The Futzting Stomach Bug
“Hey so Foggy got my phone number somehow and called to tell me to come over to your apartment because you’re really sick but won’t admit it but Foggy refuses to try to help you because you’re so stubborn and I’m the only other person you talk to besides someone named Karen so I’m headed over now because I haven’t seen a tracksuit in a few days so I don’t have anything to do also I’m bringing my dog so see you soon.”
“Wait, Clint!” But he had already hung up. “Dang it.”
Clint assumed Foggy had looked at his contact in Matt’s phone. This could be a very bad thing. If he released it, Clint would need to figure out how to put a new number on a wall phone, something he wasn’t sure was possible. Regardless, a fellow crime fighting person was in need and Clint felt oddly obliged to help him. He’d already ordered a pizza because both he and Lucky aka Pizza Dog agreed that pizza helps everything. He and Lucky hopped into his red and now banged up car. They stopped for the pizza and then broke into Matt’s apartment through the roof, a trick he learned when they first met.
“Clint?” Matt called, followed by a series of coughs.
“Yeah, it’s me and Lucky. We brought pizza.”
“Not hungry.”
“Good, it wasn’t for you.” Clint found Matt laying on his couch, a bottle of beer on the floor next to him.
“You don’t need to be here,” Matt said. Clint noticed how pale he was, and how droplets of sweat dotted his face.
“Like I said, I had a day off.” Lucky bounded down the steps that led from the roof to the apartment and started licking Matt. Matt jumped, startled by the sudden tongue on his face. “Lucky, stop!”
“Clint, really. I- I’m fine,” Matt told him, tripping over the coffee table. “It’s just a little cold or fever or something.” He coughed again and walked into a chair. Clint had reached him by then and grabbed his upper arm.
“Yeah, sure. Because the futzing common cold does this.” Matt jerked out of his grasp and walked back to the couch. He sat on the edge of it and started running his hands over the table. It took Clint a second to realize what he was doing. “What are you trying to find?”
“I put a box of tissues right here, I can tell.” Clint picked up the box, which was not on the table but several feet away. He tossed it to Matt, who didn’t even attempt to catch it so he got hit in the face.
“Your senses are clearly not in good shape,” Clint said.
“They’re fine.”
“Really? Because you’re talking to someone at least 10 feet to my left.” Matt blew his nose and threw the tissue towards the trash can in the kitchen but missed.
“It’s just a little off, but really, I’m fine.” Matt got back up and walked into the kitchen, narrowly missing the counter with his hip. He reached into the cupboard for a glass that wasn’t there. Overcome by a sudden wave of nausea, he leaned his forearms and head on the counter.
“Fine my ass,” Clint said with a mouthful of pizza. Matt took the few steps to the sink but undershot it. He threw up all over the counter. “Okay, okay, buddy. Come on.” Clint put his hand on Matt’s back.
“I’m-”
“If you say that you’re fine I’m going to slap you.” Clint put a little pressure on his back to get him to start walking but he walked straight into the corner of the counter. His senses must be very off. Clint wrapped his arm around Matt’s waist and half guided half carried him to the couch. Matt curled up on the couch. Clint was struck by how young he was, too. He’d always seen him as an older vigilante, but in reality he was two years older than Clint, struggling to stay afloat with no friends to help him, kind of like himself but with less money and fame.
Matt fell asleep quickly, so Clint cleaned up the little mess on the counter, then sat back, ate pizza, and pet Lucky. He didn’t wake up for the rest of the day, all through the night, and well into the next morning. When he finally did, he was mortified.
“You’re still here?”
“Yeah, Matty. I had to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep.”
“You should leave now,” he said, clearly embarrassed by being taken care of by this younger boy he barely even knew.
“Can’t, just ordered pizza. Lucky finished the one from yesterday while I slept.”
“Where did you sleep?”
“...”
“Don’t tell me you slept in my bed.”
“Well it’s not like you were!”
“Clint please go.”
“Matt, come on! You can’t just kick me out!”
“Please leave.” Matt looked totally defeated, tired, and still a bit pale. Clint’s chest panged with sympathy. He’d been in this position; beaten, sick, tired, embarrassed, and alone. Except Matt wasn’t alone.
“Matt,” Clint said again, but this time softer and kinder. “You’re still sick. Let’s just chill here, eat some pizza, and sometime I’ll have my brother call you saying to come to my apartment because of how stubborn I am.” The door bell sounded and both Clint and Lucky jumped to their feet excitedly. When he opened the door, Matt heard the delivery girl say ‘Hey, are you Hawkeye?’ Clint replied ‘No, I’m actually the Falcon.’ Matt rolled his eyes.
Clint returned and plopped the pizza on the the coffee table.
“Pepperoni or sausage?” Clint asked.
“Pepperoni.” Clint put a plate in his lap. Before it even touched him, Matt could smell it was sausage. “Hey, this is not pepperoni.”
“It was a test. Seeing how your senses are working. That’s Lucky’s piece. Just put it on you ground. He won’t make a mess, he promises.” Matt rolled his eyes for a second time but set down the plate. He received his slice and then all three were eating.
Matt was actually a little happy to have company and realized Clint wouldn’t be too bad to keep around. Part of Clint was telling him to leave, to never be with Matt again, that they were already too close, but the rest liked Matt, liked having a friend that was forever kind and never really angry. Lucky liked Matt because he gave him pizza. They hung out there throughout the morning and afternoon, but had to leave so Matt could get back to work once he finally felt up to it.