The next time Steve came to it wasn't to Marvin Gaye. There was no music, nor Sam. In that very chair to his right there was Tony instead, his eyes hooded, framed by an expression so austere that didn't exactly go away when he suddenly jerk and look up.
"Steve?" he called quietly.
Tony pressed the call button by the side of the hospital bed. As they waited for the doctor, Steve could already feel the anaesthesia wear away. He grimaced as he shifted, and Tony immediately sought out his heavily bandaged hand. It was subtle, but through the haze of pain and numbness Steve did not miss Tony shaking.
"It's all right. We got you back."
"You look terrible."
"That tends to happen when a friend falls out of the sky into the Potomac. After he tanked three bullets and a knife stab. And almost drowned. Again."
When the doctors arrived, Tony went away to spare them some space and privacy. Steve was so drowsy by the time they left – thanks to the fresh bag of painkillers – that when Tony reclaim the chair, he thought he'd imagined the remnant of a sentence, the pain pronounced in Tony's voice.
"Idiot."