"Tony? JARVIS told me you were—" Clint Barton stopped mid-stride, dumbstruck at the sight of his arrogant, loud-mouthed billionaire friend curled into a ball on the floor of the lab.

This was not an uncommon occurrence when applied to Tony; although when it usually happened it was at the end of a long night of drinking, Clint was usually included, and JARVIS was usually informing them of the latest in a long line of drunken escapades they were sure to get chewed out by Fury for. So, on a normal day, Clint would think nothing of it.

But in this particular instance, Clint knew something was wrong. Firstly because Tony hadn't bothered with a witticism, moniker, or well chosen curse word as soon as Clint walked in the door; Secondly because, Tony was (for lack of a manlier word) whimpering. Anyone who knew Tony Stark knew that he never, not even when heavily intoxicated, whimpered. Sure, when badly injured he might groan, cry, or even (god forbid) whine – but he never whimpered.

So when, as soon as he set foot in the lab, Clint heard his friend whimpering, he knew something was up.

His third tip off came when he knelt down beside the man and felt the unnatural heat radiating from his body in waves. Cursing, he yelled for Bruce, allowing a hint of urgency to seep into his voice.

"Clint! What is it? What's—" Bruce skidded to a stop, immediately throwing himself to his knees beside the two men. Gently placing Tony's head in Clint's lap, he began a quick once over. "Skin flushed, high fever, glassy eyes, sweating," he slowly trailed his hands down Tony's neck to his stomach, pressing gently. When his actions elicited a sharp groan and succeeded in turning his patient a slight shade of green, he nodded. "nausea, stomach upset..." Smiling, he leaned closer, face at eye level with the sick man's. "Tony?" He spoke loudly and clearly, voice carrying a soothing quality, yet somehow still managing to hint at immediate acquiescence. "Can you hear me?"

"Mnnnnhhh."

Taking the drawn out groan as a yes, Bruce continued. "Do you think you can tell me where you hurt?"

Snaking in a nasal breath, and hoping he didn't upchuck all over the deadly assassin that was currently cradling his head, Tony separated his lips the barest amount possible and whispered , "Everywhere. Feels like 'm bein' trampled by a herd of Chitauri, Bruce."

Chuckling, Bruce patted his friend on the leg. "Well. I think what we have here is our first flu victim."

Clint groaned, feeling a momentary panic at what Fury would say if two of his top recruits ended up with the flu. "Great. So if he has the flu, how do we know if the rest of us have it?"

"We don't." Was Bruce's less than cheerful reply. "We just wait it out, take care of Tony, and see what happens from there."

Tony Stark was far from the perfect patient. Laying on the large pull out sofa bed in the living room, he moaned and thrashed, giving anyone who walked within six feet of him an earful. Even in the midst of an illness that would have quieted a lesser man for at least a week, he still managed to annoy the inhabitants of the Tower.

Yet Bruce was patient: swapping hot washcloths for cool ones, wiping down limbs flushed and swollen with fever, changing bed clothes, and enduring countless hours of rambling incoherencies.

Clint tiptoed around the sickbed for three days, occasionally taking a shift with Tony to give Bruce some time to rest. Three days of gloating about how he was the very paragon of health and how he was in top shape, thus not susceptible to such common illnesses as the flu. Boy was he wrong.

The morning of the third day, it hit hard. Harder than it hit Tony, in fact.

"Bruceeee…." Clint moaned pathetically from his bed, knowing JARVIS would pass on his summons.

"Yes, Clint?" Bruce strode into the room moments later, having gratefully left Tony in the care of a very anxious and mother henning Pepper.

" 'm sick, Bruce."

"I can see that." The older man chuckled, placing a cool hand on the archer's forehead.

"You're burning up." Turning away, he called out the door. "Steve!"

The soldier paused on his way down the hall, poking his head inside Clint's room. "Yes?"

"Can you please take our friend here to join Tony in quarantine?"

"Sure thing, Doctor Banner." Leaning over the bed, he scooped up the young man, blanket and all, and carefully carried him to the living room.

Two hours later, after forcing Tony to take some Gatorade and Tylenol, and helping Clint reacquaint himself with his breakfast, a very subdued and lethargic looking Natasha made an appearance. Pulling a face at her partner less-than-gracefully retching into a trashcan, she carefully skirted around to Tony's side of the bed.

"Budge up Stark, make a space."

"Or what, Romanoff? You'll sweat on me? Vomit? Breathe your flu germs in my face?"

"Stark." She growled, still managing to sound surprisingly threatening, despite the current illness.

"Okay, okay. Sheesh." The burrito of blankets that was Tony inched its way towards the opposite end of the bed.

'hmm' ing in triumph, Natasha slipped in beside Tony, dry swallowing two Tylenol from the stash. Swathing herself in a quilt, she snuggled in to wait it out.

"I blame it on Barton." Tony mumbled. "If you two hadn't spent some quality time together—Romanoff!" he hissed, silenced effectively by an ice cold foot to the calf.

"Mnghhh…" Moaned Clint, withdrawing from the can, gasping for air. Bruce carefully laid the young man back, handing off the toxic contents to be disposed of by Pepper. "This sucks. I feel horrible."

"It's all right." Bruce empathized. "Just lay back down and try to get some sleep."

Clint nodded exhaustedly, slumping into his pillows, and was out within moments.

When next Clint woke, there was a new addition to their motley crew. Wedged between Tony and Clint, like a needy puppy, was a certain blond super soldier. Glancing incredulously at Steve, Clint prodded him in the side. A crease appeared in the young man's forehead, and a glassy blue eye made an appearance.

"What?" he half groaned.

"Thought you couldn't get sick."

"Sicknesses have mutated since World War II." Steve sighed, eyes fluttering closed again. Soft snores sounded before Clint could formulate his reply. Steve turned towards Clint and nosed his head into his shoulder, making gross snuffling noises through his congested nose.

"Yuck!" Clint made a face, his own congestion was enough, thank you. Not to mention the kid was clinging to him like… well, a kid. He stared down at the blonde head on his shoulder. He usually acted so much older than the rest of them, it was hard to remember that he was actually younger than Clint himself, and Tony teased Clint about being the youngest quite frequently. He sighed and began running his fingers through Steve's hair. What the heck? Couldn't hurt to give the kid something to latch on to, after all, they were all he had now.

Steve sighed in his sleep, shifting close to Clint. Clint chuckled sleepily, yawning widely. "Sleep well, kid."