Clint watches her for a long moment. He wishes he could make an easy joke about the worth of sanity, here, but he doesn't know her well enough to. And it's not something he knows. Depression, maybe, according to every third psych person they put him in front of (it kind of overblows the issue, in his opinion), but he's sane as can be.

"Nothing wrong with getting a little outside help," he says. He's been debating his words, and the next sentence shows the signs of it. "Dee's just about the most competent person I know -- I'm biased, but it's still true. She sees someone regularly." Clint shifts very slightly, as if suddenly uncomfortable. "And... war can fuck you up. Even if you're not a soldier. It probably should fuck you up, a little," he adds, quiet.

"I've had friends get help, and I've had friends who should've but thought they were too -- broken. No such thing, but -- your choices are yours."