Clint -- he didn't know how to feel about that information, not really. Because when Bobbi -- not Laura, he'd never even met anyone called Laura that he'd been attracted to -- when Bobbi died, The Avengers had put him on a leave of absence. He'd gone solo then too, but he'd never, never killed anyone. And he'd never have not stopped to listen to Natasha if she'd have asked anything of him.
But his Natasha hadn't. And maybe this Natasha wouldn't ask anything of him either, not verbally, but that didn't mean Clint wouldn't offer it.
They weren't just stand ins for their other selves, as much as their sometimes shared experiences might make it seem like. He wasn't that Clint Barton, and she wasn't his Natasha Romanoff, the same way that this Bucky wasn't his either.
Well. They were his but not like that.
In the end, he couldn't find any words on the topic that would end up right or smart or even relevant, and so he only balled his hand into a fist over his chest, the tiniest sorry he could give in the language that sometimes felt the most natural when English got to be too overwhelming.
"Okay," he said gently, finally releasing Bucky's hand, but not because he really wanted to so much as because he needed both of his hands to reach out for the open door and push it until it shut with a very final sounding click. "I dunno what a transitive property is," he admitted, "but no one's happy or winning or whatever else. It sucks for everyone. Kinda like this hard wood sucks to be sitting on. Come home with us, Nat."