"Passion is a sort of fever in the mind, which ever leaves us weaker than it found us... It more than anything deprives us of the use of our judgment; for it raises a dust very hard to see through." -William Penn

He cracked tired eyes, almost certain he had heard someone speak his name. The light in the room invaded his eyes, sending small shocks of pain through his head. His head, which was throbbing, and had been for over a day. He was clammy, feverish, and extremely disoriented.

"Clint."

Peering past the figure of Natasha, Clint attempted to find out the time. Her red curls were blocking the small, digital numbers on his clock, however. He struggled to hoist himself up from his limp mattress, but his whole body ached too much to complete the task. He turned his gaze upon Natasha now.

"Clint, lay back down. You're really sick. I called Dr. Banner here to take a look at you," Natasha explained, placing a small, pale hand on Clint's chest. He only now noticed the figure taking up his doorway. Clint wrinkled his face up, unhappy about Natasha calling a doctor to look at him. Even if it was Banner. Clint begrudgingly let his head fall back against the pillow.

"Fine," Clint breathed, closing his eyes for a moment.

It was early summer, or late spring. Either one was accurate to describe the season. The weather was moist and warm, and Clint had a particular distaste for this time of year. Maybe it was because Natasha would always stop them on their walks to look at blooming flowers of every colour imaginable. Perhaps it was because Clint could taste the end of their relationship on the tip of his tongue. It was just around the bend, and it seemed as though both of them realized it.

Natasha and Clint had been dating for a good few months, considering it a decent idea since they were rather close. However, their relationship was quickly seeded with paranoia and trusts issues. During the little time they had together, they were constantly questioning each other and not believing each other. It worked at Clint's nerves much faster than it did Natasha's.

It wasn't even a rainy or unpleasant day when Clint left the bed especially early, conflicted with the nature of the events the previous night. He hadn't enjoyed it as much as he had hoped he would, but he did love Natasha, didn't he? She followed him from the bedroom, her eyes knowing and concerned at the same time.

"This isn't working."

It was mutual; they admitted to it together, in unison. Clint couldn't help but grin, sheepish. Natasha trailed her hand along his bare shoulder gracefully. She knew they would be better off as friends, instead of trying to force romance into a relationship. They were soul mates, just not in the normal sense of the word.

There were no bitter feelings after they ended their relationship. There were lingering feelings, sure. Feelings that taunted and teased for weeks, but they were more bittersweet than upsetting.

A cold hand against Clint's forehead caused him to jump, his eye lids shooting open. Bruce's face swam before his eyes, coming into focus in a rather awkward way. Clint squinted against the bright light, glancing over at Natasha. His chest always felt a bit warmer when he saw her face; he missed her, though he would not ever admit it to her. Anyway, it didn't work out, and Clint knew nothing could make it work any better.

"He's had a fever since yesterday, in the morning. He was complaining of a headache," Natasha explained quietly to Bruce. Bruce had a small bag placed down by his feet, a doctor's bag. He reached down and pulled it up, setting it on the edge of Clint's bed. He reached in and pulled out a thermometer. Clint set his jaw firmly. He wasn't keen on getting his temperature checked.

"Open up, please," Bruce said, his voice gentle. Clint groaned, but he accepted the cold instrument into his mouth, maneuvering it under his tongue. It was a few moments before it beeped and Bruce pulled it from Clint's mouth. "You just have a slight temperature, Agent Barton," he said, putting the thermometer back in its case and then dropping it into the bag. Clint glanced over at Natasha, hoping the examination was over.

"I'll leave you to it, Dr. Banner," Natasha said, only noticing Clint's gaze afterward. She gave him an apologetic smile before she turned and left. Clint rolled his eyes and then let his gaze settle on the ceiling, examining the flat surface.

"Well," Bruce said quietly, clasping his hands together. He honestly had no clue what else Natasha expected him to do for Clint other than advise him which painkillers to use for his headache. His eyes scanned the feverish man. His temperature had been one hundred, on the dot. This did worry Bruce slightly, especially if the man had been running a fever for over a day, but he wasn't too certain there was much he could do. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his gaze settling on Clint's face. Clint's eyes darted over to meet his gaze for a split second.

"Hot. Cold. It changes," Clint said quietly. He himself didn't see what else the doctor could do for him that hadn't been done already.

"Have you taken any Tylenol? Aspirin?" Bruce questioned.

"No."

"…Why not?" Bruce asked, honestly curious. Clint looked over at him again, but again the eye contact only lasted about a second.

"Don't know. I haven't really had an appetite," Clint offered up, trying to come up with a reason for the doctor. Other than the fact he just hadn't thought to take anything. This seemed to give Bruce something to work with as he went rummaging through his bag. It wasn't long before he pulled out a small bottle of pills, shaking them in his hand.

"These shouldn't upset your stomach, empty or not. I think you should try them, Agent Barton."

Clint looked over at the bottle, scrutinizing it. He then returned his gaze to the ceiling. "Water," he murmured. Bruce glanced around, and realizing Clint was asking for water, set the bottle down on the table next to Clint's bed. He left the room and returned within a minute with a small cup of water.

"Here. Two should do it," Bruce advised, helping Clint to sit up and handing him the cup. He then grabbed the bottle, shaking two pills out into his hand and giving those to Clint as well. Clint threw them into his mouth and downed the water, setting the cup onto the table afterward.

"Alright. Is that all?" Clint asked. He honestly wanted to sleep more.

Bruce raised his eyebrows slightly, feeling as though Clint was irritated with him. "Uh, yeah, I guess it is. But feel free to call me back if you need anything else," Bruce said, reaching for the bottle of painkillers on the table. He faltered, however, and then drew his hand back all together. "You can take these every twelve hours. Don't take too many," he said, standing up and grabbing his bag. He headed to the door and glanced back at Clint, offering him a friendly yet nervous smile.

Clint was too exhausted to acknowledge the gesture. He remained on his bed, not stirring once for the next sixteen hours.