Chapter Text
The light is blinding, and Tony flinches away from it. He feels his whole body stiffen, feels his stomach sink.
It’s not fair—they’d just left. The bruises from the last beating hadn’t even had time to sink into his skin. They’re messing with the established pattern, the routine—and it’s not fair. They’re supposed to give him a couple of hours to recover, to cower in the dark and to hate them in peace. To hate himself, in the silence.
There’s a huge shadow looming in the cell entrance now, a man—a big man—silhouetted against the sterile brightness from the hallway outside. Probably there are more waiting outside, waiting their turn.
Tony keeps his body still, keeps his eyes lowered. The light is making his eyes water, and anyway—it’s not a good idea to make eye contact. Sometimes they read that as a show of defiance. It makes them beat him harder.
The hulking shadow comes closer, and Tony feels his shoulders constrict. He can’t hear anything past the deafening pound of his own heartbeat.
He should be used to this by now. He’s been in this cell for—a long time. He can’t tell, anymore, when one day ends and another begins. All that exists is the safe, quiet darkness—and the unpredictable (terrifying) light.
This is Tony’s life: he sits in the darkness and waits for (dreads) the light. The light brings food, water occasionally. More often, it brings pain and shame.
He’d fought, at first. He’d yelled and threatened and lashed out with fists and feet and teeth. When that hadn’t worked, he’d bargained, he’d promised, he’d begged. But they never listened to him—and they never wanted anything they couldn’t rip from him, given or not.
It had taken him long, painful weeks to realize that, and when he did—he finally fell silent. Now he just waits.
The shadow—the man—reaches toward him and Tony can’t help it, he turns his face away reflexively, twists his head to the side. The movement makes the sharp edges of the metal collar dig into his neck, reopen barely-healed wounds. Tony hisses from the pain, and the corresponding rush in his ears drowns out the first words the man says to him.
Tony keeps his eyes lowered, holds his breath. It was probably an instruction—a demand—that he’d missed, something he’ll be punished for not obeying. He tries to brace for the inevitable blow, the slap, the punch.
But when the hand finally touches him, it—doesn’t hurt. He feels a strong, calloused palm brush against his cheek, whisper soft. The fingers curl gently around his chin and tilt his face forward until Tony sees—
A cowl—friendly somehow, familiar. Stars and stripes and an unbreakable shield ringed with red. Tony curls his bound hands into fists on his lap, feels something lurch in his chest. He makes himself drag his gaze up—it’s slow going, agonizing like hope—until he’s looking into devastating (devastated) blue eyes.
“Tony,” the man whispers.
It’s—Steve. Steve.