Chapter Text
Close acquaintanceship with Tony Stark came with the unfortunate truth that unwanted, urgent phone calls at three in the morning were a tragically frequent occurrence.
Close acquaintanceship with Tony Stark also lead to the misfortune that was caring enough about Tony Stark that you were willing to answer said calls. And, as regrettable as it was, at some stage in his life Happy Hogan had somehow found himself closely acquainted with Tony Stark.
Which was why, when his phone went off at three a.m. on August 12th, 2001, Happy awoke with an angry grumble, rolled over, and answered it the moment he saw Tony’s name. As the phone connected, Happy was completely unaware he was about to endure what he would claim, for well over a year, was his most stressful day on the job ever.
“Tony. Someone had better be dying.”
“Quite the opposite, actually.”
Tony’s voice was slightly slurred, in that way that implied he was trying his hardest to control it and sober up. Which was concerning. Tony never willingly sobered up.
Also concerning was the absolute silence in the background on Tony’s end. If Tony had dragged himself away from tonight’s debauchery to make this phone call, then it definitely wasn’t good news.
“What’s going on?” Happy demanded, forcing himself to sit up.
“We, uh. We need to go to New York. Like… like, now.”
“What?”
“New York. Like, New York, New York. We. We need to go there.” There was a long pause. “Now.”
Happy stared unseeingly into the darkness of his bedroom. He blinked twice, then glanced at his glow-in-the-dark alarm clock just in case he’d misread it. Nope, definitely three a.m.
“And why the hell do we need to go to New York at this goddamn hour?”
“I can’t keep him waiting,” Tony whispered, as if that was an actual answer.
“Who?”
“It wouldn’t be right, especially not… not after…” Tony continued like he was making sense. “And besides, it will be morning by the time we get there. That’ll be… that’ll be better. Than if we. Than if we wait. Until morning. Because—because then there won’t be enough time once we get there and I don’t know what I’m gonna do or what they’re gonna do or how it’s all gonna work—”
“Tony,” Happy interrupted. “Who? Who are we going to meet?”
Tony drunkenly hiccupped. “Do you remember the New Year’s party?”
Happy blinked away the whiplash at the sudden change in topic, well used to Tony’s brain making connections and jumping from one topic to another quicker than most people—and definitely Happy—could think.
“Which one?”
“This one, Happy. 2001.”
Right. Yes. New Year’s 2001 had been a pleasant downgrade from the big 2K. Still wild, but considerably less intense than the previous year’s. Happy had almost been able to enjoy chasing a drunken Tony around all night, ensuring he didn’t get murdered or kidnapped or didn’t gruesomely overdose on whatever fashionable new drug he got his hands on.
“I remember. What about it?”
Tony’s tone was strange in a way Happy couldn’t place. “Do you… do you remember Mary?”
“No.” Well. Context clues. “Let me guess, the redhead?”
Tony had disappeared with the beautiful, redheaded woman in the early hours of January 1st, 2001. For Happy, it had meant the end of a long day of trying to keep one of the most notorious men in the States alive—and he hadn’t paid much more thought to the woman ever since.
“Yeah,” said Tony. “She, uh. She. She, she was, she—”
Tony stuttered like this rarely enough that Happy knew to be concerned, but it was also three in the morning and Happy was fucking exhausted.
“She what? Is she the reason we need to go to New York?”
Except Tony had said him, so that didn’t make sense.
“Yeah,” said Tony. “She, uh. Happy, she—she was—I didn’t even know—”
Happy was fast running out of patience. “She what, Tony?”
Tony mumbled something, too slurred for Happy to understand.
“What?”
“She was pregnant.”
Happy blinked into the darkness.
“What?”
“Well, she—she—I got her pregnant. She was pregnant. And now she’s—now she’s not. Because she’s, uh. She’s had the baby. There’s a baby, now. And Mary’s—she’s—”
Tony sounded audibly distressed, the lingering alcohol loosening his filter and letting the usually tightly guarded emotions loose.
“She’s dead, Hap.”
“Shit.”
“There’s a baby, and Mary’s—Mary’s dead. She—she died in labor.”
“Shit.” The gravity of the situation, the gravity of the death of a woman whose face Happy barely even remembered, slowly dawned on Happy. “So that means—”
“The baby—I’m the only person he’s got left, Hap.”
“Oh—oh fuck.”
“I have to go see the baby. It’s—he’s my baby.”
