He doesn't believe it, at first. In fact, Clint doesn't want to believe it at all. He wavers where he stands, booted feet quiet as a cat even as he resettles his weight and the heft of the crowbar in his hand. But the longer Tony speaks, the cadence of his voice despite the scuttle of rats, the more Clint realizes he has to know.

He rolls his shoulders, crowbar lowering, even if he can bring it to fore within seconds should he need it. There's a snort, more wry humor than anything.

"What, you'd want everyone to know you're here?" Dry as a desert, Clint's long since relied on his humor in difficult situations.