Blah finals -.-; Hello all! I hope you're all doing wonderfully! We're finally getting into some of the Avengers stories now! Yay! So this idea actually popped up recently; I went to the grocery store with a friend of mine when he was sick and he was buying some cold medicine (Robitussin maybe? IDK, some kind of cough medicine) and they made him show his I.D. to even make the purchase. Apparently kids are using it to get high now and they're required to card people to buy cold medicine O.o Weird...
Anyway, that got me thinking and this fic popped up. I figured if Steve had joined the army before he was legally able to drive, he probably wouldn't have an I.D. at his disposal. Just something I wanted to play around with ^.- Hope you all like it! :D
"Geez, you guys look awful."
Tony sniffles pitifully in response and blows his nose. "Wow, thanks Clint. How'd that seminar over tact go by the way?" He mutters thickly, tossing the used tissue into the nearest trashcan and fixing the archer with a weak glare.
Clint shrugs one shoulder casually. "Sorry. It's just that when we left everyone was fine and then I come back and you guys look like your next stop should be the CDC. Seriously, we've only been gone for, like, a week."
Tony coughs into the back of his hand and shakes his head. "Well, you can thank Natasha for that," he mumbles with a nod toward the equally sick assassin standing next to the sink a few feet away making tea. "She brought back a strain of super flu from Moscow and proceeded to infect everyone in the Tower."
"I told you to stay away from me, Stark," Natasha shoots back without turning. "I gave you fair warning."
Tony coughs again and looks back at Clint. "What'd you do with Steve?"
"He's downstairs on a conference call with Coulson and Fury. He said he'd be up in a few minutes."
"Well, you might want to tell him to stay downstairs," Tony suggests, his voice thick and stuffy with congestion. "Bruce has quarantined the whole Tower and I can pretty much guarantee that he's going to send you guys off to the helicarrier until this thing passes."
"Hmm, vacation at the chateau helicarrier," Clint reasons as he rocks back on his heels. "Sounds like a blast."
"Once again, thank Natasha for that." Natasha turns and tosses the hot tea bag from her cup at him. Tony doesn't even try to move out of the way; actually, he doesn't even seem bothered as the tea bag bounces harmlessly off his shoulder and lands on the floor at his feet. Both actions speak volumes as to how terrible the two feel: Natasha, who's aim is usually impeccable and always ends in a headshot, can't hit Tony in the forehead even though he's only standing a few feet away and Tony, while he's generally not able to duck the projectiles that Natasha has a habit of launching at him, usually at least tries to move out of the way. Or at least react. So yes, the flu is wreaking havoc on two of earth's mightiest heroes and neither of them seems to have to energy to even be bothered by it.
Tony has the decency to glance at the wet splotch on his shoulder with slight disdain before he sneezes and coughs all at once into a tissue. "Ugh…I'm going back to bed," he mumbles before giving Clint a mock salute and shuffling off into one of the hallways.
Clint watches him go silently and turns back just as Natasha comes around the bar and slumps onto one of the stools, her mug clutched between both hands. "How'd the mission go?" She asks, her voice just as congested as Tony's but she's making a distinct effort to hide how terrible she feels. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail and she's wearing the same baggy, threadbare sweater she only wears when she's sick or injured. The dark circles under her eyes and the faint flush to her cheeks are a dead giveaway but Clint knows better than to say anything.
"Good enough, I guess," Clint says with a shrug, dropping his keys and his access card for the Tower onto the nearest countertop. "We didn't get much out of Nazino but we got enough to send a S.H.I.E.L.D strike force to his laboratory by the end of the week."
Natasha nods slowly and then frowns, seemingly coming to a sudden realization. "Where's Steve?"
Clint quirks an eyebrow at her. He'd just told Tony where Steve was not thirty second ago and he thought Natasha was close enough to hear it but apparently not. That or the congestion was affecting her hearing, that was a possibility as well. "He's downstairs on a conference call. He'll be up soon."
Natasha nods, satisfied with the answer, and takes a sip of her tea. Though he would absolutely never call her on it (he valued his life and all of his limbs, thank you very much), Natasha tended to mother the hell out of Steve in her own unique way when she thought no one else was looking. They had all become a little more protective of their time-displaced captain after the big age reveal but Natasha tended to take it just a bit farther than the others. She kept a sharper eye on him than anyone else and he wouldn't put it past her to have planted a chip in Steve at some point when he wasn't looking. It was endearing in a way but, once again, Clint would never, ever call her on it.
He's just about to ask her about her own mission when the lights flicker above his head. There's a tremendous sneeze down the hall and seconds later Thor appears in the doorway. The god's usually tan skin is slightly paler than normal and his golden hair is mussed and sticking out at odd angles like he's having a hard time controlling static electricity. He stumbles into the kitchen, lacking the usual grace and composure he moves with, and comes to a stop next to Clint.
