They talk, of course—what kind of team would they be if they didn't?
No-one says much, though, even the motor-mouth in the gold-titanium alloy.
They talk idly about the latest missions; the bee-like aliens that flooded Boston and Portland and the places between,
And the strange pollen drifting across Scandinavia.
They talk, sure, but the silence is stifling.
They talk about the new arrowheads Tony builds Clint,
But not a word is said about the archer himself—
His brother is as forgotten as his life in the circus scene;
The scars breaking his skin into latticework as overlooked
As the empty ache in his gut while the entirety of SHEILD attends his handler's funeral.
They talk about Natasha's impossible training routines,
And how deftly she can hand any one of them their arses on a silver platter,
Because discussing where she acquired such habits should only be done with healthy doses of morphine.
They grin because they've learned that she can't,
As if they'll slowly teach her how to smile again.
They talk of Tony's work,
But not of how he's steadily working himself to death,
Living off of naught but a steady supply of whisky and intravenous caffeine.
They make a marvel of his technology—
Reactors and suits and AIs are so much easier to deal with than shrapnel and PTSD, aren't they?
They talk about Bruce's little science projects,
As though anyone but Tony understands what is going on.
They, Tony aside, pretend not to flinch when they catch a hint of green
Because there's meant to be trust,
But not one person on their team is naïve enough for blind faith nowadays.
They talk about Steve's art, those beautiful sketches,
Cleverly ignoring the subjects—a haze of bullets over Bucky, today.
They refuse to see that he's eternally awake—day count, eighteen.
Clint and Natasha spar with him, but that's as close as they get to proper words.
It's not like their sleeping habits are much better.
#
They share bonds forged in fire-fights and nerves hardened like steel,
Except, of course, for when they're not.
So they ignore trauma-induced tremors, forcing them away as sights unseen.
They talk because they have to, because they want to,
But never once do they break the suffocating silence.
Because apparently poetry is a thing?
(Thor wasn't included on purpose. I imagine he's gone back to Asgard and mostly comes for battles and/or Jane. Asgard is his home, and as he's the only one who actually has one, he's the only one Tony doesn't immediately bully into staying in the tower.)