Chapter 3

He came to with a groan. At first, he didn't know where he was.

It was hot all around him, and there was sand and dust in his face and in his eyes - where had his glasses gone? - and his leg. God, his leg. His right arm and leg were both throbbing with agony.

He brushed the sand out of his eyes and looked around, squinting to make out the bright world around him. He looked down at his leg, which was burning like it was on fire, and grimaced.

Oh yes. The plane. They had taken the plane and it had crashed.

He was lying on his back, with his legs pinned and possibly crushed under part of a wing of the Dassault NGF F20.

Catching his breath, he remembered how it had felt to jump out of the rapidly falling plane straight into the air with no parachute or any sort of protective gear. It had been incredibly freeing...and terrifying.

He had tucked up into a roll midair and mentally crossed his fingers that if he was destined to die out here in the desert that he would die quickly on impact.

That wish had not been granted.

He had plummeted into the soft sand - pain had exploded in his right arm - then bounced and rolled until he had come to a bruising stop.

As he had lain coughing and gasping for breath, he had heard and felt the plane impact the ground not far from him with a roar like a small earthquake. After a moment, there was a loud BANG and hunks of metal flew rapidly out in all directions, hitting the sand around him like oddly-shaped meteors or very large pieces of shrapnel.

He had seen a dark shadow coming rapidly towards him and instinctively raised his arms, or rather, arm, since his right arm was useless now-

-and the world had gone dark.

Now, he gazed blankly at the large aircraft wing covering the lower half of his body and wondered vaguely if he had been crushed by the heavy piece of metal or if he still had functioning legs left.

He tried to move his legs and-

His left leg seemed to be alright, but there was definitely something very wrong with his right leg. The impromptu self-assessment drew a strangled scream out of his dry throat and left him blinking away tears of agony from his eyes.

And then he remembered that he had not been alone.

"Clive? Clive! 002? Can you hear me? Clive!"

"Robert." He heard a weak cough from some distance away and the panic fluttering in his chest subsided a little. "You okay, kid?"

"I- I'm trapped," Robert responded with a shaky breath, "I can't move. You?"

"Okay, kid. Robert," the agent said, and he must have heard the agitation in Robert's voice because he said soothingly, "Calm down for me, okay?"

Robert closed his eyes and pushed the back of his head down against the hot sand. He breathed deeply.

In. Out. In. Out.

"Okay."

In. Out.

The blisteringly hot rays of the sun beat down on his face, and he had the hysterical thought that he hadn't had the chance to put on another layer of sunblock. His fair skin burned so easily.

Clive's voice came again. It sounded a little weak, a little strained. "Are you hurt anywhere, Robert?"

"Arm. My- my leg." Oh, god, it hurt so much.

"Okay," Clive said calmly, "Can you move the other leg? Can you move your other arm?"

Robert continued his breathing exercise, realizing belatedly that the agent was assessing his condition. "Y-yes. I can move them. Left arm is free. Right's broken. My leg. My leg's pinned." Robert couldn't help it; his voice wavered and tears sprung into his eyes. It hurt so much.

"Okay." The other man's soothing voice trickled into his ear through the rushing of the blood in his veins. "It's okay, Robert. You're okay. How far are you trapped? Legs only? Chest?"

Robert took another moment to breathe. "Legs."

"Okay, that's good."

"I'm bleeding," Robert said, thinking he should probably let the agent know. "There's blood. I think it's a lot." He wasn't able to see it, but he felt the wetness soaking through his trouser leg.

The concern in Clive's voice went up a notch. "From the leg? Is there anything you can use to tie it off? Can you get your belt or tie off?" There was urgency in the man's voice now. A demand to move, to act.

Robert fumbled at his neck. There, yes, the navy blue necktie he'd treated himself to two months ago. "Yes."

Then he painfully levered himself up to a sitting position so he could get the ends of the tie around his right leg. He tied a loose knot, then put one end of the tie between his teeth so he could pull it tight with his uninjured hand.

"Tight as you can, okay? Right above the bleeding."

"I tied it," Robert finally said through gritted teeth, dropping the end of the ruined silk tie from his lips. He rocked in pain, cradling his broken arm. The tears streamed unchecked down his face, since there was no one to see.