"Greetings, archer," the god welcomes, trying to smile but it looks tired and thin. His blue eyes are cloudy like the sky before a storm and his voice sounds just as congested as everyone else's.
"Hey big guy," Clint smiles sympathetically as Thor stifles a cough as he passes. "Flu got you too, huh?"
"Aye," Thor nods slightly, rummaging around in the cabinet for a coffee mug. "I don't understand how you Midgardians can tolerate such an illness. We've no infirmities such as this on Asgard."
Clint shrugs a bit. "Well, it's just kind of a way of life down here. Granted, its not an enjoyable experience, but most people are kinda used to getting sick every once in a while."
"It is miserable," Thor mutters as he fills the mug with hot water from the kettle Natasha was using earlier. He sneezes again and the lights flicker overhead. His hair fuzzes slightly from the resounding static. Clint has to resist the urge to laugh; he really doesn't feel like being electrocuted right now.
"What has become of our wayward Captain?" Thor asks as he locates a container of instant coffee grounds and proceeds to dump the entire thing into the mug.
"He's downstairs," Clint replies casually; there seems to be a pattern developing here. He ignores the way Natasha is smirking across from him. "Uh, Thor? I don't think coffee is going to be the best thing for you right now."
"He's right," Bruce says as he rounds the corner into the kitchen. The doctor's normally unruly hair is particularly wild right now and his eyes look tired behind the lenses of his glasses. He seems to be doing a bit better than the others (probably because of the Hulk in some way) but he's obviously still sick. He walks over and takes the coffee mug from Thor, handing him a new one with a tea bag in it. "High amounts of caffeine should be avoided when you're sick. Tea trumps coffee in this instance."
Thor looks like he wants to protest but instead he just sneezes, causing the lights to flicker again, and fills the mug with hot water from the kettle. He lets it steep for a few minutes before removing the bag and walking over to the bar, taking a seat next to Natasha. Natasha's hair frizzes a bit from contact static but she doesn't even seem to notice.
"Well, as you can see the Tower has turned into a bit of cesspool since you've been gone," Bruce informs him calmly like he's telling him about the weather. "The disease is on its last leg though, we should all be completely fine by the end of the week. Still, it's probably best if you and Steve stay away from the Tower for a few days while it burns itself out. Doesn't make sense to get everyone sick." Bruce looks at Clint for a minute and looks back toward the door. "Speaking of, where is Steve?"
Natasha can't quite suppress the chuckle that escapes her and Clint lets out an exasperated sigh. "Geez, you guys! I didn't lose him!"
"You lost him in Austria that one time," Tony offers from the hallway, appearing in the kitchen a few seconds later and retrieving a water bottle from the refrigerator.
"Yeah," Clint allows defensively. "But that was after I got pistol-whipped and knocked through a window. It's hard to keep track of someone when you're unconscious."
"Hey, all I'm saying is that you have to keep an eye on him sometimes," Tony counters, taking a swig from the water bottle. "Steve has that wide-eyed , innocent look about him that makes it pretty clear he'd wander into traffic if given the right reason."
"Its true," Natasha chimes in. "Coulson nearly lost him at Grand Central because he walked off to help a little girl find her mother."
"Okay, granted," Clint mutters, rolling his eyes. "But I didn't lose him. He's downstairs on a conference call with Fury and Coulson. He told me he'd meet us up here when he got finished."
As if on cue, the door swishes open to reveal a casually dressed Steve Rogers. "Hey guys, I just got off the phone with Fury and-"
"See?" Clint says, jerking his thumb in Steve's direction. "He is distinctly not lost. I am not the worst babysitter on the planet."
Steve blinks in surprise. "Huh? I feel like I'm missing something…" His gaze lands on his obviously sick teammates and he frowns. "Hey, what happened to you guys?"
"We decided to have a flu fling while you two were out of town," Tony explains casually, his quip missing its usual snark and wit. "You guys just missed all the fun."
Bruce shakes his head and presses his fingers to one temple like he's trying to ward off a headache. "What Tony means to say is that we've all contracted the flu. I've already spoken with Fury and told him that you and Clint will be staying on the helicarrier for the next few days until we're not contagious anymore."
"Which means you guys should probably get out of here," Natasha suggests as she pushes her empty mug to the edge of the bar. "The less exposure the better." Her gaze turns to Clint and she shrugs apologetically. "Although you've probably been more than exposed by this point since you've been standing here for the past half hour."
"Yeah, I'm not too eager to battle the flu," Clint mutters with a shake of his head. "Come on Steve, let's get out of here before we end up in the same boat."
"But what about-"
"Uh-uh, come on," Clint says, catching Steve's elbow and dragging him out into the hall, the doors swishing closed behind them.
OOOOO
"I can hear you fretting from across the car," Clint says as they pull out of the parking lot and turn into the main street. "Care to share with the class?"
