"Well, there's a sentence," Clint said. And it was, really. A stag that fought off werewolves. And here he'd thought his life was weird what with all that ... occasional space travel and dying every once in a while only to come back again just in time to have an existential crisis. Or whatever.
Clint knew a lot about being a hot mess, if they were being open and honest. Luckily, they were not.
"What's that even mean? I'm gonna be honest, that sounds like some nazi bullshit." He quirked an eyebrow, although his attention was a little lost by watching a cup float to them. Jamie had floaty magic and fireballs and turning into a dog and fuck knew what else and Clint could shoot a bow and arrow. If he wasn't so used to being outclassed, Clint might have been depressed. Good thing there was liquor being added to the mix. He rose his newly acquired glass in a toast. "Cheerio, matey mate."