Chapter Text
Tony Stark hates the cold.
He doesn't like being handed things and he doesn't do handshakes if he can avoid them. He steers clear of pickles on sandwiches, rarely gets them on a burger, and refuses to keep them in his fridge at home. He doesn't care for birds in the house because the sounds they make give him bad headaches and he already gets migraines that take him out for days on end. He didn't used to be a cat person, but now that Bucky brought Alpine home, he's changing his mind on that.
Tony doesn't like the texture of asparagus and artichokes and keeps away from both if he can manage. He stopped drinking beer when he was younger because it tastes like shit no matter how it's made or poured and wine gives him heartburn. He doesn't drink anymore anyway.
In truth, there are a lot of things Tony Stark dislikes, but there's only the one thing he truly hates. Tony hates the cold. He hates being cold. He hates feeling the chill in his bones or the way his extremities start to tingle and go stiff as the cold seeps in. He hates how tired it makes him. He hates how much more the cold gets to him now that he's older and now that he's gone through taking on the power of the Infinity Stones against Thanos.
He hates the way the cold creeps in around the reactor in his chest, tugging at the skin that's fused to its edges, almost searing in how frigid it gets. He hates the ache that drills into his chest and makes him lose his breath worse than it ever has in the past. He hates that he'll step outside, bundled as much as he can be, only to have that stab of cold radiate through his chest and bring panic rising in him faster than he can draw two breaths.
He hates that right now, at 10:40 at night, he can see his breath as he's sitting on the hood of his car in the middle of nowhere, stranded for the first time since he can ever really remember. Honestly, he probably hasn't felt this isolated since he was trapped in those caves.
He can't even access FRIDAY. His phone is gone, lost somewhere in the snow that's piling up around his car. His watch is dead, the screen cracked and broken beyond repair. His car has completely lost all power, not even having the energy to maintain the hazards, and it's no more warm inside than it is outside.
He has a couple things with him that help, for now. He keeps a couple blankets and coats in the car for emergencies. He's got a shovel, shears, flashlight, and an emergency first aid kit. He's already broken into the kit to tend to the wound on his head and the other on his arm just below where his broken watch used to sit against his wrist. He's wrapped in two blankets, with a coat underneath it all, but he can still feel the cold.
He knows he should be in the car, to keep out of the snow and wind, but he had begun to panic in the confined space, especially after the crash compacted it even more, and slipped outside for fresh air, only to be bombarded by even more cold.
Now, as the cold wind tears at his face and neck, he stares into the distance, only able to see a field of white as the snow continues to cloud his vision. He imagines headlights through the haze. Maybe a trucker with a heater and a soft spot for Iron Man. Or maybe a silhouette he's come to know all too well over the past few years, especially as it's graced his walls and curtains nightly.
Because Tony knows Bucky doesn't mind the cold. Bucky doesn't care for it, but he can handle it. He knows what to expect and he's dealt with it enough that he can withstand it, though he might grumble. And he's usually pretty good at distributing heat even in the coolest conditions. Tony's had plenty of winter nights where the cold was a bit too much even with their blankets, but Bucky's warmth was just enough to help keep the chill out.
There's nothing in the distance but more snow, however, and Tony is starting to get tired. The cold is stealing his energy and the reactor is slowing down because of it as well. He has to focus on making sure his breathing is steady and he's actually making it all the way through each breath, occasionally drawing a startled, aching gasp in when his body seems almost to forget how for a moment.
He knows this is bad. He's been bad before, but this is pretty much at the top of the list. In other bad situations, he had ways out. This one doesn't have any sort of answer he can find. He's miles away from the nearest hint of civilization and the snow is already ankle deep. He can't walk in this in plain dress shoes and slacks. Even with a blanket or two wrapped around him, he wouldn't make it very far, and he knows that.
His best bet would be to find his cell and hope it's still working. It should at least have survived the crash, considering it's StarkTech, but then again so was his watch.
