"I noticed," I murmur with a grimace, daring to gingerly rotate my right shoulder a little. The result is immediate, dire pain, but I knew it would be. I'm not done healing yet, and it's the surgery more than the initial wound that's going to take the longest. Then again, apparently the initial wound was fatal, or near enough. I'm lucky. I haven't forgotten that.

"But I'll endeavor to keep it in mind. What are you doing with the rest of your night?" I ask. Anything that isn't 'reading in a hospital bed' will sound pretty good, admittedly, but I'm not just asking out of politeness. I haven't been able to see what Bucky's life here, is, but I want to know.