“Oh.” Clint settles back in as if that explanation had been enough. He’s never known Thor to lie, never known him to be manipulative. If the guy says he cares for Clint and isn’t trying to recruit him to be a lapdog in the most literal sense of the word, he believes him.

The archer turns, setting his calloused hand over Thor’s knee. He’s plucked so many strings, held onto so many high wire swings and ropes, that this hand is all hardened skin and muscle. His eyes close again and he sighs.

“For the record, I do feel comforted. And I’m sorry that I’m not really good with the whole being cared about thing. Weird new concept,” he laughs softly.