He wiped his hand off on his knee when she took the glass from him, which had been mostly sweating rather than being drunk while he'd held it. "It wasn't," he agreed (which, really, was an opinion he only held because she suggested it, but he trusted those facts). He knew that she wouldn't like it; Natasha had put a lot of stake in SHIELD. Hell, she'd put a lot of stake in him; he'd been the one who had convinced her to come and work with him in the first place. He hoped she didn't blame him for any of that.

But while Clint was upset that, apparently, the organization he had worked for had a darkness to it that had been present for half a century, it was a different kind of upset. So he had worked for bad people. But he trusted in the work he did, and he trusted in what was right or wrong. His heart had steered him - well, up until recently. There was very little doubt cast onto his past choices.

The amount of lies that surrounded them was enough to choke. Coulson, alive? Well, it wouldn't be the first faked death, but that called everything else into question, including Fury. "You did good work," he said, reaching up to pat the knee that was pressed against his shoulder. "You always do. And honestly, you don't need anyone pointing you in a direction anymore. Well," he gave a little shrug. "That's what I think, anyway."