Warnings at end. Second part of double chapter :) Edited thanks to Sandy Wind pointing out an error. :)

The others were already in the car when Tony and Natasha joined them. Tony was on his phone, and Steve frowned at him. They were taking the SUV, because it was the only car Tony owned that all of them would just about fit in it. Steve was in the driver's seat, and Tony jumped in next to him. Thor was in the very back, and Bruce and Natasha took the second row.

"Uh huh, that sounds great. Yeah, the portable island with the hobs and fridge, the grilling and cooking box. Stark Tower. Yeah, okay. Bye." He looked over his shoulder at Natasha. "It's done, and it'll be at the Tower by lunch."

"Great. Thank you."

"It's fine."

"What's going on?" Steve asked. Natasha shook her head with a smile.

"Come on," she said. "I thought we were going shopping."

"We are," Steve said, and decided to let it go. He started the car up and pulled out.

Clint frowned as the man walked into the room. He was a middle aged Latino man, greying at the temples. He wasn't wearing a lab coat and Clint wasn't sure if he thought that was reassuring or not.

"You got here quickly," Phil said, frowning.

"I work at a clinic not far from here. It was no hardship."He picked up Clint's chart and looked it over.

"I am Dr Mateo Ramirez. You must be Mr Barton. I want to make something clear from the outset. I am not here because I want to be. I am here because Mr Stark has promised to make a large donation to the free clinic I work at." He looked Clint in the eye for the first time since he arrived. "Having said that, I will care for you to the best of my ability. It's clear you have been through something terrible, and I will do my best to help you recover."

Clint looked at Phil and grinned.

"I like him, can we keep him?"

"No, you'll forget to feed him and I'll end up walking him all the time."

Ramirez looked from one to the other, frowning.

"No one is going to keep me. I keep telling Stark that I am not going to be bribed into working in his fancy tower with his fancy equipment. The only reason I made an exception for you was because of the donation and the nature of your injuries."

"You 'keep telling Stark'?" Clint asked. "He's asked you before this?"

"He's been asking me since he built this damn floor. I was one of the people who examined him after he came back from Afghanistan."

"Oh?" Phil nodded to himself. "I thought the name seemed familiar."

"I was one of three doctors who examined him and operated on his chest. He's put me up on some kind of a pedestal since then." Ramirez shook his head. "Now, enough about me. Mr Barton, may I examine you? I'd like to see how much my predecessor screwed up."

"You think he screwed up?" Clint asked. He smirked, but he was worried. He didn't trust his previous doctor for obvious reasons, but he'd seemed competent at the medical side of it.

"I know he was a bad doctor, that he ignored a patient's wishes. If he's bad in one way, he's probably bad in another. I'll start at your feet and work my way up." He let his hands hover above the blanket until Clint nodded. The he folded back the blanket and the sheet to get at Clint's feet. "Hmm, the dressings look good. Clean and dry. The nurses are changing them regularly?"

"Yeah."

He peeled back the dressing to look at the burns on the souls of Clint's feet.

"Looks to be healing well. No infection." He gently touched the black lines of blood under Clint's toenails where the hot needles had been pressed in. "Not much we can do for these." He picked up clean gauze and redressed the burns. He moved slowly up Clint's legs, humming and hawing at the bruises and old scars. "Not much damage here."

"No."

"Hmm." Then he got to Clint's upper legs and gently touched the burns left by the taser on his upper thighs and groin area. Clint flinched violently, and Phil's hand drifted to where he usually kept his sidearm. "Sorry, I should have warned you. Have you had any bladder control problems or sexual dysfunction?"

"Not really on the bladder thing, don't know about the sex."

"What do you mean by not really?"

"I had some trouble when it actually happened. And since then," he gestured to his groin and Ramirez nodded, noting the catheter.

"I see. Well, we'll keep you catheterized for now. Keep me informed of any issues." He pulled Clint's gown down over his groin and the blankets too. "Have you been seeing a psychiatrist?"

"Yes."

"How's that going?"

"I like her. She bakes."

"Oh. Your chart says you aren't eating." He parted the back of Clint's gown to get at his lash marks.

"I'm not."

"Then why does it matter that she bakes?"

"I cook."

"Ah." He pulled back the dressings, and palpated the wounds. Clint bit his lower lip, and Phil frowned. "These look a little inflamed. Have you put any pressure on them?"

"He rolled onto his back a couple of times in the night," Phil filled in.

"Okay. We'll sort you out some more pillows to give you a bit more support. How are your ribs feeling?"

"Sore. But not bad." They hadn't bound his ribs. Apparently they didn't do that anymore. Apparently it didn't do any good.

"Okay." Ramirez looked at the stitched gashes on his chest and the electric burns on his sides and declared them to be healing, although slower than they should be. He then reached for Clint's hands. "This must hurt."

"You think?"

"Are you sure you don't want narcotics?"

"Yeah. I'm sure."

