When Hawkeye opens his arms, that constant ache in his bones throbs sharply, and he wants to accept it. The ache in his bones wants it...but touching hurts. It burns and it's never enough and it makes him feel so much like he did in Hope, fractures him into a million razor sharp shards of glass...

"It's, uh...I can't, I'm sorry." he confesses softly, absently rubbing his right bicep with his left hand, brisk and firm--sometimes it helps the pain. "It's--I dunno which screw loose it is, if I ever knew, but it--hurts. When people touch me. S' like I'm bein' burned, better just--to not."

Co's hands burned. Her fingers seared his cheek, scarred him without leaving a mark, her mouth had been so soft and so gentle and even that sweet touch had been too much--but he'd thought there would be a chance for it to get better. Small touches, maybe more later...holding hands, steering her along with a hand on her shoulder, maybe arm pressed to arm on the plane back to America.

Maybe it would never be more than that. Maybe it could have been so much more...but that was taken away from him.

It's better this way. To not--he's learned to live with it, to manage. The best thing to do is just maintain.

"But I 'preciate it. The offer--your friendship--everything." he assures him with a genuine smile. "Just...promise me you won't let it get you killed, huh? People drop like flies around me. But, uh...most people aren't you, so I got hope there."