The first announcement is a straight up tactical FYI.
"Romanoff."
"Mmm?" She runs her finger over the map, tracing the contour lines of the terrain. They already have primary and secondary retreat routes out of the area, but there are concerns about road conditions in the next few days and she wants a third option.
"I'm running a fever."
She looks over to the window where Clint has been perched for the past two hours.
"Nothing that will affect the job," he says without lowering the night vision binoculars.
She goes back to the map.
'* '* '*
The second announcement is another tactical update on his condition (same as before), because while their job is done, they're still not out of the hot zone.
'* '* '*
The third and fourth announcements are woe-is-me pleas for attention in the car, worthy of a five year-old. Natasha tells him to pop another Ibuprofen and turns the radio up when he starts complaining about her appalling lack of empathy.
'* '* '*
It's when Clint stops complaining that Natasha starts paying attention.
It is late afternoon. End of January at this latitude means daylight is already long gone and the only thing that keeps the massive darkness back is the headlights of their rented car. It's bright red, complete with a rooftop cargo carrier that contains various winter sport paraphernalia. Just another couple heading up north to enjoy a few days of skiing.
Natasha turns off the small road and the cabin appears in the harsh glare of the headlights. A motion controlled light comes on as she pulls up. She cuts the engine and sits back. Clint has been asleep for the past hour, leaning heavily against the passenger door. As the silence descends she waits for him to groan and grouse and uncurl. He doesn't.
She unbuckles the seat belt and pockets the bag of trail mix she had tried unsuccessfully to get Clint to eat earlier. Cold air invades the car when she opens the door, and she is thankful for the high-quality down jacket her alias wears when going skiing. She closes the car door a fraction harder than strictly necessary behind her, giving him a wake up call and some space to get his bearings. Her breath puffs white in the freezing air. Thirteen below is what the car thermometer said and she believes it. Winter is for real around these parts. She shakes out a few nuts from the trail mix bag and chews them while scanning the surroundings. The sloping branches of the pines and spruces that surround the cabin are weighted down by snow. It lies knee-deep all around. The narrow driveway only has a few inches of snow, though, so whoever is fronting this safe house must come around regularly to clear it. Or hired a neighbor with a snow blower or a tractor to do it. She looks back the way they came. The tire tracks fade into the darkness, the edges already going indistinct thanks to the northern wind that drives snow like white sand across the road. More snow is on the way according to the weather services. She hopes the road won't become impassable, because even four-wheel drive cars have their limits.
She hears the passenger door open and turns. Clint gets out and looks around blearily. It had taken a day or two for Natasha to get used to his new look. His eyes are brown, courtesy of Shield technology, his hair dyed dark and a little longer around the ears and at the back of his neck than he usually keeps it. It stands up in a crazy tuft on the side that had been pressed against the window, a sure sign he's been sweating.
"How are you feeling?" she asks.
He starts answering but his voice breaks. He clears his throat. "Not too bad." He closes the passenger door and grabs their gear from the backseat.
Natasha looks up at the dark sky as the first snowflakes start whirling around her.
It's close to midnight, and the wind howls and whistles around the dark cabin. Natasha stands by the window with a blanket around her shoulders as protection against the chill of the room. The outside temperature has dropped further, and the single radiator is turned up to max, but is still barely lukewarm. She watches the snow come down. It isn't falling slowly and prettily, it's tearing through the darkness like a raging animal, attacking the cabin horizontally rather than vertically. Icy flakes hiss angrily against the window pane. She knows that if she were to head out, they would sting her skin and eyes mercilessly.
The old radio she found in the single bedroom drones behind her, the sound turned down low. She had scrolled through the stations until she found one that sounded less like a commercial music station and more like something that would broadcast actual news every once in a while. She had been right; every hour on the hour there's a news broadcast. A thirty second weather report comes after the news, and as the evening progressed the reports had gone from 'difficult road conditions' to 'whiteout conditions' to 'stay the hell inside'.
