Work Text:
Famous Last Words (coughing up blood)
***
Happy Hogan is a very busy man. Being head of security for a guy like Tony Stark will fill up your schedule, that’s for certain. There’s always places to go, people to see, shady characters to investigate. All that jazz. And Happy takes his job very seriously.
Unfortunately, being a close friend and associate of Tony Stark also means that you are sometimes delegated ridiculous tasks that are completely unrelated to the job description. For example, Happy’s current side quest involves being Tony’s liaison for and handler of one Peter Parker—aka Spider-Man.
Sure, maybe things aren’t as bad as they were when the clueless, bright-eyed teenager first came on the scene—asking question after question and getting on Happy’s last nerve in two seconds. The kid had really shown his responsible side during the whole debacle with the Vulture guy. Happy knows he owes Peter for that—though maybe he’s paid that debt back by the constant chauffeuring Tony forces him to do for the kid, ferrying him to and from the compound every so often.
But just because Parker helped him out that one time doesn’t mean the two of them are buddies or anything. Sure, maybe the kid has grown on him a little more than originally anticipated, but it doesn’t change the fact that he can also be a major pain in the butt most of the time.
So when Happy is weaving through traffic in the city after meeting with some people to discuss and set up security protocols for some stupid event where Tony will be speaking next week and his phone buzzes with an incoming call from the Spider-Kid, Happy is, well, none too happy.
“Peter?” he says distractedly as he answers, trying to keep the perturbed edge out of his tone and failing.
“Hey, um, Happy?”
“What’s up, kid, why are you calling me? Look, just because you’re ‘in’ with Tony now does not give you the right to continue spam calling my phone—”
“Sor—sorry,” comes the young voice. “Not to bother you. But if you’re nearby, I—I just really…um…I could use a ride. Maybe to the Avengers Compound?”
Happy bites back a snort. “What do you think I am, a soccer mom? I may bring you places for Tony, but I’m not solely your chauffeur.”
“I know. But I’d really, really appreciate it.”
It’s then that Happy begins to pick up on the fact that the kid sounds a little winded, like he’s struggling to draw in a deep breath. “Peter—”
“Please, Hap?”
Happy releases a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand as he sits at a stop light. “Where are you?”
Peter rattles off the street address.
“Are you okay?” Probably not, if he’s calling to ask specifically for a ride to the compound. Peter may be an irritating chatterbox, but he’s not typically one to take advantage of his connection with Tony Stark.
“Um—” There’s shuffling in the background, another wheezy breath. “Yeah. I think I’m all right.”
“You think?” Happy grips the steering wheel and moves over into the left lane to make a turn toward the kid’s location.
“Yes, but I mean, if you could get here sooner rather than—than later, that’d…that’d be gr—great.”
That evasive response sets off another alarm bell. “Okay, okay, I’m on my way.” Despite his initial annoyance at the unwanted phone call, worry twitches strongly at the edges of Happy’s mind. Something is definitely very…off. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Peter huffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay.” He goes quiet, and all that can be heard over the line is the crackle of static from his labored breaths into the speaker.
Happy hangs up and presses his foot a little harder to the accelerator.
***
Peter stares down at his chest. Once red with the fabric of his Spider-Man suit, all that can be seen now is the giant crimson splotch across the entirety of his front, the stain even blurring out the emblazoned spider emblem in the middle.
He leans more heavily against the stack of boxes in the alley and sucks in another wet breath, wondering if calling Happy was really his best option. If he was a normal person, he could have just dialed 911, but he is anything but normal, and he knows that the whole situation would not have gone over well. The last thing Peter needs is his identity revealed because he was too lame to avoid the knife—actually, no, knives, plural—of a very well-trained criminal.
He also knows he’s probably lucky that something like this hasn’t happened sooner—he doesn’t know what he would have done had he gotten injured back before he had the support of the literal Tony Stark himself. May would have absolutely panicked if he’d showed up home looking like something out of a horror movie. She still would today, actually. Which is why Peter can’t go back to the apartment until he’s cleaned up.
Hopefully he doesn’t die before that.
He carefully presses a hand to the wound in his chest, struggling to draw in a full breath. This is probably bad. He hopes help arrives soon, because he’s not sure how to fix this.
It isn’t long before Peter spots Happy’s car cruising down the street, and he thinks he could cry in relief. Except not, because he’s pretty sure that crying with a hole in his chest would more than likely be a painful experience—more painful than the one he’s currently having, which is rating rather high on the pain scale.
He takes a few wobbly steps out of the alley, double-checking that there are no random citizens strolling down the street nearby that might see him, and weakly lifts a hand to wave in Happy’s direction.
The car comes screeching to a stop in front of the alley. The driver’s door flies open, and Happy jumps out. “Peter!” he nearly shouts, eyes wide at the sight of the bloody teenager standing on the sidewalk. “What in the world— ”
Peter winces, trying to keep his hands over the injury but unable to hide the massive amount of blood leaking from his chest. “Uh—”
“Get in the car. Now.” The man’s voice leaves zero room for argument—not that Peter was going to try anyway—and he immediately ushers him into the back of the car before leaping back into the driver’s seat and taking off with a vroom and a squeal of tires. Peter knows Happy must be worried because he doesn’t even mention anything about not getting blood on the seats.
