Every so often, one of them comes back from a fight a little more than scratched and bruised, which means that the other has to be a caretaker.
In this instance, Natasha has a deep gash in her left arm and she's clenching her teeth to keep from crying out as Clint swiftly pushes a needle and thread in and out of her skin.
Clint whisks a small bottle of rubbing alcohol back and forth like a martini shaker, a cotton ball pressed to the open top, before sliding the cool, soaked swab across Tasha's wound.
She hisses. Clint flinches.
"Sorry, babe. We don't want it infected." Natasha nods and looks to her right, away from Clint, blinking quickly.
Clint sews silently, quickly, and presses medical tape to her skin, covering the angry slash mark completely. He bends down and presses his lips to it.
"Boo-boo all better?" he says, a husk in his voice. Natasha glares at him, exhaling a soft growl and covering the patch with her palm.
"Yes," she grinds out, "Thanks." Natasha pushes off the couch in the suite that S.H.I.E.L.D. has booked for them and tugs off her white tank top with one hand, tossing it to the floor. She unsnaps her bra, letting it fall to the floor, before undoing her jean shorts and letting them fall too. She walks into the small bathroom and shuts the door.
Clint hears the faint squeal as the dial turns and the water comes out strong, thunderous.
He swears that he hears soft crying, but he just turns up Iron Chef and concentrates on Bobby Flay's mad dash around Kitchen Stadium.
When Nat comes out ten minutes later, steam floats around her, two towels wrap around her, one covering her body, one siphoning the water from her hair. The patch has held and the skin around the jagged cut is already paler than it was before. Nat dresses quietly – a ratty blue shirt with a faded screenprint of Cap's shield on it and black cheer shorts – and climbs into bed next to Clint. She lays her head on Clint's chest, silently, a gentle apology for her behavior earlier with the rubbing alcohol, eyes never leaving the television. Her wet hair soaks his shirt, but he doesn't move.
"So, who's winning?" she ventures. Clint's voice rumbles through her.
"Flay's kicking this dude's ass," he says, his left arm going around her, careful not to jostle too much and accidentally hit her bandage. Clint rubs Natasha's forearm lightly, a sign of forgiveness.
They lay like this for a few minutes, breathing, letting their bodies relax.
"Think it will scar?" Nat says softly.
"It's pretty deep."
Nat frowns. "It better. This is a hell of a wound to go through just to heal up all nice and pretty."
Clint laughs and rolls his eyes. "I could have just let it fester, if you wanted."
Natasha props her chin up on Clint's chest hard, digging in, eliciting a gasp from him. "I'm glad you deigned to keep me from infection and out of commission."
Clint lifts her chin off his chest and kisses her forehead.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. would fall if you were out of commission." Natasha glances at him sardonically.
"Yeah, who would cover for yours and Phil's sudden absences all the damn time?" Clint blushes.
"Shut up." Natasha giggles as her phone chirps.
Text Message - Hawk's Boyf: Enjoying the suite?
"Speak of the devil…" Clint looks over her shoulder.
"Gah! Don't call him that!" He makes a wild grab for the phone, but Natasha is too quick, even with her injured shoulder, and rolls off the bed easily.
Text Message – Romanov: Affirmative. Thanks for the med supplies.
Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: Always prepared.
Text Message – Romanov: Like the good Boy Scout you are.
"Nat!" Clint yells as Natasha dashes into the bathroom and locks the door.
Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: To be fair, I at least made it to Life Scout.
Natasha giggles loudly and Clint pounds the door.
Text Message – Romanov: Well, then…
Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: Will you kindly tell Agent Barton to stop pounding on the door of the bathroom? We don't want to have a situation like last time.
"Oy! Your boyfriend wants to you to quit with the ruckus! You're gonna break the door!" Natasha yells. Clint gives the door one last thud with his fist before cursing under his breath.
Text Message – Romanov: Just so you know, that suite was attacked – that wasn't Clint's fault. He didn't know he had Mockingbird's battle staves…or that they were being tracked by HYDRA.
Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: A likely story…
Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: And change my name in your phone, please. 'Boyf' sounds like something Justin Bieber would make popular.
Natasha cackles before editing Coulson's name back to "Phil."
Text Message – Phil: Much better. Get some rest, Agent Romanov.
Text Message – Romanov: Night, Phil.
Natasha unlocks the bathroom door and opens it to find a sulking Clint on the bed, surrounded by what must be the room service they ordered two hours ago.
"Oh, thank God, bacon cheeseburgers!" Nat breathes, reaching for a plate piled with fries and a juicy burger. She scrambles around the plates, finding an open spot on the bed.
"He had to bring up Paris…" Clint said glumly, a wad of well-done cow in his mouth. Nat swallowed before patting his arm.
"He just wants to make sure we get more missions and he's not buried in paperwork." Clint glares at his burger before snarling another inhuman bite.
"Whatever." Natasha rolls her eyes and whips out her phone.
Text Message – Romanov: Tell him you're not mad at him. He's gonna asphyxiate on a cheeseburger.
No sooner does Nat send off the text then Clint's phone buzzes and a giddy smile lights up his face. Nat rolls her eyes again and takes another bite of her burger.
Sometimes being injured doesn't suck so bad.