She hears the creak of floorboards behind her and turns. Clint stands in the doorway to the small back bedroom, sleep-ruffled and flushed.
"What time is it?" His voice sounds scratchier.
"Almost midnight."
He scrubs a hand over his face and runs it up over his hair. "Shit. Sorry. I really meant to just rest a few minutes." He joins her by the window. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"You needed the rest."
A shiver runs through him and he wraps his arms around himself as he peers out into the darkness. "I'm so very glad we don't have to be outside in this."
She hums in agreement and reaches out to feel his forehead. He pulls his head back, but Natasha is expecting it and catches him by the back of the neck. They're not home safe and sound yet, and she can't afford to indulge the 'don't-touch-me' reaction that crops up when Clint gets sick. He doesn't look happy, but stays put long enough for her to note that he feels warmer than before. Could simply be that he's spent a few hours under a warm blanket, but she doesn't think so.
He pushes her hand away with a scowl and shuffles towards the couch. He stops halfway, his eyes on the hunting trophies mounted on the wall. The animals stare back with flat, glassy eyes, and Natasha knows where his mind is taking him. The prey the two of them hunt and fell doesn't exactly lend itself to proud display on polished oak boards. She watches him give the trophies a final disgusted look before slumping down on the couch with a groan.
"You should take another Ibuprofen," she tells him.
"None left."
She narrows her eyes. There had been plenty when they left base a few days earlier. He must have been mainlining them. "Just how sick are you? No bullshit, Barton."
He rubs at his face. "I've been better," he admits.
With a sigh she nods towards the trail mix bag on the table. "Eat a little of that, then go back to bed. I've got this."
He squints at her. "You sure? I can take this watch so you can get some sleep. I mean, I slept in the car and just now, so…" There's a distinct lack of enthusiasm in the offer.
"Clint. Go to bed. If you feel better in the morning you can drive and I'll sleep in the car." And if he's not better, well, she's gone without sleep for far longer than this.
Without further protest he gets up from the couch and heads to the table. He pours a little trail mix in his hand and looks at it with tired resignation before tossing it in his mouth. She hands him her water bottle and he unscrews the cap and drinks before heading back to the bedroom.
When she checks on him a few minutes later, he's already asleep.
'* '* '*
Three hours pass and there's nothing to do other than watch the snow accumulate outside and listen to the wind whining in the chimney. They're a hundred and fifty miles from the site of their op and Natasha hasn't spotted any sign that they've been pursued, but she's reluctant to let her guard down completely yet. Also, she wants to keep an eye on Clint. It's just a fever, and not even a really bad one, but last time he came down with something that had reduced him to a shivering ball of half-conscious misery, the two of them had been in Hong Kong. He had gotten worse fast and she had ended up having to call off the op and taking him to a walk-in urgent care clinic.
But being vigilant doesn't mean she has to stand by the window and stare at the snow, so eventually she turns the lights out and lies down on the couch. She trusts herself not to slip too deeply into sleep, so she allows herself to curl up on her side and close her eyes.
She doesn't know how much time has passed when she hears a thud and a muffled groan from the bedroom. She's got her gun and flashlight in her hands in an instant. Soundlessly she makes her way towards the bedroom door, keeping close to the wall, making sure she doesn't present anyone who might have made it inside with a silhouette against the windows in the front room. It's dark outside, but even in the middle of the night and during a storm, there's always some fraction of natural light. She goes low, crouches next to the door and listens. Nothing. She waits another couple of seconds, then peers into the bedroom. The tension leaves her. She gets to her feet and flicks the flashlight on.
Clint looks up at her from where he's sitting on the floor. He squints and shields his eyes against the glare of the flashlight. "I—" He looks at the bed, then up at her again. "It tilted." He sounds puzzled. "The bed. It tilted."
The bed looks perfectly fine, so more likely is he rolled off it. She kneels next to him and feels his forehead. He's hotter. She looks him over as well as she can in the light of the flashlight. He looks worse, exhausted, like he's been awake for days, and his gray t-shirt is dark with sweat around the neckline and down the front.
