A/n: I just want to give an extra double special shout-out to my betas, because honestly you readers, you have no idea how much wrangling this beastly story has taken. To Stars (the most awesome beta there is), and to my Beta Branch ladies, especially Hope (with speedy edits and much-appreciated excitement and character discussions) Cari (who kept assuring me this thing really is worth doing) and Joy (who knows history like nobody's business). Thank you, thank you, thank you - I can't say it enough. Your help (in all forms) has been invaluable. \o/ \o/
[ TONY ]
"If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." –Spock, Star Trek (2009)
Tony's arms shook as he struggled to stay upright, using the table for support. The others in the room watched him with mixed looks of concern and puzzlement.
"Sir Tony?" Dommal peered at him, worry creasing his young features. "Sir Tony, are you well?"
"Never seen a battle wound before, you puppy?" Mad John grunted and sneered.
"No, I…" Tony's chest felt tight and compressed. Displacement bomb. He couldn't breathe. Displacement. "I…just—I need air…" Not just displaced on the globe—displaced in time...goddamn mother effing...
Dommal and Alric glanced at each other, about to say something, but Tony left them behind, bursting out of the hut and into the camp. He felt trapped and bombarded from every angle as his eyes frantically darted this way and that. A man leading a horse across the dirt; a woman getting water from a well; a pair of men sharpening swords and laughing deep and loud; men loading a wagon—it's real, it's real, it's real…
Tony took off for the forest, back the way he'd come earlier with Alric and Dommal. His feet pounded across the grass. His heart threatened to smash out of his chest. He spotted the pond in the clearing he'd woken up in earlier and he bee-lined for it.
The bomb—it wasn't just physical space—oh God, oh God…
He crashed to his hands and knees at the water's edge, his breath still coming short and shallow. He knew from experience that it was a panic attack, and he fought it down, struggling to get his focus back. He splashed his face with the pond water a few times, sucking in deep shaky breaths.
But he was in medieval Scotland. Freaking medieval Scotland . And genius he may be, but how in the hell was he supposed to get out of here and back not only to New York (which wouldn't exist for, like, a thousand years, literally) but back to his own timeline?
It wasn't like he had any sort of tools or technology that he could jury-rig together and invent a damn time machine. He was so far removed from the modern world, he'd never even see electricity, let alone hold a piece of working tech in his hands, as long as he lived here.
He stared at his wavering reflection in the rippling water.
There has to be a way, he thought, heart bashing against his ribs. There has to be a way, somehow. I can't be stuck here forever. I can't, I can't—I can't leave Pepper behind, this cannot be happening. Breathe—there has to be a way out of this. Steve and Clint say there is always a way of any—
"Augh! " Tony jumped backwards away from the water. His reflection had just changed.
He told himself that it was impossible, and crazy. He was potentially suffering from a psychotic break due to the fact that he'd woken up in freaking medieval Scotland like fifteen minutes ago. It still took him a good second or two before he very cautiously ventured forward to peer at the water again.
"Tony?"
And now the water was speaking to him.
"Yup," Tony nodded, collapsing his head into his hands. Through his fingers, he mumbled, "I've gone insane."
He heard a familiar chuckle. "You haven't gone insane. Well, yet."
God help him, the disembodied voice sounded like Bruce.
"That's very reassuring coming from the…from wherever you're coming from," said Tony.
"Look down."
"I'd rather not."
"Tony, look down."
Cringing and reluctant to entertain any further delusions or hallucinations, Tony peeked between his fingers at the water's surface. Instead of his own reflection, however, or the reflection of the forest and sky around him, he saw the face of one Bruce Banner. His friend smiled sheepishly at him, a plain gray wall in the background.
Tony stared through the crack in his fingers.
"Um, I'd say don't freak out, but I think it's a little late for that," Bruce winced.
"What's happening," Tony said—a flat, demanding statement rather than a curious question. "What the hell is happening. Bruce, I'm in goddamn medieval Scotland!"
"Yeah, uh, about that." Bruce cleared his throat. "You're all right, though? Not hurt, or…you're okay?"
