This awakening from the ice had been unlike any other he has known: dimmed, warm lighting instead of the harsh, blinding strobes he's always woken up to; a team had worked with gentle hands over his thawing form and with reassuring tones for his confused and numbed mind.

But the chill lingers and he is always cold. The air-conditioning in his quarters is always set on low, and a stack of extra blankets is ever at the ready. A cheerful young woman brings him hot tea and bestows a bright smile in return to his whispered thank-you.

He still can't process the fact that all of this is for him. An ache grows more keen as he is every day newly surprised and reminded that these people are doing all these things with concern for him and his well-being. No little comfort, no small gesture ("You are worth it, you do deserve this." Steve's words are a creed he struggles to allow himself to believe), goes un-noticed, and his heart tugs as he sees the pile of soft pajamas that has been laid out for him by another one of the staff members of the hospital's royal wing: one of the many who have silently provided things he'd have wanted but wouldn't have dared to ask for, or else things he couldn't have guessed he needed.

He towels himself dry (he has adapted well to doing things with one arm, and can perform simple functions again like dressing and showering with fair ease) and hurries to inspect the pile.

There are socks, and he smiles with gratitude. These people couldn't be more thoughtful.

They can. The shirt is warm, and the left sleeve has been neatly altered for the absence of the missing limb. He allows himself to cry.