"Yeah." He's looking through the options of drink. Or he thinks he is. He doesn't really see the bottles. Now that he's up, he's restless, like he wants to fight something, like he's going to fight himself, and it might be a night where he beats a punching bag until his knuckles bleed, but at least it'll be out of his system. "We will. Both of us. We'll get out heads on straight and not be afraid of ourselves."

And until then, they'll lean on each other, trust each other. Coulson's himself even if he's missing parts (and if they can alter memory, why not other things, why not personality, history, why not rewrite a whole person just because you can) and Barton's himself even if he doesn't know the long-term effects of having something alien shuffle around his hardwired loyalties (and if it's as easy as a touch with magic they can't possibly understand, why not seed in the paranoia, why not leave something behind to quietly grow until the time is right, why not bide your time until you can bring the good little soldier to heel again), and they have to trust each other about it since they can't fully trust themselves.

"I wish you blamed me, though." It tastes as sharp and bitter as he knew it would. It tastes like blood in his mouth. "Even just a little, even if you knew it wasn't rational, I wish you would."