Clint steadfastly did not want to think about sleeping in Coulson's bed. He pushed it neatly into the 'does not mean what you think it means' part of his brain, and concentrated on watching Coulson move around the kitchen.

Now that he was looking, really looking, he could see the way he was favoring one side as he walked. His movements were slower, more considered. It'd been six months, and he was still in pain. He didn't need to ask how bad it'd been, he could tell. "Well remembered."