This town thrives on the banks of a life-giving river which flows through the middle of a vast, scorching desert. Explore ancient ruins, and ponder the mysteries of the past. There are some who believe these wonders are not of this world… When you tire from the heat, cool off at the mayor’s home with indoor amusements.
Tony and Peter are stranded in the desert after a plane crash. This is a heavy Irondad-Spiderson-Whump fic, and I´m just a tiny little
bit proud of finally finishing it. As far as triggers go, it contains injury, emeto, heat
strokes, fever, hallucinations, panic attacks.
Please comment and share if you like it. I am currently at 97 followers, and it would be such a great reward
if this story could make me cross the hundred.
Disclaimer: I always try
my best to be realistic, but the only medical experience I have is from an
unpaid six-week internship in a local hospital, so if there are any errors in
my descriptions, please let me know. I’m always eager to learn!
He can´t breathe. He
Tony is panicking even before he is fully awake, trying to
suck in air and only getting sand into his mouth, his throat, his lungs.
are trashing around in a desperate attempt to pull himself out of the desert.
mind supplies him with the only viable explanation for the context. This
is Afghanistan. He is back. And: They are coming for him. But then the last remaining rational part of his brain notes that something is wrong.
The heaviness of the iron suit is missing.
Tony finally frees his head
and gulps in sweet, pure air, again, again, and then coughs and spits sand onto
the ground until he can breathe freely. He rests his head back, simply enjoying the feeling
of not suffocating for the moment. He gets a few seconds of relief before the
events finally catch up with him.
He remembers him and the
kid, taking a test flight in his new arc reactor-powered plane. Tony letting
Peter steer, going to fetch coffee from the back of the jet. Returning to see a tornado racing towards them at breakneck speed. Desperately trying to get away,
while Peter next to him, motion sick as ever, is losing his breakfast into a
plastic bag. Nearly succeeding in touching to the ground in the middle of the desert when a
wing is ripped off with an ugly noise he´ll probably never forget. Then: Nothing.
Peter. The kid. Panic floods Tony´s veins.
He pushes himself up on his hands and tries to stand, but a searing pain rips
through his leg, strong enough to turn his vision black for a couple of
seconds. It´s excruciating. Nausea rises from the pit of his stomach, and he
When Tony can see again, he carefully inspects the leg. His left foot is squeezed under a metal bar that
was once part of the airplane´s belly and is now covered in blood. Old, dried
blood. How long has he been lying here? And, more importantly, what´s wrong
with Peter that prevented him from getting to Tony first?
He grits his teeth and starts to pull his leg out from underneath the rod, ever so slowly. Despite his best efforts, the pain increases
to a level that almost has him passing out again. He bites his lower lip so hard that
it starts to bleed, just to hold on to consciousness, because god, he needs to get going, needs to
check on the boy.
A loud moan escapes him when the foot finally comes free with a jerk
and the pain dials up another few numbers. Nausea overwhelms him, and it´s all he can do to roll onto his
side and throw up a long forgotten breakfast into the desert sand.
Getting up is even worse.
Any attempt to put weight onto his ankle results in bright hot agony. It is
more than a flesh wound, then, something feels very much broken. Tony tries his
best to keep standing. His vision is spotted with grey dots, but he can make
out Peter´s motionless form around ten feet away. He
can feel his heart rate doubling. The kid can´t be -
The few moments it takes to
carry himself to Peter´s side, fall onto his knees and check the kid´s pulse
with trembling hands seem like the longest in his life. But there it is, the steady
beating, way too fast to be reassuring - but god, the boy is alive. Tony lets
out a breath he didn´t know he´d been holding. He feels shaky.
Peter´s face is showing the
worst sunburn Tony has ever seen in his life. He wonders again how long they
have been stranded here. It was morning when they left for the test flight, and now the sinking sun is nearly touching the horizon. Which means that they
have been lying in bright sunlight for a whole day. And while Tony is badly overheated, his
head was at least protected from direct irradation by the sand.
Peter…Tony feels his forehead, and yes, the kid is sweltering, but not
sweating anymore. Heat stroke it is, then. He curses under his breath. The boy needs
to be moved into shade as soon as possible. All he wants to do is lie
down next to Peter and sink into a well-deserved sleep, but he knows he can´t.
Instead, he heaves himself up and inspects his surroundings.
The plane is lying a
few hundred yards away. He doubts he can make it until there without passing out, but
even if, it would probably be unadvisable to do so. The jet is equipped with a brim-full
fuel tank in case the arc reactor fails, and the fact that it hasn´t blown up
yet doesn´t mean it won´t do exactly that the moment Tony reaches there. He can´t see any technical equipment in the few wrack parts around him, and
both he and the boy were wearing civilian clothes, not suits, so there is no way to contact
anyone for help right now. He´s got to make use of whatever debris is at hand.
It takes longer than he´d like to admit, but by
nightfall Tony has constructed a makeshift shelter from scraps – he is an
engineer, after all - and dragged Peter out of the sun. He has also found a
single full bottle of water, and, though aware of its
preciousness, he is using some of it to wet the kid´s head periodically in order to cool
Peter´s enhanced body skills
and the fact that his organs appear to be working gives Tony hope that the
kid will pull through. He holds on to this fact as he sits with him throughout
the night, trying to ignore the pain in his foot and the growing thirst, and
willing the lingering panic away. This is not Afghanistan. This is not
Yinsen. Someone will come for them, and they´ll get out just fine.
It is a few hours into the
night when Peter stirs for the first time.
“Ow…” The boy´s hands
wander clumsily towards his burnt face, on which blisters are beginning to
show. Tony stops him in the air.
“Don’t touch, Peter. It´s
just gonna hurt more. You´re okay.”
The boy is only half
conscious, looking at him with wide, fever-glazed eyes. Tony is not sure
whether he recognizes him. He uses the opportunity to bring the water bottle to
Peter´s lips and feed him a few sips. The kid swallows mechanically two, three
times, then his face contorts, and he retches it back up into Tony´s lap. The
older man gives him thirty seconds before he tries again.
“N-Nauseous.” Peter presses
between gritted teeth, refusing to open his mouth.
“Yes, I know, kid. Just try
to keep it down, okay? We don´t have that much water left.”