"I know," Natasha agreed, because she wasn't unsympathetic to it. It was nervous energy coursing through Clint, and she knew perfectly well the way he would have normally exorcised himself of it by now - the same way she knew why he wouldn't let himself reach for his bow today. And she couldn't really bring herself to tell him that he ought to keep sharp, that he ought to keep practicing, just in case. No one that Natasha kept company with whose name was picked for the Reaping would want to die in it, herself included, but she also wasn't certain that any of them wanted to be the last one standing, either.
Which was an interesting thing to come to terms with, really, this idea that in spite of her best efforts, she'd formed attachments. Connections. Beyond simply people she would miss; people she didn't want to muddle through the world without was a different story entirely, and if it had been a few weeks ago, it was a sentiment that she would have rolled her eyes at and quickly tried to crush out of herself. And now look at her, frantically spurring a revolution on in the hopes that she could at least save - herself, yes, but some of them, too. Tony, Scott, Wanda, Luke. Clint. The ones whose absence would make an already dim world that much darker.
So she stood from her chair and stretched out her hands to settle them at the side of Clint's face, cupping it carefully. "You need to relax, though," she told him gently. "Minus the drugs. I understand the compulsion to keep going, but if you don't relax and moderate a little, not let the panic run away with you, you're going to burn out and we need you to hold it together for longer. If you need me to get you a drink, I'll get you a drink, if you want to fuck, we can fuck, if you want to lay down and take something for that headache and maybe get some sleep, we can do that." She moved her fingers in careful circles at his temples, trying to ease out the tension. "Whatever's going to get rid of the stress for awhile. Okay?"