Clint knew he was dying. All of his senses were fading until his whole world was reduced to a blurry haze of fragmented confusion. He heard a voice in the distance and murmured anxiously in the general direction of it, "I'm dying Coulson, just... save yourself." He wearily dragged himself up, to gaze through heavy lidded eyes at the figure he could see before him. "Leave me here."
"You're being dramatic."
Clint peeked out from the bundle of blankets he was buried in to attempt a glare in Phil's general direction, "I'm dying, dying of... death, and it's painful and slow and - "
"Mhm, at least now maybe you'll realise that if you jump into a lake in Alaska in Winter and 'forget' to mention it you might come down with at least the flu" His speech lacked the usual bite though, it was hard to intimidate the person you were trying to feed soup to. "You don't have a fever at least, I think it's probably regressed to a high grade cold at this stage."
Clint groaned, "I'm dying."
Coulson leaned back slightly and stared at him with raised, disbelieving eyebrows, "You were shot in East Asia and categorised it as a minor wound. You dislocated your shoulder in Belfast and didn't tell anyone. You nearly bled out in a back alley in Cornwall and still managed to make it to the rendezvous point, don't try and tell me that a cold is killing you."
"Too many words" Clint sniffled from behind his mountain of blankets, "Urghnhnnn..." He sunk back down into the depths of the sofa a waved a hand in the general direction of the remote, "Watch whatever you want, " he offered, "I'll be here, dying, painfully..."
Clint continued to grumble about everything from Phil's choice in T.V to the parenting techniques of strangers, but eventually, he nodded off lulled to sleep by the screams and swears of Supernanny.
I really apologise for the rubbish that you just read, but as you may have guessed from the story I'm currently in bed dying of the flu :( I think I'm just going to pretend I never uploaded this and delete it in the morning.