"I can't really help that 'm stealthy by nature." His lips quirked into a smirk as he looked around the room. He could get rid of the bodies, no problem. Keep Bruce off of everyone's radars -- he had been doing what he could to keep him off S.H.I.E.L.D's for as log as possible. For as much as possible but he knew it was only a matter of time. They tended to get up in everyone's business -- wanted or not. Clint wasn't exactly looking forward to when they would start hunting him down, even if he was sure they had been. It was really...just a matter of time.
He wanted to cherish the moment he had sitting there in Bruce's presence. A quiet reminder of the life they lived, if only as their friends would say -- in their dreams. Clint didn't dare try to show up the deeper running scars of Phil's life and death in a matter of moments. Not when Bruce was there. Not when anyone was there. They were his to carry alone. Bruce had enough of his plate, and the others would have never understood the "sudden" intimacy of the loss for Clint. Phil had become what his world revolved around in Arkham. The first couple of weeks, waking up alone in bed was something that hurt much more than any bullet or stab wound had in his entire life. Clint's eyes didn't stray too far from Bruce. He had seen enough dead bodies in his life, left behind more than enough to make him a little bit dangerous. His fame hadn't quite hit the heights of Black Widow, but he had a 100% success rate on always getting the mark. It was nothing to be prideful over.
Clint glanced around when Bruce mentioned his floor, brow arching up. Really? "S.H.I.E.L.D could track a postcard. Either to you or to me...can't risk it." He couldn't risk them finding Bruce and he didn't really want to go back to prison. Especially not a S.H.I.E.L.D-sanctioned prison. "It adds character to the room?" He offered up, smiling a little before Bruce came to kneel at his side. Inspecting the bullet wound. He wanted to say it. He wanted to mention Arkham, even though every time he had to their other teammates the puzzled expressions on their faces crushed his heart. It wasn't fair.
"They are usually ones for the history books. I'll start catalogin' them for you...with pictures 'n everything." He winced when he touched his arm a bit, eyes trailing down to his hand before back to his face. "T'is but a flesh wound, sir." Not really. But Clint would live. He had always been made of tougher stuff.
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He wanted to cherish the moment he had sitting there in Bruce's presence. A quiet reminder of the life they lived, if only as their friends would say -- in their dreams. Clint didn't dare try to show up the deeper running scars of Phil's life and death in a matter of moments. Not when Bruce was there. Not when anyone was there. They were his to carry alone. Bruce had enough of his plate, and the others would have never understood the "sudden" intimacy of the loss for Clint. Phil had become what his world revolved around in Arkham. The first couple of weeks, waking up alone in bed was something that hurt much more than any bullet or stab wound had in his entire life. Clint's eyes didn't stray too far from Bruce. He had seen enough dead bodies in his life, left behind more than enough to make him a little bit dangerous. His fame hadn't quite hit the heights of Black Widow, but he had a 100% success rate on always getting the mark. It was nothing to be prideful over.
Clint glanced around when Bruce mentioned his floor, brow arching up. Really? "S.H.I.E.L.D could track a postcard. Either to you or to me...can't risk it." He couldn't risk them finding Bruce and he didn't really want to go back to prison. Especially not a S.H.I.E.L.D-sanctioned prison. "It adds character to the room?" He offered up, smiling a little before Bruce came to kneel at his side. Inspecting the bullet wound. He wanted to say it. He wanted to mention Arkham, even though every time he had to their other teammates the puzzled expressions on their faces crushed his heart. It wasn't fair.
"They are usually ones for the history books. I'll start catalogin' them for you...with pictures 'n everything." He winced when he touched his arm a bit, eyes trailing down to his hand before back to his face. "T'is but a flesh wound, sir." Not really. But Clint would live. He had always been made of tougher stuff.