Nick Fury didn't answer. He stood there, eye-patch glinting under the fluorescent lights, a black diaper bag slung over one shoulder and a small, blanket-wrapped bundle cradled against his chest.

The baby's face was a blotchy red mess, chubby fists flailing out from the blanket. The sound they made was enormous—a wail that bounced off every surface in the open-plan living space.

The diaper bag landed beside the baby with a soft thump.

The doors closed.

The crying got louder. Toe-curling. Heartbreaking. The kind of sound that made you want to do anything, anything at all, to make it stop.

From deeper in the Tower, the sound of approaching footsteps. Natasha. Clint. Bruce. A chorus of increasingly confused voices as they rounded the corner.