Rosalind, and Robert really, were one of few remaining constants in Clint's time in this little corner of hell. And the companionship and friendship he'd sparked up with the scientist was interesting -especially since it came from mistaken identity. He liked her, a lot really, and he really shouldn't be terribly surprised that she'd asked.
"Jus' the headache." He knew he'd bruised his ribs, probably pretty damn bad, but there wasn't a break that he could feel and the nurse hadn't said there was anything obviously wrong. He doubted he'd be upchucking blood or anything other than his meagre stomach contents at this point. "I fucking hate concussions." It was pretty much all the warning he let Steve have before his stomach emptied, and he'd need to apologise to Leslie later about vomiting in a bush, but that could be later.
Clint really, really hated being sick too -not the ill kind of sick (although that sucked just as much) but the vomiting, gross, sweaty sick that left the bile taste and burning in the throat. He didn't even try to wash it down with some whisky, because he knew that'd just turn it into a horrible cycle of disgustingness.