"Come on, let's get you back on the bed."
"S'okay." He closes his eyes and leans into her touch. "I'm comfy here."
"I bet you are, but I can't sit here holding you up all night. Up."
He sits unmoving for a moment before sighing and climbing stiffly to his feet. He sits down on the edge of the narrow bed while she gets his bag and digs out a reasonably clean t-shirt for him to change into.
When she turns back he has slumped down on his side.
"Dammit, Romanoff," he grumbles when she pulls him up to sitting again.
"Yes, yes, I know, I'm a horrible person." She tugs the hem of his sweaty shirt up. "Off."
"No fair," he mutters, but obediently raises his arms a little.
"What's not fair?"
"That after all these years, you finally decide to get freaky when I'm too sick to enjoy it."
She snorts and pulls the shirt up and over his head. "In your dreams."
He's grinning tiredly when he reappears, his dark hair standing on end. "Mine and a thousand others'."
She shakes the dry t-shirt out and hands it to him. She inclines her head towards the front room. "Come on."
Clint stops with the shirt halfway up his arms and sits up a fraction straighter. He shakes his head like he's trying to dislodge the fever and the fatigue. "We're leaving? Have we been made?"
"We're fine," she reassures him. "It's just a change in sleeping arrangements." She holds out her hand. "Come on."
It takes a moment, but then he relaxes and pulls the t-shirt over his head before letting her help him up.
He trails her to the front room where she directs him to the couch while she goes back into the bedroom in search for a pillow and a blanket that aren't damp with sweat. She gets the water bottle still standing on the floor next to the bed while she's in there. When she returns he is resting his forehead against the heels of his palms, elbows on his knees. She knocks the bottle lightly against his shoulder.
With a groan he sits up and unscrews the cap. "Thanks," he mumbles after a mouthful and tries to give the bottle back to her.
Natasha doesn't take it. "At least half of it."
He sighs, but drinks. He manages about a third before he hands it back with a tired shake of his head. It's more than she expected so she doesn't push. She'll make him drink more later.
'* '* '*
Natasha finds a ratty deck of cards in a drawer and sits at the small table playing solitaire while keeping an eye on Clint as the night progresses. She's just starting another game when she hears the couch squeak. She looks up and sees him roll off it to his knees.
"Where's my—I need—"
She puts down the eight of spades in her hand. Pulls a new card. Queen of diamonds. "What you need is to go back to sleep."
He gets to his feet gracelessly. "Where's my gear?" he mumbles. "I need my gear."
She puts the deck down and pushes the chair back to go usher him back to the couch. "We're okay. You can go back to sleep."
He turns to scan the room, but his balance is shot to hell and Natasha doesn't know how she gets to him in time to keep him from braining himself on the radiator. "Jesus, Barton," she grunts as they both end up kneeling on the floor.
He pushes at her hands. "We've been made," he whispers anxiously. "We've been made." Under her hands he's radiating heat like a furnace.
"Clint, listen to me. We haven't been made. You're sick. You have a fever."
He shakes his head. "No. No, I'm— They're coming. We have to go. Now. Nat, we have to go."
She puts her hands on his cheek and makes him look at her. "We're okay. The perimeter alarms haven't gone off and I did a walk-around just a few minutes ago. It's all good. We're good." She hasn't set any perimeter alarms and she sure as hell hasn't been outside the door, but hopefully her lies will reassure him enough that she can get him back onto the couch again.
Clint's eyes flicker towards the front door. "We're—? You sure?"
"Yes."
"I thought…"
She can see the little shivers that run through him.
"I'm sure. Come on, let's get you horizontal again."
He doesn't look completely convinced, but lets her help him up, and she gets him re-settled on the couch. She goes hunting through her bag just case some pills have fallen out of their pack and ended up on the bottom of it, because this is getting bad, the fever is still climbing. She finds nothing. She goes through Clint's bag and finds a blister pack. For a moment she almost dares to hope, but it's empty of contents. Then she spots it. A single white little pill at the bottom of one of the pockets and she almost crows with satisfaction. She knows it's either Ibuprofen or Acetaminophen, they don't carry anything more conspicuous than that when under cover. One single pill will only tide him over for a few hours, if even that, but it's better than nothing.
