Day 5 (Second Hour)

Steve didn't wait for the water to warm up. The heater control lacked finesse. It was icy cold when it rained upon Tony, and he gasped at the burn. He curled into himself, shying away from what might as well be ice cubes poured over his head. And then, the heat, the steaming heat that rolled off his flesh, leaving him gasping for air under the blanket of humidity. So heavy, he couldn't breathe –

"Are you still hungry?" Steve aimed the handheld showerhead a fraction to the left. "I bet there's still more in the kitchen."

"No. It's – I'm fine."

"You sure?"

Tony nodded once, and swiped water off his face. He had his knees pleated closely to his chest, and he sat still in his corner. The good boy he was, he ignored the way Steve worked the showerhead around and under him. Still, Steve was unhappy. Tony could see the bundle of muscle in Steve's jaws and neck twitch. Last he remembered, he was ten when such triviality actually felt threatening – when Howard rumbled into the foyer with tequila and a mad gleam in his eyes. Colour him paranoid – Tony was used to reading every tick, every squint. Used to being afraid. So, when Steve raised his elbow, Tony flinched so hard his arm smacked against the edge of the tub, and he slipped –

"I got you," Steve cooed, one free hand already hooking under Tony's. "Sit up."

With great effort, Tony pushed himself up against the slippery porcelain. His wet skin wouldn't grip, but he didn't dare slip a second time, and his knees grew numb under the strain. Steve held him. He didn't let go. Tony wished he would.

"Give me your hands. Grab the sides of the tub."

Tony shook his head, and kept his fists curled about his ankles. He squatted in the tub, refusing to budge even under the strain of Steve's scowl.

"There's nothing you need to hide from me, Tony. This isn't the first time."

Colours rose to Tony's cheeks and temples so ferociously he felt giddy under the gushing water. The number of times they'd seen each other in nothing but thin surgical gowns. Or that one time Steve tore his combat suit and went on fighting with his butt crack in full display.

"Yes, just like that," Steve and his little encouragements as Tony lay himself out. "Now, hold still. We can make this quick." A soapy sponge dabbed at the crook of his neck, followed by a spray of lukewarm water to chase the suds away. Steve handled him just the way his body remembered.

And it still hurt.

Down and down Steve went, until the sponge probed him between his thighs. Tony had long looked away. He forced his eyes to glue on the fucking tarp and the blurry outline of his bed in the main cell. For whatever reasons, Steve chose to wash Tony's private regions with his own hands. He was meticulous. Thorough. Steve took his time, and Tony let him.

"You've been asleep a long time, Tony. For all of eight months." Tony felt dirtier by the time Steve hung up the showerhead, and towelled him dry. "Up! Let's put you back to bed. You must be tired."

He wasn't.

Steve carried him through the hole in the wall and into the main cell like an invalid. He lay stretched on the mattress bare, his discarded clothes a sad pile somewhere in the bathroom. Steve must be thinking the same, because he began unbuttoning his own garment – the moss green vest that screamed of HYDRA – and eased Tony's arms into the sleeves.

Tony did let that single tear fall, but he quickly thumbed it away before Steve see it. Fucking hell… what good would it do. Steve always knew what he was doing. Read him like an open book.

The vest was warm with Steve's body heat. Smelled like Steve's shampoo, too.

"… I'll get you some pants later. I love you, Tony, but not enough to walk past my soldiers in my birthday suit."

Yeah? Tony – and the Hulk, good God – had marched down the streets of Manhattan in front of Steve and the other Avengers in their birthday suits because of one stupid bet. He had escaped naked from a dragon in some God forsaken woods – that was a doozy – before Steve found him, and defended his honour. He had traded his life for Steve's in a heartbeat. Did CPR on Steve for an entire hour in the Red Zone. Kept his lips glued over Steve's as he breathed into Steve's disintegrating lungs.

Nah, he wasn't keeping scores.

"Where's Kobik?" Tony asked next, because it was either that, or more tears of self-pity. And it seemed to shock Steve to his core, because he immediately peeled back from the bed – from Tony – and studied him with suspicions.

"What about her?"

"Your chest," Tony nodded at Steve's bare torso. "You have the Cube inside you." Where an arc reactor would be if he still had it – over his heart. What had Steve done to his? "You assemble the shards, you assemble Kobik. Are you hiding her somewhere? Locking her up in a room like this? She's a kid, Steve."

Howard looked just like this when he was about to strike, too. The one thousand and one roiling curses and regrets in his headspace. At Tony's weakened state, one super-soldier punch to the side of his skull would've done him in. Tony promised not to defend himself.

Come on.

Steve's lips grew thinner, and he took a step back, and another, and another… until Tony was left alone again in the cell.

The problem was, Tony could read Steve like an open book, too. That made the gambit pile-up between them so much more tenuous and goddam frustrating, because there was no end to the one-upping. All the times they'd fought. Had any of them ever come up on top? Ever? Every win Tony had over Steve was that much closer to undoing him!

Tony smirked as the lights dimmed around him. HYDRA Steve still had one thing in common with his Steve. "You're a sucky liar, Cap," he huffed into his pillow.

Kobik wasn't around. Steve did not assemble the Cosmic Cube. Not completely. And that meant hope.

Steve did not return with new clothes that night.