They’d said a lot of things. He’d been given instructions, discharge papers, the usual print outs that hospitals do as they’re trying to keep you for only as long as needed. Steve just can’t remember what was said. At least he did stuff the print outs into his pocket, folded just about a hundred times. He goes fishing for it on the way to the couch, handing the wad of white and pink paper over to Bucky before he collapses into it.

All Steve wants to do is curl up and sleep. His head feels heavy and full of cotton. Even with Penny still whining and growling from behind the door, Steve finds himself drifting off.

There’s a comfort here, dog aside, a safety. Steve knows he can relax here, which is probably saying more to exhaustion than to anything else. “Just gimme an hour and I’ll get out of your hair.”