Clint never had any illusions of being tall -- but being of average height works for him. He's a spy, he's an assassin, he's a slip of an acrobat. If he'd been built like Thor, or Steve, hell, his job would have been a whole lot harder. Besides, he's had thirty years, give or take, to get used to this facet of life. so Porrim squares herself and faces him down, and Clint shifts to meet her head on. His head tips, easy confidence in the lines of his body.

Only, his eyes spark with amusement as she laughs, at the hidden meaning behind her words. Clint's mouth ticks up in a truer smile, seemingly easy for someone deep in mourning.

"A couple or so." He agrees, offering a hand to her, playing along if only to see where this goes. "Clint. Pleasure to meet you officially."