"They are nice until you have so many of them that they are rotting on the vine and you have made almost fifty jars of jam and have had them for every meal. Then they are not so nice. The chickens are bastards." He paused at her question, because...how could he answer that? "He is not. He saved my sister and I." He knew she would ask about that but he could hope that she wouldn't.
He wasn't...sure that he was comfortable with the cuddling - the only people he really allowed into his personal bubble were his sister and Clint. But he tolerated it, if a little stiffly. "I have been told that," he made his mouth say instead of telling her to get off of him, like he wanted.