CLINT HAS ONLY THREE THINGS TO SAY; unlike the man saddled around his gut, he knows when to shut the fuck up – most times – and keeps his antagonistic rebuttals to a bare minimum. and, with only a few dabs to the driest corners of his bruised lips to spare, they are as follows:
‘ you can’t. ’
—- in regards to the idea that there might be anybody out there dumber than he to take on tony stark to begin with, muttered between mashed between teeth and the salt of his own arid blood smearing on the corner of joint mouths, which, in that precise context, could imp- ly that tony can do better. the second thing, spoken clear-cut like a risky slice at the minimal air shared between them, ‘ your money ain’t SHIT —- ’ with the pad of his thumb praised to stark’s jawline. despite everything he’s ever poked fun at ( and just plain poked at, straight up dragged his finger from the bottom-most flap of skin to the first ), there is DEFINITE BONE THERE. moving, sawing; beneath the tip of his finger works the near-perfect corner of a busy mouth. and it’s never not busy, whether it be occupied by words or food or bullshit or, or – well, clint now supposes, his own mouth.
which leads him to his third and final point:
‘ dinner’s cancelled, idiot; you got all NIGHT. ’
&& it wraps back up to his first case, does a complete one-eighty and staggers face-first into the statement that he’s the only jackass dumb enough to rub elbows ( and other parts ) with the guy who just not-so-sensually blinked at him. the guy he’s barely pulling his head away from, sucking the force of inappropriately-timed laughter right out of him like some sort of socially-decent VAMPIRE; yet all the pressure’s on him and his sore thighs and the even sorer spot between them, swelling quick under the crashing weight of a young billionaire’s hips. seriously, get this: the prodigal heir of stark industries getting his mouth scraped out by a homeless carnie with a bad rap sheet. relentlessly, even; tensing tendons so suddenly and with such vigor that he has to scoot them both back on the mattress just until he feels the back of his head hit that wall for some extra balance.
AND IF CLINT’S only got those three words to dish out in lieu of the moment,