"I must have been mobbed." With his memory on him, this is where he'd crack a joke about the Mothman cryptid or a winged insect version of Hitchcock's The Birds, and Rhodey can feel the emptiness in the pause. There should be a snappy, snarky comment, and he just doesn't remember what to say. He leans against the wall instead. There's a good spot just above Tony's head to focus on when he needs to not look into his eyes.

"It can be fixed, though," he says, and he's looking at that spot. He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember sixteen year old Tony Stark at MIT and steering the kid through the lake of nerdy piranhas. He doesn't remember finally, finally finding him in the desert after too much looking. He doesn't remember Tony promising to fix it when Rhodey had fallen far enough and hard enough out of the sky that medical science hadn't had confidence. He doesn't remember Tony going into space and not coming back, and he doesn't remember having to hold the world together instead of chasing after him.

But somehow he knows something, he knows that this is a guy that has slapped more than one bandaid on, so to speak. His eyes shift that bare inch lower to meet Tony's. "Right?"