Even though he agreed to this, Clint tenses a little as Jet settles behind him and rests his hands on his shoulders. It's an instinctive thing, one he fights back down within seconds, focused on breathing in and out, and the small little movements of deft fingers. His shoulder is aching, with tension and the perpetual, if fainter, agony left from a rough amputation. For a moment, it makes everything worse, and then he breathes out, relaxes, and it eases. Impossibly.

Jet's request only gets a low hummed acknowledgement, head dipping, shoulders slumping under his hands. He is quite good, even now Clint can admit that. He's not sure how much it helps, but, well. It's better than simply waiting through the pain, and laying awake through it all.