At least this one he sees coming. This one he can roll with- though rolling with it means rolling his wounded side deeper into the damn counter top but he'd rather not have a broken jaw, his ribs are healing, he'll fucking deal. It's nothing compared to the beatdown in Sibera. Nothing compared to getting hammered by a gauntleted fist and watching everything whither away like dust. Besides- unlike Thanos? Barton's got a right to it. Tony sags for a moment, ears ringing, tongue working in his mouth to clear it of blood (damn split lip) before spitting it out. There's a hand offered and- he doesn't accept it up. He's got one on the table and that'll be enough to haul himself to his feet. Inch by inch, vertebrae by vertebrae, pulling himself upright again. By the time he's standing again he's got his shoulders straightened and his face smoothed out into a blandly civil mask.

The only thing Clint was guilty of, ever, was loyalty. Tony can't fault him for that. Won't, even. No recriminations- but no excuses. No explanations. Minds were made up years ago, and he's dead tired of pretending he doesn't know exactly why they kept him around. It's fine. He's fine.

Well he's not, he won't be, but it's no Business of Barton's now, is it? "Now you done? Because I'd like to get back to work. Million things to do, never enough time."

It'd be a familiar gripe if he added the usual flippancy, the humor- but Tony's voice is just like his eyes, flat and cold. Though there is the question hanging between them and Tony has to wonder, for a moment, if it's worth digging into. "Relative to what? New York? Sokovia?"