"You're doing just fine, Robert," he heard Clive's comforting voice say through the haze of pain.

"Say," the man went on in a lighter tone of voice that was incongruous with their setting and this situation, "is that your real name? Robert Frobisher? Clive Woodslow actually is my name. No family to speak of, so they let me keep it. Bit of a silly name, isn't it? Maybe I should have asked to change it."

Robert - Robert-Danny-Freddie-so many other names - felt his mind stutter to a stop. No, he couldn't tell, could he? But Alec was always teasing him about being too serious about rules that no one followed anyway. And it wasn't like he always followed the rules either, being a world-class hacker and explosives expert by the time he was thirteen. But names were secret, personal things, weren't they?

God, his head hurt so much. And his leg. His leg was on fire, throbbing, stabbing agony, and his arm wasn't far behind. His pale skin was starting to burn, too. He could see the skin on his bare hands turning lobster-red, and he knew that his face and neck were in the same state.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to be back in his cubicle in Q-Branch with a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He wanted to be home in his safe little flat and the new potted plant he had just bought himself. He wanted to go home to his dad's, where he had never felt unsafe in his life.

He wanted his dad.

. . . . .

The kid didn't respond, but he was conscious. Clive could hear him crying. Well, he'd certainly earned a good cry.

After a couple of minutes, Clive said, "It's alright if you don't want to tell me. It's not important. I was only trying to get you to calm down. That's all. It's okay, kid. It's going to be okay."

"Danny," the kid nearly sobbed, "My name's Danny."

"Okay, Danny," Clive said, trying to make his voice as reassuring as he could.

First objective: Calm the kid down. Get him to stop crying because that was a waste of precious water.

Second objective: Get him out safely.

"Okay. Do you think you can get out from under the thing trapping you? Maybe dig in the sand a little? Take your time."

A hitching breath and a couple of sniffles. "Yes. Okay."

A scuffling sound followed, like sand being dug up and thrown aside. Then a grunt and a muffled scream.

"Kid? Danny?"

Clive jerked his head up instinctively, trying to see past the large chunk of metal that had landed near him. He stifled a groan as white-hot stars of pain exploded behind his eyes. "Shit," he whispered softly when he'd caught his breath. He cursed a little more.

"I'm okay," he heard Robert-Danny say shakily after a few moments. "My leg's broken." Then it seemed that the kid had taken a deep breath and gathered a bit of courage because he said firmly, "And I'm not a kid. Stop treating me like a goddamned child."

There was that spirit that had been missing for the last half hour.

Clive grinned in relief. The kid was fine. "Okay, okay, not a kid," he lied. "Don't bite my head off."

There was a dragging sound and another pained groan.

"Danny? What are you doing?"

"Finding you," the kid huffed, sounding strained. "To help you."

Clive cursed in his head. "There's no need for that. I'm fine."

"Bullshit. If you were fine, you'd have come to help me. You're not fine."

Well, shit. The kid was a genius, after all.

"Don't move, Danny," he tried again. "It's not safe."

The dragging sound continued. The kid's dark head soon came into view, his determined face bright red with sunburn under the streaks of smoke and dirt. His lips were bitten bloody, and he dragged himself along using only his left leg and arm.

Clive watched the realization hit his young partner.

"Oh, no," the kid whispered.

"It's okay," Clive said softly.

The large piece of metal lodged in his gut moved as he spoke, and he clenched his teeth against the pain, tasting the blood coating his throat and mouth. Red continued to leak out into the ever-thirsty sand of the dry desert, drop by drop.

He was thankful, however, that he couldn't feel anything below his waist; he could see from his position that his legs were mangled beyond repair.

Danny carefully dragged himself closer, soon coming within reach of him. He stretched out a shaking hand to Clive's, tears spilling down his cheeks in despair. His green eyes appeared more vibrant without his glasses.

Their hands were sticky and slick with drying blood that belonged to the both of them, but they clasped them anyway, clinging tightly to the other as to a lifeline.

Perhaps, to the boy, he was. Clive had been through too much to need one.