Tony made a loud scoffing noise and shook his head. "Oh, awesome. I'm just awesome, Banner. This morning I was eating cupcakes for breakfast and now I'm living out flipping Braveheart! "
"You know most of that movie was largely fic—"
"Really not the time!"
"Right, sorry. Look, I know this is a lot, but you need to calm down—"
"Calm down!" Tony popped to his feet, feeling hysterical, and paced.
It was supposed to be a normal mission. Just disarm a bomb and go home. They'd done it dozens of times before. And once he realized what the bomb was capable of—not that they'd had time to actually disarm the thing—it was just supposed to be a physical displacement deal. Scotland? Sure, fine. Scotland in whatever the hell century this was? So freaking not fine.
What if he was stuck here? What if he never went home? Never saw Pepper again? Or Rhodey? Never again talked to JARVIS? Or the rest of the Avengers?
Another panic attack rose inside of him and he forced himself to look back at Bruce's reflection, to shelve his fear and focus on the science of this whole shit-show. Anything to quell the tightness taking hold in his chest again.
"Where are you?" Tony demanded. He curled his hands into fists at his sides and squeezed until his nails bit into the skin. "And how are you doing this? How'd you find me?"
Bruce shifted uneasily. "I'm in Boston."
"What's it like?" He relaxed his fingers. Exhaled.
"Different." His gaze flicked away to something Tony couldn't see and back again.
Tony narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to ask what Bruce meant by that, when his friend spoke first.
"We don't have much time, so I have to get right to the point. I need to know when you are, as accurately as possible."
Tony huffed. "I have no freaking clue. Medieval times, Middle Ages, Dark Ages, whatever the hell ages. There're guys walking around in suits of armour and coming home from a goddamn battle."
And, really, if he wasn't so freaked out, he'd have to admit that was pretty cool. Who would ever have such a chance to see history like this? (Besides the other Avengers, maybe, depending on where they'd been stuck.)
"There isn't anything you can tell me to help narrow it down? 'Medieval times' isn't, uh, the most specific description."
"Okay," Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to recall exactly what Mad John had said earlier in the hut. "They…they mentioned some guy…David. Some guys were helping to build a monastery or something."
"King David?" asked Bruce curiously. "If that's who they were talking about, that narrows it right down to something like eleventh or twelfth century. I'll have to double check the exact dates, though."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "You just know who that is off the top of your head? Seriously? What're you, Wikipedia?"
Bruce shrugged. "I really like history, and I used to have a lot of time on my hands, remember? There was a ton of reading involved." The corner of his lips turned up in a smile that was part embarrassment and part pride. The image of him wavered.
"How're you doing this?" Tony asked a second time.
Bruce either ignored him or didn't hear him as he flickered again.
"Bruce? Am I losing you?"
"—hear me?" the other man finished, and Tony shook his head.
"Say again," he prompted.
"I need you to promise you won't do anything stupid."
"Define 'stupid'."
"Tony, I mean it—we don't know what kind of an effect having you guys scattered through time will have, so you have to keep your head down," said Bruce gravely.
"Wait, the others aren't with you?"
Bruce shook his head. "You have to blend in and survive, and you can't do anything that might jeopardize the course of history."
Tony chewed his lip. "For example?"
Bruce glared, like he shouldn't have to give one, but replied, "Like using or leaving behind any trace of modern technology. Anything. The armour, your phone, clothes—"
"My clothes? You can't be serious."
"Tony, if someone discovers a, uh, polyester blend shirt a hundred years or a thousand years from where you are now, it could change the trajectory of history in ways we can't predict. You have to destroy everything."
"So you're already assuming I'm going to take my shirt off? Bruce, I have a girlfriend." Tony flashed his friend a grin.
"Tony."
Tony pressed his lips together and couldn't help pouting a little. He understood what Bruce was saying—having archeologists dig up something modern could have dangerous ramifications. He was reminded of Back to the Future and the events of the sequel where an alternate, horrible timeline was created because of one mistake.
His clothes, though?
"Promise me, you'll—"
Bruce's reflection blinked and shimmered. Tony could see Bruce's lips moving but could no longer hear his voice.
