Day 10 (Third Hour)

Not one to brag, but Tony's possessions – tangible and not – were often in excess. The golden springboard he was born to – adopted to?– did him a real solid in amassing his own wealth in adulthood. Call him a lucky dipshit – he earned them. Worked hard. Bled for them. And he indulged, oh God he did, but Steve knew that under all the glory and glitter, there was nothing much.

He tried drinking himself to death, once upon a time. What did that say about his state of mind and quality of life?

With this much power and influence, his impact factor was orders of magnitude larger than it would be if he were an unremarkable mechanic. When he screwed up, it was devastating. And he screwed up a lot. Often enough that every time it happened, and his friends kept coming back – Steve kept coming back – he wondered if he'd accidentally hit them in the head when they weren't looking, because the extent of selective amnesia that they had? It was as if Civil War didn't happen, dammit. Steve died, Steve came back, Steve became SHIELD big cheese, Steve abolished the SHRA, and Tony remained Steve's most important friend! Fine. So, Steve had a heart of gold, what was new? Then, that asshat Parker Robbins stole the Gems, and Steve found out about them and the Illuminati. After all the I-can't-believe-you and exclamations of disappointment enough to last him two more lifetimes, Steve didn't boot Tony off the Avengers after promising he would. No more special treatment, Tony remembered Steve saying that, and the heartache that tore through him. Yet again, he remained Steve's most treasured friend.

Steve always forgave him. Making mistakes, after all, was proof that he was still trying. Not this time, though. Not this time.

The tip of Tony's toes dragged along the floor as HYDRA goons held him up by his arms and manoeuvred him along signage-less hallways, through countless doors that looked identical. The last one he was dragged through seemed to glow around the edges. Sunlight, Tony smirked. He was going outside.

And he gulped fresh air in shamelessly huge mouthfuls. The air tasted so sweet in the summer. He greeted the sun and the blue, blue sky with a pronounced slump in his posture. He was worn to the marrow. Forgive him for having what felt like his first marathon since he retook his mortal form. Then, somebody with little patience shoved him roughly in the back, non-verbal for walk-or-else. He would if he could… so Steve took charge. Looped the leash twice around his knuckles and marched right to the centre of the courtyard. Tony either walk, or be hauled by the neck to wherever Steve wanted him to be. So, he obeyed. The riot in his stomach had faded into vagueness, and his nausea had subsided. Small mercies. The fresh air was good for him.

Still, a barren courtyard this was. No grass and moist earth beneath his feet. Only carpets of sand that stretched on forever. Steve led him to a vertical wooden pole that stuck out of the ground to serve ominous purposes, and promptly kicked him in the knees. As he fell, gruff hands took his and locked them around the pole. Jesus. Fucking pole smelled horrible, like a mixture of piss and rust.

"One!"

One became two, and three, and four –

Even when viscous wetness trailed down his tailbone, and he knees gave way he was more curled up on the side of his butt, the shock was great enough that the pain didn't fully register. His wrists were cut as he jerked in his cuffs. Evasion was futile. Whatever they used to hurt him was thin, and hot against his torn open flesh.

And the pain hit him like a steamroller on hot tar.

Sixteen blurred into seventeen, twenty-one…

He knew what he sounded. He was slobbering all over himself, made a complete mess of himself in the courtyard. Steve was still standing next to him, a clean distance away where the whip could not reach.

Twenty-three…

His body was a patch of blisters.

"Twenty-five!"

That one was vicious enough that the whole length of the whip blazed across the entirety of his back, before it was retracted so quickly his own body withdrew with the force.

"See, Tony?" Steve came to squat before him. "It doesn't pay to antagonise HYDRA. I know you're slowly getting back your memories… you can't fool me on that front. I don't know if you remember Rick Jones? By my calculations, he must've given you the files he stole from us. I don't blame him. He fought for what he believed was right, to the bitter end. And I had no choice but to do what I knew was right. Tony," Steve cupped him lightly by his cheek, a thumb brushing away stray tears of agony. "Forgive me. The people must be thought a lesson: not to cross HYDRA so lightly. Rick faced the firing squad in this very courtyard –"

No, no, no –

"Tied to this pole."

It was Rick's blood soaking the pole and the sand beneath Tony's knees, already stained dark brown with his own.

"Your wounds are nasty. We need to disinfect them. Clean him up."

When they hosed him down with low-pressure lukewarm water jet, he blacked out to the echoes of his screams in the recesses of his own skull.