At that, Happy forced himself out of bed. He flipped on the lights, dragged his suitcase out of his closet, and began blindly shoving clothes into it.
“Fuck, Happy. Fuck. I can’t be a father. I can’t—this baby is fucked if he comes home with me. I don’t want to screw up a little kid, Hap. Look at me. What the—what the fuck am I going to do with a baby?”
“Tony,” Happy said, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear. “I’m on my way, alright? I’m going to pick you up, and we’re going to go to the airport, and you’re not going to worry about a single thing until we get a paternity test done, okay?”
“But what am I gonna do, Hap? If… if he is my son?”
Happy one-handedly zipped up his suitcase. Dragged it over to the bedroom door. Abruptly remembered he was still wearing his pajamas.
Happy grabbed a clean pair of underwear from his drawer and frantically pulled the first shirt his hands found from his wardrobe. “Tony—listen to me. If that is your baby—and we don’t know if it is—then everything is going to be fine. Call Pepper. And Rhodey. I need to go. I’m going to get dressed and call the pilot, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Right. Yeah.” Tony’s slurring just sounded dazed now. “Cause we’re going to New York. To meet my son.”
“I’ll be there in twenty. Maybe try and pack something.”
When Happy arrived at the mansion twenty minutes later, it was to a red-eyed Tony, still stinking of spirits, clutching a suitcase that had clearly been packed by Pepper.
None of them were quite sure what was the right thing to say, so they ended up saying nothing at all.
***
Seven hours later, as Happy, Tony, Pepper and Rhodey stood in a tiny office in a goddamn maternity ward of a hospital, the mood was subdued. When a nurse confirmed that the baby was indeed Tony’s, there were no smiles. No tears. No celebrations. None of the things that should accompany the announcement of a new life, of a new member of their weird, dysfunctional little family.
Instead, Tony sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. Over his head, Happy exchanged a nervous glance with Pepper.
It wasn’t a happy moment. It was a terrifying moment, with a dozen desperate questions left hanging in the air.
The happy moment came an hour later.
The nurse lead them into the NICU and directed them to a tiny glass incubator, in which was Tony’s baby. It was immediately obvious the baby was sick. For a moment, shock weighed like a stone in Happy’s stomach. If he’d actually done the math, he would have already realized that August 10th wasn’t nine months after New Year’s, and sense could have told him that premature babies weren’t exactly the healthiest.
The baby was tiny. Well. Tiny wasn’t a strong enough word. He was absolutely miniature, positively dwarfed by the diaper and the little hat perched on his head. His skin was wrinkly and oddly purple.
He barely even looked like a baby.
He looked… he looked like an alien, and the tubes and wires and monitors crawling across his tiny body definitely weren’t helping.
However, they were all about to learn that Baby Stark, as the hospital called him, had an uncanny way of worming his way into your heart, even when wrinkly and purple and looking like a specimen straight out of Area 51.
Happy, Pepper and Rhodey stood back as Tony stumbled to the little incubator as if in a trance. His fingertips hovered reverently just above the glass as he peered past the tubes and wires at the tiny, unnamed person who was his son. Tony’s face was soft, the creases across his forehead smoothed out and a strange warmth in the darkness of his irises as he slowly sank into the seat set up next to his baby.
Hesitantly, as if the slightest wrong move could shatter the baby like ice, Tony reached one hand through the gaps in the glass and brushed his finger against the baby’s palm.
The baby fussed a little, and then his tiny hand wrapped around Tony’s finger.
Tony’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.
He broke into a wide smile and curled his finger a little, but the baby held on. Tony’s head snapped in Happy, Pepper, and Rhodey’s direction. His eyes were suspiciously shiny, glinting in the flat, yellow lighting of the NICU.
It had been a long while since Happy had seen such pure, innocent joy on Tony’s face.
Rhodey was the only one who wasn’t surprised by Tony’s tears.
“He looks like me, don’t you think?” Tony commented several hours later, having yet to leave the baby’s side.
The baby wasn’t named yet. Every few seconds, Tony would blurt a name seemingly at random to be promptly vetoed or added to the “maybe” list by Happy, or Pepper, or Rhodey.
Happy, sat on a stool next to Tony, thinned his lips and glanced in the incubator.
The baby looked nothing like Tony. The baby looked like all the other premature babies here, small and bald and with no apparent bone structure. His eyes weren’t even brown. They were blue.
But Happy turned to Tony and smiled.
“He looks just like you.”
Tony positively beamed.
