If Steve didn't want to spend the next month and a half in a hospital bed, he should have been more articulate and less horrifying in his battlefield reporting. Honestly, he got off easy in all of this; he had no idea the kind of pain Tony was in far away from the heart of the combat, pacing his workshop and listening for answers in the grunts and screams Captain America was uttering. At least he got to be there and do something.
"Fine, thanks," Tony answered, but the greasy bag cradled in his arm and tray of paper cups spoke for themselves. He drew up his usual perch, a definitely not hospital standard throne that had appeared in Steve's room overnight that Tony mostly sat on the edge of at the side of Steve's bed, barely enjoying its lush, silky depths. It would likely disappear the moment Steve was released. Taking it upon himself to adjust Steve's bed to an upright position so he could hold a conversation like a civilized invalid, Tony reported, "Still cold as hell out. But I brought you this." From the tray in his lap, he extracted a tall, heavy strawberry milkshake to hand over, then tossed the tray carelessly to the floor once he had his own coffee warming his hands.