No, that was a lie. As much as his heart ached for the innocence lost to the kid, he was glad that he wasn't dying alone.

. . . . .

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Clive asked. It was getting harder to speak, to stay awake, to think.

His sluggish brain finally caught on to what the kid meant. "It's not your fault."

Silence.

"Danny."

The kid was shaking his head and trembling, a miserable look on his sunburnt face. "I'm sorry."

Clive gritted his teeth. He had to distract the kid. He had to do his best to make sure the kid would survive this. "I need you to do something for me."

The dust-covered head of dark hair came up. "Anything."

Eager. So eager, and so damned young.

Clive gestured weakly at the horizon, which was going dark from both the setting sun and an approaching cloud of sand. "There's a sandstorm coming. You need to find shelter."

He pointed at the torn-off fuselage some distance away, part of which had stuck in the sand, creating a protective dome. "There. Keep your face covered when the storm hits."

Danny grabbed Clive's arm to drag them both towards the fuselage with a determined set to his mouth, but Clive put his hand on the skinny wrist to stop him. "Danny, you need to leave me here. I'm not going to make it."

Wide green eyes looked at him, uncomprehending. "No! I-I'm not leaving you behind!"

"Danny," Clive's serious grey eyes forced the other to listen. "I'm a dead man. You still have a chance. Get inside there until the storm passes."

"No. Not without you." Stubborn kid.

Clive switched tactics, desperate now. He knew from the changing color of the sky that the storm was getting closer. "Please, Danny. I made a promise. I intend to keep it."

Danny blinked at him, his eyebrows scrunching together in the middle. "A promise?"

"I promised Alec...I'd keep you safe." Clive watched the boy's dry lips part in surprise. "Go on. It's okay."

The kid's hand on his shoulder loosened. Good. But there was one more thing…

"Wait," he slurred. "Take my jacket. Cover your head with it...protection...from the sand. You'll need it. Gets cold at night."

It wasn't enough to make sure that the kid would survive the storm. It would likely last only a few minutes. But temperatures in the desert at night were low enough to cause hypothermia, and the kid was so skinny, and he was injured on top of everything.

Danny shrank back in revulsion. "No! I'm not going to take your clothes. No."

Alright, Clive thought grimly, and got ready to pull out all the stops. "Not gonna make...breaking a promise...the last thing I do, are you?" he said with wet, shuddering breaths. "Take it. I don't need it. You do. Got your whole life...ahead of you.

"Please," he whispered, and he was no longer sure if he was acting or if he really couldn't speak any louder. A tear rolled down his cheek and dropped down into the dry sand. "Do it for me, kid."

Danny sobbed as he slowly worked the blood-soaked suit jacket off of his companion with tight-lipped resolve.

Clive Woodslow passed out halfway through the painful process. He never woke up.

. . . . .

The dust storm roared in from the west, pounding fine sand into everything it touched. Rough grains found their way into every crack and crevice, and wore down at every surface.

Danny curled up inside the creaking dark hollow dome of the broken fuselage and hoped that it wouldn't fly away with the strength of the wind and leave him defenseless.

Miserable, angry tears leaked out of his sun-sore eyes into the grey suit jacket that smelled faintly of cologne and sweat and blood. He had followed Clive's instructions and wrapped it around his head to shield his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears from the merciless blasting of the stinging sand.

He sobbed into the stifling fabric of the jacket and mourned his companion, who was doubtless dead now, suffocated by the whirling desert sand. Or perhaps...Perhaps he'd died from his injuries while Danny had been dragging himself to shelter.

Either way, the double-oh agent, who had done everything he could to keep him safe, was dead.

He wished that he could have done something - Wasn't there anything he could have done? If there was...If there had been...If he could have...

He shuddered and pulled himself as much into a ball as he could with his broken arm and leg.

He wished...He wished that he could wake up from this sodding nightmare.

. . . . .

Forty-seven miles away, at the site of another plane crash, Alec Trevelyan hunched down in the tightly-closed helicopter and waited impatiently for the storm to pass. He had already torn apart the remains of two plane crashes that day, looking for survivors, and he was itching to get to the third.

He needed to find his friends.

He needed to find Danny.

. . . . .