“Doesn’t he? Wait for his eyes to turn brown, and it’ll be uncanny. My little mini-me. We should totally get him a little suit and tie tailored for his first public appearance, and then we can match. Down to the pocket square. I’m sure they make three-piece suits for newborns. Well, smaller than newborn. Baby Stark has a while before he’ll fit into newborn clothing.”
Tony rambled on, and Happy stopped listening to the words, instead just watching his friend. Happy was stressed and exhausted just thinking about all the things he’d have to do before they could take Baby Stark home with them, but he was alert enough to understand one thing perfectly clearly.
That strange warmth in Tony’s eyes had a name, and it was love. Pure, undiluted, parental love.
They’d discussed what they were going to do while they were on the plane, as Tony had paced, still drunk and far too stressed to stay still for more than two seconds. Their plans weren’t concrete even by the time they’d landed, but they had options. Maybe it isn’t Tony’s. Maybe Mary had other family that would be willing to take the baby. Maybe we can find another couple, one that has been struggling to get pregnant.
And yet, as Happy watched a subconscious smile dance on Tony’s lips, he knew that all their contingency plans were a waste.
Baby Stark was coming home with them.
The baby he’d thought Tony would want nothing to do with was coming with them, and Happy feared they would have to physically pry the kid away from Tony in order for him to go eat, go shower, go take care of himself.
Happy stared down at Tony’s son, fast asleep in the incubator. How the hell was he was going to protect both Tony—who was basically just an overgrown toddler with alcohol and firearm privileges—and an actual toddler, who would be loud, messy, unpredictable and, from Happy’s limited experience with children, would likely have no sense of self-preservation? It was almost like toddlers wanted to get themselves killed.
Toddlers and Tony had a hell of a lot in common, but at the end of the day, Tony was a fully grown man. If Happy left Tony alone, he could be reasonably certain Tony wouldn’t stick a fork in an electrical outlet or attempt to drown himself in the deep end of the pool.
Children were like a tiny, dependent version of Tony, minus all the things about Tony that Happy actually liked. A child that shared fifty percent of Tony’s genetics was a headache Happy was very reluctant to entertain.
But as he watched the happiness in Tony’s eyes, Happy forced the exhaustion from his mind, forgot about the stress slowly picking him apart at the seams, and shared in his friend’s joy. He knew in that moment that he would do anything to protect that happiness in Tony’s eyes—and anything in his power to protect the tiny human that was responsible for it.
Happy didn’t like kids, but he could learn to love the one that had already melted the ice around Tony’s heart.
***
For over a year, Happy claimed that August 12th, 2001 was his most stressful day on the job ever. Well. Hopefully ever. He found it helped to have realistic expectations of Tony. It saved a lot of stress.
And then he had his first solo session with his new client.
Happy prided himself on being one of the best bodyguards in the business. Sure he didn’t have the most experience, but he’d been personally responsible for Tony Stark’s security for years. You couldn’t find yourself caught in Tony’s orbit and not develop an unprecedented level of quick-thinking, problem-solving, and razor-sharp instincts. Someone had to keep Tony Stark safe, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Tony Stark.
Tony Stark was about the worst possible client a bodyguard could have, and yet Happy had taken to the job like a duck to water.
So why was his new client making today his most stressful day on the job yet?
“I gave you explicit instructions on how to help me help you stay safe,” Happy told his injured client. “I hate to say it, but if you had just listened to me, this never would have happened. I can’t protect you if you don’t care about protecting yourself.”
He fixed his client with a level stare.
Little one-year-old Peter Stark stared back, his round brown eyes shining with tears.
Happy dug his fingers into his temples with a sigh, trying to ward off the beginning of a stress headache. He absolutely adored spending time with Peter—that would never change. However, this morning, as Tony and Pepper and Rhodes had all left the mansion, Happy had realized something terrifying.
This was the first time in Peter Stark’s short life that Happy had been solely responsible for him.
Someone had always been around to help in case of emergencies, but not today. Today, Happy had been left alone with the absolute light of his best friend’s life, responsible for keeping Pete alive, happy, and well until Tony returned later this afternoon. There was no one else here to catch Happy’s oversights, no one to keep an eye on Peter when Happy’s back was turned.
Well, except JARVIS, but JARVIS couldn’t exactly snatch Peter away if he attempted to throw himself down the stairs.