He looks back at the driver's side window, where a broken branch is sticking out after having broken through the glass during a heavy wind and snow storm, causing the crash. The angle it had come through had pinned his arm perfectly with the steering wheel, locking him into a turn and causing him to spin out. With the wind already as bad as it had been and the snow and ice on the ground, it's surprising there isn't more damage to the car.
He'd slammed into the cliffside with the driver's side at the rear and the car had finally come to rest, trapping Tony in via his door. It had taken him 20 minutes to get his arm free, his watch breaking completely as he'd wriggled and scraped his wrist out of the twisted remains of the steering wheel. He did his best to wrap it, but the fact that he'd been able to see bone was… concerning, at best.
The blow to his head when the airbags went off had been bad, too. His head has been pounding ever since and he's got a black eye on the left side, along with a decent gash over that same eye that he pulled together with a few old butterfly bandages whose adhesive is not much longer for this world as it is.
Overall, he could absolutely be doing better, but the ache in his wrist isn't as bad as it was. It's actually gone pretty numb, and he's not sure if that's because of the nerve damage in the injury or because of the cold, but he'll take it for now. He really doesn't know how much longer he can handle all this pain. Every time he turns his head, fireworks explode behind his eyes and his head feels like it's about ready to pop right off his neck.
Uncomfortable is about 87 levels down the list from the word he needs to describe what he's feeling, but he's so deep in whatever that feeling is, he can't focus enough to identify the word. He closes his eyes as groans, bringing a shaking hand up to brush his hair off his forehead. He feels sick, overheated, and freezing cold all at once, and he knows he needs to do something, because sitting here in the open elements is going to kill him.
But the thought of crawling back into the car has his chest getting tight with fear and he can't even think about how long he'll be stuck out here. Or how deep the snow might get.
What if it gets so deep that he gets truly trapped in the car? What will he do then? He's resourceful, but he's not about to just be able to survive out here. He knows it. The last time he ended up stranded in the middle of a snowy landscape, he had to drag a suit across miles and almost didn't make it.
As these thoughts fill Tony's head, his chin drifts down, until it touches his chest. His eyes fall closed. He's so tired, he can't stay awake at this point. He starts to doze off, the chill engulfing him and the wind lulling him to sleep, but he's woken by a sharp sound somewhere nearby.
He opens his eyes, squinting into the snow and listening. The sound is distant, but so distinctive. It's a small speaker playing the instrumental version of a song from Les Miserables*. It's his ringtone for Bucky.
During the crash, his phone had been on the passenger seat and had gone flying when at a particularly sharp part of the spinout, the door on that side had been smashed when he ricocheted off a tree. When Tony searched the car after everything settled, he had come up empty-handed on the matter of his phone, so he assumed it had flown the vehicle somehow during the crash and was somewhere in the snow. It wasn't the only thing. It was just the only thing he was worried about.
No. There was one other thing, but that’s securely in his pocket.
Now, hearing Bucky's ringtone, he pushes himself off the hood of the car, trying to pinpoint where the sound is coming from. He gets close, he thinks, but then the sound stops as the phone must go to voice mail. He feels his throat tighten and a broken sob cracks through.
“No,” he whimpers. It's the first word that's left his lips since the crash. The first sound he's made. Even wrapping his wrist, he'd been quiet, driven by adrenaline and silenced by shock. Now, his potential for a rescue was within reach and cut away within seconds and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat. He wants to be sick.
“No, no, no,” he gasps out, turning about where he stands and looking at the snow around him. “Please, call again. Come on, Buck. Call again, babe.”
He knows what this is. He's held hands with panic many times in the past. It's never easy, no matter how familiar they are.
The world around him fades to gray and all the sound gets too loud and too quiet at the same time. He feels like he's in the Lincoln Tunnel. Everything is echoing and bouncing around in his skull and he can't breathe. He turns about again, trying to find something to ground himself, and he gets dizzy. The world moves too slowly for him. Or maybe he's moving too quickly for the world.
