Precious Cargo, Part Five: The Message (And a Softer Interlude)
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 // Part Three // Part Four)
--*--
The Message (And a Softer Interlude)
AVENGERS SOS
TAKEN PRISONER
AGING HOUSE IN WOODS
SEARCH 100 MILE RADIUS MAXIMUM FROM 42 N -77 E
BRING SUITCASE IN LOCKER 2B
WILL TRY TO BLOW POPSICLE STAND
BUT HURRY
…
AND COME WITH GUNS BLAZING
REMEMBER ADMIRAL ACKBAR
--*--
“So quick question, Casper old pal: any particular reason you haven’t frog-marched me out back and put a bullet in my skull? Keeping me around for my stunning physique? Fall in love with my rapier wit? Hate to break it to you, but you’re not my type.”
“You actually have a type? Thought you were up for a good time with anyone who has a hole and a pulse.” On the other side of the door, Tony’s warden laughed. “But in all seriousness, don’t flatter yourself, Stark. Your pen has been in far too many inkwells for my taste. You’re my bait now — not my new boy toy.”
For the moment, Tony let the slut-shaming insults stand unanswered. For the moment.
“I take it you want the others.”
“Of course. They’ve been a thorn in my side for months.”
“And what makes you think they’ll come for me?”
“I’m not an idiot. I haven’t managed to snag the number to privately ring up your compound and demand a ransom. But even stripped and disarmed, you’re a clever little motherfucker. You’ll figure out a way to get your compatriots here, I’m sure — and without attracting unwanted attention.”
You’ve got that right at least — assuming Natashlie saw my coded ASL.
(God, I hope she’s up for a fight.)
Tony cinched the drawstring of his capacious loner sweatpants as tight as he could, splashed his face one more time with cold water, and then turned around, leaning against the console sink with a sigh. It’d only taken a minute or two to answer the call of nature that had prompted this ersatz field trip. The rest of the time, Tony had searched in vain for something - anything - in this claustrophobic powder room that he could use to escape. He’d even considered squeezing through the frosted window above the toilet — until an examination revealed it to be permanently bolted shut.
And let’s be realistic, Tony thought mournfully as he picked Morgan up off the tile floor and resecured her sling. I probably wouldn’t have been able to get both of us through that opening anyway. No matter how many times his former teammates had teasingly dubbed him “Tiny Stark” after word got out about the lifts he wore for important public appearances, Tony wasn’t that small. He needed to think of something else — and fast. For his own ego’s sake, he’d rather meet his friends outside.
At length, Casper’s loud, thumping knock broke Tony out of his reverie.
“You have five seconds to get your ass back out here, Stark, or I’m breaking in!”
In Tony’s embrace, Morgan began to fuss, her eyes wide, her lower lip trembling. Raking his fingers through her downy hair, Tony tried to shush her as best he could with several butterfly kisses before he twisted open the lock, turned the crystal doorknob, and stepped out into the hallway with his hands up.
“Okay, okay, okay. Relax. No need for the weaponry.”
Casper glared at Tony down the barrel of his .45.Magnum. “You drown, genius?”
“Nope,” Tony said, popping the P. “My plumbing just doesn’t respond well when big, slick psychopaths threaten me with violence.”
“Well, turn around and get moving,” the other man demanded, kicking Tony’s raw, scabbed-over ankle with his steel-toed boot. “I have better things to do than stand around here all night.”
Wordlessly, Tony limped down the stairs, trying not to dwell on the rhythmic tap of the gun muzzle between his shoulder blades.
Back in the basement, as Casper roughly pushed Tony down next to the radiator and clicked his handcuffs shut, Morgan’s occasional blubbering escalated into full-fledged wailing.
“Can’t you shut her up?” Casper barked, annoyed.
“She’s hungry, asshole,” Tony snapped back. “The only thing your thralls left in her bag when then gave her back to me was half a serving of baby cereal.” And nothing for himself. Not that that mattered. “You want her quiet? Send one of the kiddos on a grocery run.”
Casper growled, his fist closing by Tony’s ear. “Fine. I’ll wake Thomas.” And with that, he stomped up the stairs and turned off the light, leaving Tony alone in the dark with his sobbing daughter — and his own restless brain.
As his eyes adjusted, Tony finally allowed himself to wilt — just a little. Just enough to release the tension in his muscles. Curling his smarting, shaking frame around Morgan, he rested his cheek on the top of her head and started to hum a fragmentary, hitching tune.
When did it get to be this hard?
Once upon a time, Tony was the king of the masquerade. Once upon a time, he could hold a devil-may-care pose for hours without breaking a sweat. It never used to hurt this much. It never used to be so wearying.
Was it because he was almost fifty? Was it the fact that he was sober? Or was it simply the past decade’s severe emotional and physical strain?
Maybe it was all three of those things — and something more besides. Something that never failed to break through his walls. Something that filled the cracks of his battered, busted, jaded heart and forced him to truly feel. Something that gave him a reason to push on when things seemed utterly hopeless.
Something he cradled in his two arms.
“You saved my life, honey,” Tony whispered, and God, he knew deep in his marrow that it was absolutely true. “And I — I don’t know how I’m going to pull it off, but — I’m going to get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do.”
Then, rubbing his face, Tony sat up straight, unzipped Morgan’s diaper bag with his good hand — and was hit, like a bolt from the blue, with an idea so ludicrous that it just might work.
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