Clint hears that, idly, already half caught in the thick veil of slumber. His reply is less cognizant, more of a muddled murmur of assent than anything. But the thing is, Clint does get it, he does know. Natasha, the person she'd been all those years ago when he spared her and drew her in, he sees that in Bucky. Harsher, edges crackling and sharp, but still there.

He gets it, he understands. Trust means far more than he can ever put into words, and it's not like him to offer it unthinkingly. But Clint relies on a well honed instinct, and right now, he's listening. It doesn't seem unfounded either, given that Bucky simply shifts, settling in.

Clint sleeps, dreamlessly, for the first time in a long time.