Chapter Text
Of all the fucking things to happen in his life, this one is probably, well, the most recently shitty. He’d been having a good day, dammit. At least, as good a day as one can have when one is wrongfully imprisoned for selling weapons to terrorists. Of course, he’d never sold a weapon to a terrorist in his life , but that hadn’t mattered to a jury of his peers or, for that matter, the judge that Stane had probably bought off.
So Stane got off scot-free, and was outside these stupid fucking concrete walls, running Tony’s company into the ground. He’d heard of nothing but the stocks taking a nosedive and lay-offs, manufacturing moving overseas… it was a shit show, and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
His lawyers had assured him that seven years had been a ‘steal of a deal’, and he should be grateful to be spending his time in medium-security. I mean, sure, if you don’t mind being surrounded by white-collar criminals (like him, now, as far as the world was concerned, and wasn’t that a kick in the ass) or hardened felons who were all too eager to roll over on their fellow conspirators or inmates to get bumped up from maximum security. But, you know, he’s lucky .
He’s especially lucky right now, as he’s turning the corner in the corridor and coming face to face with Mac and four of his goons, looking threatening and hard as concrete. Tony glances up, and sure enough, the security camera pointing out of the ceiling is tilted juuuuust the wrong way to try and catch any of the action, and he has no idea which guard was paid off to let this happen, but if he lives to tell the tale he’s going to make sure the fucker is sued until his grandchildren are paying restitution.
But he can’t show fear. He doesn’t know what Mac wants. Maybe Mac just wants to congratulate him on his successful bartering with the commissary to get ahold of the very last Snickers bar? It could happen.
“Stark,” he growls.
Nope, Mac wants to kill him. Well, what the fuck, then? What the hell could Tony have done to deserve being beaten to death in a prison hallway, anyway?
He doesn’t get a chance to voice his concerns or remind the thugs that they’re probably targeting the wrong guy, though. Mac takes a threatening step forward and Tony is faced with the far-too-timely reminder that Mac is much, much larger than he is. Mac takes another step forward and reaches for Tony, and Tony doesn’t back away, doesn’t run because even though he’s terrified and he’s pretty sure this is where he’s going to die, he doesn’t want Mac to know that. So he holds his ground and Mac’s big, meaty paw of a hand is coming for his throat, and then suddenly there’s another hand – strong, elegant-but-blunt fingers wrap around Mac’s hairy wrist, and the forearm attached to it cords and bunches with muscle.
“Can I help you boys with something?”
Well, shit. It’s Rogers. Now Tony’s going to be responsible for Rogers’ death, too?
Dammit, he likes Rogers. He’s good people. He’s kind, and generous, and he really doesn’t fucking belong in prison. Tony had hacked his file, and he’d watched during visitor hours, when he was supposed to be listening to Pepper recount the many terrible things Stane was doing to his company (nobody, but nobody wants to buy weapons manufactured in Ghana, what the fuck was he thinking? Was that just an easier place to use to export them to, you know, terrorists ? Had Stane really made Stark Industries an international arms dealer right under Tony’s nose? Fuck,) and seen the young man who came to visit Rogers. The only person to come and visit Rogers. He had clearly been strung out, but he’d showed up. Which told Tony everything he’d needed to know, when faced with the information in Rogers’ file and looking at the two men side by side. One of them looked like the only drugs he’d ever touched were muscle-building protein powder and multivitamins, and the other one, gray-eyed and stringy-haired, kept fidgeting and nervously rubbing at the shoulder where his stump of an amputated arm hunched into his torso.
Yeah, Rogers had never introduced a narcotic into his system, or Tony would eat that stupid fucking horse calendar on the wall of their cell. He’d taken the fall for his friend. But he didn’t seem to be drowning in the bitterness that was Tony’s existence – obviously he’d chosen to take the fall.
God, could he be any more disgustingly noble?
Rogers would be out soon, anyway. He’d just been transferred in a month or so ago – up until then he’d been in California, serving his time. They’d had a problem with overcrowding, so suddenly Tony had a new cellmate that mostly made him feel inadequate and awkward and okay, yeah, maybe a little bit turned on but he’d been in prison for six years and he hadn’t gotten laid in longer, so, you know, fuck right off.
“Keep walkin’, Rogers,” Mac snarls, bringing Tony back to the present where he’s, mostly likely, about to die in a staggering amount of pain.
“Turn around and walk away, Mac,” Rogers bites back, and Tony wants to shout, to scream, you fucking moron, he’ll kill us both , but he can’t force the words out through his clenched teeth.
Mac doesn’t answer, just takes a swing, and holy shit, Rogers is fast . He ducks it with almost no effort, and then one of the goons – Deveau? Devane? Whatever, the guy’s a hulking brute and smells like sour cabbage even though to Tony’s knowledge there has never, ever, been sour cabbage inside the prison walls – steps forward with a hard kick. It catches Rogers in the thigh but he doesn’t go down, just whirls and then it’s a blur of fists and kicks and punches, and Tony can’t do anything but stand, paralyzed, against the wall. He should help Rogers. He knows that. He should try to help – it’ll hurt, but he can’t let Rogers die here alone, not when he had only been trying to help.
Except… well, Rogers is winning .
Must be the military training. Rogers had been Special Ops. Tony had seen that in his file, plain as day. But he hadn’t expected Rogers in a fight to be so... graceful. Like a ballet in the grimy, concrete hallway.
Tony’s entranced. He can’t tear his eyes away. Rogers is ducking and whirling and kicking out and Mac’s slumped against the wall, not moving, and Jesus, did Rogers kill him? No, he’s twitching a little, still, and Rogers is busy dispatching the last of Mac’s thugs when Tony hears the slap-slap-slap of guard boots echoing through the corridor, and the blaring of a klaxon alarm. Tony knows the drill, and slides to his knees so he can lie down with his nose to the dirt, but can’t bring himself to stop watching Rogers neutralize the last – fucking Osborn, he hates that guy – and then the guards are there, shouting and stomping and he sees a club fly out and hit Rogers in the temple even though Rogers’ hands are up, and he fucking hates this place.
“What the fuck is going on here?” pants Burns, the guard with the itchy club hand.
Tony opens his mouth to tell him. To tell him and Hoskins and Crawford that Mac and the boys had come after him but Rogers, looking a little dazed, clenches his jaw and shakes his head a little. Just enough for Tony to see.
Tony blinks. Wait, what?
“Nothing, Sir,” Rogers spits out.
“That’s it. You’re all in the hole for fighting,” growls Crawford, and the guards work on getting the prisoners to their feet and herding them down the hall.
Tony moves to follow.
“Not you, Stark. You can go.”
He’d been against the wall, standing there like a fucking moron, a useless lump, so the guards think he's just a bystander. Not the intended victim. Not even involved at all.
“But I –”
“I’m not gonna tell you again.”
“Stark,” Rogers says, voice hard, but not even out of breath and goddamn it, Tony, now is not the time to pop a chub in the middle of a prison hallway. “Go. It’s fine.”
Tony doesn’t know what to say. No one’s ever – not even Rhodey had ever done something like that for him. Rhodey had protected him his whole adult life, sure, but he’d never – he’d never taken the punishment that should have been his. Earned or no.
Tony’s chest feels hot and tight, and his throat is dry. The group turns a corner, and he’s alone in the dark hallway, leaning against the wall while the klaxon blares on.
His hands will stop shaking any minute now.