Clint hums a distracted agreement to that, busy checking the size. "Eh, it'll do," he mutters as he sets it on top of the dryer and starts working the buttons of his own shirt. There's a decent tear across it, blood spattering it. When he pulls his shirt off, there's more blood on his undershirt, but he ignores that for the moment to pull on the one taken from the dryer. "Ready to get out of here?" he asks once he has all but the top couple of buttons done up.

Better to look like someone with their girlfriend than someone who's been nearly stabbed.