Couches always seemed slightly too comfortable to Clint, like he was sinking into them instead of actually sitting. Which, he knew that was an odd way of looking at it, but that was it nonetheless. "Well, fingers crossed for the pizza oven," he said, accepting the glass from her. Vodka tasted the same to Clint no matter what, but he did have an inkling that the good stuff didn't taste like pure poison, and that Natasha never bought the bad stuff.

It was easier to listen to Natasha without looking right in her face, too. He could just concentrate on the words, digest them as he saw fit. She had a lot of big things to say, but Clint was not the kind of person to balk. If anything, she was giving him a report; and those were bread and butter, in his trade, no matter how sensational.

In reality, Barnes was the least of his concerns. So apparently the Winter Soldier - who he always believed to exist, if only because Natasha didn't believe in ghost stories, and treated him as real - was an old companion of Cap's, and had shot Natasha for a second time. Someone had to give him a talking to about that.

"SHIELD is gone?" he asked, instead, looking up over his shoulder at her. Her drink was empty, his only slightly touched, so he held it up for her if she wanted to drink it. He could always get a refill. Gone. All of it. They'd taken it apart.

Man, what about all of his stuff? Ah, well.

"Are you okay with that?" he inquired.