Steve sticks his head through the doorway marked "infirmary" to find Clint, sitting on the corner of the hospital bed, his torso wrapped in bandages and arm and shoulder in a sling.

"Flying the coop already, Hawkeye?"

Clint beams over at him sheepishly. "Fine, you caught me! But can I be blamed? I'm bored to death here, plus I hate sickbay. Wish I could go back to my own floor."

Smiling sympathetically, Steve moves nearer to the cot and inspects the deep stitched gash on Barton's forehead.

"I know, I get it. But the doctors want to observe you overnight and make sure you actually get some rest since you're supposed to be recovering." Steve puts extra emphasis on the word 'supposed.'

Clint rubs guilty at the nape of his neck.

"How you holding up, anyway?"

"Sore as hell, but I'll manage." Clint says, attention diverted by the brown paper bag Steve carried. "Aww Cap, don't tell me you brought me a present?"

"Present?"

"You know I could use a double cheeseburger right about now." The archer quips, head tilting toward the bag.

"Oh this?" In vain, Steve tries to hide the mystery package behind his leg, "Not exactly a gift. It's um...a little something Natasha asked me to bring in for her."

"Well, what is it? Is it for me?"

The super soldier makes a face. "Let's hope you won't have to find out."

Confusion briefly etches its way onto Clint's forehead, "Oh wait, lemme guess. Nat sent you to bully me into staying in bed."

"You know as well as I that Natasha does her own 'bullying.' Besides, I can't stay; just stopped by to check on you."

Clint smirks, "She tell you to be evasive too?"

"Maybe. Seriously though, I got a debriefing to attend with the others, but I'll drop in later. Get some rest, will ya?"

"Alright, guess I can drag it out of you later. See you, Cap."

With a farewell nod, Steve goes for the door, until he spots something on the edge of his vision that makes him pause. "Maybe you'll get that present after all. You've got company."

Clint's eyes widen in delight because it's Nat, waving a takeout baggie.

"Anybody here want a burger!?"

"Gawd yes, give it here!" He exclaims, making grabby fingers.

"Lay down first. You're supposed to be taking it easy; not sneaking off down the hallway." She reproofs lightly, then murmuring to Steve, she asks,"You find them?"

"Yep." He slides the brown parcel into her hand and watches Natasha slip its contents in her pocket.

"Do what the pretty dame tells you, if you know what's good for ya." Steve tells Clint teasingly before finally ducking out the room.

"Sure whatever!" Clint hollers after him, distracted. The smoky scent of Angus beef is deliciously overwhelming and his taste buds are beginning to water in anticipation.

As Natasha steps in, he climbs on top of the sheets and attempts to recline on a stack of pillows without jarring too many injuries. "Kay, I'm in bed. Does that count?"

"Good enough." She chucks him the bag and sits herself alongside him on the mattress while he rummages amongst wrappers for a carton of fries.

"So, gonna babysit me?" He asks, sharing his handful with her.

She tosses a single golden fry into her mouth, then spares him a glance. "I wouldn't have to if you weren't so damn stubborn."

"Figures." He takes a long sip of soda, using the break in conversation to think of a safe change of subject. "So uh… how'd you get out of debrief anyway?"

"I handed in a written report so I could be here and keep an eye on you. Nice try, by the way, but you're not off the hook yet."

Natasha, of course, wasn't so easily fooled. Again she eyes Clint, who's shifting uncomfortably and pretending to be too preoccupied digging for his burger to meet her gaze. "The docs told me how difficult you were being. Like a kid who'd rather suffer than admit he's sick and rest. I'd be sleeping off all those injuries if I were you."

"C'mon, you serious? You were never one to wuss out over a few bruises and neither am I."

"I wouldn't call doing what's best for your body so it can recover 'wussing out.' And I'd say you've got more than a few bruises." She points out, arms folded.

"Well," He mumbles from around his bite of burger,"I'm not gonna mope around here all day like an invalid if that's what you're expecting."

"You still need your rest, Barton." She insists.

"All I need is strong pain meds and I'm good to go. The nurses can fuss over someone else."

"This isn't just a matter of personal health, there's also professional concerns. Coulson could bench you from the Jakarta mission if you're not 100%."

Clint sighs, "Look, it's just a couple of busted ribs and a sprained ankle. I can still shoot an arrow."

"You're practically concussed and you're forgetting your dislocated shoulder."

He rolls his good shoulder, "It's not my dominant arm."

"It could be if you keep arguing with me." Natasha deadpans.

"Hah! Like you'd hurt me. And I'm 'injured' remember?" Clint mocks, a feigned pout on display.

"You're right, I wouldn't." She admits, her fingers twitching over the opening of her pockets. "But I will do this."

There's a blur of metallic, then a sharp click, and suddenly Clint finds himself handcuffed to Nat's wrist.

His face contorts into shocked outrage. "HEY!"

"You're not getting out of this room or out of my sight until I'm convinced you've spent time recuperating. Now, I suggest we make the most of this and…"

Midway through her sentence, Clint gives his metal bands a good tug.

"Now, now. Play nice and maybe I'll cuff you to the bed."

He meets her eye, sounding every ounce of sarcastic when he asks, "That's supposed to be an improvement?"

"Let me put it this way- you really wanna spend your entire recovery chained to me?"

The fake pout Agent Barton had sported is replaced by a very real one.

"Good point."

"So… as I was saying," Natasha pulls the straps of her over-shoulder tote across her head, "I have our Stark pads, a Netflix account, a deck of cards, and some Skittles. What's your pleasure?"

Barton's nose wrinkles in thought for a moment.

"Skittles and a movie?"

Five hours later, they're on their 3rd movie. Somewhere halfway through they had both fallen asleep, Barton propped up on his mound of cushions and Romanoff slouched against the headboard. On the end table, the playing cards were stacked neatly next to Nat's abandoned Stark Pad and fast food and candy wrappers littered the bed spread.

Clint's tablet lays between them, still playing, the glare from it bouncing shadows off the darkened wall; and there's a tangle of wires separating the two agents, thanks to Clint. He wouldn't view anything without the volume on max – for the full effect he claimed- but considering their surroundings, he compromised with Nat and had them watch wearing earplugs.

It's a blaring film score that rouses Clint from his impromptu nap, driving him to yank the earbuds out in irritation. The swift movement jangles his restraints, reminding him of their presence. He yawns, looks over, and sees Nat dozing a few inches away, her own plugs still secure in her ears and her wrist still bound to his.

He can't help himself when he reaches over to gently ruffle her red curls. "Daww, aren't you cute when you're not threatening people?"

A hand shoots out to seize his: "I have no reservations against breaking your fingers."

Clint decides not to test her bluff and slides the offending appendage as far away as his cuffs allowed.