Whatever it is, he feels like he can't stay on his feet and his throat goes dry. He drags his tongue along his lips, but there's nothing. It's just cold and cracked and so painful. Every breath hurts so fucking bad and he feels like he's spinning out of control.
Then, the song plays again.
A point of color lights up in the snow. It's faint, but he can see it. His breaths get short and he trudges through the snow that's now as deep as the middle of his calves, wet and unforgiving through his slacks. He gets to the light in the snow and digs, his fingers freezing, through the cold slush. He digs until he gets to his phone, the call ending right as his hand touches the screen.
But it's okay, because his phone is working and he found it. He can call Bucky back. He won't be stuck here for much longer. Hope brings a warmth to his chest as he turns back toward the car, barely able to see its shape in the blizzard. He dials Bucky's number and goes back to his wet blankets and jackets.
“Tony, where are you?” Bucky's voice is a mix of concern and slight irritation. That makes sense. Tony was supposed to be home three hours ago, and it's their anniversary.
Not that Bucky would be upset if their anniversary dinner didn't go as planned, but it's actually not like Tony to be late for these sorts of things anymore, and they had just been talking about their plans a few hours ago. So it makes sense that he's a little upset.
“Somewhere up on Trail Hill Drive,” Tony manages through chattering teeth as he pulls a blanket tighter around himself, the damp from having fallen into the snow seeping into his bones. “I'm somewhere between mile markers 18 and 20.”
There's a short silence on the other end of the line. Then, Bucky's voice is much softer. “Tony? What are you doing up there?”
And that's where Tony winces. He has been trying so hard to keep this quiet as long as he can.
“I've got a buddy that lives up this way, and I stopped by his place on the way home,” he says softly. “I wasn't thinking about the weather and I lost control of the car, got sideswiped by a broken tree branch, and crashed.”
“Are you hurt?” Bucky asks, his tone surprisingly calm. It's almost eerie.
Tony swallows and looks down at his wrist. The bandaging is soaked through with blood and he feels dizzy. “Yeah,” he admits. “P- Pretty bad.”
“Are you still in the car?”
Tony shakes his head before remembering he has to answer out loud. “No. N- No, I got out. I was panicking. I was panicking inside.”
“It sounds like you're panicking outside,” Bucky says matter-of-factly. “I'm gonna get some help and make my way to you, but I need you to get in the car and breathe for me. You're gonna be safer in the car than out of it. Nobody but an idiot is gonna be driving that road in this weather.”
Tony frowns. “Ouch.”
“Well…” Bucky's voice trails off.
“Fair point,” Tony mutters. “I had my reasons.”
Bucky hums softly and Tony can hear him moving around. He can hear the phone switch over to the speaker and Bucky tapping out some texts, the sound of the haptic response from the letters clicking on his end of the call. It makes Tony smile softly. He'd offered once to show Bucky how to turn that off and Bucky had declined.
“I actually like the sound,” Bucky had said. “Something about it makes it feel more real.”
Tony didn't get it at the time, but now he doesn't know what he'd do if Bucky ever turned the sound off. It's so much a part of Bucky.
“Who are you texting?” Tony asks, feeling his eyes drooping again.
“Sam, Happy, maybe Rhodey,” Bucky mumbles. “This snow is no joke, Tone. I can't just take my bike up there to you. We're either gonna have to call in some favors or see if we can't fly in to you.”
“Wouldn't that be dangerous?” Tony hums.
“Extremely. Winds are picking up. Sam says it's probably not the best idea to take wings out to you, but he's got a few buddies in the fire district out that way that can get up there. They can at least get you down to their station and then I can come get you.”
“You shouldn't drive in this,” Tony tells him.
Bucky stays quiet for a long moment. Tony swallows heavily.
“Buck?”
Bucky hums.
“I love you.”
