Clint didn't close his eyes again, though he wanted to. He needed to watch her while she talked, search for signs of distress. Not that he expected to find any. Nobody could hold in distress like Natasha, and he wasn't the least bit surprised by her delivery. Perfectly calm. Matter-of-fact, even with its questioning edge.
And he knew what she was really asking. They all this moment, eventually, the niggling doubt that kept whispering have I gone too far? Dealing with the aftermath of the arena was standard, but the politics of the Capitol were a different kind of trauma, a kind that took years and years to unfold. For all the atrocities they'd committed to their fellow tributes in the arena, the ones that they were eventually forced to commit outside it were if not worse, at least more personal.
Everyone Clint knew, even Steve, had had to push someone else down to save themselves. If they were lucky, that someone else wouldn't wind up dead. In this case, Natasha was lucky. This was what luck looked like. "He'll say 'that's none of your damn business' and he'll move on. Or he'll come up with something better to say. The important part is that he knows it's not true, and he knows that he did you a favor. And he knows that you've got enough integrity that next time, if somebody needs a favor like that from you, you'll give it, if you can."