"Do you really think we should just leave them like that?" Steve asks, blue eyes troubled and eyebrows knit together in concern. "I mean shouldn't we try to help them out or something?"
Clint snorts and shakes head. "Look Steve, I know you want to help and all but I can tell you right now that if we stay there we're just going to be in the way. Thor is about to cause a power surge every time he sneezes, Natasha handles being sick like a pissed off grizzly bear, and I'm pretty sure Hulk isn't too happy about the ordeal either. If we stayed there, it would put everyone on edge and I'd rather not see the fallout from that combination."
Steve still looks bothered and he opens his mouth once or twice like he wants to say something but can't figure out what. Clint sighs and glances at him. "Alright, look…if we go to the store to get orange juice and aspirin will that make you feel better?"
The younger man nods in response, looking a bit more at ease thanks to the suggestion and Clint counts it as a minor victory on his part. He flips his turn indicator on and pulls into the next lane, turning off into the parking lot of the nearest grocery store.
"Okay," Clint says as they exit the car and walk across the parking lot to the store. "Here's the plan: I'll get the orange juice and Kleenex in bulk, you go over to the pharmacy section and get everything you can find that says 'flu' on the label. Got it?"
Steve nods and heads off in the opposite direction once they're inside, glad to be doing something that would potentially help his ailing teammates. He finds the pharmacy section easily enough and begins combing the shelves looking for everything that could help with a rampant outbreak of the flu in the Tower.
He finds everything from painkillers and sleep aides, pills for congestion and runny noses, cough suppressants and chloraseptic sprays for sore throats. Steve isn't picky; he scoops everything into the basket hanging from his arm and hopes that he has something for every flu symptom that might come up.
He meets Clint back at the registers just as the archer is loading the last grocery bag filled to the top with Kleenex into the metal shopping cart. The cashier seems only mildly surprised when Steve empties the contents of his own basket (which is literally almost the entire flu section of the pharmacy) onto the belt and steps to the side as he rings everything up.
The cashier swipes a bottle of something (Steve isn't really sure what; it said 'flu' on the label so it went in the basket) across the scanner and a little box pops up on his screen. "Can I see your I.D. for this?" The man asks, directing his attention to Steve and halting the remaining transactions.
Steve looks equal parts stunned and embarrassed by the request, blinking in confusion for a few seconds like he's trying to comprehend what the cashier had asked him.
"Look man, its store policy," the kid tells him with a slight shrug. "We have to card everyone under the age of 40 for some of this stuff." He holds up the bottle in his hand as indication but doesn't give any other explanation afterward.
Steve still looks confused, fumbling awkwardly for a minute before Clint catches onto the problem. He feels like smacking himself for not thinking of this earlier: Steve doesn't have an I.D.; he enlisted in the army before he could even legally drive let alone have any use for personal identification.
It had never been an issue before; S.H.I.E.L.D usually covered all of them with personal I.D.s for any mission they had that would require the use of one and Steve didn't sneak off to bars or drink outside the Tower in a way that would require him to use a fake one. So far, Steve had gotten away with not having an I.D. because he'd never needed one; he'd never had to prove his age to anyone in the new millennium. Now here, in a grocery store buying cold medicine of all things, he was going to have to pull out an I.D. and prove that he was old enough to buy it. What an odd day.
Clint swoops in just as Steve is floundering for some kind of excuse as to why he doesn't have a driver's license to show the cashier. "Shit man, I forgot your wallet got stolen last night," Clint mumbles like the thought just crossed his mind. He pulls out his own driver's license and hands it to the cashier. "Some guy lifted it last night when we went out," Clint continues, explaining the situation to cashier and rolling his eyes for dramatic effect. "Some people, right?"
He nudges Steve with his knee and the younger man takes the hint. "Yeah, stupid egg-head left me in a real pinch."
And now Clint wants to whack Steve upside the back of the head for using 1930s lingo; seriously, the kid was technically only 17 and he was talking like a 90-year-old man. Granted, he was in a way but that doesn't mean he has to talk like he just toppled out of The Great Gatsby.
Luckily, the cashier doesn't seem to notice (or care) and simply reads off the information on the license. He types in a few commands onto his register and the screen clears, allowing the rest of the transaction to go smoothly. Clint pays for their purchases and nods Steve toward the door before anymore awkward questions can come up or Steve has another opportunity to speak like Al Capone.
"Thanks for that," the younger man says as they start loading the bags into the backseat of the car. "I owe you one."
"Don't mention it," Clint says casually. "And I have got to get you caught up on 21st century slang, that was just sad."
"Really?" Steve seems genuinely confused by the information. "That kind of talk was the bees knees when I was a kid."
Clint resists the urge to roll his eyes again. "Get in the car, Steve."
Hope you guys enjoyed it! :D