"Oh, yeah. Down to the very last second," she assured him, because it was what she would have wanted to hear, if it was the other way around. If he had been the one to go instead of her. It had the benefit of being true, at least. When she'd looked down, there were still bruises on her wrist from how hard he'd held onto her. The look on his face when he realized she wasn't holding on in return, that she was waiting him out.
"It's okay," she said, softly, though the fact that she hadn't taken her eyes off him - the fact that she was still looking at him as though he was a glass of water and she'd been stranded in the desert without it for days, maybe weeks - probably belied that, just a little. Nothing was falling from her eyes, which was good, but they were still wet and embarrassing, and if he wasn't Clint-from-her-world, he was still Clint.
And that transcended anything else for her. He still knew her. She still felt understood, by him. That counted. All of this counted. Dying, apparently, threw lots of things into razor-sharp perspective.
"It's okay," she repeated. "I think...in my world. You'll be okay. You had a family. They meant more to you than -" Me. " - than anything. If it brings them back to you, you'll be okay. I'm just - I'm sorry, I'm not usually this, uh." Well, he would know. She was not usually this open and vulnerable, this in need of something that she couldn't put a name on. "But I needed to see you. Look at you. You run a coffee shop. You look wonderful."