#yeah it would take out that arc where he gets off Vicodin and gets better for a lil bit but like. we can come up with other things to fill

[karmaphone]

saw an ask to someone asking what they think would change if house lost his whole leg instead of thigh muscle and. hoo boy

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Family Business

Happy Birthday, @awesomesockes! Some Tony & Happy friendship whump for you.

Thanks to @marvelous-writer for your expertise and to @whumphoarder for beta reading!

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Tony blinks himself awake a few hours later. 

His body seems to weigh a thousand pounds, and there’s a dull underlying pain that warns him not to move. His thoughts are sluggish from the drugs to the point that his head feels as though it’s been stuffed with enough cotton to be exhibited in a natural science museum. The hospital room is dimly lit. It must be night outside, because it’s dark—too dark. The blue light of the arc reactor, always in the periphery of Tony’s vision, is missing. 

For the briefest of moments, he panics. But then it all comes back to him: Happy, his mansion, the snow. A fake Mandarin, and then the real one. Pepper, falling away from him. The heart surgery that brought him to this hospital.

Suddenly, Tony is acutely aware of feeling very sick.

“J,” he starts, then swallows thickly against the bile rising in his throat. “Anyone up?”

The AI’s voice answers immediately from the phone on his nightstand. “Miss Potts is on a video conference call with SI Australia, Mr Rhodes has gone home to shower, and Mr Hogan is in his hospital room, watching Downton Abbey season 2 episode 9 for the eleventh time this month.”

Guilt and nausea are battling each other, but there is no way Tony can get up and make it to the toilet on his own. Hell, the tubes still connected to his chest make it hard to even turn onto his side right now, not even to mention the pain that would cause.

In the end, the desire not to throw up on his hospital bed wins. “Get Happy here,” he orders the AI. 

Tony closes his eyes, tips his head back, and breathes shallowly, willing the contents of his stomach to stay down a bit longer. By the time he hears the squeak of the wheelchair on the linoleum outside, the urge to puke has decreased a little from ‘very urgent’ to ‘annoyingly persistent.’

“Wow,” Happy states as he wheels into the room, “JARVIS wasn’t kidding. You’re white as a sheet.”

“Hey Hap,” Tony gives a little wave with three of his fingers. “Just need a trash can or something. Can’t really get to the bathroom.”

Happy looks around the room. Tony notices that the cast on his right arm has now been replaced by a simple sling, and the bruises have faded almost entirely from his face. His friend is due to be released in the coming days, whereas Tony has to stay at least another week. 

Happy locates one of those signature kidney-shaped basins hospitals always seem to have lying around and presses it into Tony’s hands. “Should I wake one of the doctors?” 

Tony shakes his head as best he can. “It’s just the meds messing with my stomach.”

“Antibiotics, huh?” Happy nods knowingly. “Yeah, been there too.”

There’s a pang of guilt in Tony’s stomach, causing the nausea to intensify again. He struggles to sit up a little and can’t suppress a moan at the pain even that minimal strain brings along.  

“Wait,” Happy quickly interferes, reaching for the remote to raise the head of the bed and prop his friend upright. Tony manages to lift his arms just enough that he can hold the basin under his mouth. He spits a few strings of excess saliva into it. “Sorry,” he manages, feeling his throat go tight.

“‘S okay, boss. No offence, but as long as you’re puking in this and not on me, I’m glad. Still remember that time in Singapore.” He wrinkles his nose up at the recollection. “That curry didn’t look great going in, and looked far worse on my pants.”

Tony almost laughs, then coughs, then heaves. He doesn’t have much in him except the yoghurt and toast that made up his meagre hospital dinner, but his stomach doesn’t seem to care. After the first bout of vomiting it just cramps over and over on nothing, every dry heave bringing pangs of agony to his injured chest. 

When he’s done, he feels almost lightheaded, be it from the pain or the lack of sustenance. He weakly lets his head fall back against the pillow, trying to catch his breath.

“You alright?” Happy’s casualness can’t hide a tinge of worry when he pries the basin from Tony’s hands to rinse it out.

“‘M good,” Tony breathes, then grimaces as another spike of pain reverberates through his chest. He involuntarily brings a shaky hand to where the remnants of his sternum are covered in bandages.

Happy frowns. “You want me to up your morphine? Or you can have some of my Vicodin?” he offers. “I forgot to take my evening dose―Matthew was in the middle of his proposal to Mary.”

“Nah. ‘S okay,” Tony declines wistfully. He’d love to drug himself to the point of oblivion just about now, but an opiod addiction is the last thing he needs during his efforts to get his life back on track. “Just gimme some water to rinse.” The taste of vomit in his mouth is enough to almost make him gag again.

Happy gets a glass of water and then awkwardly holds the now empty basin under Tony’s mouth, who swirls and spits before shakily wiping his lips. Maybe it’s exhaustion or the pain or the meds he’s arguably still doped up on, but Tony feels the sudden urge to somehow express his gratitude to the man who left his own hospital bed in the middle of the night to care for the person who couldn’t protect him in the first place.

“I…” he starts when Happy has taken the basin away, then trails off when it occurs to him that he has no idea what to say.

“...should go to sleep,” Happy finishes for him. 

“Nah.” Not when he can avoid it. Tony hasn’t dreamed of New York since defeating Killian, which is a plus, but he’s seen Pepper fall almost every time he closed his eyes. “Let’s do something fun. Hey, I just survived a major experimental heart surgery. I’m allowed to celebrate a bit.”

“Yeah,”  Happy gestures around the hospital room. “Great party you got going here.”

“Still better than your last birthday. Pepper told me you watched Jane Austen with your 80-year old neighbour and were in bed by nine.”

Happy looks mildly offended. “Elenor is only 76.”

In the end, they find Die Hard playing on one of the channels of the small TV that Tony has neglected so far in favour of his phone. Happy maneuvers himself out of the wheelchair and onto the smaller cot that Pepper had slept on the first night after Tony’s surgery, propping up his injured leg with an extra pillow. Despite his insistence on staying awake, Tony has a hard time keeping his eyes open. The world’s a bit hazy now, and, though he would never admit it, Happy’s presence makes his whole post-surgery anxiety much more bearable.

Bruce Willis has just taken out another terrorist when Happy suddenly turns to Tony, his expression having grown serious. “Just wanted to say―it wasn’t your fault, boss.” 

Tony blinks at him, wondering when his own emotional state became so transparent.

“You know it’s my job to look out for you,” Happy continues. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

“Hap,” Tony sighs, “No offence, but I literally have an iron suit of armour for protection. I really think we’re past the bodyguard stage now.” 

“Exactly.” Happy grins. “We’re family.”

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