The thanks was punctuated by the clatter of scissors dropped to the tray behind Tony, a careless toss when all of his previous work had been carefully subdued, ringing loud in the room that had been so quiet. Still holding Steve's injured arm, keeping it presented for dressing with the stitching complete, two fingers curled against the soft inside of his elbow where he could just faintly feel Steve's pulse, or maybe that was his own, Tony kept the momentum of the sound Steve had introduced to the environment; "I did always like playing doctor." Quick, flippant, a smirk and a glint and the momentum didn't die. Tony's other hand on Steve's thigh, arm still held, fingers still on his pulse (shift in focus, exactly five seconds, shift back), pushed to spread his legs, high enough to touch the first fold crease at Steve's hip with his longest finger, thumb feeling for his pulse again, now in his leg. His head tilted to innocently contemplate the ragged fabric presented on the other, the bleeding already stopped there but, my, what a dangerous placement, Tony continued; "You know, open wide, check your heart, maybe you should take your top off, show-me-yours-I'll-show-you-mine. Even at that age I knew I could make a better deal, by the way. Show-me-yours and give me that box of coloured pencils and unlimited access to the red marker and you have exclusive-rights-to-mine and any point in time until the contract closes, i.e. winter holidays."
He held for just another three seconds longer, and then both of his hands were gone, and his gaze that had slid up through his rapid speech to meet Steve's eyes again. He turned to his tray, unwrapping bandages to cover the stitches, that momentum fizzing and holding with the crinkle of paper. Steve's turn.