Y/n is standing in the common room of Avengers Tower, still in her gear from a mission that ended forty-three minutes ago. She can taste smoke and ash and something metallic at the back of her throat.

The glass walls show Manhattan glittering below, a thousand lights that blur and smear as she presses her phone to her ear.

On the other end, a woman’s voice — clipped, professional, tired in the way only hospital workers sound tired.

Y/n doesn’t drop the phone. She doesn’t sit down. She stands perfectly still in a room full of superhumans and weapons and the lingering smell of heroism, and she does not move for a very long time.

His scrubs are still stained with someone else’s blood. His hands are shaking.