She manages to get Clint to sit up to swallow it with some water, then brings his bag over and shows it to him before placing it on the floor by the couch, within easy reach. Clint rolls over and his arm kind of flops over the edge and his hand comes to rest on the bag, on the weapons inside. If having his gear close by helps banish whatever feverish anxiety that's gripping him, it's worth a shot.
She sits down on the edge of the couch and pulls the blanket down to his waist. He needs to cool down.
"N'tasha?" he mumbles without opening his eyes.
"I'm here."
"I don't feel so good."
"I know you don't. Sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up."
He burrows into the cushions and she has to catch his hands when they go to pull the blanket up again.
'* '* '*
It gets worse. Of course it does. It's Clint.
He spends the next few hours alternating between near comatose and restlessly anxious, but at five in the morning the fever spikes, and Natasha curses herself for her stupidity. As soon as he told her they were out of Ibuprofen they should have left to go find a pharmacy or a doctor's office, or even a vet clinic, something that stocks fever reducers. But now the storm is raging out there and the window for a medicine run closed hours ago.
She rubs snow on an old kitchen towel she found, letting it melt before wiping him down. He barely reacts. She knows she needs to get him to drink, but when she lifts his head and puts the bottle to his lips, he turns away. She sits back on her heels and rubs at her eyes. She's running out of options, here.
If dropping Clint face first in the drifts outside would help with his fever, she would do it in a heartbeat, but she knows that kind of overly rapid cooling will just convince his body that it needs to redirect blood from his extremities to his core, and that would mean turning the heat up another notch for his already overheating organs. So that's out.
With a sigh she gets to her feet. She knows what she has to do. She doesn't want to do it, but Clint's well-being supersedes her own ego and stupid hang-ups, so she retrieves her phone and dials a number from memory. As it rings she puts her fingers against Clint's neck. His pulse taps rapidly under her fingers.
"Yo, yo, yo," Stark answers.
"Where are you?"
"Well, hello to you too."
"Barton is in trouble. Where. Are. You?"
Stark immediately drops his light tone. "In New York. What kind of trouble?"
Natasha looks down at her partner, "He's sick, very sick, and I have no way of getting him medical care."
"Is it bad?"
"What part of 'very sick' can possibly be ambiguous?" she snaps, suddenly and unreasonably irritated with Stark. She blames the stress of watching Clint get worse and worse.
"What do you need?" Stark asks.
"He's running a dangerously high fever, so fever reducers. IV fluids, he's dehydrated. If Banner is around he can tell you what kind."
"I'm on it." She hears him walk briskly, presumably towards Bruce's lab or apartment. "Anything else?" Tony is the world champion of saying nothing with a thousand words, but when it matters he's almost as efficient and economical with words as Coulson had been.
"Water. Sport drinks. Something to eat. Don't know if I'll be able to get any in him, but it's worth a shot."
"Got it. Where are you?"
She gives him the coordinates and a heads up on the weather conditions.
"We'll be there in about three hours. Try to keep him alive."
"Will do," she says and hangs up.
She heads to the window, relieved to be done with the call. She eyes the car outside, half buried under the drifting snow. She might not be able to drive them out of here, but it may be of use anyway. She grabs her jacket and heads out. The wind attacks her as soon as she opens the door, and the ferocity of it drives the breath right back into her lungs. She pulls her hood up and spends a few minutes looking around for a shovel, but she finds nothing. She manages to clear enough snow from the car with her hands and boots to pull the door open and get in. Her breath clouds white in the low light of the instrument panel as she starts it up. The car says twenty-two below now. She'll let the car idle, get the temperature inside it up into the fifties, then she'll take Clint out here, and hopefully the cooler air will help keep the fever from rising further. She adjusts the thermostat. A smaller space will be easier to control. If it gets too cold she can up the heater, if it gets too warm she can crack open a window.
