Clint stands and walks over -- leaving the guns at the table.

"Thanks," he says, accepting the plated second omelet from Natasha with a slight smile. He lifts himself up onto a free space of counter, and slices into the omelet with the side of his fork.

"She knows what I know," Clint says. And what he's inferred, of course. "But of course if you know anything else, we'd love to hear it."