[ It's a familiar sound, just like Barnes' arm, the subtle whir of machinery. Clint breathes in, out, soft, soft. Trying to keep a tight grip on his control, trying not to let his mind flay open under the press of Shiro's thoughts to his own. He can do it -- except, he doesn't gather himself quick enough.
There's a slow tensing of his shoulders, steel gilding his spine. --some of us might have to lose it, he doesn't spill, but completes the thought in the dark of his mind. There's a slip of something wry, brittle, even as Clint reaches up and rubs at the nape of his neck. It's sharing a little too much, but he purposefully doesn't hide. Instead, Clint shrugs one shoulder, gaze lifting to meet Shiro's own. ]
It's cool. [ It's not. A huffed breath, not quite laughter. ] Yeah, friend of mine back home.
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There's a slow tensing of his shoulders, steel gilding his spine. --some of us might have to lose it, he doesn't spill, but completes the thought in the dark of his mind. There's a slip of something wry, brittle, even as Clint reaches up and rubs at the nape of his neck. It's sharing a little too much, but he purposefully doesn't hide. Instead, Clint shrugs one shoulder, gaze lifting to meet Shiro's own. ]
It's cool. [ It's not. A huffed breath, not quite laughter. ] Yeah, friend of mine back home.
[ Though technically, Steve's here too. ]