There's somethin' cowardly 'bout a man that doesn't meet another's eye, his father used to say. But then again, his father was a coward, and Clint didn't spend much more than fickle thoughts upon him. Not these days, not after the long years without. In any case, Clint doesn't particularly mind that Bruce does his own thing, he hadn't expected otherwise.

He simply rests his arms atop the tableau of his drawn up knees, fingertips tapping quietly against dark blue fabric. It makes sense that Natasha was the first picked out of the both of them, Clint doesn't do much but nod in understanding, even if Bruce isn't looking at him.

"Just got dropped in." A sharper look, intent upon the bowing line of Bruce's shoulders, "That not how it usually goes down?"