It's almost funny, in a way. They're like inverses of each other's pain, fingers in brains and the haphazard horror that comes with the loss of a limb. He'd almost think someone was making a point, if Clint bothered to think on it much at all. Clint wasn't thinking revenge when he shot that Mutt, he was near desperate to live, adrenaline and agony keeping his aim sharp. He wishes he'd killed it earlier.

Clint isn't so far gone that he doesn't see the effect thinking about it is having on Bucky, though. The little sound like bells reaches his ears, almost too faint to be heard, but it's his tone, the words that edge slow up the spine. Clint shudders, faintly.

"Yeah." He agrees, softly, an odd note in his voice. Bucky is a teammate, trusted, but Clint doesn't let the For now fall from his lips. Bucky can probably piece together the shadow of it's sound anyway.