Precious Cargo, Part Seven: The Cavalry Arrives
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 // Part Six)
--*--
The Cavalry Arrives
The Boutencourts. That’s who they were. While looking for a much-needed screwdriver, Tony came across some old mail that bore the family name of his absent hosts.
Thus, he now knew that he was wearing Mr. Geoffrey Boutencourt’s SUNY Oswego sweatshirt and thick, woolen socks.
He now knew that he’d used one of Ms. Penelope Boutencourt’s rose-colored washcloths to carefully re-warm his tortured toes.
He now knew that he’d looted the Boutencourts’ first aid kit for the wraps, peroxide and antibiotic ointment he needed to treat - at least for the time being - the sequelae of the last twenty-four hours.
He now knew it was probably the Boutencourts’ house cat that had leapt at him from the bushes that obscured the Generac out back. (Tony’s adrenaline-fueled imagination thought it was a cougar at first. The thing was massive — and thoroughly wild.)
And he now knew it was the Boutencourts’ supply of stale Lucky Charms that Morgan was gumming in his lap as a stop-gap lunch. (The kitchen was a carnival of horrors, and the children who’d once lived here were apparently beyond the Gerber and Pampers stage, so Tony was making do: cereal for the little miss and a couple cans of watery Campbell’s for himself.)
(Oh: and let’s not forget the dish towels he’d wrapped around Morgan’s hiney after she’d soaked through her last diaper. How long that “solution” was going to hold out was anyone’s guess.)
Boutencourt. Boutencourt. Boutencourt. The patronymic flashed like a beacon before his mind’s eye. Tony didn’t know these people from Adam; nonetheless, it haunted him that they were gone.
Tony slammed down four ibuprofen tablets, chased them with a generous swig of warm cola, and brooded. Generally speaking, he was not a superstitious man. Generally speaking, he only put stock in the material — the tangible, rules-bound things he could confirm with a scientific investigation or the strike of an oil-covered wrench. Yet, as the combination of soda and soup churned and bubbled uncomfortably in his gut, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just cracked open a curséd tomb — that he’d disturbed the Boutencourts’ spirits and would almost certainly pay the price.
That’s your guilt talking, Tony. Now get to work.
“Right.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Tony refocused on the electronic components that were strewn on the table in front of him. He hadn’t found the keys to either of the vehicles outside, nor had he found a functional phone. A jerry-rigged transmitter was his only shot — and he had to complete it before the three hours’ worth of propane in the generator’s tank ran out.
--*--
“So what took you so long, pal?”
Tony meant for that to sound easy and jovial — but it came out vaguely peeved instead. Fortunately, Rhodey took it in stride. “That was more than three hundred square miles of territory you asked us to search,” he explained patiently. “Gotta say, I was reliving some very unpleasant memories before we got your last SOS.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Dust and ashes on the counters. Dust and ashes on the floor. Dust and ashes on his hands and on his tongue.
Tony shivered, but he resisted the urge to self-soothe by hugging his chest, electing instead to stretch out on the Boutencourts’ couch in a posture of insouciance.
“You okay? You look like hell.”
Oops. Guess I’m not putting on the world’s best performance.
Still, Tony tried to wave off his best friend’s concern. “I’m good. Trying not to die keeps everything at bay.” And believe it or not, that was nearly the truth. Despite his worst fears, he hadn’t freaked out or dissociated the entire time he’d been here — even though this cottage was a monument to Trigger. “Think I should share that strategy with Doc Nolan?”
“I think we should take you to a hospital first.”
Rhodey’s earpiece crackled to life. “Have you found Stark, James?”
“James?” Tony repeated, amused and eager to indulge a distraction. “So you and Blue are on a first-name basis now?”
No Fun Rhodey covered Tony’s mouth with his (disappointingly unlickable) left gauntlet and answered Nebula’s hail. “Yeah, I got ‘im. Go ahead and set down if you can.”
“There’s a clearing two hundred meters to your northeast. We will land there.”
“Okay, Tones. Up and at ‘em.”
“No problem.” Wrapping his arm around Morgan, Tony levered himself to his feet — and immediately buckled, falling back onto the couch cushions in a graceless heap.
Rhodey frowned. “Uh huh. Had a feeling you were lying to me before.”
“It’s okay. My feet are trashed, but it’s no big deal.”
“Let me see.”
“Why?”
“No offense, but you’re not exactly Mr. Trustworthy — especially not if someone else’s life is at stake.”
Rhodey and Tony both looked down at Morgan — then at each other. For a long moment, a nonverbal battle raged.
Tony sighed. “Okay. Fine.” In reality, he was hurting too much to keep up the bluff forever. And he was safe, right? The cavalry was here.
With a firm nod, Rhodey knelt beside Tony and gingerly peeled off one of Tony’s - one of Geoffrey’s - socks, revealing the mottled, broken skin it concealed. He sucked in a breath. “Jesus, Tony. What the hell happened to you?”
“Remember that mission in Alberta with Rogers?” Tony said, choking a bit as Rhodey gently prodded his swollen big toe. “Like that — except the fuckwads took my Salvatores.”
“You hiked here barefoot?”
“Don’t think I had a choice here, sugarplum. They probably would’ve killed me if I hadn’t run.” And then Morgan would’ve been left to their tender mercies.
“All right, I get it,” Rhodey replied, evidently hearing what Tony didn’t say. “But — shit, Tony, you can’t walk on that. Superficial frostbite is probably your best case scenario.”
“It’s okay —”
“Tony —”
“I just need you to take Morgan and give me the suitcase you dropped by the door.”
Rhodey blinked, nonplussed.
“You got it from locker 2B in my garage, right?”
“Yeah. But Tony —”
“Honeybear, Platypus, Pudding Pop — stop the worrywart routine and hand it over.”
If the contents of that case were still in working order, Tony wouldn’t have to walk.
Problem solved.
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