Natasha tapped her foot against Clint's once beneath the table, a friendly bump of appreciation. It wasn't a surprise, really, that he knew how to navigate this, how to let the moment breathe. They'd talked about this much a little bit themselves, too - brains are sometimes going to brain, that was really the most succinct way of putting it, and for whatever reason, this was a time when James's brain was doing some braining. "I don't want to ask what constitutes the best part of the balls. You may also notice that it's a little more orange than...what you would usually expect, you know, from a healthy penis, but I was booed when I voiced concerns about that. So."
To say nothing of what had actually ended up happening to the tip of the cake, the photographic evidence of which was now apparently forever mounted to the wall at Pancho's. That'd be fun. Though in the moment, of course, it had been worth it. The sacrifice of a little dignity to make her friends happy seemed like a more than fair price.
She'd washed his hair. Surely it wasn't a trespass to reach out now, and she pressed her foot against Clint's a little more closely as she stretched a hand over the top of the table, the tips of her fingers resting against the outside of James's wrist. Lightly, without pressure or insistence, just - reassurance, maybe. He didn't have to talk about it, no, but they'd listen if he did. Badly, it went badly was clearly the answer to the question she wasn't asking out loud, but the contents still mattered. They weren't entirely irrelevant.
Not if Steve was freezing her out as a result of it, but that wasn't something she was going to bring up. "Try some," she said instead. "More fun than bringing you over some vegetables, anyway, which was what I was going to suggest before Clint got all excited about the balls."