The fourth time it happened, Tony didn't know what to think of it.

He was just coming to, mind foggy and disoriented, beeping noises and the sound of rustling paper muddled and distant to his ears. His eyelids were crusted shut, he could feel the pressure of well-applied bandages encasing his torso, and the equally firm pressure of a mattress under him, the sheet he was laying on starchy and rough to the touch. His train of thought was slow, for once, but for him that usually meant it was just running at the speed normal people kept, and Tony knew from the heaviness of his limbs that they had him on the Good Meds. There was a breathing mask on his face, and the absence of a breathing tube was a good sign if any, so took a deep breath, let it out slowly, leisurely, then cautiously, gradually opened his eyes.

The room, though overly sterile as every hospital room was, had dim lights, which was what Tony found so odd about it. Usually, whenever Tony was in a hospital, or the Medical Wing on the Helicarrier, which was more likely, the lights were cranked up to "Blind Your Retinas" and Tony would hiss and retreat back into the sheets like a good little hermit. But now, the lights were dim, and his eyes (though his vision was still a little blurry) had a much easier time adjusting and focusing in on things.

Like the fact there was a glass of water with a bendy straw in it held up to his face.

Tony's brow furrowed, because if there was something in front of his face, that something was usually attached to a different something, and there was nothing like curiosity to get the ball rolling for a shit ton of questions. Namely, why he was in Medical. But first…

He followed the glass to the hand that was holding it, and then the arm that the hand was connected to, and then the body and, in turn, the face that owned the arm. He should've known it was Coulson from the fact that the arm was covered by well-pressed Armani, but beggars can't be choosers, and his brain was running a bit slow, which was always one of the more irritating side effects of being stuffed full of the Good Meds. He blinked at the agent, confused as to why he was here, in his well-pressed Armani three-piece, sitting cross-legged in one of those undignified plastic hospital chairs at his bedside, holding a glass of water with a bendy straw out to him to drink. It was certainly a confusing set of circumstances, and Tony definitely planned on asking, but his throat was dry, and talking with a dry throat was bad form and would no doubt scrape at his vocal chords in ways they should not be scraped. So, water it is.

Tony struggled to sit up, pushing with arms too weak to support his weight, and eventually ended up falling back down with a huff, brain dizzy with exertion. He blinked to clear his vision, watching Coulson set the glass down on the bedside table and set the files and reports he'd had in his lap on the seat as he stood. He then moved forward, wordlessly slipping an arm beneath Tony's shoulders and helping him sit upright. He rearranged the flat, SHIELD-issue pillows in just the right way that they supported him enough to stay in that position. Tony let out a small sigh in relief, and then Coulson was unhooking his breathing mask, easing it off his face so that he had time to get used to the change in air quality.

Then he picked the glass back up and held the bendy straw out for him.

Tony gratefully took the offered straw, sipping slowly so that he wouldn't upset his stomach or make himself gag. Once the glass was at least half empty, Tony leant back, letting out another sigh and making sure his throat was okay to talk, even if he knew his voice was going to be hoarse. Coulson moved back, placing the glass back on the table and settling back into his seat, flipping through mission reports and noting things with a pen that had shown up seemingly out of thin air. Another secret superpower to chalk up in the "Super-Agent" list.

The genius cleared his throat, and the only recognition it got from the agent was a twitch of his eyebrow, which was his way of saying that he was listening intently. "How long?" were the first words out of his mouth, and, true to form, his voice sounded like a gaggle of cats had decided his vocal chords were scratching posts. It tickled the back of his esophagus, and Tony let out a weak cough despite his attempt to hold it back.

"Four and a half days," Coulson reported, voice softer than it should have been, considering the fact Tony had landed himself in Medical. Again. He was pretty sure it was the second time in as many months. Coulson shouldn't be going easy on him and doing paperwork, he should be giving him that "I am so disappointed in you" and "Are you really that fucking dense, Stark" combo look he had perfected the second they'd met and threatening to tase him into unconsciousness.

Tony gave him a look that Coulson resolutely ignored. "Why was I out for four and a half days?"

Coulson just flipped to another piece of paperwork and continued skimming over the report. "Because the acid burned through a lot of your skin, and nearly fatally damaged the arc reactor."

Always right to the point, wasn't he. Wait, acid…? Tony's brow furrowed in thought, flicking back through his memory portfolio for what on Earth Coulson could be talking about. He remembered giant lizards that acted like puppies, Steve freaking out a little, blinding agony erupting from his side – and ooh, yeah, that feeling he could remember. It was a dull ache, now, softened by the pain meds they had him on and treated properly with sterile equipment and bandages and such, but oh, could he still remember that pain. He recalled Thor being there in the midst of it somewhere, ripping off chunks of his armor.

Tony cast Coulson a sharp glance. "Did you get all my armor?"

Coulson nodded once, curtly.

Tony pressed, "Are you sure?"

Coulson looked up at him, a tight half-smile on his face. It was his way of reassurance. "Yes, Tony, we're sure."

The billionaire relaxed incrementally, mostly because Coulson only ever called him 'Tony' when he was being completely and honestly serious, so he knew to take his word. Then, when the agent returned to his paperwork, he asked, "Why are you here?" and damn if that didn't sound confrontational. He mentally kicked himself for it.

But Coulson just let out a small chuckle that was more like a huff than an actual laugh, stood back up, picked the glass up once more, and snatched up the two white pills next to it. "I'm your babysitter until you can leave. The doctors are keeping you for another week, mainly to make sure the burn heals the way it should and that the acid doesn't have any other side effects. And no, you can't get out of it." He held out the pills, and Tony reached up a hand (which should not have taken as much effort as it did) to pop them in his mouth. The agent then held out the glass and Tony took a few more sips to wash the chalky pills down, grimacing at the taste. Coulson sat back down and pulled the chair closer so he could lean against the mattress to write on, speed-reading through the paperwork in a way Tony had yet to master.

Before Tony's brain could fully comprehend what his body was doing, his hand had clasped onto Coulson's from where it was absently tapping his fingers against the bed spread. The older man barely spared it a glance before turning back to his work, but he did squeeze back reassuringly. Tony's shoulder's slumped in relief, and he blinked rapidly as the drugs started taking effect, calmly lulling him back to sleep. The last thing he felt was the steady pressure of Coulson's thumb making circles on the back of his hand.