Despite the comments he’d just made, Tony is quiet and cooperative – insofar as he can be – during the next few minutes. There aren’t any off-color remarks about Steve taking off his pants, no suggestions for what he could be doing instead of attending to the cuts and scrapes that criss-cross his legs. He barely even moves, unless it’s to shift in whichever direction he’s prodded to do so.

“How bad?” he says after a moment’s silence. “She was—” He lifts a hand, fumbles out a gesture meant to indicate Anna cleaning up a wound to his head. “At my head. Why can’t I think straight? Is it bad?”

And what he’s really asking, though he can’t put it into words, is if he’s suffered some kind of brain damage that’s going to make him this disoriented forever.