She didn’t say why. She didn’t have to.

He didn’t look at anyone, moving to the window to stare out at the gathering dark. The arc reactor’s blue glow was a cold pinprick against the glass.

A heavy silence settled back over the room. Bruce Banner was a tense, quiet presence on the far sofa, methodically cleaning his glasses. Sam and Bucky were conspicuously absent, likely having made themselves scarce hours ago. The air was thick with an old, familiar grief, polished smooth by fifteen years of not being spoken.

She took a long drink. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the room and landed on the empty space by the fireplace where a small, framed photograph wasn’t. It was taken out once a year. Today. And then put away again.

Clint Barton slipped in from the hallway, giving the room a weary once-over. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

He didn’t specify which ‘she’. He didn’t need to. The mention of the sickly-sweet jam, the plain, sugary blini, hung in the air like a ghost.

She pushed off from the island, her movements all controlled efficiency. But her gaze, as she passed, caught on Y/n. It held for a second—a flicker of something old and raw, an unasked question in a look usually reserved for mission briefings and threats.