He can see the offer coming before it hits — it's in the way Clint is picking. Dirt, skin, any excuse to be twitchy with his fingers, to pluck at something when he doesn't have a bowstring instead. And it's not that he doesn't want to that has his head shaking back and forth. It's that he wants to too much.

"Wouldn't go down the same," he says instantly, a little too steely, a little too cold. "It would be different."

Because he wouldn't be able to hold back. There wouldn't be that same presence of mind that got them out of Clint's house without breaking any of his furniture. Once he lets go, he's gonna get carried away and it's gonna get brutal, and he's not gonna stop.

Rather, he'd stop for Clint, but it might be about two minutes after he should've. Only thing that'll do is rile him up more out of shame or remorse, and make him want to swing at something else even harder.