Precious Cargo, Part Three: Tête-à-Tête
Summary:
Tony gets into trouble at the local Christmas market — and unfortunately, Morgan is with him.
(In case you missed it: Part One // Part Two)
--*--
Tête-à-Tête
Damn it. Calm down. Enough with the mental health
bullshit and just breathe.
Back in the present, Tony sucked in a bolus of oxygen with one
drawn-out, high-pitched wheeze, forcing it through an airway that had somehow
shrunk to the size of a coffee straw.
Okay. Now do that again, hero.
Tony did — once, twice, three times. But it was still difficult to
see, to think — to do anything at all. For the moment, he was paralyzed by one
devastating intrusive thought: that Morgan was hurt - or even dead - and it was
all his fault. And for the moment, he didn’t know how to stop the
whirlpool — how to silence the crippling fear and self-loathing that threatened
to pull him under.
Yes you do, Tony. You’ve done it before. What do you feel?
A foundation rubbing against his exposed, bruised back. Rivulets
of water trickling from his dampened hair. Metal biting into the flesh of his
ankle as he kicked it out in desperation.
What do you hear?
The radiator clacking as air bubbles circulated through its pipes.
Faint music filtering in from the floor above. A distant crow.
What do you smell?
Moldering cardboard. Mildew and motor oil. A hint of camphor — and
cinnamon?
What do you taste?
Acid sitting in the back of his throat.
What do you see?
A window, two feet square, near the ceiling above his head.
Now what can you do? Be the mechanic, Tony. Be the
engineer. Morgan’s counting on you.
Tony realized, first of all, that he could no longer put off
reducing his shoulder. And yes — that was going to hurt like the fucking
dickens. But when an anticipatory sob bubbled up in his throat at the thought,
he repressed it — savagely. Crying wouldn’t help him screw up the necessary
courage. Reciting the prime numbers after 100 might.
101, 103, 107, 109, 113, 127, 131, 137, 139...
When Tony reached 997, he sat upright, seized hold of his left
wrist with his trembling right hand, and slowly pulled his arm forward, cursing
in every language he knew - and possibly in at least one invented tongue -
until his humerus slid back into place.
Then his injuries - and the rush of excess adrenaline - took a
distinctly unpleasant toll: Tony lost his lunch in several wrenching heaves. By
the time he finished puking, his eyes and nose burned with the smell of his own
bile — and his cranium felt like it had been split wide open.
But there was one upside: his snowballing panic
attack had been stopped in its tracks, replaced by a far more productive mood
of furious determination. These Thanos-loving freaks had fucked with his
Morguna — and somehow, Tony was going to make them pay.
Step one? Getting his malingering ass on his feet.
--*--
After a protracted, sweaty, frankly miserable struggle, Tony
managed to clamber to a standing position. He was too short - blast it -
to get a good look outside that window, but even from his less
revealing angle, he could tell this building - house? - was out in the woods
somewhere — and that it was late afternoon. In fact, if he was judging the
waning sunlight correctly, there was about an hour left before sunset.
As it so happens, Tony had checked his watch shortly
before this unwanted adventure had begun — and assuming his short-term memory
was fully recovered, the time then was approaching 2 P.M. Factoring in the
battle in the barn, that meant Tony’s siesta had lasted a little over an hour
at most.
So how far could I have been taken?
Luckily, that was basic arithmetic — the sort of calculation Tony
could fly through by the time he was four. Really, the answer only depended on
the vehicle the kidnappers used to get him here, which roads they chose — and
how willing they were to draw attention to themselves by exceeding posted speed
limits. Minimum search radius: 30 to 40 miles if they used surface roads and
drove responsibly. Maximum search radius: 100 to 150 if they hit the highway and
were as reckless as - well - their victim.
One corner of Tony’s mouth twitched upwards in a semi-rueful,
semi-predatory half-smile. If he could play this right, these bastards were
about to see exactly how audacious he could be. After all, he no
longer cared what happened to his own worthless skin. He had one
dominant goal now — a goal that monopolized his energy with all the greediness
of a cosmic singularity.