Happy had protected Tony through assassination and kidnapping attempts—not to mention dealt with Tony’s daily disregard for his own wellbeing—and yet nothing was more terrifying than waving bye-bye to Tony with Peter and promptly being left alone with his beloved nephew for the day.
At least everything had been going okay.
Had.
With a sigh, Happy knelt down to Peter’s level and gently pulled up the leg of Peter’s pants to reveal a knee that, although slightly reddened, was still in one piece.
“See, Petey? You’re all good. A bashed knee never killed anyone. And neither did the eye falling off their favorite teddy, although I understand that we’re still very traumatized by Mr. Blue Bear’s accident.”
Peter nodded sagely, chewing on his bottom lip in an attempt at being brave.
Happy had almost had a heart attack when, as he’d been in the kitchen preparing a grilled cheese, Peter had let out a blood-curdling scream from the next room. Really, it was baffling how such a tiny, otherwise quiet child was capable of making such a loud, piercing noise. The scream had immediately turned into heartbroken sobs, and visions of chopped-off fingers, broken bones, or possibly even unwanted intruders had danced through Happy’s mind as he’d dropped his knife and sprinted in Peter’s direction.
Finding a fully intact, alone Peter sobbing over a fallen glass eye from one of his teddy bears had instilled Happy with perhaps the greatest relief he’d ever felt, although Peter definitely didn’t share the sentiment.
Happy had only just turned on the heat for the grilled cheese when another, pained wail had floated into the kitchen from the living room.
This time, Peter had tripped on a rogue ball and fallen on his knee. This wasn’t a problem that could be solved by putting Mr. Blue Bear in Teddy Hospital (out of sight on the top shelf) and promising that Pepper or Rhodey would be able to make them all better later.
Peter poked out his bottom lip and stomped his injured leg.
“Hurts.”
“I know it does,” said Happy. “Maybe a grilled cheese will make it better? If you ever let me finish making it, that is. Do you want a grilled cheese to make everything better?”
Please want a grilled cheese. Happy wasn’t sure what his plan B was going to be.
Peter’s teary eyes glanced up at the ceiling, and then, luckily, he nodded vigorously.
“Great. Now, how about you listen to what I said about keeping yourself out of trouble, and then I’ll be able to make your grilled cheese. Okay?”
Another nod. Happy nodded back.
But he was used to working with adult clients. He should have known that Peter was Tony’s son, and the mere suggestion of an instruction left the child with no greater impulsion than to do the exact opposite.
The grilled cheese was almost done when a third scream echoed through the mansion.
This time, it was accompanied by JARVIS’s voice.
“Mr. Hogan, Master Peter appears to be bleeding.”
“Ah, shit.” The flurry of panic Peter’s scream and JARVIS’s warning left Happy in was decidedly unprofessional.
Hastily, Happy turned off the stove and sprinted towards the sound of sobbing.
Peter was in the living room, lying on the floor propped up on his elbows. His face was screwed up and flushed as he sobbed and, most alarmingly, a trail of blood ran from his mouth and dripped from his chin.
Shit. Shit. Happy was personal bodyguard to one of the biggest human-shaped danger-magnets the planet had ever seen. How the hell was keeping a toddler uninjured for a few hours beyond him?
“Oh, Petey,” Happy lamented, scooping Peter up into his arms.
Howling, Peter tucked his face into the crook of Happy’s neck. As gently as possible, Happy held him securely against his chest and ran back into the kitchen. He sat Peter down in the sink and ran the faucet. Peter calmed down a little when Happy began to tend to the wound—he must have fallen over, and one of his teeth had punctured his bottom lip—but he was still crying.
“It’s okay, Petey,” Happy mumbled as he worked. “Look, the bleeding’s almost stopped now. You’re okay. You’re being very, very brave.”
Eventually, the bleeding stopped and Happy patted Peter’s face dry with a clean towel. He set the towel down. Peter watched him, sniffling still.
“Feeling better?” Happy asked, gently brushing Peter’s hair out of his face.
Peter nodded, curling his tiny fingers around Happy’s tie.
Happy sighed. He glanced over his shoulder at the rapidly cooling grilled cheese.
“Right. Okay. Here’s the game plan, Mini-Boss.” He fixed Peter with a stern stare. “The fact of the matter is, you’re a terrible client.”
Peter stared up at him.
“I’ve told you I need you to stay out of trouble for me to do my job, and you’ve demonstrated that you are incapable of doing that. Therefore, we have to take drastic measures.”
