Truthfully, it hadn't been Scott's intention to steer their conversation into less than casual waters. He'd taken out the deck without an ulterior motive, satisfied to have seen Natasha with his own eyes and determined her no worse for wear. Not that there would have been anything to be done if she was, but he was reassured, at least, that there was no foul play involved. He'd really just wanted to pass on this little piece of his home to someone that he knew wouldn't detach her retinas rolling her eyes at him.
But maybe he was in danger of having that happen anyway, because in asking after Clint, Natasha had misinterpreted where his concern lie. Scott watched her over his hand, pulling from her wine glass, fiddling with her cards. "Oh, sure, yeah," he said mildly, pushing out his bottom lip in thoughtful (and maybe, just a little, mock) concession. He wasn't touching the "protective older brother" thing with a ten foot pole. That was a can of worms he wasn't looking to open - although it did raise his hackles just a bit to hear it said. She knew, she had to know. And to play it off--well, she hadn't been there when Clint had nearly hyperventilated at the news that she'd been hurt, consensual or not. "I was asking about Clint, though. I know you're fine."
Fine might not have been the right word for it, but the sentiment was clear: Scott wasn't worried about her. Whatever had gone down the other day was something well within her ability to handle. Clint, on the other hand.. "He took it kind of hard, that whole thing." Okay, that seemed safe. Scott could acknowledge that "protective older brother" wasn't gelling with him, but without calling her on it outright. "And he was on some decent painkillers from the show when I left him, but as far as I know he didn't have anything else to hold him over but alcohol." She had to have noticed the uptick in his drinking. Scott had, after all, and they didn't even talk like they used to. "You know if he called Claire and got looked at?"