"I think I need to be drunker to make a pastry hat," Clint decided. "Maybe next time." It was likely that Clint would one day mix alcohol with whatever the hell this drug was. He always did stupid shit like that eventually. But today was not that day. Today, he was going to enjoy this for what it was, and appreciate that fact that Bucky, unlike a certain other District Eight victor he was fond of, knew when to leave shit alone. But he appreciated the gesture, though, his little nudge, and Clint managed a sad little smile in response. Then he scoffed. "You sure you really wanna broadcast that shit to the world after you die, though? Not that I'm judging or anything, but that's a longass name even if it is fancy."
But then Bucky mentioned poodles and Clint instantly deadpanned. "Those are the ones with the flappy white wings, right?" he asked, spreading his fingers out like feathers and flapping his arms once. "And the long, curvy necks?"