( he glances at her, first when she says that she didn't know how different lives within the same city could be, and again when she says there's life in new york. he inhales, sharply and audibly, at that remark. (isn't that what he'd said? there's sixty of them—). he thinks, too, that most people would finish a comment like that with 'barton' rather than clint, and he presses his lips together before exhaling through his nose. )

—Yeah, eight million lives versus sixty, which is what I just said. ( he interrupts, apparently unable to help himself. (come on! give him some credit!) but then she moves on to talking about copies and replicas, and he lets it drop.

it'd occurred to him, too, that they might be copies and it'd been a thought that'd made him feel a little sick, actually, so he hadn't lingered on it, because if they are—. (bobbi.) )

And the only way this is going to be any degree of better is when we get answers to what's going on and go home.

( but whatever. whatever. )

My building's got four floors, a basement and a rooftop, and—. ( —oh. hold up. ) We might have to—. I mean, I don't have my key.