If he was still angry, still raw about it, he'd snap something harsh about how Frank doesn't get to tell him when to leave his own home.
But it is time. He can't just stay here. Or, staying here won't do anything for him. Probably do more harm than good. So Clint nods, a little absently first, but then more solid. Don't leave them all waiting.
He could offer up the house. For one last night. Plenty of room. They could all sleep, and then it wouldn't feel so empty.
Nobody would be sleeping anyway.
"Yeah, I'll grab...my stuff. Lock up."
There's another one of those inane thoughts nagging at him. Are the beds made? Should they make the beds? He was never a fan of it, but he learned to do it real well, and Laura always liked it neat and tidy. She'd want the beds made when she gets back.
If.
If.
He makes sure the lights are off. Grabs his gear. Doesn't double check it, because he's been checking it all damn day, and he knows damn well he's got everything he needs and probably then some. Locks the doors. And then stands there at the door and finds it so so difficult to breathe all of a sudden. He gets to in one two and doesn't make it to three, so it has to be out one two--
And then he turns. Marches toward the jet.
"Whoa," says Rhodey, eyeballing Frank, breaking up whatever conversation some of them have clearly been having, "whoa, whoa, why's the guy that turned you into a punching bag coming?" It's a familiar repartee, things either he picked up from Tony or just one of the many ways they get along so well. Ignore the trauma, ham it up with jokes. Even if it's not really a joke. "He's not coming with us."
"Yes, he is." Natasha. Quiet but firm.
"He's not an Avenger. In fact, it kinda sounds to me like he does the opposite of what we do."
"Either he goes," comes Clint's curt response, not wanting to turn this into a debate, "or I get in his damn van and we drive back to New York."
Steve does not look like he has time for any of this bullshit, but he's always been the defacto leader. He gives Frank an assessing stare. Looks at the assassins. "You trust him?"
"With my life."
Nat crosses her arms and gives a thoughtful inhale, then nods at Clint. "With his life."
That seems to be good enough. There's a fractional softening to Steve, and then he turns and takes the pilot seat. Which is as close to an 'okay' as Clint's pretty sure they're getting, since it's not a no.
Clint is taken aback when he climbs in. Sure, quinjets don't tend to be the roomiest, but there's plenty of room for-- There aren't enough people. Nat, Steve, Rhodes, sure, yeah. Thor's here. He didn't even see Thor or hear his booming voice. He's just sitting there, with a fucking axe, looking like there's all the weight of the universe on his shoulders. Bruce looks so small. And a little beat up. Which is patently insane, because Hulk doesn't let Bruce get beat up, and also, where the hell has Bruce been the past several years?
And that's it.
He looks at Nat, lost. She shakes her head.
...Okay. Okay. That's...something to deal with. He stows his gear and straps himself in and suddenly feels so fucking tired.
no subject
But it is time. He can't just stay here. Or, staying here won't do anything for him. Probably do more harm than good. So Clint nods, a little absently first, but then more solid. Don't leave them all waiting.
He could offer up the house. For one last night. Plenty of room. They could all sleep, and then it wouldn't feel so empty.
Nobody would be sleeping anyway.
"Yeah, I'll grab...my stuff. Lock up."
There's another one of those inane thoughts nagging at him. Are the beds made? Should they make the beds? He was never a fan of it, but he learned to do it real well, and Laura always liked it neat and tidy. She'd want the beds made when she gets back.
If.
If.
He makes sure the lights are off. Grabs his gear. Doesn't double check it, because he's been checking it all damn day, and he knows damn well he's got everything he needs and probably then some. Locks the doors. And then stands there at the door and finds it so so difficult to breathe all of a sudden. He gets to in one two and doesn't make it to three, so it has to be out one two--
And then he turns. Marches toward the jet.
"Whoa," says Rhodey, eyeballing Frank, breaking up whatever conversation some of them have clearly been having, "whoa, whoa, why's the guy that turned you into a punching bag coming?" It's a familiar repartee, things either he picked up from Tony or just one of the many ways they get along so well. Ignore the trauma, ham it up with jokes. Even if it's not really a joke. "He's not coming with us."
"Yes, he is." Natasha. Quiet but firm.
"He's not an Avenger. In fact, it kinda sounds to me like he does the opposite of what we do."
"Either he goes," comes Clint's curt response, not wanting to turn this into a debate, "or I get in his damn van and we drive back to New York."
Steve does not look like he has time for any of this bullshit, but he's always been the defacto leader. He gives Frank an assessing stare. Looks at the assassins. "You trust him?"
"With my life."
Nat crosses her arms and gives a thoughtful inhale, then nods at Clint. "With his life."
That seems to be good enough. There's a fractional softening to Steve, and then he turns and takes the pilot seat. Which is as close to an 'okay' as Clint's pretty sure they're getting, since it's not a no.
Clint is taken aback when he climbs in. Sure, quinjets don't tend to be the roomiest, but there's plenty of room for-- There aren't enough people. Nat, Steve, Rhodes, sure, yeah. Thor's here. He didn't even see Thor or hear his booming voice. He's just sitting there, with a fucking axe, looking like there's all the weight of the universe on his shoulders. Bruce looks so small. And a little beat up. Which is patently insane, because Hulk doesn't let Bruce get beat up, and also, where the hell has Bruce been the past several years?
And that's it.
He looks at Nat, lost. She shakes her head.
...Okay. Okay. That's...something to deal with. He stows his gear and straps himself in and suddenly feels so fucking tired.