"Bruce? Hey, I can't hear you. Lost the connection I think."
The image disappeared completely.
"Bruce?"
Tony waited for several seconds for his friend to reappear, and when he didn't, he concluded that Bruce was officially gone.
He was painfully alone again. At least there was a light at the end of the tunnel, however small, if Bruce was able to work on a solution where he was to bring him and the others home. Tony wondered where the rest of the team had been thrown; Bruce hadn't said. He was really going to be pissed if somebody got to go to some Star Trek future while he was stuck here.
Tony grabbed at a handful of grass and tossed it to the side in frustration. He was trapped and helpless here, and rather at a loss as to what to do next. It wasn't like he had any way of helping Bruce, and he certainly had no way of building a device himself. Not unless he could invent, well, everything. He was so far back in time, it was a wonder that people had ever functioned this way, let alone survived.
But that's what he had to do, he supposed: survive.
Tony gave himself only another few moments to have a pity party over his situation, before he pulled it together and got down to business. As he walked back to the camp, he ran through what he needed to do next.
(And tried to keep breathing which should not have been so hard. He clenched his fists as he walked.)
He had to deal with his armour and his tech, for starters. Much as it pained him to do so, he wasn't about to be the guy who completely effed up the entire space time continuum or something by leaving behind a piece of modern tech. His mind spun with a million and one possibilities, but he took Bruce's advice to heart: he would do his best not to mess up history (well, he'd sure as hell try, anyway).
He still thought it was mind-blowingly cool to be here…after the initial huge shock had worn off, of course.
Tony sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. So, medieval Scotland. He could do this. Sure. He knew lots of things about the Dark Ages. Like there were knights and ladies and castles and stuff. And battles and…wait, wasn't there a massive plague that wiped everybody out at some point? God, he hoped he wasn't anywhere near that little nugget of history. The last thing he needed was to die by the Black Death or bubonic plague or whatever while he was stuck here.
As he reentered the camp and observed the utter primitiveness surrounding him, Tony swallowed hard. He honestly knew very, very little about medieval times. Well, past what he saw in the movies and on Game of Thrones, but he was pretty sure that didn't count.
Blend in, he thought, remembering Bruce's words, and frowned. Right. He inhaled slow and steady, fighting the tremble lingering in his hands.
"There you are, Sir Tony!" Dommal exclaimed, striding across the dirt. "Are you quite well? We feared for you when you tore off in such a state."
"I'm fine—I'm well," Tony replied with a shrug, quelling the burst of nerves in his stomach.
It hadn't mattered before that he was different and not from here (physically and temporally speaking) because he hadn't known better. Now, he was having visions of being burned at the stake or getting his head in a guillotine if he stood out too much—that's what they did in those days, right? These days? He suddenly worried everyone could see right through him and knew he didn't belong, so he fought to keep his cool.
Don't panic, don't panic, he thought. Time to improvise. He put his hand to his head, wincing as if he had a headache (not entirely untrue).
"Sir Tony?"
"Ah, you know what… I took a pretty bad blow to the head in the accident I mentioned, and I'm, um, afraid it's messed me up," said Tony, hoping he sounded convincing enough.
Did amnesia exist here? Could he "invent" it without accidentally causing an apocalypse?
"I'm really disoriented," he continued. "And I can't remember things, even simple things. In fact, just treat me like I don't know anything, and hopefully my memory will come back soon on its own."
Dommal's concerned expression cleared somewhat. "I see. Truly, I have seen similar injuries before. They are quite tricky and bewildering."
"Yeah, so, pardon my, er, strangeness." Tony cringed. That took care of his lack of knowledge about, well, everything. Now he just had to deal with the clothes and armour issue.
"It's quite all right, Sir Tony. Things like this happen." Dommal reassured him with a smile. "We shall take good care of you here, and I shall be your guide until you are reunited with your companions."
"Thanks, buddy," Tony replied without thinking.
"Bud-dee?" Dommal repeated unsurely.
"Yeah, it's—it means friend."
"Ah! Well, 'tis no trouble, bud-dee."
Tony chuckled and relaxed. He decided he liked Dommal.