Another widow, great. // avengers · Y/n story by @fanficreaderr

The private jet touches down on the Stark Tower landing pad with a soft thud, the city lights of New York glittering far below like scattered diamonds. The door hisses open.

Nick Fury

Welcome to the party. Try not to blow anything up.

He stands at the top of the short ramp, his long coat stirring in the wind from the turbines. He doesn't offer a hand down. Inside the sleek, dimly lit common area of the residential levels, the air is thick with the smell of coffee and tension.

Natasha Romanoff

leaning against a kitchen island, arms crossed You didn't have to come.

Yelena Belova

from a nearby couch, not looking up from her knife sharpening She did. Or Fury would have sent a less polite retrieval team.

Clint Barton

pouring a truly excessive amount of coffee into a mug Hey, kid. Long time.

The space is open-plan, all cool metal and glass. A few others are present but hanging back in the shadows of the living area: Steve Rogers by the windows, Sam Wilson near the bookshelf, Bruce Banner half-hidden behind a large tablet. Their attention is a physical weight.

Nick Fury

The asset is in sub-level three. Hasn't spoken, hasn't eaten, hasn't slept. He just stares at the wall. Romanoff’s charm didn’t work. Barnes’s… familiarity didn’t work.

Natasha Romanoff

He’s not an asset. He’s a person.

Nick Fury

He’s a ghost with answers we need. Your sister here is a variable he won’t expect.

Yelena Belova

snorts Or she is a variable that gets her head snapped off. Fifty-fifty.

Nick Fury

Your call, Alianova. Interrogation room’s ready. He’s waiting.