Steve remembered protesting to Thor that he couldn't get drunk anymore. He'd explained about his increased metabolism, or at least he had begun to, but whatever concoction had been in his mug was making him trip over his tongue. Strange things were happening to his eyes, too. They didn't seem to be tracking properly.
When he woke, it was far too bright. His eyes stung, and his head felt like it had been filled with boulders and sand. Maybe boulders made of sand. Maybe if he moved his head, his brain would dribble out his ear. Then his head might stop hurting. He attempted to roll over, and whimpered instead.
From the other side of the cell, River was sitting, dressed in completely different (though no less stylish) clothing. His blue journal was on his lap and he was making careful notes, skillfully hiding the writing from the Doctor. "You're awake," he said. "Did you enjoy dancing?"
Steve grunted. His mouth felt like it was made of sandpaper. "Dasssng?"
"With the Doctor. You insisted. For an hour."
"Nnngh." He tried rolling over again, and gave up. Eyes squeezed shut, Steve decided to wait until he could move, or he died. He wasn't certain which was the better option right now.