Steve slid his arms into the thin, cotton exam gown and reached behind him to tie it at the nape of his neck. A draft told him that the fabric panels didn't quite meet across his broad shoulders, and he pursed his lips with dissatisfaction. Pulling the gown around his narrow hips, he perched on the end of the exam table, the tissue beneath him rumpling slightly. After a few interminable moments of staring at the medical charts that lined the tiny room's walls, the door in front of him opened.

He had only seen the doctor S.H.I.E.L.D. had assigned to him once before, after the awful fight in Manhattan. He was still adjusting to the idea of having a woman as a doctor, but he knew better than to say anything. Mostly, it was just being alone and undressed with a strange woman that made him uncomfortable.

She smiled cordially as she entered before adjusting her dark-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose and lowering her eyes to his chart, pinned to a clipboard clutched against her chest.

"How are we feeling today, Captain?"

"Just fine, Doc," he nodded, trying to appear agreeable.

She checked his eyes, his ears, his blood pressure and heartbeat, making notes on his chart as she went. She slid the right sleeve of his gown up, her fingers touching his bicep. "This is looking good." He flushed, in a brief moment of misunderstanding, before remembering the cut one of the Chitauri spears had inflicted.

"Yeah, my cells…" he trailed off. He couldn't really claim to understand everything the serum had done to him. But the doctor nodded nonetheless, scribbling on her chart.

She straightened. Her pen stilled and she leaned against the wall across from him.

"Any other complaints?"

Steve hesitated for a moment. It was a loaded question.

His brow creased as he looked at her; her dark hair was swept away from her face, a nametag reading SPRING, M.D. was pinned to her crisp lab coat, the glasses were sliding back down her nose. He shook his head. Everything that was wrong with him couldn't be summed up like this, not when he was already so literally exposed.

His eyes met hers, and she held his gaze.

"Hm," she nodded, "I'll let Director Fury know you're healing well, then."

There was a challenge in her eyes and in her voice. As though she couldn't find it plausible that after his resurrection, after the disorientation and anger, after the fierce fighting just weeks ago, that he could be perfectly fine.

He flashed a half-smile, his eyebrows raised innocently. Surely he could convince her.

"Next month then?"

"Next month," she nodded, "Barring any more catastrophes."

After she left, he dressed quickly. The room closed in around him, like being crushed in the ice.