For @stevetonygames prompt fluff: there was only one bed for team angst. MCU.
Steve managed to keep ahead of the US government and its warrant on his head for two years before Ross finally caught up to him via a monster called the Abomination. Steve could’ve sworn SHIELD had destroyed this awful iteration of Bruce’s formula, but no. SHIELD wasn’t exactly trustworthy, was it. So of course the Abomination had been set free, and while Steve was strong, he wasn’t Hulk strong. He was probably lucky he wasn’t dead, considering the last thing he remembered was the Abomination’s fist connected with his face.
He woke up in the raft, hating that he was familiar with the walls, that he knew that bright piercing florescence. He was laid out on a cot, what essentially amounted to a tarp stretched between metal bars. There was an inhibitor collar on his throat, like the one they’d discovered on Wanda when he rescued them the first go around. He assumed it was sapping the strength to his muscles. Fun.
Once he was awake, Steve expected Ross to come gloating, but no one came. Steve entered a stasis mode, laid out on the cot, listening to the groans of a penitentiary at sea. SHIELD-inspired, no doubt, this idea that fortresses should be ever-moving. Hours passed. There was a hiss at the far end of the room and a meal appeared in a slot, seemingly sent sans human contact. Steve blinked at the sad fair of shortening-baked biscuits (no salt), powdered mashed potatoes barely reconstituted, and indiscriminate meat mash. Still better than the war, probably, but he couldn’t bring himself to be hungry.
He felt like his mind ought to be turning over escape plans or contemplating the nature of justice in a global world, but—and maybe it was the lingering effects of an Abomination-induced coma—his world felt fuzzy. Maybe they’d drugged him. Whatever it was, though, he just couldn’t bring himself to care. What would that headline look like? Captain America starves to death in Raft prison! Of course that was assuming anyone even knew he was there.
But someone knew. Someone always knew. Hours—days? weeks?—after his capture, Tony appeared in the glass doorway, much as he’d apparently appeared to the other rogue Avengers when they were first captured. There was a beep and a hiss and then the door popped open.
“Come on, Big Blue, we’ve got about two minutes before the system reboots.”
Steve blinked slowly, trying to summon up energy, anger, something, anything, to get himself moving again. He couldn’t. The world was a cotton-ball blur.
“Are you hurt? Cap? … Steve?” Tony sounded so small in that moment, Steve actually managed to turn his head to look up. Tony looked terrible. Exhausted, too thin, bruised, bloody. He wasn’t wearing the armor. Where was his armor? Tony stepped forward, kneeling a little to tuck his arm under Steve’s shoulders, but in that moment, the glass door slammed shut again.
Tony whipped around, staring in disbelief. “No. No! Fry? Shit!”
The speakers crackled to life as Tony rushed back to the door, beating ineffectually against the double-layered bulletproof glass. “Mr. Stark. What a surprise. I honestly expected you sooner.” Steve hadn’t been able to muster any energy for Tony, but for Ross, he had a little something left. He heaved himself off the bed and drunkenly hurled himself at the door. The impact was far away, reverberating through his body. Not even a crack appeared in the glass.
“Nice try, Captain, but you see, you’ve broken the law. As has Mr. Stark by coming here to rescue you. We can’t be letting law breakers loose, now can we?” The smug twist in Ross’ voice made Steve’s blood boil, clearing his head in a way it hadn’t been clear in weeks. What had he been doing in that time? There was evidence of his eating in the form of crumbs on the cot, a half-used roll of toilet paper. Had he been sleep-walking through life?
With his new-found clarity, Steve reared back and punched the door again. Three knucklebones broke on impact. Staggering back, Steve cradled his wounded fist in rage. “Fuck,” he hissed, and slumped back down onto the cot, collapsing into a horrible slouch against the wall.
Only then did he turn his attention to Tony, who was huddled in a corner of the cell, legs drawn up and hands over his head. Did he expect Steve to beat him? Well, maybe. After all, Steven had beaten him the last time they’d seen each other. Sighing, Steve rubbed his face. His mouth tasted disgusting. Had he been brushing his teeth? Did he even have a toothbrush. His beard and hair were out of control. Shaggy and greasy. He must look terrifying.
From his terrified crouch, Tony peeked out through his bony fingers. In any other situation, it would’ve been hilarious, but now, it just filled Steve with an ache of sadness. Tony didn’t respond. Steve had nothing but time now, so he gave Tony his space and instead studied the cell with a new attention he hadn’t had before.
The lights never dimmed. No one came by since the food was delivered via dumbwaiter in hidden compartment. Before Tony had come, Steve had sometimes, in his vague way, wondered if he’d been the last man on earth.
In the corner, Tony slowly rose, still not speaking, and then shuffled over to stand before Steve.
Steve looked up, see again all of the harsh marks of life written into his skin.
“Hi. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Yeah. Well. Probably should’ve called in your rogue buddies to help me out, but I thought I could rescue you on my own.”
“This was supposed to be a rescue?”
Tony glared, a little of his fire returning. “I should have fucking left you here,” he hissed, venom in his words. “Now Ross has us both right where he wants us.”
Steve couldn’t look away from Tony. He’d missed him. For all their disagreements, for all their mutual betrayals, he’d missed Tony. Before he could think better of it, he snatched Tony’s wrist and yanked him down, messily fumbling Tony into his lap. Steve wrapped both arms around Tony and held on tight, burying his face in Tony’s chest. “Thank you for coming,” he whispered, trying to hold in his tears and snot and failing spectacularly.
Tony was stiff in his grip for several seconds, but finally relaxed, returning the hug. “Believe it or not, buddy, I much prefer you out in the world causing me headaches to you locked up in here looking half-dead.”
“How long have you known I was here?”
Steve didn’t ask anymore. With any luck FRIDAY was still in the system and listening to every word. There might be hope yet. A small, fragile, bittersweet hope, but hope nonetheless. Oh-so-slowly, Steve slumped sideways into the cot, pulling Tony with him until they were laid out on their sides, twined together still.
“I call big spoon,” Tony mumbled, though his attempt at a joke didn’t really land. Steve only held him closer, breathing in the scent of his shirt, which smelled both of sea and of fear sweat. Tony let him keep his comfort for just a little longer before saying, “How long before Ross comes and throws me in my own isolation cell, do you think?”
Steve didn’t think he had the strength to grip tighter still, but apparently he did. “He can try,” Steve growled, and Tony laughed a little.
Together they remained, on the single cot, waiting either to be torn apart or to be rescued.
