The room fell silent. Tony Stark looked up from where he was tinkering with a gauntlet, Steve Rogers paused mid-conversation with Natasha Romanoff, and Clint Barton lowered his bow from the training dummy he'd been about to shoot.

He dropped one of the folders onto the table with a decisive smack.

Tony nodded, a flicker of interest crossing his face. Then his gaze slid to the other folder, and his brow furrowed slightly.

Fury winced. It was barely perceptible, but it was there.

He set the second folder down like it was contaminated. His eye—the good one—looked tired.

He pushed both folders across the table.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, the door hissing shut behind him. A beat of silence. Then, from behind him, a voice chirped up.

A girl stepped forward, waving obnoxiously, her too-perfect messy bun swinging. She was drowning in what looked like Tony Stark's MIT sweatshirt.

Steve Rogers stepped forward, his posture stiff but polite. He ignored Rosie entirely, his gaze landing on you.

Natasha Romanoff’s eyes narrowed to slits.

Natasha’s jaw tightened. Her hand drifted slowly toward the knife holstered at her thigh.

The room fell dead silent. Then Tony raised a hand. Then Steve. Then Clint. Even Thor, who'd just emerged from the kitchen with a bag of chips, nodded solemnly.