She heads back inside and gives the car twenty minutes to get up to temperature, then gathers Clint's clothes from the floor in the bedroom. She shakes his shoulder gently.
"Clint. You have to get up.
Nothing.
She shakes him a little firmer. "Barton. We have to go." She puts a note of urgency into her words. "Now. We have to leave."
It takes several seconds, but then he moves. His brain may be melting in his head, but there's apparently enough consciousness left to recognize the tone. She doesn't like playing on his earlier fear like this, but she needs him to get up, he's too heavy for her to carry to the car.
With Natasha's help he manages to sit up and slide his legs off the couch. His eyes remain closed. He doesn't make any attempt at getting to his feet.
She kneels in front of him and works his feet into his pants, leaving them at his ankles for now. She pulls his boots on. She doesn't bother with socks. "We have to relocate to the car," she tells him as she works on the laces.
There's a momentary glint of reflected light under his lashes as she threads his arms into his jacket.
"Think I lost your keys," he mumbles. "M'sorry."
"Don't worry. I have them." She has no idea what keys his feverish mind thinks he's lost. She gets him standing and pulls his pants up and over his hips.
"Where're we goin'?" he asks as she drapes his arm over her shoulders. "We leaving?"
"No, we're just going outside for a while."
He's loose-limbed and heavy against her side, but she gets them to the door. Clint's breath hitches when she pushes the door open and the cold wind hits them head on, sweeping a cloud of snow across the threshold. She feels him curl in on himself. When she tries to coax him forward, he grabs the door frame and shakes his head.
"We have to get your temperature down," she tries to reason, but he just keeps shaking his head. She sighs and pries his fingers loose from their grip on the doorframe. He makes a short, keening sound, but she refuses to feel bad as she drags him outside into the freezing darkness. When he's back in his right mind, he'll know it's what she had to do.
She manages to get him about halfway to the car before he digs his heels into the snow for real and tries to break her grip on him.
"Let go," he hisses.
"If I thought for a moment that you wouldn't go ass over teakettle I would." She gets a shove, but has no trouble keeping her grip on his arm. "Calm down, we're just going to the car."
He wrenches backwards. It's not much of an escape attempt, but there's ice under the snow and Natasha curses as she slips a little and has to let go to keep her balance. Without support Clint ends up on his ass in the snow, as predicted.
"Don't touch me, you fucking bitch." He scoots backwards, murder in his feverish eyes. It falters a few seconds later and confusion takes its place. He looks around, at the car, the snow, the cabin, then up at her. His face crumples a little. "I want to go inside. Can I go inside? I'm cold."
"Not just yet."
"I don't... I... " He looks around. "Are we leavin'?" he asks again.
"No. We're just going to sit a few minutes in the car, then we're going back inside."
"I wanna go inside."
"Your temperature needs to come down, Clint. We'll sit in the car for a few minutes, then we can go in, okay?"
"I'm cold," he moans. "Please, let me go inside."
She reminds herself that he's feverish and doesn't mean to act like a stubborn child. "Soon," she promises.
He drops his head and hunches over. She hears him mumble, but she can't make out what it is until she leans closer.
"…I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. I'm sorry."
"If you're worried about the keys, don't be. I have them right here."
He looks up at her, his fever glossy eyes wide. "I didn't mean to. It was an accident."
"I know, it's okay."
She tries to get them moving towards the car again, but Clint surges forward on his knees and grabs for her, wraps his arms around her hips. "Don't," he chokes out.
"I'm just—"
"Don't go."
"I'm not going anywhere. We'll just sit a few minutes in the car, then—"
"Don't leave me here." His voice goes tight and high. "Lemme inside. I'm sorry. Please. I'm sorry."
Natasha feels her jaw go tense as the suspicion that he's not talking about the keys at all settles in. "What exactly are you sorry for?"
