Every Avenger was scattered around the massive space, doing their own thing, completely unaware that today was about to become the most awkward day of their lives. Thor and Clint were arguing about something stupid by the kitchen counter. Steve was pretending to read a newspaper but was actually side-eyeing the chaos like a disappointed dad. Natasha and Yelena were doing that weird silent conversation thing they did, which was honestly terrifying. Bruce was making tea. Wanda was levitating sugar cubes into her mug just because she could. Peter was hanging upside down from the ceiling, because of course he was. Kate was trying to shoot bottle caps off the table with a rubber band. Loki was draped across an armchair like a dramatic Victorian ghost. Sam and Bucky were bickering about something that definitely wasn’t that serious. And Tony? Tony was in his element, being the loudest person in the room, waving a screwdriver around while explaining something nobody asked about.

Then the elevator doors opened.

The sound was soft. A gentle ding. But it hit the room like a bomb.

Every single person stopped.

Conversations died mid-sentence. Clint’s hand froze halfway to the fridge. Wanda’s sugar cubes dropped. Peter stopped swinging. Tony stopped talking.

And behind them, clutching a folder like a lifeline, was a very nervous-looking social worker.