He retrieved his bow before following her, falling into step beside her as they walked. As they moved he looked around him, surreptitiously but alert, aware of what she had told him - that they were not alone, that there were people there from their past and their future. "You're the Russian stereotype," he said. "I'm the American stereotype. You know, minus the racism and sexism, stuff like that."

When they arrived he looked around her room in some interest, "Do they all look like this, or is this just you?" he wondered, aloud. Bow and quiver were set atop a chair backed against the wall. He kept his knives on him, if only because they weren't exactly sheathed in a way where if he passed out drunk they'd be digging into somewhere uncomfortable. Clint left weapons on for enemies, strangers, and close friends, all for different reasons. Natasha, he knew, would not give a damn.

"As long as there's ice, should be good," he said. Of all the places to sit, he chose a small couch - sort of. He sat on the floor with his back against it. It seemed like the better option. "Is it bad enough vodka that it will make the 'big things' you have to tell me less big?" he asked, and, because he knew it couldn't possibly be true, he asked, "You don't have a kid, do you? I am not uncle material."