"You can have cheese and also other things on a sandwich, buttface," Clint said airily, taking the proffered meatball sub. "Thanks." It wasn't an invitation, and he knew it. In fact, it seemed to be a very firm non-invitation, which surprised Clint not at all. In Scott's position, Clint wouldn't have wanted to indulge in bad habits and moping all by himself, but he knew that Scott was a different breed. He appreciated solitude and stoicism in a way Clint never had, but there was a marked difference between "appreciating" and "doing what was best for yourself," so Clint took the opportunity to willfully misinterpret the gesture and use Scott's now-occupied hands to push open the door and slip past him, inviting himself inside.
His eyes swept over the destruction, his heart squeezing a little, though his face remained impassive. The broken glass everywhere explained the blood between his fingers, and Clint quickly recalculated his decision to set up shop on the couch. Instead, he ducked into the kitchen and set his sandwich down on the counter -- one of the only glass-free surfaces left in the house, he suspected -- and then stopped by the bathroom to retrieve bandages and antiseptic. "Gotta take care of those hands, buddy," he said, his voice quiet, but steady, insistent. "Then your face. I know you're real excited about that facial."