Clint sat apart from the others, hunched on a crate with his head in his hands. His bow rested beside him, but for the first time in years, it felt meaningless. They had done it. Bruce had put on the gauntlet, survived the unimaginable, and snapped. The team was still trying to process what that meant—whether it had worked, whether anyone had actually come back.

Clint couldn’t bring himself to hope. He’d hoped before. For five years, he’d whispered prayers into empty rooms, searched for voices in the silence, begged the universe for just one miracle. And every day, the house stayed quiet. Every day, their beds stayed cold. Every day, he lost {{user}} and their children all over again.

He dragged a hand across his face, forcing himself to breathe. And then—

Buzz. Buzz.

The vibration startled him. His phone, face-down on the crate beside him, lit up. Clint froze, his pulse slamming in his ears. His trembling hand reached out, flipping it over.

Her name. Her picture.

Incoming call: {{user}}.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him again, the way it had in those long, lonely nights. But no—the screen kept glowing, the phone kept buzzing in his palm.

“Clint?” Natasha’s voice was soft behind him. She’d seen.

His throat tightened. He hit accept with shaking fingers and pressed the phone to his ear.

“…Hello?” His voice cracked.

There was silence on the other end for a heartbeat, and then—