Title: The Woman Next Door

Paring: Happy Hogan X Reader

Warnings: lil angst, Happy is an ass, Peter is a cutie, you're a lil shit (but I love u), fluff

Spoilers: nope, but takes place after Spiderman: Homecoming

Author's Note: This was requested by an anon on Tumblr. Requests are closed right now. 

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You're lugging the trash to the cans out the front when you see the familiar black SUV pull in front of May Parker's townhouse. Every few days or so, it comes around, but rarely you're outside of your home to see it so close. From the backseat comes Peter, backpack slung over his shoulder, head low, half an earbud in his ear.

You toss your trash into the can, waving to the teen, "Hey, Pete!"

He gives you a little wave and goes otherwise silently up the stairs to his home. You catch the eye of the driver, as he steps out, following suit of the teenager. But as soon as Peter closes the front door with a definite slam! he heaves a deep breath, stopping in his tracks.

"Teens, am I right?" you begin, wiping your hands on your raggedy house-pants, giving him a wry, sympathetic smile. "Whatever's up with Peter'll blow over, I'm sure. He's a good kid, trust me."

He tilts his head, inspecting you, before asking, "And you are...?"

"________. Next door neighbour, baker, unemployed teacher." You introduce, nodding. You'd offer your hand to shake, but you've just been wrangling a bag of trash, and he's wearing one of those suits which, if you hadn't known what Peter was doing, would suspect it was because he was from the Men in Black. "I tutor Peter for classes."

He nods, emotionless. "Well, you might be his tutor, but what happens with his internship with Stark Enterprises –,"

You bob your head, "Yeah, I get it, none of my civilian business, James Bond," you laugh, and turn to go back into your home, "I'll leave you before you say you'd have to kill me if you told me anymore."

You leave the driver standing on the pavement, and as you close the front door behind you, you feel your heart pace, your head race, and you slide to the floor like a lovesick teenager. He was built like a truck, scowl upon his face like he was looking into the glare of the sun itself, and yet, this man had, in under three minutes of encountering, had earned a place in your heart.

"Damn it," you whisper to your empty house. And despite yourself, you giggle.

It was a simple fact, that you, a single woman living in Queens from the dregs of your late grandmother's fortune, were in want for the big break in life. Wasn't everyone? You were thirty, fresh out of your honours program of high school teaching, and when every school declined your application, you turned to the second thing you did best.

Baking. Baking was somewhat of a passion besides teaching the youth of the country, but, it most certainly did not pay the bills. But you had at least six months more until you had to worry about that. Luckily for you, your maternal grandmother left a sum for all her descendants. Unluckily for you, it was nearly all spent on rent.

Your neighbour May Parker was a good friend, and not only because of her help to get you to crack the local made-at-home hipster markets in the local area. Now, while your cousin wrote to you saying how she was working hard as a translator at NATO, you had something to write back. May's nephew Peter was often over to your living room; if you weren't cracking answers for his history homework, he was trying out your newest culinary escapades.

"So, Peter," you begin, putting the spatula into the bowl of yellow icing. A customer had a commission for you to make a batch of gluten-free sugar-free cupcakes for his daughter's birthday party. It might be hard to make exactly what he asked of you, but customers payed well. "How's that Stark internship you always talk about going? You looked a little off when I saw you yesterday."

"I was just tired," He perks up on your couch in the living room. "It's cool – I get to be around a lot of his technology, it's crazy." He beams, "But I can't see anything he hasn't finished yet, which is kind of lame."

You poke your tongue out, pulling a face, "Aw, rats. I was going to ask you to smuggle half-drawn blue prints for me," you joke. Peter laughs, snorting a little, and after a little pause, you wonder aloud, "But speaking of the Stark internship...your driver, what's his name?"

With a mouthful of gluten-free cupcake, Peter answers, "His name's Happy Hogan, but I think that's because he's grumpy all the time." He pauses, and adds, "Why're you asking? Don't tell me you've got one of those fan zines."

You laugh quietly to yourself. "Peter, since when do you think I have time in my day to sit down and write about all these people I hardly know anything about?" you wave your hand around, and add, shaking your head, "It's nothing. I just...it's nothing."

Peter isn't a dumb kid. He's top of most of his classes, and often comes to you with his friends' papers for homework tips. But when you said that and went on to busy yourself in the process of plating up the cupcakes for your client, he didn't say a word about what he'd just heard.

If there is something you follow religiously other than the TV series Downtown Abbey, you followed the regularly updated teacher availabilities on the online database. It's a work in progress, but despite the bugs, you always apply when something meets your requirements for a teaching position – anything. Today is no different – it's two o'clock, and because you've already hand-delivered all the commissioned baking for the day, and you sit using public Wi-Fi at the library scrolling through the database.

There's about three more positions open and tailoring your cover letter to each position takes time, but you're into it, just so you can get a job out of it. But because you're so focused on writing, you have no idea of the commotion outside, and it's only until the smell of smoke and rubble you realise it's another classic New York City superhero showdown going on outside.

From what you can see from your cubical, it's Iron Man and Magneto battling it out mid-air like it's a regular Thursday afternoon. You go to resume your writing, but it's then when Magneto tosses a tray back truck into the front end of the library that you register that holy shit, this is a superhero fight and you need to get out of here.