His miniature reconnoiter complete, Tony sat back down on the
floor, taking care to avoid his drying vomit. He wasn’t sure yet what he was
going to do with the data he’d just gathered, but he knew it was worthwhile to
keep it all in the back of his mind. His glasses - and his connection to FRIDAY
- were gone, but he’d spent years sharing living quarters with a couple of
super-spies and had consequently learned other ways to send an SOS. All he had
to do was wait until opportunity knocked — and try not to lose his mind in the
meantime.
Yeah: that was a tall order — but one he intended to
fulfill.
--*--
Well after the last remains of daylight had faded, the LED bulb at
the foot of the basement staircase clicked on. Tony lifted his head from his
knees, his muscles taut.
“Well, well. This is quite a sight, Mr. Stark — and a gratifying
one at that.”
Tony mustered as much of his tattered dignity as he could and
fixed the ghost with a glare as the latter pulled up a weather-beaten chair and
sat, legs splayed open, Gucci dress shirt unbuttoned, a smirk playing across
his lips.
“I apologize for the delay, by the way. I had to make sure you had
ample time to reflect on your — predicament.” Leaning forward, the ghost
squeezed Tony’s jaw with one manicured hand — then cackled when Tony snarled
and twisted away. “Touchy touchy! I take it you haven’t enjoyed our lovely
accommodations?”
“Don’t know what you’ve read in the tabloids, Casper,” Tony spat,
“but I’m a vanilla house husband now. I’m not into the kinky stuff. Not
anymore.” Not with anyone but Pepper.
“Oh, good! I was afraid we wouldn’t be treated to
more of your hotshot deflections. That just wouldn’t be any fun.”
Oh, he was definitely a smooth operator, this one. Tony knew the
type. Hell, Tony was the type when he needed to be — so he knew
how fragile such facades could be. What, precisely, was this guy
covering with his expensive suit and sparkling veneers? And what, precisely,
did that mean for his missing daughter?
“What have you done with Morgan?”
“Morgan? Oh! You mean the baby. She’s quite all right, I assure
you.”
“Show me.”
“You will be reunited in time — as soon as I get what I need from
you.”
“Show me now or you aren’t getting shit.”
“You are in no position to make demands, Mr. Stark. Unless you’ve
swallowed one of your marvelous repulsors, you have no gadgetry at your beck
and call. And even if you did, well — thanks to a helpful little mole, I have
your emergency shutdown codes. How else do you suppose I disabled you in our
last encounter?”
Right: the Dark Side Protocol. It was one of those concessions
Tony made to Secretary Ross in the negotiations after Sokovia — something to
deploy if Tony were ensorcelled or otherwise out of control. Everyone - everyone
- was convinced back then that Tony was a standing threat without an off switch
— and Tony, lost in a profound downward spiral, didn’t disagree.
Dread sat in Tony’s stomach like a rock as he mentally surveyed
his options — yet he held his ground. Where Casper had gotten the Dark Side
passcodes was a problem for another date. What mattered tonight was this:
contra his earlier fit of despair, Tony was never “helpless.” Not if he was
conscious — and not if he was angry. Check on the first — and check with a
bullet on the second.
As a matter of fact, the sensation that now flooded through Tony’s
bones - the lava-hot wrath - was something he’d experienced only
a few times before. On one occasion, such a feeling had driven him to invite a
terrorist to his Malibu home. On another, he’d almost murdered Bucky Barnes.
“Show me my kid, Casper,” Tony repeated a third time, his words
low and dangerous, “or I will fucking enjoy it when I kill you.”
Two pairs of eyes locked.
“You — are an interesting specimen, Mr. Stark. I can’t decide if
your stubbornness is admirable or foolhardy. But very well. I suppose I can
afford a little magnanimity.”
Casper pulled out his phone and swiped it open. “Theresa,” he said
once the person on the other end had picked up his call, “it’s time to bring
down the second package — and some appropriate attire for our honored guest.”
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