Fury stands at the center of it all, one eye fixed on Tony, the other—the one beneath the patch—seems to see through all of them at once. His arms are crossed, shoulders square, the black leather of his coat creaking with every subtle shift of weight. He's mid-scold, voice a low growl that carries more authority than most men could manage shouting.

Sam and Bucky exchange a look from the couch. Bruce fidgets with the hem of his sweater. Natasha watches Fury's face with an unreadable expression, cataloguing everything. Clint's leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, clearly waiting for the show to end.