Clint snorts with a helpless, hollow, sort of laughter. His hand lifts, scrubbing hard at the nape of his neck, grounding himself with the ache. Instead, he gestures soundlessly for Bucky to sit with him. Doesn't offer a word of platitude, isn't sure he has it in him. But -- but he can allow this.

Bucky looks more like a kicked puppy than the brutal assassin he once knew him as. It's disconcerting somehow, and Clint's got too much of a fevered itch within his blood to figure it out.

"Just don't wanna talk about it." Short, but not sharp. He frowns, looking up at Bucky half petulantly.