It takes more out of him than he thought it would, than it should. The knowledge draws a faint grimace, brow furrowed, but Clint still shifts so Bruce can have access to what's left of his arm. With his remaining hand, he takes the glass of water and sips gratefully at it, pacing himself. They've taken good care of him, and he's not been without water or food, but there is still a limit to clean supplies. He tries not to let them waste them all on him.

Clint's lost any and all illusions of coming through this Arena alive, if he had any in the first place.

Still, Bruce is good about keeping him from dwelling. Good at keeping Clint's autonomy preserved, even struck down as he is. He appreciates it, more than Bruce will ever know. Something fond and trembling kindling beneath the cage of his ribs.

"I'm not picky."