Clint groaned as he lowered his head onto the cool, tile floor. But almost immediately he was shooting up, leaning over the toilet and heaving the few remaining contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl. He spat, grimacing, but remained hovering over the toilet for a few moments more- squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his hands around the sides of the bowl.

Finally, he rested his head against the bowl as well, and moaned softly. Two days. Two days of unrelenting vomiting, nausea, fever, body aches, and sharp stomach pains. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. At this point, nothing was coming up but bile, although that didn't stop his body from trying to expel all of the food he'd eaten in the last 10 years. He briefly considered calling one of his teammates, also living in Stark Tower, but immediately discarded the idea for three reasons.

One: it would involve moving. He didn't want to move. Actually, he didn't know if he COULD move.

Two: it was embarrassing. The great Hawkeye, taken down by a measly little stomach virus? Pathetic. He was fairly confident that his current situation was better than the inevitable teasing that would follow any disclosure on his part.

Three: it would involve moving. He frowned- that had been reason number one. Ugh. He hated fevers. They muddled his normally sharp thinking and made everything feel foggy. Well, he definitely didn't want to move, so it could count twice.

Four: it had to be over soon, right?

Suddenly a loud alarm blared, causing Clint to flinch and begin retching into the bowl again.

The call to Avenge echoed throughout Stark Tower and three well-muscled bodies were immediately moving, suiting up and sprinting to the main room for the briefing.

"I hope we don't have another robot situation" Tony's voice drawled through his Iron Man mask, "I just don't think I can take the competition".

Ignoring his outspoken teammate, Captain America frowned when he saw who had responded- himself, Iron Man, and Bruce. Thor was currently off-planet and the Widow was on a mission in Sweden- but where was Hawkeye?

"Jarvis" Steve snapped "Is Hawkeye responding?"

"He is not, sir" Jarvis responded with the information asked for, and nothing more.

Whatever the reason, there wasn't enough time to investigate. Cap hated involving the Hulk unless it was absolutely necessary, but it looked like it might be.

"Unfortunately, Tony, it looks like you'll just have to channel your jealousy into another suit upgrade. We have a fleet of robots attacking Manhattan. Reason unknown. Let's move" With only half the team present, Steve was in no mood to banter.

They boarded the Quinjet quickly, efficiently, and silently- Tony slid into the pilot's seat with Steve dropping into the co-pilot's seat next to him. Bruce slumped in the back, hands clutching his hair in a white-knuckled grip of anticipation.

The fight was quick and dirty- a well-rehearsed routine at this point. Steve hadn't even broken a sweat. Bruce, however, was currently sweating in the back of the Quinjet on their flight home. Steve winced in sympathy as he thought about the anguished expression on his teammate's face every time he transformed back from "The Other Guy"

He would give anything to spare Bruce that pain, that out-of-control feeling of not knowing what atrocities he had committed during this particular transformation. He just hadn't been sure that he and Tony could handle the threat on their own. It had seemed better at the outset to risk Bruce's feelings rather than Tony's life, but now, after the fact, he was so sure.

Glancing back at his shaken teammate, Steve opened his mouth, about to ask if he was ok-

"Just don't" Bruce's voice was muffled by his hands, currently covering his face. "Sorry Cap, but just don't."

Steve shifted forward in his seat, inwardly turning his anger towards Clint. If the archer had just showed up for the Call to Avenge, he wouldn't have needed to involve the Hulk. What had kept him?

"Well, at least the robots' technology was WILDLY outdated" Tony was piloting the plane with his feet up on the dashboard. "I didn't even get a scratch on my suit. Good thing too, 'cause this is a new paint job."

Steve glanced over, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine, it's ALWAYS a new paint job" Tony hadn't taken his eyes off the horizon. "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't have a right to be angry if they scratched it."

Steve rolled his eyes and rested his head back against the headrest without commenting. Tony would just talk the whole way home anyways. He didn't actually need another person to have a conversation with, just the idea of one.

As soon as the jet landed, Steve took off, ready to find Clint and have a chat with him about team unity and responsibility. A memory of Bruce's pinched face flashed through his mind, and he clenched his jaw in frustration.

"Clint!"

Clint twitched minutely, but otherwise didn't respond. "C'mon, Clint, wake up!"

After knocking repeatedly on the door to Clint's quarters with no response, Steve had strode the marksman's quarters, ready to start the lecture he's been preparing all day. He'd been surprised to notice that the normally tidy archer's belongings were strewn about his rooms in a state of disarray, and that Clint was nowhere to be seen.

He'd been about to leave, feeling slightly guilty about his prepared speech since it appeared that Hawkeye was, in fact, out on a mission; but then he'd heard a soft moaning sound coming from the direction of the bathroom. Frowning, Steve went to investigate.

