I think both Clint and Natasha would be perfectly happy with physiotherapists and massage appointments for keeping those bods in fighting shape. (And, let's face it, who doesn't enjoy a hot stone massage, when you can put your mind in park and just be for a bit?)

But doctors with needles? And the same instruments they last saw in the hands of that Colombian "doctor" who was keeping Clint awake for "interrogation" when Natasha blew open the door and a hole in the doctor's head?

"Thanks, I'll do it myself."

"But Agent Barton. That wound needs a suture."

"I can see that. I said I'd do it myself."

"At least let me give you an analgesic then. This one is the latest ..."

"I'm fine. Now bugger off or I'll use this knife in ways you won't like."

"Suit yourself, Agent Barton. I am not responsible... Fine. I'm leaving. He's all yours, Agent Romanoff."

"I thought he'd never leave."

"You look like a mess, Clint."

"What else is new? Did you bring the needle and the Scotch?"

"Two bottles. A ten-year-old Glenfiddich for outside, and an eighteen-year-old Ardbeg for inside."

"Now that's medicine I can relate to!"