[ It's overwhelming, caught up in a swirl of emotion that belongs to both of them all at once. There's a low kick of anxiety, still lingering there beneath his breath, lurking in his blood. But the amusement flares and it's easier, grounding in a way.

Clint's always been one to hide behind humor, it's familiar now. ]

What, you expected fair and square?

[ His brows lift, amusement in the blue of his gaze. Maybe he's a bit off his game though, because Clint can't quite hide.

He should have known better. Even without this, this -- this thing curling between them like filigree, Sam would have known. So Clint's mouth curves with a wry smile, barely there, and he shifts, pulls the zipper of his outer shirt, rucks up the thinner fabric of his ruined under shirt. There's a clotted gash, starting high enough to touch ribs and down over his stomach, ending beneath his navel.

It's ugly, and it was clearly bad, before. It's still bad now, even though the wound has scabbed over, and the pinked edges show an increased healing. He shrugs, a tiny little thing, unconcerned. ]

Don't think there's much you can do, man. [ Easy, casually, it's just another near-death. Even if it really would have been a death back in Wakanda. Probably. ] How 'bout you? Saw you take a couple bad hits back there.