He's already thinking of a plan. One quick jab to knock out Gabe, a flare from his quiver to distract the others, and then... and then he'd throw himself out a window and run. Go as far as he could until he had to find cover, then rest and try and figure out what else to do. Who to call... Fury, Natasha-- Fury's not the man he knows, yet. Natasha's not even born. Those realizations fall heavy on his chest. He shakes the thoughts away, trying to focus. He could run anyway, figure it out as he went. Who cared what year it was? He could, he could... he could realize that the only way out of this was the tessaract, the thing that got him here.

When was that damn thing going to stop ruining his life?

He's still biting down on his own skin, hard enough now to draw blood. He forces himself to look at Steve, and then at Peggy when she speaks. He tosses a glare Gabe's way--don't think he didn't see you moving, don't think he couldn't take you--before he grabs the offered drink from Steve and downs it in two quick swallows. That washes the blood down his throat, a bit.

"No," he says to Steve. "He didn't."

Clint takes a step towards his chair and then pauses. He puts on hand against the back of it, leaning on the chair. But that's as far as he goes.

His face scrunches for a moment before he forces himself to smile, albeit weakly, at the girls. "He's really missing out."