At this point he's learned that people are still gonna stare and wonder if he doesn't say something, and so he's figured out an... abbreviated version of the truth. So abbreviated that it doesn't tell anything beyond the basic fact of I was injured badly enough to be discharged. There's no mention of what sort of injury he has, or even if he still has it; there are a few wounds that take so long to recover from that it's impossible to stay in, many more that could wound him to the point where he couldn't function as a soldier but could still be a regular person who was just a little careful sometimes, and surgeries that could fix just about anything. The majority of people can tell that he shuts off after he gives that answer; those that can't, he just blank-face ignores.

But Clint's in the middle of removing the second strip of molding, being careful not to bend the thin little nails or crack the wood, when she says the bit about her dad being in Vietnam. It's not what he's expecting, and he faces her and blinks in surprise for a moment, pausing in his molding-prying as that calculates. "...It was really bad over in 'nam." Not that he was there, obviously, he'd been born while all that was going on, but the people in charge now had been the grunts back three decades ago. It was impossible not to hear stories. "Lot of guys went in and didn't come out the same. But he came back to you, right? He came back home and you had him for a long time."

And that? That gets him to grin, a real grin, wide and with a chuckle, before going back to the job he'd been doing, pulling off the second strip and getting started on the third. "Don't tell the guys I do like in the Air Force, but- yeah, they're pretty much a bunch of assholes."