Jack grits his teeth as the first blow hits, plants his other hand against the wall, too. The second blow has him cursing, as does the third. “Not yelling at you,” he bites out. “Just-- Son of a bitch.” He laughs darkly and shakes his head. “You’re too fucking good with that.”

It’s necessary, and he’s not going to blame Clint. He’s just doing what Jack asked him to. Doesn’t mean he’s not going to get called some nasty names in the process, because there’s no one else to direct the anger at, and he hates that this is something he feels like he needs to do.