desert dreams


Mayor Tydaze welcomes you to Oasis!

Dream Address: 5B00-002B-8BBE

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.

Shadow of the Day

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 can´t breathe.

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. His arms are trashing around in a desperate attempt to pull himself out of the desert. His 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 swallows convulsively.

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.

Whereas 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 him down.

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.”

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