Waking up aching and disoriented in a hospital bed isn't exactly a new and exciting experience for Tony these days. It doesn't happen all that often - he'll tend to evade the hospital if in any way conscious enough to do so effectively - but it's been known to happen. And while hospital isn't exactly his favorite place in the world, he's definitely came to in worse places in his time. But still. When he regains consciousness groggy and hurting in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar hands on him, his instinct is to struggle.

It takes a long and horrible disoriented moment of having no idea where he is or what's happening before the cues - the sterile whiteness, the scrubs, the antiseptic smell in the air - clue him in and he stills. On the heels of realization comes memory; he winces, putting a hand to his temple, and his fingertips encounter stitches there. And after that-- after the immediate questions of where he is and what happened have been answered, after the memories of the ferocity of the fight have started to come back, comes the horrible frozen moment of why the hell is he alone in here.

Their "family members only in the recovery ward" policy doesn't stand up for long against the fuss Tony's kicking up.

He couldn't have hidden the relief in his eyes if he'd wanted to, and he doesn't even try. There's always that fear, that nagging doubt, that what if, and it lifts a weight from his shoulders that he hadn't realized he was carrying to see Rhodey in one piece. He grins. "Hey."