Jack/Clint.
Clint's mouth twitched, that tight twist of the jaw that nearly always ground itself between a grin and a grimace. He had already begun to stand up from his chair, papers discarded around what looked to be a brown paper deli bag—a hint that he had indeed some designs toward a timely noon lunch.
"You like pastrami?" That dry, grinding-gravel hint of humor, extended with a gesture meant to invite Jack inside the office. A polite affectation. Clint had, as most modern men, simply traded one uniform for another. Pressed shirt, trim tie, tar-colored shoes that hardly made a squeak under his impressive weight and stature. His shoulders stayed tense, rigid, a pent up tension that hinted the man wasn't so different from those in the gym, the earthy, acrid smell of sweat and blood sinking into the building's very walls.