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Sigk Days


They are polar opposites when it comes to illness and injury. On the rare occasions when Natasha sprains something, she is rigorous about treating it properly with Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation, careful about stretching and the correct rehab exercises as prescribed by trainers and therapists. Clint, on the other hand, is of the “Suck it up, Buttercup” school of thought about sports injuries. He refuses to slow down for anything less than broken bones, and those only if they’re load-bearing. Hey, a sprained ankle is no reason to cancel his weekly game of half-court with Sam.

When Natasha scolds him that pain is his body’s way of telling him something is wrong, he retorts that pain is why God made aspirin. He’s Mr. Grumpy-pants, in Tony’s words, when he has to wear a sling for a broken collarbone, and after the third sling mysteriously disappears, the thing that finally makes him obey doctor’s orders is Bruce threatening to turn green and hold him down til it heals.

Neither Natasha nor Clint believe in flu shots, Natasha because she doesn’t entirely believe in the flu. So her nose is running, so what? It’s dust, or maybe pollen. A cough? Everyone coughs. A hundred and two temperature? That’s because of central heating, which she regards as an effete Western notion…they ought to spend a winter in Siberia to toughen up. Clint tracks her down in Buenos Aires by a trail of bodies and used tissues, applies pressure to knock her out and drags her to bed. Then and only then does Natasha finally succumb to human frailty and sleep for two days.

Clint doesn’t believe in flu shots because he’s got a paranoid streak that wonders What Else might be in that needle they want to stick him with, and no thanks. If there’s ever a zombie apocalypse, it’ll likely start with flu shots. He accepts illness as permission to kick back and take it easy for a few days. That translates to living on egg drop soup and tea with honey and lemon while he lounges in bed and indulges in marathons of reality TV, occasionally taking a hot shower to help with congestion. “Sissy,” Natasha says when he’s spent four days in bed languidly thumbing the remote. “You need to get up and stop coddling yourself. It’s all in your mind.”

Clint hawks a loogie into the trashcan beside his bed. “And my lungs, and my sinuses…. Three more days. I’ll be fine.” She shakes her head and departs. He yawns, content to take his second nap of the day. (This leads to an entertaining dream of Bear Grylls carrying Kim Kardashian off to survive in the wilderness…her PhotoShopped ass is not going to impress a rampaging grizzly bear in the slightest.) He figures he’s right on schedule. Everyone knows if you see a doctor, you’ll recover in seven days. Otherwise, it’ll take a week….

***




From a prompt: http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/557817.html?thread=78384377#t78384377

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