"Coulson?"
"What?"
"Coulson?"
"What?"
"Coulson?"
"What, Clint?"
"Hi."
Coulson looked up from the newspaper. Slowly, with an amused grin he replied, "Hi."
"Coulson?" Natasha asked. She pulled herself to a sitting position in the hospital bed. Her arms wobbled beneath her. "Do you think I'm pretty?"
"Of course, Natasha," Coulson replied.
Clint snorted. "Tasha, everyone thinks you're pretty."
Natasha's arms gave out and she dropped back onto the pillows with a muffled thud. "Thanks, Clint."
"Coulson?"
"What?"
"Coulson?"
"What?"
"Coulson?"
"Hello, Clint."
"No, I want something to drink," Clint said.
Coulson looked over the paper. "Like what?"
"Like….beer," Clint said.
Coulson shook his head. "Clint, you can't have beer. It'll mess with the medications."
"How about vodka?" Natasha suggested.
"He can't have vodka either," Coulson replied.
"Oh," she said softly. There was a pause and then, "Can I have vodka?"
"No, Natasha, you can't have vodka either," Coulson said. "The two of you can have juice or water."
"How about a soda?" Clint asked.
"Is soda either a juice or water?" Coulson asked in return.
A beat of silence and Clint said, "No."
"Then no, you cannot have soda," Coulson replied. He pulled the paper back up.
"Coulson?" Clint asked.
"Yes, Clint," Coulson replied.
"Can I have a glass of water?" Clint asked.
"Sure," Coulson said. He folded the paper and set it down on the end table next to his chair. The sink had a couple of plastic cups with lids and straws for Clint and Natasha to use. He filled one up with water, popped the lid on, and set it next to Clint. "Good?"
"Yeah," Clint said.
"Good," Coulson said. He took a seat again and opened the paper.
"Coulson?" Natasha asked.
"I'll still think you're pretty," he replied.
"I want a glass of water too," she said.
Coulson sighed and set the paper down again. He filled up the other glass and set it next to Natasha. "Good?"
She took a sip and made a face. "Can I have juice instead?"
Another sigh. "Yeah, I'll go find you some juice."
"Can I lie in Clint's bed?" She asked and then yawned wide.
"No. Stay in your own bed," Coulson said. "I'll be right back."
He journeyed down the hall to the vending machine. One dollar and fifty cents later he had a little bottle of grape juice. He walked back down the hall and into Clint and Tasha's room. They were asleep, snoring gently, and in the same bed. Coulson took Natasha's cup, emptied it of the water, and filled it with juice. He set it on the table next to her and turned off the lights.
Quietly he picked up his paper and took a seat in the chair next to their door out in the hall. He opened the paper, crossed his legs at the ankle, and finished the article.