Agent Barton was late. This was unacceptable. He was supposed to be at the briefing fifteen minutes ago. Coulson sighed and shook his head. He would just have to go and find him. He'd been warned about Barton. About his backtalk (although Coulson thought of it more as witty banter), about his dereliction of orders (he never completely refused an order, but he was smart, and if he saw problems with a plan he'd point them out. Coulson had no problem with this) and about his so called 'independent streak' (they all said that Barton would turn on them, that he was a lone wolf, but they obviously didn't see how desperate he was to belong).

This was the first time Coulson had had cause to wonder if 'they' were perhaps right about Barton. He had no reason to be late. No excuse not to call and explain why he wasn't present. They'd only been working together a few months, but he'd thought Clint was better than that.

Coulson reached Barton's quarters and knocked perfunctorily before entering. It was his right as Clint's handler. The first thing he noticed on entering was the smell, a sick rotten smell, followed by how dark it was. The lights were all off and the blinds were drawn over the small window. He reached out and flicked the switch. There was a moan from the sofa.

Coulson walked over and frowned. Barton was curled up on the couch. He looked awful. He smelled worse. There was a metal trash can in front of him which had stale vomit at the bottom of it. Phil reached out and pressed a hand to Clint's forehead. He was burning up. Damn.

"Barton, why didn't you tell anyone you were sick?" Barton didn't answer. Phil thought for a moment. Barton needed medical attention. He'd make him comfortable and then get one of the SHIELD medics down here. First things first, get the temperature down. Phil grabbed the edge of the ratty blanket Clint had wrapped tightly around him and tugged. Clint made a small sound of distress and tightened his grip on it.

"You're too hot, let me have it."

Clint wouldn't let go.

Fine. If he wanted to be like that...

Coulson reached under Clint and got hold of another edge of the blanket. He rolled it up towards Clint's hands until he had a long thick roll of blanket for Clint to hold on to. Barton settled down again. He was wearing boxer shorts and a dusky purple t shirt. The bandage wrapped around his leg, a reminder from his last mission, was dirty and smelled bad. Wonderful. He'd gone and gotten himself infected.

"I take it you didn't take the antibiotics."

"Allergic, tried to tell them," Clint replied and Phil looked up, shocked (both at the information and the fact that Clint was awake). "Hey, sir. What are you doing here?"

"You were late to a meeting."

"Cold."

"I know. Sorry. You have a fever." Phil frowned. "What do you mean, you're allergic to antibiotics? You've been on them before."

"I can't have penicillin. It's in my file. It's supposed to be anyway. This doctor wouldn't listen." Coulson watched Clint curl in on himself and press the rolled up blanket to his cheek. He rubbed his face back and forth against it, humming a little.

"Why didn't you tell someone? Another doctor? Why didn't you come to me?"

"I tried getting another doctor's attention. But they were all busy. And I figured it wasn't a big deal." He shrugged. "Besides, my last handler said that my medical care was my responsibility."

"In future, I expect to be kept informed about your health. I will be having words with whoever treated you, and I will make sure that any allergies you have are clearly marked in your file." Coulson tried his hardest to keep his voice calm and level. He needn't have bothered, though. Clint had already drifted back to sleep.

Phil got through to a medic he trusted, and she took a look at Clint. She got him some antibiotics that he wasn't allergic to and cleaned out the wound. Clint's penicillin allergy wasn't marked in his medical file. It was however marked in his standard file. Apparently his previous handler had held more of a grudge than Phil had realised. It wasn't Barton's fault the man had proved himself a stupid, abusive asshole and had gotten himself fired.

Phil stayed with Clint until he his fever broke and he was lucid enough to watch his own back. When he started shivering and sweating, Phil had rolled the blanket back down over him. It was soft and well worn, fraying around the edges. It was obviously well loved and was the only personal touch in the whole of his quarters. Barton looked young curled up in it, his hair wet with sweat. He looked comfortable. Phil tucked the blanket tighter around Clint and brushed a hand through his hair.

He was Clint's handler and he planned on taking care of him.