Clint did look, because he knew that trick better than just about anyone. He'd been playing the I'm fine for days now, all but ignoring the shooting pain in his ribs each time he moved, pain that was only slightly dulled by the dwindling supply of morphling pills the staff doctor had given him. Clint knew that you had to double check these things on your own, and he did, letting the hand in Steve's hair gently tilt his head to the side a little so he could take a look.
They were healing, at least, from what Clint could tell. And that was something, anyway. Not enough, not by a long shot, but it was something. Steve could hear him when he talked, and for now, Clint would take it. Slowly, reluctantly, Clint brought his hand back up to stroke Steve's hair, more for his own comfort now, than Steve's.
"I should've asked you," Clint said mournfully. "I had a feeling it was worse than I thought, but I just let you..." he broke off, his eyes traveling instinctively to his empty glass, although he didn't reach to refill it. "I'm sorry, Ace. It's good of you to... want to protect me like that." He ducked his head down for an instant, ashamed. "I. I hope you know that I was just. Trying to protect you, too. Natasha, too. In her way."