Clint chuckled as he watched Moo claw at Barnes' stubble. He'd known he'd had this one in the bag as soon as he visited that third shelter and found one ragged-eared kitten with one eye, a baby cow (in Eight-speak) who'd been practically designed to snuggle up with a certain metal-armed Victor that Clint knew. Barnes wasn't different from the rest of them, really. He hid it better than most, sure, but there was some softness there, underneath all the spines. Maybe having a mewing fuzzball to cuddle would tease that out a little more and maybe, more importantly, he could find some comfort in that.
Barnes was always talking about how he broke things, how he was less than human. And Clint got that, at least to an extent. But he also knew from experience how important it was to know you could be around something fragile and not break it, so he hoped that maybe, with time, Barnes would get some comfort out of his new pretend cow. "Pretty sure Moo's the asshole for scratching up your chin," Clint pointed out, grinning. "And don't give me that whole 'you're gonna take her back,' thing. She likes you. You're keeping her."
He reached out for his cup of tea and blew across it. "If by okay you mean high as hell," he returned cheerfully. Whatever that stuff Peggy gave me was a goddamn miracle drug. I haven't felt this good in years." He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and produced a little flask. "Want some?"