Clint was in no state to ask questions. Not the ones that mattered, anyway, not details. Names, Steve had said. He had a list of names, and Clint could barely picture who might be on such a list. Peggy, probably. Some contacts in Eight. He'd ask later, when he wasn't so drained. When he could think about this a little more.
"Good," he said. He was clinging a little less tightly now, backing off. His heartbeat was beginning to slow, though it was still erratic, still far form its resting rate. "Keep it that way. I have a lot of things to lose. More than most do, when they live around here. I don't want one of them to be you."
Clint relaxed his arms and reached down to squeeze Steve's shoulder. Then he said, "Wanna stay? Spare room's all made up. Or mine, if you want. I'm prob'ly just gonna... couch." He said it easily, offhanded, like it was no big deal. Like it had nothing to do with the way his side was throbbing, how he didn't want to move.