"I do know that," Clint said, sighing mock-sadly. "It's why I keep offering. I figure if I can feed you enough sugar little by little, you'll start to like it again." He sat down at the table again and leaned over it a little as he pushed his rice around with a fork. He hadn't eaten much since she'd told him what had really happened. That wasn't unexpected, really. His stomach was still roiling from it and his skin still buzzed with the latent urge to punch a wall, to enact some violence onto something that wouldn't actually get hurt.
It was good that that wasn't an option, though. The last thing he needed to do was inflict more damage to himself, even if his trip from the highwire had been genuinely accidental. It was time to heal, now. For both of them.
"Hey," he said, his voice reaching a more even tone now, a more serious one. "Thanks for telling me. It means a lot to me that you still trust me this much. And look. You can tell me to fuck off if you want, and that's fine, but I gotta ask. Can I do anything? Like. I'm not even talking big shit here, I'm talking easy shit. Dumb movies. Jokes. Stories. You remember that chicken hat from a few seasons ago? I think I still got that in a closet somewhere. I could do a dumb hat fashion show."