and his face burning bright in shame. Happy isn’t surprised that there’s nothing left in Peter’s stomach, but the kid continues to let out wet burps and throaty coughs.
The Avengers exchange helpless looks. Jesus, they can save the planet but they don’t know what to do with a sick teenager? Not like Happy does, of course. But he’s a decent fucking person.
“Hey, kid, I’m here,” he says, crouching down to place a hand on Peter’s back and rubbing it soothingly. The dry heaves die down until they stop altogether, and Peter raises his face (God, it’s burning, Happy can literally feel the heat coming off of it -) up to look at Happy.
“Not sick,” he mutters, and then he passes out again.
They’re a sight to behold.
Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, fully suited in battle gear, fidgeting and squirming in the hospital chairs.
When they first arrive, the receptionist openly gawks for a few moments before redirecting her attention to the teenager and setting them up with the appropriate papers. Happy’s pretty sure that Tony doesn't fill out those papers legally.
He’s not complaining.
So, they’re here, waiting for an update on the kid.
Cap’s knee is jiggling up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Next to him, Nat shows no outward displays of anxiety, but Happy knows that she’s worried about Peter. They all are. In fact, Nat’s probably gathered enough information to fill an entire file on the kid by now. The more people learn about him, the more they care.
Happy’s learned this. He doesn’t like it. It’s still true.
Tony keeps checking his phone. Refresh. Refresh. Pull down to refresh. Refresh. He’s not looking for anything except an escape.
Then there’s Clint, who’s still pissed at Tony for bringing Peter to Germany in the first place. His bow and arrow are tucked protectively under his arm, and every now and again he’ll stare at Tony for a little while. When Tony glances up himself, Clint looks away. It’s a dance Happy doesn’t understand.
He’s not cut out for this BS.
Up and down. Up and down. Refresh. Pull down to refresh. Glance, glance, glance, away. Glance. Away.
The kid’s in the hospital with a fever of 104. The kid’s in the hospital with a fever. The kid’s in the hospital.
Goddamn it, where did this – this caring come from? Last night, if someone had told him that he’d be tossing those new Tom Fords into the dumpster a few blocks out from a German hospital because Spider-Man was sick on them, he’d laugh. Then, he’d just be pissed.
But he’s worried. He’s really worried.
Up and down. Refresh. Glance away.
Rhodes is off with Barnes somewhere. Happy hadn’t been listening. He had caught the words: “Secure,” “Accords,” and “Wakanda,” but he wouldn’t trust his ears. They had been zeroed in on any and every sound coming out of Peter’s mouth, for whatever reason.
Seriously. Why does he care about this kid?
A doctor steps into the waiting room and all heads immediately turn her way. Nat’s does, too. That means she’s here for Peter.
Suddenly, Happy’s mouth is dry and his heart is fluttering. His hands are sweaty and there’s a headache forming behind his eyes. What is this. Why is he feeling these things towards this kid he doesn’t know?
Sure enough, the doctor steps past the rest of the inhabitants of the waiting room and doles out a strained smile to the Avengers.
“Hello...” She begins hesitantly, her accent thick. “You are here for Peter Parker?”
“Yep.” Tony sticks his hands in his pockets and raises his eyebrows nonchalantly. He’s hiding the way his hands are trembling, and the entire team knows it.
“He will make a complete recovery. Though we did encounter an issue with the sedatives...”
Shit. Enhanced metabolism. How did they not think of that?
From the look on Tony’s face, he’s questioning the same thing.
“It does not matter,” the doctor dismisses gently, her gaze lingering on each hero. “He... is asking for a May?”
Tony responds with: “She’s not here right now. Does this mean we can see him?”
The not-so-legal paperwork in her hands says: yes, the team can see him, so they all file awkwardly through the hall and hang back by the door, the doctor going her own way.
Happy doesn’t waste any more time. With a grumble, he pushes the door open and quickly scans the room for Peter in order to assess his condition.
The kid is lying on the hospital bed. He’s not looking healthy, per se, but he’s also not looking like he’s about to start calling Happy ‘Ben’ any time soon. Or, for that matter, remember calling Happy ‘Ben.’ It’s probably better that way.
“Hey kid,” Tony says, sitting casually on the edge of Peter’s cot.
“M-Mr. Stark, I – I – I – really, I’m fine, you didn’t have to bring me to the hospital -”
The nurse switches out Peter’s IV and adds helpfully: “You would have died.”
Peter gulps. “I, uh. Guess I was sick then.”
Happy has a lot to say. Things like: “Never fucking do that again, Parker,” and “If you vomit all over my shoes again, I swear to God -” the like. All with a sentiment of “You scared me,” behind them. But Steve Rogers beats him to the punch.
“Spider-Man,” Cap says, extending a hand. Politeness forces Peter to raise his limp one. “We all owe you one.”
The kid’s eyebrows immediately shoot up and his eyes widen like he’s a goddamn cartoon character. “Uh. Avengers? Owe me one? I’m - I’m Peter Parker, sir, you must be confusing me -”
“Nope,” Tony cuts in. “Turns out all it took was a sick kid to get the ball rolling.”
“What ball?”
“Let’s just say they’re both idiots that didn’t actually talk about their issues until you threw up over Cap’s shoes,” comes Nat’s voice from the corner of the room. All heads turn to her, Peter’s included. She smiles. “Nice to have a fellow spider on the team.”
“Okay, woah. Also,” he turns to Tony, “Do you think I could get a certificate for this? Like, nothing big or anything. Just to frame and maybe show my friend. Oh, and maybe add to my college application. I have way too many absences, but I think this would balance that out.” Peter blinks up at Tony, whose head is in his hands. “Is that a, uh, no? Mr. Stark?”
"We’ll work something out, son,” is what Captain America settles on.
“Hm. Awesome. I’m gonna go to sleep now. Can’t wait for the certificate. Thanks and all that.” True to his word, Peter promptly falls asleep.
Tony levels Steve with a hard glare. “Why the hell would you say yes to that?”
Meanwhile, Clint is crossing his arms and glaring at Tony. "Uh, are we going to ignore the comment about absences? Those have to be because of Spider-Man. Which, by the way, Stark – that is a literal teenager. Why the hell would you -”
“Alright, alright, no need to get into this now. Didn’t we just stop fighting?”
“Clint’s right, Tony.” Steve turns on his Look Of Disapproval. “This was highly irresponsible of you.”
“Well, at least I didn’t turn myself into a fucking fugitive because of my cyborg boyfriend -”
CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR 2.0.