Bucky lets out a breath. “I love you, doll,” he murmurs, and there's no hint of exasperation or anger. All of the irritation that was there is gone now, and Tony suddenly realizes…
Bucky never says those words with anything but the softest voice. He never has any negative tone to him when he says them. He's never angry when he says them. It's never bitter or resentful. Tony's heard those words said that way before. Backhanded and half-hearted. But Bucky puts all of his heart behind them, no matter what mood he's in.
“When I get home, I'm gonna ask you to marry me,” Tony says quietly.
Bucky chuckles. “You know I'll say yes,” he offers. “But we've got a little time left. Don't worry.”
“Not really,” Tony whispers, swallowing again. “I'm in my 50s, Buck. I've already dodged death too many times. We don't really have time.”
He can hear Bucky's breath hitch. “Tony, please don't make me have this conversation with you over the phone.” There's a pain in his voice that Tony hates. He hates it more than the cold that's making him shiver uncontrollably now.
“It's getting really cold out here, babe,” Tony says. “I'm getting really cold.”
“Did you get back in the car yet?” Bucky asks, his voice going quiet again.
“No,” Tony admits. “I'm too cold to move. I want to. Because you want me to. But it's too cold. And I'm tired.”
If he's being entirely honest, Tony's starting to feel sluggish and weak. The panic from a few minutes ago left him drained and there's almost nothing left in him. He wants to just lie down where he's standing and sleep, but he knows the snow will cover him and make it worse. Everything will just be worse.
His best bet is to stand here and try to keep talking to Bucky until those friends of Sam's get here.
“Bucky, I'm scared,” Tony says. “My wrist is broken. I could see the bone, but I can't feel it anymore. I feel like I'm about to pass out. Everything is so cold and there's nothing but snow everywhere I look. I shouldn't have been up here, but I thought I'd get out before the storm hit, and now I- I'm really scared I'll never see your face again.”
He sobs softly, his face stinging where two white hot tears slip down his cheeks, leaving their marks for the wind and cold to bite into his skin.
Bucky sighs quietly, his breath shuddering. “I'll get you soon, Tony,” he promises. “We'll see each other, baby. It's gonna be okay.”
“You know,” Tony whispers, “those are the things you say when you know things aren't gonna be okay, but you want to help ease things for the other person.”
“Maybe some people,” Bucky offers. “But I mean it. I'm going to get you back to me. I've already got Happy bringing me a car. Sam got his friends out looking for you. We know you're between miles 18 and 20. We are getting you home tonight. Or at least to a hospital.”
Tony shivers and pulls the wet blanket tighter around himself. All it does is make him feel heavier, more disgusting. “I don't feel good,” he whispers. Somewhere in the back of his mind he notes that he's shivering less than he was even just five minutes ago, so maybe the blanket is helping, despite being wet.
Alongside that thought, alarm bells go off, but he's not sure why.
“Tony?” Bucky's voice sounds far away. Tony blinks his eyes open, lifting his head. He hadn't realized he'd dropped his chin to his chest again. His breathing is shallow and rough and when he looks to where he'd been holding the phone in his hand, he can't see it anymore. It's at his feet now, slowly sinking back into the snow, Bucky's voice growing more and more distant.
Tony stares at the light of the phone as it falls below the snow, the heat of the device just warm enough to melt the slush he's standing in. He moves to bend down and pick it up again, but his balance is shot. He staggers, his left foot tangling in the blanket, and goes down, putting out his hand to catch himself without thinking about the injury.
He doesn't feel it when the already exposed bone snaps under his weight. He's too cold. All he feels is that he's lying down, head spinning, vision swimming. His chest is hurting so bad. The reactor is slowing down in the cold and everything feels like it's on fire from that point radiating outward.
Tony's vaguely aware of Bucky's voice still calling to him from somewhere nearby, but it's so distant now. Like a dream fading away as he wakes. Except he's not waking up. He's losing consciousness.
He doesn't think he's ever actively lost consciousness like this before, but he can feel his head shutting down. His thoughts are slowing and he can feel everything else following suit until his blinking turns into closing his eyes for a few seconds at a time. And then he just doesn't want to open them again.