"Everyone! You need to evacuate the library as soon as possible!" Another suited superhero calls out, who you're not sure is called Iron Patriot, or War Machine. You slide your laptop into your bag and follow the crowd which is following the hero's instruction out the emergency exit...only to realise you've left your phone behind. It's then when another crash! echoes in the library, and you're barrelled into by an external force.

You open your eyes, expecting to be impaled by a streetlamp, expected to die any second.

Instead, atop of you is the man who drives Peter Parker to his Stark Internship, Happy. You wonder why he's just done what he has, when you see over his shoulder a traffic light flickering between amber and red, feet away from where you stood.

"Thank you," you whisper, breathing slow.

He goes to stand, offering you a hand to your feet as well. "It's nothing, Ma'am." He nods, and escorts you to the exit. You feel your entire body taken over by numbness, and it isn't until you're outside sitting on the back of an ambulance with a blanket watching Spider-Man help Iron Man take Magneto down that you remember you forgot your phone in the melee. You feel something slip into your hand, and you look up to see Happy, and the familiar phone case. "Here." He says.

You smile, and even though you're grateful for your phone, you motion for the man to sit beside you on the back of the ambulance. Reluctantly, he sits, and you drape some of the shock blanket over his shoulders, leaning into his side.

"Thank you," you whisper.

You're just finishing for the night on a casual position over at Brooklyn, and it's just after sundown when you get off the bus a block away from your home. It feels so good to have time in the classroom, even if it's until the poor teacher's broken ankle heals. But what doesn't feel so good is that your phone batter is dead, and you're carrying papers to mark, and can't fight if anyone tries to mug you for all the $3.75 to your name.

It's then when you're joined by someone.

"That looks heavy, let me help," the familiar voice of Spider-Man chirps, swinging down from a building up above to walk beside you. You chuckle and halve the load to the superhero in training. "Long day?" He asks.

You nod, "But the best. Finally got a job, even if it's temping."

Spider-Man hefts his pile higher in his arms, turning toward you. "That's cool," he says, nodding, "That's why you're out so late?"

You laugh. "You always this chatty, spider?" you ask, and then, you say, "I was trying to mark all of these at the school, but I underestimated myself, these Ancient Rome essays are very dry." You sigh, and you say, "Also, didn't really want to come home to an empty house."

The Spider-Man is silent, then, "You own furniture, right?" He asks. When you nod, he adds, "Then it isn't empty!"

You stop walking, realising you're at your home, take the papers from Spider-Man's arms, and go to your door, "Thanks, Peter. Make sure you get some sleep, it's a school night."

You leave the red and blue clad kid superhero quiet on the steps of your house. It isn't until you're nearly to your office your phone beeps, and there's a text from Peter's number in all-caps, HOW DID YOU FIGURE OUT??

You place the papers on your desk, and reply, magic.

One month later, and your temp position has been upgraded to a contract, and, for the first time in your life since you left home, you really don't have to worry about making ends meet to pay bills (just as long as you stay healthy and don't have insurance problems or any of that). It's wonderful. May Parker's new boyfriend, a social media broadcaster, blew up the popularity of your baking business so that you've hardly got a minute spare, doing both things you love. It's fantastic.

But...

The house is empty when you come home. Sure, you play your music how loud you want, but when it comes down to it, you're lonely. Dating apps are terrible, and so is the prospect of going out and meeting people for romance. In the age of superheroes, love seems to be dead.

You're on a break between classes in a remote corner of the school grounds, working on a lesson plan on your laptop while you chow down a vegetarian burrito (the cafeteria at this school isn't too bad), and it isn't until he sits down in front of you that you realise who it is.

Happy Hogan. Tony Stark's driver, your crush (and saviour). In his hands, is a small posy of flowers.

"Hi –," you say around half a mouthful before swallowing, "What brings you here?"

He clears his throat, laying the flowers on the table between us. "I'm an asshole to people I don't know, you know? It's all part of the security job. But...it's hard to be an asshole around you." He says. "Peter's always talking nonstop about you, and then when I was at the library, I –," he clears his throat once more, and pushes the posy toward you. "It takes a special person to do that to me."

You grin, gathering the flowers in one hand, and his open palm in the other. His hand is a mixture between warm and cool, between soft and hard, and your fingers trace over the small callouses before settling in his grasp.

"Why don't we reintroduce ourselves, start from scratch?" you ask, and smelling the flowers, you say, "My name's ________. I'm a history teacher and I bake in my spare time. What about you?"

He cracks a small smile. "I'm Harold Hogan, I've been working as security for Tony Stark for over ten years, and when I get a moment off, I like to watch Downtown Abbey."

"No way," you gasp. "I love that show!" It's only now you realise you're still at school, with half an hour before you have to walk into your next class and teach juniors about the Soviet Union that you pause, and ask, "So, Harry, what brings to you my school? This trip can't've been all for me."

He nods reluctantly, "I'm just escorting, Tony's here on business, getting a scholarship for a teen hero from New Jersey." He shakes his head, and adds, "Ms Khan has a knack for trouble, according to her file."

You raise your eyebrows. "I'm in the know about hero stuff?" you question, dubious, "Don't say you'll have to kill me."

He shakes his head. "How about we compromise on a date, next Sunday? Coffee?"

You beam. "You read my mind."