Day 9

Three days whisked by, just like that. Tony clasped his hands on his knees, and relished the sting in his palms. Just like that. He still had on Steve's HYDRA Supreme vest. He'd taken to wearing it as his day clothes. He didn't sweat much, so he didn't smell, and the longer he had it on, the fainter Steve's scent got. But right now? Right now was dead midnight, and he was curled up against the porcelain throne relieving his stomach. Forget about the itch at the back of his throat. He wanted to marvel at the progress he made in the last seventy-two hours.

See, three days ago was the last time he saw Steve, actually. He remembered waking up one night in Steve's vest – at the time it still carried a whiff of Steve's aftershave, shampoo, whatever – and he felt so, fucking, angry. Inexplicably, like someone shot him up with a dose of pissed-off and made him want to rip the flesh off Steve's face into the next incarnation of the Red Skull.

He remembered Steve touching him.

And he threw himself out of bed. His legs crumbled under his weight and by sheer dumb luck he avoided smashing his forehead into the blunt corner of his bedframe. This had got to be the best time to ponder just how much more misery could a Stark take before he grew a pair and some iron in his backbone. There was no debate here, no second option. From rock bottom, the only way is up.

So, Tony clinched his buttery fingers around the cool metal surface, and heaved. Up.

The only way, is up.

The atrophy wasn't even that bad, he quickly realised. The things that he did to his body, the literal, scientific death-defying stunts that he pulled, was paying off. He healed at a dizzying rate! He walked around his bed, did a few laps – shakily at first, but now he could stand unassisted. He could walk to the bathroom instead of gliding over on his stomach. He only tripped like, five times in the process? No big deal, he cheered himself aloud one night as he wiped blood from a cut above his brow, where he'd accidentally hit against the sink.

Later that day, in place of Steve, nameless mooks began to rotate on a roster to bring him meals. Unlike Steve, they kept their distance. Didn't even look him in the eye when he said hey. So, one presumably bright morning, he got ballsy.

"Lordy, I'm still kinda hungry. Steve said he had more of this where it comes from. A second helping, please?"

Tony started having more than one bowl of porridge per meal. He even had up to three, and he felt good. He burnt the calories just pacing the expanse of the room, waiting for the next bolus of nutrients. The following day, he asked for the big mama kahuna. Some real, solid food. They brought him savoury crepes and juices. Here he was hankering for caffeine. Still, those withdrawal migraines didn't come, because his body had evolved beyond substance dependency.

And he could do push ups now! Steve Rogers used to goad him to keep up when they sparred. How could he ever compare to a two-hundred-pound animal who had no issues of curling helicopters while wearing washed out jeans and an Under Armour T two sizes too small?

Fuck Steve. Tony was done with the bridal carrying, the cooing, the cool sympathy and the general air of uselessness –

He bowed his head into the toilet bowl once more and retched the last ounce of semi-digested couscous. Yeah, this was a punishing self-imposed physiotherapy regimen. Still worth every second. He sometimes wondered if there were cameras installed in inconspicuous corners of the cell. Was Steve watching him regaining his strength by the hour?

That night, for the first time since his staycation in HYDRA's paradise, he had a dream. He saw Kobik again, and he tried talking to her. Some unimportant stuff like how was the weather, as people do. Or if Steve was treating her well, if she was even here in one of the locked chambers, held captive just like him. If she could magic both of them out of this hellhole and be on their merry way home. Fix Steve properly this time, since this version clearly lacked a couple of aspects – a fucking conscience, for starters. Then, she sort of waved her twiggy hand and visuals of the Avengers – so many, so quickly they raced past him – swaddled him.

Stupid Clint Barton kept referring to him as "The Drunk". That was low, even for him –

Sam Wilson, too popped in his dreams, and the Avengers were all in Montana. Sam said he refused to play dress-up and join the Resistance, because what he was doing – smuggling six-hundred-and-forty-seven people across the border – was the better solution. Wait, what Resistance? The Avengers were in Alaska, too. Where Ultron was – wait, back up, back up, back the hell up! – and Ultron was wearing Hank Pym's face and he had a shard of the Cosmic Cube. Son of a bitch used it to gather Steve's side and Tony'sside in a replica of the Avengers mansion, where home once was. Tony was seated in his usual chair, at the head of the long dining table, right across Steve.

A premonition?

But it felt so goddam real!

This dream had gone on long enough. He took the delicate desert spoon lying next to his dish and studied his reflection. He was blue, and virtual, and strutting around in an ancient iteration of his Iron Man suit.

Tony woke up drenched in cold sweat that Steve's vest was soaked through.