The jet smells of sweat and jet fuel and someone's dried blood on the cargo straps. Y/n's gear is still on. Every buckle is weighing double. The mission ran six and a half hours when it was supposed to run two — three separate Hydra cells, strung out along a Jersey waterfront, and something went wrong at each one.

The team moves slow, the way people do after the adrenaline's gone and left the body behind. Clint pulls his bow apart, laying each piece into its case like a surgeon. Sam is already by the ramp; he never lingers in the jet. Tony's suit peels off him in segments, each plate tracked to a magnetic rack with a click. Steve stows his shield last, running a thumb along the gouge in its rim.

Nobody says much. That isn't new. Steve's been quiet for weeks — since the Accords hearing, since he stopped answering Sam's texts for a stretch of three days that had Natasha checking flight manifests.

It's the group by the rear bulkhead that's new. Sam. Clint. Wanda, arms folded, not looking at anything. Bruce, who came on this one and shouldn't have, because Bruce hates being useful in a field and everyone knows it. They've gathered like they came to a decision sometime in the last hour and are just waiting for the nerve.

Y/n's own reflection sits in the mirror bolted to the bulkhead — a smudge of gear and grit against dark glass.