She asks the right question. At the moment, with his thoughts scattered and refusing to sort themselves out, he isn’t able to think about it. Later, it will depend on how much of this he can remember. Chances are, it won’t be much, and even if it is, it’s unlikely that he’ll think too long on how it is that she knows what to ask.

“I don’t know for sure,” he tells her, glancing sideways at Steve as he does it. Even drunk and concussed, he suspects that there’s going to be disappointment in him for this and he hates it. He hates that he cares enough to hate it, too. “But I’m told everyone will die.”

Something’s wrong with Steve. Dimly, he knows this. When he settles himself down on the side of the bed he’d just recently vacated, Tony inches closer. His arm shifts in Steve’s hand, twisting so that he can touch Steve’s forearm. Touch it and hold on to it, like he has to reassure himself that he’s still there.

“I told her I’d protect you. That I wouldn’t let anything happen to you this time. I won’t. I won’t let you pay for my mistakes again.”