Okay, so she hadn't misinterpreted at all. That honor had fallen to Scott, who had ended up staring at her over her cards when she admitted, with no small amount of disapproval, that more people had asked after Clint than they had her. And suddenly he felt guilty assuming, misplacing his trust in the idea that Natasha, above all else, would be fine. She certainly wasn't fine enough not to feel aggravated at another person stuffing themselves into Clint's corner.
Or aggravated that Clint had had such a strong reaction in the first place. Between the older brother comment and her insistence that Clint had no business in her business, that seemed like a plausible motive for her irritation, too. The chafe he'd felt a moment ago had cooled off in understanding, and he was frowning lopsidedly at her when she raised her eyes. It was a rare expression in her company: Scott had made an effort to maintain the Cheerful Yokel from Twelve persona long after it had won him sponsors, mostly because he was that cheerful yokel from Twelve, at one point. He felt far away from that person, lately, but it was still very much who he tried to be in public. And outside of private guilt dinners, Scott most often saw Natasha in public.
"Well, he has one," he said, milder now. He was relieved to know that Clint had a pain management strategy, and wouldn't have to rely on alcohol to curb the worst of it. Not that it would stop him, necessarily, from mixing the two, but maybe he'd be more inclined to hot chocolate. "And it's pretty strong." He laid one of his cards down on the discard pile. "He damn near passed out when he got that text from Steve."