"Okay," he said, and that was it. Subject closed. "You need to be careful how much you're using your hands. The debridement and grafting has taken well, but every time you open and close your fists, you're pulling on the edges of the burns and cracking the healing skin." He pointed to where there was some blood on the dressings. "This shouldn't be here. You're overdoing it." He moved up to Clint's shoulder. "And with this. The joint is swollen. You," he turned to Phil, "if you're going to be here cluttering up my patient's room, you can make yourself useful. Don't let him move his dislocated shoulder and keep his hands relaxed until the skin has a chance to heal a little bit. Once he has a new layer of skin started, he'll have to move them, stretch out the scars, but at the minute he's just doing himself damage." Phil nodded seriously. "You'll be fine. Just keep taking care of yourself. Get a lot of rest, and for God's sake eat something." He stripped off his rubber gloves and dumped them, along with the soiled dressings into the biohazard bin. "I'll leave you to it. I have to get back to the clinic. This is my pager number," he handed Phil a card and put another one on the table by Clint's bed. "Call me at any time, day or night if you have any concerns. I live five minutes away and the clinic is ten minutes away."

"Wait, you're leaving?" Phil asked, scowling.

"Yes. I'll be back tomorrow morning. There's no need for a doctor to be constantly here for one patient. I'll be on call and the nurses are all competent." He walked towards the door, and didn't look back.

"Well, that was abrupt," Phil said, looking rather shellshocked.

"I like him," Clint replied. He settled his blanket back around him, curling up on his side. Phil rearranged his pillows to better support him, and smiled.

"I'm glad."

The Avengers, minus an archer, were laden with bags. Steve was also towing a bunch of helium balloons.

"Do you think we have got enough to show our sorrow for friend Clint's injury?" Thor asked.

"Oh yeah," Tony grinned. He glanced over at Natasha. "How about we all go and get some lunch?"

"Sounds good," Steve said. He needed to eat regularly because of his increased metabolism.

"I could eat," Bruce nodded.

"You guys go ahead," Natasha told them. She handed Tony several of her bags, but retained a couple of them. "I have things to do."

"It should be there by now," Tony told her quietly. "Let me know how it goes?"

"Of course. Call when you're on your way up?"

"Of course," he parroted back to her, then smiled. She rolled her eyes, but smiled back before moving away.

"What's going on with you two today?" Steve frowned.

"She wanted to do something for Clint that she needed my help with."

"Oh?" Bruce asked curious. "What was it?"

"I... She asked me not to tell anyone until we know how it goes. It's something to do with how Clint's been acting..." Tony looked down and shifted his and Natasha's shopping bags around.

"Oh, all right then," Steve said immediately. "Let's go and eat."

"Agreed!" Thor beamed. "I have a hankering for one of your burgers of ham."

"You get that burgers aren't made of ham, right?"

There was a knock on the door of Clint's room and Phil went to open it. Some delivery men were standing there.

"Delivery for Clint Barton?"

"What?" Phil frowned.

"They've been screened, sir," Jarvis assured and Phil stepped back to let them in.

"What have you got there?" Phil asked. He glanced at Clint and his partner looked just as baffled.

"It's a couple of portable kitchen units and a gas tank for each."

"What?" Clint asked, shocked. Phil came over and perched on the edge of Clint's bed and they watched the delivery men work. They set up a hob station, a little oven and grill, a fridge and work surface. "Did you know about this?"

"No. I asked Natasha to bring some food as we'd discussed."

"Nat doesn't usually go for overkill like this."

"She must have talked to Stark." They sat and watched them set up, Phil's hand on Clint's hip.

"It looks like a good set up," Clint offered as the deliverymen were finishing up. "I could cook whole meals from there." The delivery men handed over the instruction manuals and headed out of the room, leaving them to talk.

"Whole meals that don't involve using your hands." Phil shook his head. "There's no way you can stand at a stove and cook, you can't even hold a wooden spoon right now!"

"Hey!"

"It's true and you know it. She should have talked to me before doing this." Phil shook his head and stood up. He started pacing back and forth. "This is too much for you. You're hurt; you haven't eaten in days; you cry in your sleep..." he trailed off and focussed on his feet. Ten steps one way, ten steps the other. Ten is a good number.

"Phil..."

"No." Ten steps one way, ten steps the other.

"Phil!"

"What?!" He didn't stop walking.

"Please. Stop. Come here." Clint struggled to sit up and reached his hand out towards Phil. "Please." Phil closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sorry." He came over and sat back on the bed. His fingers were drumming against his thigh. Morse code. Clint caught his own name.

"Don't be sorry. You're looking out for me."

"No. I..." Phil shook his head. "I don't want you hurting."

"I know." Clint frowned. "I know that."

"If you want to cook, you give me, Natasha or Stark instructions. You can watch our every move from the bed, but you do not touch a utensil."

"I'm okay with that."

"And will you eat?"

"I... I think so? I can't know until it's in front of me."

"I... I understand. That's one of my issues too, you know."

"I know."

"It's not that I don't think it's safe, I just get flashes sometimes of bad things in my food when I'm stressed or having a bad patch."

"Oh." Clint frowned. "I'm pretty sure they were drugging my food," he said. "I know you aren't going to drug my food, or the doctors and nurses, but..."

"But the doctor drugged you without your permission and you want to be safe."

"Yeah."

"Okay. I can understand that." His hand stopped moving against his leg and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. "I can. I just want to take care of you."

"You are taking care of me. You're taking great care of me. You always do."

Notes: Warnings: PTSD, OCD episodes, bad bedside manner.