Precious Cargo, Part Six: Tony in Flight
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 // Part Five)
“What’s your problem, Stark? I was busy.”
Tony stopped his arm mid swing, put down the baby bottle he’d been using to ping the radiator, and - pushing aside his crushing exhaustion - flashed a wicked grin at his guard-on-duty. Zits, meanwhile, stood stock-still at the base of the staircase, arms crossed, semi auto prominently displayed on his hip.
It’d been a few hours since Tony had last disturbed his jailers, and Zits looked quite put out.
“Sorry, kid.” Tony was anything but apologetic and didn’t bother to hide it. “Did I interrupt your vitally important World of Warcraft session?”
Zits merely huffed in reply, his face the picture of bratty indignation.
I got the second string, Tony thought. Good. Means I’ve waited long enough. Then, out loud: “Need to take a leak and ditch some trash.” Holding eye contact with Zits, Tony blindly checked the straps of Morgan’s sling for the forty-fifth time to make sure they were fastened tight. “Any chance we could get another escort to your lovely john?”
Presently, Tony found himself back in the powder room poring over the faded watercolor on the wall, his limbs quivering in anticipation.
Was he about to sign his own death warrant? He didn’t know. But he certainly wasn’t one to pass up even an outside chance at a successful breakout — especially not when the stakes were so unbelievably high.
Looking down, Tony ran his left thumb along the curve of Morgan’s ear. “Guess this is it, Morguna. Just hope I don’t end up regretting this.”
Please, God, if you are up there, let something in this hellscape of a weekend go right for a change — not for my sake, but for hers.
“Done?” Zits asked when Tony finally steeled himself and opened the door.
“Surprise!” said Tony, swinging his right hand around from where he had tucked it behind his back and smashing its contents - one very used diaper - into Zits’ face with full force.
The thoroughly disgusted sound Casper’s minion made then might’ve made Tony laugh. Might’ve, that is, if Tony’s attention weren’t focused on shoving the kid against the wall and wrestling the gun from his hand. Might’ve, that is, if Tony’s attention weren’t also focused on covering Morgan.
The next few minutes passed in a blur. Once a winded Zits had collapsed to the floor with a grunt, Tony barreled down the hallway and through the nearest exit, his bare feet slapping against wood, his chest heaving with exertion. Then he ran, pell-mell, into the surrounding forest, heedless of the tree branches that pulled at his clothes, the thorns that scratched his skin, the stones that abused his poor heels — or the shouts that rose up in the country home he’d left behind.
The approaching December dawn was shockingly cold. Thankfully, in his flight, Tony managed to filch a sloppily knitted afghan that had been draped on a recliner by the door. At the very least, he’d be able to keep his daughter warm.
--*--
Keep moving. Whatever you do, just keep moving.
Say what you will about Steve Rogers - the stubborn, self-righteous asshole - but the man’s combat and survival training was certainly coming in handy right about now. Already, Tony had picked up a deer’s spoor in the underbrush and was following it to what he hoped would be a water source. Because yes: despite his bitching - and the rest of the team’s suspicions to the contrary - he had been listening to Cap during that interminable “exercise” and therefore knew full well that water could lead him to civilization.
Or a hunter’s shack. That would be acceptable too.
It was mid-morning, yet the pale sunlight that shone through the attenuated forest canopy was barely moving the mercury, and Tony was fucking freezing. After putting several klicks of distance between himself and his pursuers, he’d paused briefly, ducking into a bush to inspect Zits’ Glock and don the afghan, making sure that Morgan was thoroughly encased in a cocoon of fluffy warmth. The latter hastily acquired prize, however, was not long enough to cover the lower half of Tony’s body, which was slowly going numb from the toes up.
And to top it all off? Tony was starving too. He’d upchucked his last full meal, and his stomach was currently protesting its emptiness by cramping painfully at semi-regular intervals. An hour ago, he’d even toyed with the idea of using the gun he carried to take out a squirrel that had run across his path — until he remembered there were only six bullets in the magazine.
And be honest, rich boy: would you have been able to bring yourself to gut and eat it?
No: Tony’s best choice was to brush off every one of his physical complaints - the aching shoulder, the hunger, the incipient frostbite - and continue on his plodding course.
So he did. And more time passed.
In her bundle, Morgan remained relatively quiet — almost as if she knew crying would reveal their position and bring the fire. Thankfully, though, she seemed blissfully unaware of just how difficult it was becoming for her father to stay upright. His legs were growing more and more leaden with each agonizing step, and a devious little voice in the back of his mind was urging him to lie down and sleep with increasingly persuasive force.
When, at long last, he happened upon a bubbling creek, Tony was on the razor’s edge of collapse — but he persisted. Turning to follow the creek’s meandering bank, he stumbled in a roughly southerly direction over tree roots, loose soil, and dirty ice, his eyes trained on his bleeding feet as he struggled to keep his balance.
“You can do this, Shellhead,” Tony muttered, wiping crusty snot from his Van Dyke with the back of one stiff hand. “Stark men are made of iron.”
--*--
Tony was so preoccupied with maintaining his footing - and with staying conscious - that he very nearly missed his salvation. But when the sudden change in the shadows that played across the ground fully registered, Tony stopped, looked up, and instantly cracked a broken smile.
Before him, nestled in a copse of sycamore trees, stood a cottage painted fire engine red — and it was the most beautiful dwelling Tony had ever seen.
Tony carefully picked his way across the rocks that were strewn across the creek and scrabbled up the opposite bank. Some of the clay he grabbed crumbled and rolled down the slope — but by some miracle, he eventually found blessed solid ground and didn’t tumble into the water himself.
“Hello?” he called out, and he winced at how rough and weak he sounded. “Anyone here?”
Silence was the only reply.
“Hello?” Tony tried again, raising his voice as loud as his own fatigue would allow.
More silence.
A Corolla and a battered pickup were parked in the driveway, and the yard was strewn with toys. But beyond that, there was no sign that anyone was home. No smoke rose from the cottage’s massive stone chimney — and there were no lights on inside. Vanished?
Yes, Vanished. The instant Tony cracked open the (unlocked) front door, the smell that hit him made it abundantly clear that the entire family who’d lived here had been taken in the Halving in the middle of a meal.
Tony experimentally flipped the switch in the entryway — and, when nothing happened, took a cleansing breath to forestall his double-damned PTSD.
Okay. Okay. Try not to think about the dust. Just — get the generator going and find a radio.
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