The way he phrases it sounds a little more of an overt invitation than he'd quite intended, but Francis rolls with it, nods with a lazy sort of smile that curves over his mouth as he looks at the man he's leaning into. But he agrees easy enough and Francis angles them in the direction of the suite where his room is.

He doesn't seem to mind when the other man leans in closer, and he can feel the way he looks at him, and there's something to it as he murmurs words close against his ear, the way his nose bumps against his cheek. The words mean something, because he had been, for years, doing everything he could even if that didn't really amount to much. Didn't make a difference, but having someone else that believes he was doing all he could, it's-- good. He leans in a little, not too overtly, but he likes the contact. It's that mix of Clint who he'd hung so much on and his death, the weight of carrying everything. Contact is one of those things that makes sense.

"Yeah, I haven't seen anyone nearly as good as you. Not in years." Which is the quiet way of saying not since Clint died. Where he doesn't have to admit to the fact that it was still something uneasy. The hurt and the anger and being alone. But it was that skill that had caught his eyes, thrilled something just at the sight of someone that sharp. Not that the Avengers he ran around with weren't good in their own ways, but it was different. "Guess I'm not surprised you're good with a bow." He sort of wants to see, of course, but maybe sometime when they're not just out of some punishment room. Thankfully his room's not too far.