And there he was. Covered in sweat and sprawled out on the bathroom floor next to a vomit-filled toilet. Steve grimaced at the smell and hit the handle quickly before kneeling next to his incapacitated teammate. He placed his hand on Clint's damp forehead and winced again at the heat emanating from it. Then he shook the prone body gently, hoping to receive some sort of response. Nothing. It was then that Steve began to panic slightly.

After calling out to Clint several times, Steve glanced around the bathroom, searching for something to aid him in reviving his fallen teammate. He grabbed a clean washcloth from a nearby shelf, and ran cold water over it in the sink. He placed it gently on Clint's forehead and then wet another one to begin cleaning off the archer's face and neck.

After a few moments, Clint twitched minutely and stirred awake. "C-cap?" His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing, and he began to swallow convulsively.

"Not again" he gasped, somehow distressed and resigned at the same time, before throwing himself in the general direction of the toilet and beginning to heave violently. There was nothing left in his stomach but bile, and eventually the heaving subsided.

Clint spat weakly, then laid his head on the side of the toilet bowl and closed his eyes. "I think I'd like to die now."

Steve eyed the archer worriedly, then went to go fill a glass of water in the kitchen. Returning to the bathroom, he knelt next to his teammate and held out his offering. "Here, you should drink something"

Clint eyed the glass suspiciously, then turned a half-hearted glare on his teammate.

"I really don't think that's going to happen"

Steve rolled his eyes. "How long have you been puking, Clint?"

"Ummmm" The archer hedged, all while keeping one eye on the glass of water. "More than one day, less than three?" It seemed like a year, though. Not that he'd admit it to Steve.

"TWO days Clint?" Steve appeared to want to smack Clint upside the head for hiding his illness so long. "Why on earth didn't you tell someone sooner?" He then seemed to remember that he'd only found Clint because he wanted to chew him out for not showing up to a call to Avenge. "In fact, why didn't you tell anyone AT ALL?"

Clint was to exhausted to even pretend to be repentant over this. "Didn't wanna move" he mumbled into the toilet. "Plus, I just couldn't leave my new best friend" He patted the toilet bowl affectionately and the side of his mouth twitched slightly in an attempt to smile.

But Steve wasn't backing down. "Why didn't you at least have Jarvis get one of us?" He pressed, trying to get Clint to understand he had a TEAM now.

There was a brief pause.

"Huh."

Steve rolled his eyes again. "OK tough guy, we're gonna get you to bed at least. You need some actual sleep. And fluids"

Clint tried to shake his head, but gave up, squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't think you understand, Cap. Bessy and I've been through so much together- I can just abandon her now." This statement was punctuated by another wave of nausea for Clint and a fresh bout of now-empty retching.

There were tears in Clint's eyes when he finally slumped back again. "So" he gasped unsteadily "Still think I'm headed to bed anytime soon?"

Steve looked skeptical. "You named the toilet Bessy?"

After some negotiation and a brief consult with Bruce, Clint was finally ensconced in his bed- a glass of water on the table next to him and a bucket on the floor. He'd vehemently refused the IV that Bruce seemed to think was crucial to his survival at this point, and had instead reluctantly negotiated a certain amount of water to be drunk each hour.

He also needed to replenish his electrolytes, which is why Steve was headed to the archer's bedroom with a lukewarm bowl of soup broth and a bottle of gatorade.

Reaching the door, he knocked softly, shifting to hold the gatorade under his arm. Hearing a somewhat coherent groan of acknowledgment, he slipped inside and crossed the room swiftly.

"Hey Clint" He greeted the miserable archer cheerfully. "I come bearing gifts"

In no uncertain -and somewhat colorful- terms, the marksman told him exactly what he could do with the aforementioned gifts.

Undeterred, and slightly impressed with his teammate's vocabulary, Steve placed the items on the table next to Clint's head.

"You need to stay hydrated, buddy. I know it sucks, but dying from dehydration also sucks." Steve leaned closer to try and decipher what the archer was mumbling into his pillow.

"Actually, it's kinda tempting at this point"

Snorting to himself, Steve backed out of the room, pausing in the doorway to look back at his ailing teammate. "Just... make sure you let Jarvis know if you need anything. Anything at all. And the next time this happens, please ask Jarvis for help. For all of our sakes."

He was rewarded with a middle finger and a string of curses from the archer.

Several days later, the team was suiting up for a mission in the main room, discussing their strategy for the latest crisis to hit New York, when a certain stubborn archer came stumbling in.

"Hey guys- what'd I miss?" Clint grinned broadly, ostensibly trying to hide his pale and drawn features.

Steve took one look at him "Absolutely not." He said firmly.

"C'mon guys, I'm going crazy cooped up in my room all day. I'm ready for this." The bravado of his words was somewhat offset by the fact that the wall seemed to be holding a suspicious amount of his weight. And that sweat was already dripping down his face as a result of the short walk from his rooms to the main room.

"Go back to bed, Clint."

"But- Cap, I can at least help with air support!"

"Bed, Clint. Now. Don't make me come over there and tuck you in myself."

Silence.

"Bed it is, Cap"