For a moment the only sound around them is the angry wind, then Clint wails into the waist of her jacket. "I don't know." He holds on like he's afraid she is going to shove him away. "But it was bad, I know, and I'm sorry. Please, don't leave me out here. I'm sorry."
She puts her hand at the back of his sweat-damp head and feels a familiar kind of anger solidify in her chest. It's no secret his father was a mean drunk and a sober bastard, and that the people who were supposed to look after Clint and his brother after their parents died weren't much better. But he has never before alluded to what she suspects he's re-living here; being locked outside in the cold as punishment.
"I'm not going to leave you here, Clint," she promises him and wills his fevered mind to recognize the truth in it. "I'm not like them."
He either doesn't hear her or doesn't believe her, because he holds on tighter and keeps pleading against her jacket until his the words trail off into hitching, stuttering tears. She runs her hand over his hair and doesn't wonder what kind of person does that to a child, because she knows intimately the monsters that hide beneath the surface of civility.
"Come on," she sighs. "Let's get you into the car."
Moving is impossible with him hanging on to her, and every time she tries to extricate herself from his grip he panics. It takes a few long minutes and a lot of coaxing before he can be convinced to let go. Getting him up is not easy. He tries to help, but apparently he has exerted himself to the point of exhaustion and Natasha ends up doing most of the heavy lifting.
"Jesus, Barton," she grunts as she finally gets him upright. "You need to lay off the donuts."
She leans him against the side of the car, and gets to work clearing away enough snow from the passenger side door to open it. She finally manages and more or less pours him into the seat.
She slides into driver's seat and pulls the door closed on the storm. The car feels warm, but she knows it's just in contrast to the air outside. She leans over and pulls his jacket open, exposes as much of his neck and his chest as she can. She doesn't want to take it off completely.
"Do you think you can drink a little water?"
He doesn't answer, just reaches out blindly and grabs onto her sleeve. He holds on as he drops back into feverish sleep, shoulder propped up against the door. Natasha sighs at the uncomfortable position her arm is held in. She carefully peels his fingers away and takes his clammy hand in hers instead. If a little physical contact gives him a sense of safety she will happily provide it.
She settles in to wait.
When Shield was up and running, not lying in the smoldering ashes of its own failure, she would have had the option of calling for an emergency extraction, and in almost any circumstance help would have arrived in the form of a jet, with or without a STRIKE team on board. But now, when they go out to help Fury eradicate the rot that contaminated Shield for so long, they're on their own.
Only, not really. They might not have Shield at their backs any longer, but they have something else. And that something else has mighty resources. It has Steve and Bruce and Tony and Thor.
It still doesn't sit well with Natasha to have to ask for help.
'* '* '*
Three hours feels impossibly long when you're waiting, but finally, finally Natasha hears the familiar roar of the jet, of Stark's repulsors, and she coaxes her fingers out of Clint's lax grip before pushing the car door open. It takes some force, because even though the snowfall has mostly eased up, the snow has built up against the car again, carried there by the wind. Her eyes are gritty from lack of sleep as she watches the glow of the jet's engines and the position lights hanging just over the treetops. There isn't enough space for it to touch down here.
Stark walks up to her and his face plate slides up."Fear no more, fair Lady Natasha, the cavalry is here."
She gives him a smile that feels thin and tired. "Who am I talking to? Sir Galahad or Ulysses S. Grant?"
Stark grins back. "The man with the goody bag." He does indeed produce a bag from where it is strapped to his back. "Where is our poorly archer?"
She rounds the car and opens the passenger door.
Stark leans closer and frowns at Clint. "Wow. He looks kinda shitty. Why are you out here? Why isn't he in a bed?"
"His fever is too high, he needs to cool down. Did you bring—?"
"Right here." Stark kneels in the snow and gets his gauntlets off to start rifling through the bag. Above them the pitch of the engines changes, and the dark jet rises and slides off to the side. It leaves them in near darkness, only pierced by the blue of Stark's arc reactor and the muted light of the snow-covered headlights of the car. They're off to find a landing spot, Natasha assumes.
