He really needs to take the time and figure out who all else is actually in this backwards ass island, so he wouldn't keep getting suckerpunched (figuratively and literally) by people from back home. Hunched over the anvil as he is, squinting down at the latest sketch for the gravity powered fan? He doesn't hear Clint coming. The forge is roaring and waiting for the few projects he's got the materials ready for, his mind's flitting from point to point, tacked up pages on the wall outlining all the work he's gathered to keep himself busy while he's here.

Keep himself sane.

So there's not much warning, no chance to brace for impact and, well. Archer's with the kind of pull Barton has? Kind of swing hard. Tony's head cracks back and he stumbles into the table behind him, hissing as he curls inward. One hand pressed to his face, the other? braced against his ribs. Fucking. "Barton."

Of everyone around that he can think of- this is...probably the one hit he'll take with grace. Does, in fact, massage his aching jaw without so much as a glower. "...You done?"