He hooked his hands underneath Peter’s armpits and carried him over to the breakfast bar, where Peter’s highchair lived. Pete wriggled a little as Happy strapped him in, but once the table was clipped in and Peter couldn’t go anywhere, Happy breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now you’re going to stay there and not get hurt while I warm your grilled cheese back up.”
Peter pouted. “Want play.” He reached out with grabby fingers.
Happy carefully stepped out of his very limited range. “No. You can’t go and play, Peter, because every time I leave you alone something increasingly worse happens, and I’m nipping that escalation in the bud before you wind up breaking a bone. You know why? Because if you end up in hospital on my watch, your dad will have me shot by a firing squad.”
Peter’s face lit up at the mention of his favorite man. “Dada!”
Goddammit, this kid was too damn cute. “Yeah, Dada. And I’m sure we all want you to be alive to see Dada come home, so you’re going to stay there and not get hurt, alright?”
Peter grumbled wordlessly.
Happy grabbed the remote on the island. “Well, how about now?”
With a few clicks, Happy found the kid’s channel on the kitchen TV, and thankfully, that was enough to keep Peter happily distracted. Happy knew sitting the kid down in front of the TV to keep him entertained was terrible parenting—he could practically hear Pepper and Tony’s admonishment—but Happy wasn’t the parent. He was the cool uncle (a title that didn’t belong to Rhodey, thank you very much), and cool uncles got to dump the kid in front of the TV whenever they wanted.
With Peter successfully distracted, Happy quickly finished up the grilled cheese. It was a little congealed and burned in the end, but Peter saw bread and cheese and didn’t care that it wasn’t exactly gourmet.
It was just after Peter finished the last bite of grilled cheese that the elevator doors slid open.
Peter perked up. “Dada!”
Tony strolled into the kitchen with all the grace and ease of someone who hadn’t spent all day at the beck and call of a toddler, and ruffled Peter’s hair.
“Oh, Tony, thank God,” breathed Happy.
“Hey there, Petey Pie,” Tony smiled. He went to unclip the table and lift Peter out of the highchair.
Happy’s hands shot out. “No!”
Tony stilled and he looked at Happy in confusion. “You good there, Hap?”
Happy sank back in his seat. “Just—just leave him in there. Just for a minute. I haven’t known peace since you left this morning. He’s—he’s in baby prison.”
Raising an eyebrow, Tony bent down to Peter’s height.
“What did you do to deserve baby prison, Roo?” he asked, wiping a bit of stray cheese off Peter’s face.
Peter babbled incomprehensibly.
“Oh, really?” Tony said, then glanced at Happy.
“He got himself hurt. Twice,” said Happy. Tony’s eyes widened, so Happy quickly continued, “Not seriously! He bit his lip. Grazed his knee, too, but I think with that it was mostly the shock that upset him.”
After quickly examining Peter to ensure he agreed with Happy’s verdict the injuries were non-serious, Tony frowned.
“Jeez, Hap. And that warranted baby prison… how?”
“He needs to be taught accountability,” said Happy, as Peter happily played with one of the buttons on Tony’s shirt. “He’s a bad client. He needs to be taught to follow his bodyguard’s advice because I sure as hell don’t want him following your example. And, since he didn’t, he needed to learn that his actions have consequences.” Happy sighed, smiling fondly at Peter. “Plus, I just really needed five minutes to finish his lunch without him getting hurt again. Ergo, baby prison.”
“Right,” said Tony, running a gentle hand through Peter’s wispy hair. “How about we get him speaking in full sentences first, and then we can start thinking about explaining accountability and cause and effect to him.”
Happy shook his head. “The sooner the better, if he’s anything like you.”
“Of course he’s like me.”
“Then we already need to be making up for lost time.”
“Nonsense. If you can handle one Stark, then another is no big deal.”
“As the one actually responsible for handling you, Tony, I’d beg to differ.”
Their friendly bickering was interrupted then by Peter getting fussy. As Tony gently lifted Peter from the highchair and left to go take care of him, Happy leaned back and watched them go. He took a brief moment to pat himself on the back.
Today had definitely overtaken August 12th, 2001 as his most stressful day on the job ever. Sure, nothing too bad had happened—and there had been no spontaneous trips to New York or sudden acquisitions of babies involved—but it was the first time he’d ever been solely responsible for caring for Peter. It was only a few hours, but he’d survived it.
It was okay. Happy had successfully kept Peter alive and relatively unharmed for four whole hours.
Just the rest of his life to go.