"By mouth or by instrument of torture?" Stark holds pills in one hand and a packaged syringe in the other.
"Needle," she says and starts to pull Clint's jacket off his shoulder to get to his arm. She holds out her hand at the light tap at her elbow, and gets the syringe in her palm. She pulls the cap off with her teeth and it's with relief she inject him with the liquid acetaminophen. She looks up at Stark. "Can you get him inside?"
"No problemo, Red," Stark says, his breath a cloud of bluish silver in the cold air.
Clint flails a little when Stark lifts him from the car, but he settles down almost immediately and is out before they're inside and he's placed on the couch again.
"Fluids?" Natasha asks as she kneels next to him.
Stark hands her the equipment bag and gets out of his suit before availing himself as an IV pole, holding the IV bag. "Cozy," he says as he looks around, and he doesn't even sound sarcastic. "I mean, it would be cozier if Barton wasn't lying there like a limp noodle, trying his best to pressure cook his brain, but still, it has a certain kind of charm." He frowns at Natasha's raised eyebrows. "What? I can't appreciate the simpler things in life?"
"No. You can't."
Stark seems to think about it, then shrugs. "You're right. I'd go crazy in about two hours."
"Two hours? I'd give you twenty minutes before you started ripping out the electrical system just to have something to do." Natasha finishes taping the IV line in place, then sits down on the floor, leaning back against the couch.
"You okay?" Stark asks. "No offense, but you look like you're about to drop."
"I'm just tired, haven't gotten much sleep in the past two days." She twists and feels Clint's forehead, willing the Acetaminophen to kick in, but she knows it's far too soon for it to have any effect. She can't help herself.
"Sir, Captain Rogers reports they have found a suitable landing spot. He and doctor Banner will be arriving in a few minutes."
"Thanks, Jarvis." Stark settles next to Clint on the edge of the couch, holding the IV bag at shoulder level. "Now, Rogers, there's your Sir Galahad." He looks down when Clint shifts behind him with a plaintive moan. His brows climb almost alarmingly high when Clint's arm snakes around from behind and comes to lie limply across his hips in a loose embrace.
He glances up at Natasha, who narrows her eyes and dares him wordlessly to say something derogatory under the guise of dark humor. Clint pretty much needs to be bleeding out before he asks for a scrap of comfort, and after the little scene out there in the snow she is in no mood to listen to Stark's bullshit.
Stark lifts his hands defensively. "Hey, I didn't say a thing. Anyone knows a man cannot be held responsible for channeling his inner koala when he's in this kind of condition."
Natasha holds Stark's eyes for another couple of seconds, making sure the promise of pain is clearly received before she gets to her feet. Clint didn't deserve what happened to him then, and he doesn't deserve Tony Stark making a joke out of the fallout now.
"Sheesh," she hears Stark mutter behind her.
'* '* '*
Natasha blinks her eyes open to gray daylight. From the sound of it, the storm is still raging outside. With Clint's fever having dropped significantly, they had decided to wait out the storm, rather than risk flying through it, and she had taken the opportunity to get some sleep. She unfolds her legs from under herself with a groan. Sleeping in a recliner is never comfortable, no matter what Clint says.
"Morning, sunshine," Stark says from across the room. He's seated at the table, flipping through the deck of cards that Natasha had deserted the night before. Three bulky winter jackets are hanging off the back of the chairs. It's pleasantly warm. She looks over to the radiator.
"I fixed it. Got bored."
"Told you," she says, and has to cover her mouth as she is ambushed by a yawn. She looks around. Sees Steve seated on the floor next to Clint, slumped against the couch, sleeping. He had insisted on staying close to monitor Clint's temperature. "Where is Bruce?" she asks, keeping her voice low.
"Sleeping in there." Stark nods towards the bedroom. "There is an actual bed in there, you know."
"Yes. I know. And I also know what Barton did in it."
Stark makes a face. "Eww."
She rolls her eyes. "He sweated, Stark. Sweated."
