Nat put her soda down and pressed her lips together, unimpressed when she spotted Clint's eyes glaze over slightly and even more unimpressed that he seemed completely determined to ignore the Laura-shaped elephant in the room now she'd brought it up. She didn't feel bad: Clint probably ought to talk about it and whilst she wasn't Dr Phil, she was his (best) friend and wanted to support him. It bothered her that she hadn't been around when it had happened though what she could have done to help? She had no idea. It wasn't as if she were a relationship expert or anything.
"That your professional opinion?" she asked dryly, "A clusterfuck?"
They'd managed to secure a corner booth, out of earshot of the few people who had straggled in. She had a cap on - taking a leaf out of the Steve Rogers Manual of Blending In - and a large, oversized hoodie. She was a bit more recognisable than Clint to the general public, so she had her back to the door, but there was a mirror behind the register that she was using to keep her eye on what was behind her. Besides, Clint had her back. Just like always.
She leaned forward, not breaking eye contact with Clint as she sipped her drink through the straw.
"But we'll be okay," she told him, because they would. "If that flea-bag motel Stark's put us in doesn't kill us first."