Gently

18. The Importance of Being Poorly

Clint glared at the soup-heavy spoon hovering inches away from his face, then, when that seemed to be having little effect, turned to glare at the person holding said spoon. "I'm not sick, Steve."

"Look, Clint, there's nothing wrong with taking a bit of time out to recover from the flu," the super-soldier said from where he was sat opposite him at Clint's kitchen bar.

"I get that. I asked you to bring soup, not start feeding me as if I was incapable of doing so myself!"

"Who's feeding you and why isn't it me?" a voice said from the door, and Clint rolled his eyes, dropping his forehead onto folded arms. Bucky came to stand behind him, snaking his arms round Clint's waist and pressing a kiss to his currently-less-than-kissable hair. "How's my grumpy little hawk?"

Clint's head was hot and felt like it was being squeezed by the Hulk. His eyes were puffy and annoyingly bleary, and he didn't understand how Fury managed with one eye when he could hardly manage with two not-quite-working ones. Something was blocking his nose – could easily have been Mjölnir – and refused to budge. He was beginning to have an idea about how it felt to have an arc reactor lodged in your chest. Before he could say anything to the contrary, however, Steve was oh so graciously answering for him.

"He looks like he's coming down with flu. I've asked Bruce if he'll come and –"

"I'm not sick," he said into the table.

"So you're telling me you're feeling one-hundred per-cent?"

Clint raised his head at that, glaring feebly thanks to his almost-streaming eyes. "I'm poorly." Bucky snickered as Steve gave in and retracted the spoon.

"I really don't see that there's a difference."

"Yes there is. If I was sick, I'd be in bed."

"Tell you what, Steve," Bucky said, moving round them to dump a rucksack on Clint's couch; "you leave Poorly over here to me and get back to more important stuff, like saving S.H.I.E.L.D from itself." When Steve opened his mouth to protest, he added: "I have six words for you – Sam Wilson, Peter Parker, new recruits."

"Bye Clint. Hope you're feeling better soon."

"Yeah, see ya," Clint mumbled as the door closed behind a fast-exiting Steve Rogers. "Ugh, thank you," he groaned. "I didn't think he'd ever – oh, come on."

Bucky had taken Steve's place, right up to the spoon-in-hand position. He also had a wicked smirk plastered on his face. "I will break out the airplane soundtrack." Clint scowled, but gave in and let Bucky feed him, as childish and pathetic as it made him feel. It didn't help that the soup, while tasting pretty damn good (because Steve Rogers wouldn't settle for half-arsed if he could afford better), had cooled a bit since it was first offered to him, but before he could begin complaining again Bucky asked, "What's the difference between sick and poorly then?"

He shrugged. "There just is. What's in the bag?"

Bucky's expression said 'I see your diversion tactic and I raise you one eyebrow'. "You'll see. I want an explanation first."

Huffing, Clint relented. "Being poorly means you're not one-hundred per-cent, but you can still function like a normal human being. Being sick means you're bed-ridden, which I am clearly not."

"Good to know, but not what I wanted an explanation for." Bucky slapped a post-it note onto the surface between them.

Blinking – and squinting a little – Clint was able to recognise it as the note that told Bucky he wasn't at home because he was infectious, and had gone to his old place to wait it out between missions rather than spread it around the place they both shared. Confused, he looked back up. "What?"

"I think this is one of those situations where you try to be sweet, but just end up being a bit of a dummy." He tapped the note. "You really think quarantining yourself in your old apartment is gonna keep me 'germ-free'?"

"Thought it was worth a try. Didn't realise guys from the forties had a thing about tracking down those who could take care of themselves and forcefully mother-henning them."

Bucky shrugged. "I did it for Steve. As for him, I think it's instinct." Clint chuckled, something that didn't feel as pleasant as it could've done. "Anyway, from what I gathered, you asked for this."

He pouted. "I asked for soup, not nursemaid services."

"Should've thought of that before going straight to the super-nurse." Stuck for a reply, Clint buried his face in his arms again as Bucky laughed. "Alright then, if you're really not sick, I guess you wouldn't mind coming on a run with me."

"Sure, I'll be there. Spiritually." When all that got him was more laughter, Clint raised his head again (Hulk was jumping up there now) and gave Bucky the best evils he could muster in his hardly-evil state. "Will you quit laughing at me? You're supposed to be making me feel better."

Grinning, Bucky reached for the rucksack. "I know – that's why I got you these." He then proceeded to take out two video games, four movies, a pack of ready-made pancakes and some instant hot chocolate. Spreading it out in front of Clint, he made a grand gesture, saying, "The choice is yours."

Clint gawped as he took a minute to formulate a verbal response. "I take it all back. You're totally making me feel better."

Taking the empty bowl, Bucky kissed his temple on his way past to the sink. "That's what I'm here for. Oh, but if we're going to end up cuddling on your crappy sofa, you're showering first."

Sometime later, they'd managed to get through one of the movies, half of the pancakes, and the main storyline of LEGO Marvel Super Heroes ("Who the hell is Stan Lee?"); as he realised he was drifting off, still part-way through movie number two ("Toy Story? Really Bucky?"), Clint decided that Bucky wouldn't mind too much at having a poorly boyfriend potentially drooling all over him – he wouldn't have been there, otherwise. And, poorly or sick, Clint was glad he was.

AN: Prompt: "maybe one of them - most likely Clint - gets really sick. ADORABLE AWKWARD FLUFF?"

I have to credit my best friend (who I highly doubt will ever read this, but wth) for the whole poorly-not-ill thing - she totally inspired the answer to this prompt. And if being poorly is a British thing, then, um... *plays creative liberties card* ^_^