"Oh. I thought—" Stark cuts himself off, then scrunches up his nose again. "But still, eww."
She stretches some of the stiffness out of her muscles before tiptoeing over to the couch where Clint is sleeping. He lies curled up on his side, cradling Steve's forearm close to his body. The fever still hasn't released its grip on him but he's out of the danger zone. Natasha leans over Steve and feels his forehead. His lashes flutter at the touch and she cards her fingers through his lank hair as he wakes up properly.
"Hey," she says quietly when he focuses on her.
"Hey," he mumbles hoarsely. He manages a few seconds of eye contact before his eyes slip closed again, and she thinks he's fallen back asleep, but then he rolls his head to the side and opens his eyes again. Natasha sees the moment he realizes that he's holding on to Steve, because his mouth twitches with discomfort.
Clint slowly releases Steve's arm. "Why-? When did he get here?" The words slur together a little.
She sits down on the armrest. "Last night."
"Oh." He squints up at her. "Why?"
Stark comes up behind Natasha. "Because someone, and I shall name no names, decided it would be fun to try to die from a fever."
Steve stirs and lifts his head, blinking blearily at them all. "What's-? Everything okay?"
"Everything is just dandy," Stark tells him. "Sickly Spice is awake. And so is Super Scary Spider Spice. The only one still snoozing is Bruce."
Steve frowns at the monikers, then seems to decide it's not important enough to ask and turns his attention to Clint. "Good to see you awake. You gave us quite a scare. How are you feeling?"
"Don't know. Thirsty," Clint mumbles.
Natasha fetches a bottle of water and Steve tries to help him sit up. Clint waves him off. He pushes up on his elbow and takes the bottle Natasha hands him. He drinks deeply.
"Thanks," he sighs and flops back down with a groan. "Is Armageddon near?"
"Not that I know of," Stark says. "Although, I did see Fury smile the other day, but that was probably indigestion and not a sign of the approaching Apocalypse.
"Everything is okay," Steve reassures Clint.
Clint curls up under the blanket and closes his eyes. "In that case I think I'm gonna sleep some more. If it's all the same to you."
"You do that," Steve says and gets to his feet. Stark follows him back to the table.
"Please, tell me I didn't cuddle Rogers all night," Clint mumbles to Natasha.
"You didn't." He has just enough time to look relieved before she continues. "You cuddled Stark, too." Clint screws his eyes shut with a wince and she tweaks his cheek lightly. "You're kind of cute when you go all stealth-cephalopod," she grins. It is her prerogative to give him a little grief about it, even if she won't let Stark do the same.
He bats at her hand. "I'm not cute," he grouches.
"Sure, sure."
"Bunnies are cute. I'm handsome."
Sleep is leaking back into his voice, softening the edges of his words further, and Natasha arranges the blanket, tucks it in around him. Once the fever had broken and Clint had relaxed back into semi-normal, exhausted sleep, it had been kind of cute, and that's what she's taking away from this night she decides. Teasing material to last for months. The rest, the memory of him on his knees in the snow will be filed away, never to be mentioned, because for whatever reason Clint has never talked about this, and he deserves to keep his secrets. It's one of the few things in life he can truly call his own.
Clint looks up at her from under his lashes. "Why am I on this godawful couch? I remember a perfectly good bed in there."
"It tilted," she informs him.
"Tilted?"
"Yes, tilted. Oh, and also, you lost my keys."
"What keys?"
"You tell me," she says with a shrug and a small grin.
Clint blinks at her slowly a few times, looking confused, before he shakes his head and his eyes slip closed.
She sits with him until she's sure he's properly asleep, listening to Steve and Stark quietly debating whether Omaha or Texas Hold 'em is the better poker game behind her. The sound is kind of... comfortable. Relaxing in a weird way. She feels Clint's forehead one last time before getting to her feet and interrupting the best-poker-game argument to inform them it's strip poker. It's not technically its own kind of poker, but she just wants to see Steve's reaction.