“What happened?” Happy demands, wildly glancing over his shoulder as he zooms through the streets, laying on his horn to get other drivers out of his way.
Secure in the backseat, Peter reaches up and pulls off his Spider-Man mask, grimacing at the stabbing pain even the simple movement causes in his chest. He’s really having a hard time breathing now. “I—got a little…a little stabbed,” he manages, gasping for air.
“A little—Peter!” Happy exclaims again, definitely on the verge of panic, which is exactly what Peter wanted to avoid.
“I’m—I’m okay,” he promises. He opens his mouth again to say something else, but is interrupted by a series of harsh coughs. He brings his elbow up to cover his mouth as he curls over on himself, each spasm sending more daggers through the middle of his chest. There’s something metallic-tasting on his tongue, his arm coming away with a new small stain of…blood?
Peter frowns. He meets Happy’s gaze through the rearview mirror, and they both see the blood on his lips at the same time.
That is definitely not good, Peter thinks to himself. At the same time, Happy lets out a shocked yelp that would have been laughable were Peter not so focused on the pain tearing through his chest and lungs.
If possible, Happy begins to drive even faster.
Peter feels his eyelids begin to droop. Everything hurts so much. The darkness is warm, welcoming…
“Don’t you dare pass out, kid,” Happy demands from the front seat, voice rising an octave in his panic. “Keep your hand on that wound.”
Peter tries, he does. He’s not sure if it’s the blood loss or something else, but he’s getting weaker. He hears Happy talking frantically, although he can’t tell if the man is speaking to him or to someone on the phone…everything’s fading. He doesn’t know how much longer he can last. His breaths are coming in short, painful gasps, and something must be really wrong because his chest feels tight and fiery at the same time.
Then he blinks and the car isn’t moving anymore. The back door is open and Mr. Stark is there, an unfamiliar expression of fear and worry etched into his features. Peter wonders if he’s dreaming.
He’s being moved, set on a stretcher. There’s voices, flashes of different things—the sky, the outside of the Avengers Compound, nurses in scrubs surrounding him. Something pricks his arm.
Then, there’s darkness.
***
“Pete, you are still recovering from a major injury.”
“It wasn’t—”
“Your lung collapsed.”
Peter blanches. “Well, yeah, when you put it that way—”
“So maybe telling me you plan to go sling webs around tonight isn’t a bright idea.”
Peter sighs, absently rubbing a hand over his chest. Maybe he should be a little more sober about his…incident. Especially considering the way Tony and Happy are staring at him right now.
He’s technically fine—there’s hardly even a scar remaining from the stitches at this point—but he was forced to return to the compound not long after his official release from the med bay for a check-up to make sure everything was properly healing. As expected, he received a clean bill of health from the doctor.
“I have a feeling Aunt Hottie would agree with me on this one,” Tony continues, adjusting his glasses.
“Would you please stop calling her that?” Peter asks with a moan. “Okay, fine—I won’t go out as Spider-Man today.”
“Ah-ah. Too much attitude. Ever heard of respecting your elders?”
Peter bites back another sarcastic retort. When did he become this comfortable around his idol anyway?
“Silence. Okay, I guess that’s better.” Tony clears his throat. “So to reiterate—no going out tonight. And, when injured, call for help immediately. ”
They’ve already had a long discussion about the entire situation, but clearly that isn’t keeping the two men from harping on all the same points over and over again while Peter’s here this morning.
Tony is shaking his head as they continue to stroll toward the compound’s exit together. “You scared the wits out of my best guy—which, impressive, but that’s hard to do.”
Peter ducks his head. “Sorry, Happy,” he mutters for what feels like the millionth time.
Happy just grunts. “A little urgency next time would be nice. Like, maybe instead of having an entire casual conversation, you get straight to the point by saying, ‘I’ve been stabbed.’” He spreads his hands apart and shrugs. “I don’t know. Just a thought.”
“Sorry. I don’t tend to think straight—”
“Ever,” Tony interjects.
Happy snorts. “Well, you and the kid have something in common, then.”
“—when I get hurt,” Peter finally finishes, sending a look in their direction as they reach the car waiting to take Peter back home. Not the car he almost bled out in—though it’s identical. He’s not sure what they did with the other one. He’d apologized and offered to try to pay them back to get the seats properly cleaned, but it’s kind of difficult to get a billionaire to accept money.
“Well then, we can avoid the problem altogether by you not getting hurt.” Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets while Happy opens the car door for Peter.
“I second that,” Happy says.
Peter slides into the backseat, letting the door be closed behind him and leaning his head out of the rolled-down window. “I don’t try to get hurt.”
“Hm,” is all Tony says. “I guess it is all a part of the whole superhero gig. But ‘don’t try’ harder on that one, okay?”
“Okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter complies easily. “I’ll see you later!” he adds as Happy climbs in the driver’s seat and they start pulling away from the compound.
“Get your head back in the car,” Happy grouches, beginning to roll up the window. “There will be no more Peter Parker injuries on my watch.”