A/N- I'll be quite honest, I have never tried any kind of work in this fandom before (even though I've been reading here for months) and, to some of you, this may showcase that. I do hope you give it a chance though, and any and all help is more than welcome. Thank you all for reading this far, and I hope you enjoy this!
Sadly, I own nothing from this wonderful universe.
I want to send a huge thank you to IceDragon19, who was kind enough to beta for me. Thank you!
At first glance, SHEILD files were very thorough.
They seemed to contain a little of everything, from powers to strengths to weaknesses to interests. They followed you from where you were born to where you were schooled to what you went into and where that left you and all the accomplishments that you achieved during all that. They talked, in emotionless black and white, about your life. It wasn't always specific in the details, or didn't always contain many details at all, but it seemed like it knew everything. Everything from your mother's maiden name to your wild college days.
For most people, this is more than enough. They told you all you would want to know about the person you were given the file on. Most people would never need all the info in those files. They would do the homework and be set for whatever they needed to do.
The Avengers were, like they were to most things, an exception.
Gradually, the team had gone from only working together when called for to living in the same house, and they had eventually learned that the files were woefully, laughably inadequate.
They had learned this in stages, from noticing a detail wasn't in there to whole experiences and life events being missing in the file. It was a slow process, one where there was much trial and error and invasion of personal space and learning.
Bruce had figured out that the files were nearly useless much faster than the others, as the he had been with their second resident genius when the others hadn't, not to mention how he had taken Tony up on that invitation while the others had left for their own homes. He had done the homework, he'd read all about the engineer's more undesirable traits just like the rest had.
He'd gone to that tower expecting the Stark the public knew to be a near constant, with all his glitz and fame and glamor and snark, not the one he had glimpsed for the briefest of seconds in that lab. He had expected to work in the labs and maybe, occasionally help the man with something, not because he didn't think himself competent, but because he'd never thought Tony to be a person that liked having people around when he worked. He hadn't expected to be given a floor of the tower. He hadn't expected to work with him in the lab practically every day. He hadn't expected to get to know Tony. But, unlike most of the things he had done, he was glad he had.
It had taken him all of half an hour with the man to figure out that those files weren't enough, and that he would have to just live and learn about the man—Tony, not Stark—by the normal methods. Even at that point, he would have been lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to it.
And over the next few months, he learned things. Things like how Tony didn't like still water. And how his eyes softened when a certain Pepper Potts walked in the room.
He learned that Stark was just a mask, and how Tony was a person that not many people ever had the pleasure to see. He realized that Tony had been building armor long before he was Iron Man. He learned what it took to gain that kind of trust that came with knowing Tony, and just how precious it was once given.
He had gone to the lab to check on one of the projects he was working on, cursing the fact that he hadn't thought about the fact the results would be ready in the middle of the night and not normal hours of the day. He was still wiping sleep from his eyes and getting a little bit of energy in his steps when he typed in the code to the door to the lab and stepped through the doorway.
To a brightly lit space, ACDC cranked up so loud he could barely hear himself think. He jolted, not expecting the noise or the light, but a small smile curled the sides of his mouth.
He was well aware of the terrible hours the other genius kept. He wasn't unfamiliar with terrible hours himself.
He made his way over the table he normally worked at, marking down the results he had woken up for and then saving them in the computer.
It was so, so good to be able to work again, and the lab really was candy land to the man. He had missed this more than he was willing to admit.
It was odd, however, that he hadn't heard a word from Tony. Normally, as soon as he was aware Bruce was in the room, he would speak to him, whether it be an off-color joke or a sarcastic quip or something about some project that he just had to look at. Sure, there were times where he was caught up in a project, like Bruce himself got sometimes, where the only acknowledgement he got was the brief flicker of eyes or a slight nod, but this wasn't it. This was different; he could feel it in the air and in his bones. This silence (or as silent as a lab blasting Rock music could be) was unnerving, and it concerned him, so he slowly wandered over to the place he knew Tony spent most of his time.
Like he expected, Tony was standing there, fingers flying over holographic information, modifying and tweaking to change whatever it was into whatever he wanted it to be, to let it do what it was created to do.
What he wasn't expecting were the deep bags under the other man's shadowed eyes, or the ten different mugs that were half full of cold coffee, or the way Tony's eyes were almost black with shadows. He wasn't prepared for the barely concealed fear in his friend's eyes or the way one of Tony's hands was always connected to the arc reactor under his black band shirt.
He didn't know how to take the shadows darkening the usually energetic man, or the expression he couldn't quite read on the man's face.
Seeing the concealed pain in his friend's posture, the Hulk moved behind his eyes.
He silenced him at the same time he attempted to silence the panic.
Not knowing what else to do, he spoke. "Tony?"
There wasn't a sign to show that his friend had heard him, or noticed he had entered the lab.
He walked around the table Tony was working at, making sure he was right in front of the clear screens Tony was working with, straight in front of the man. "Tony."
No response.
Tony's eyes seemed intent, focused, if not for the slightly glassy quality they contained. He could watch his mind working in those dark eyes, the equations bouncing back and forth and the ideas bursting forth, but he could also see that those thoughts, those ideas, weren't at the forefront of his attention. He could see the shadows there, could see the darkness that clouded his gaze. Somewhere in the green corners of his mind, the Hulk growled.
He was familiar with those shadows. He hated that his friend, his best friend, was too.
Bruce waited, and then waited some more, patiently waiting for his friend to notice him and studying him at the same time.
Bruce noticed that Tony seemed to look so much older and so much younger than he actually was the same moment Tony noticed Bruce.
He was expecting (or he thought he was) a sarcastic quip or snide comment or something to put the normalcy back into this situation, but all he got was a start from the man, who flinched the same time he clutched the arc reactor.
Bruce didn't say anything, just waiting for Tony to say whatever he was going to say (he could tell he wanted to say something, but he knew better than anyone that these things would take a while) and tried not to notice how Tony had to visibly relax himself.
He didn't have to wait as long as he thought, though.
"You know, I used to swim any chance I could." His voice was sad and pained and just the slightest bit wistful.
And, even without being told, he knew that this was important. He could see it in the dark, haunted shadows in his friend's eyes and in the open, frank honesty in his normally guarded face. So, he waited, forcing the Hulk down in his mind as Tony started to speak, and wished that his friend had never had to know any of this.
He listened to the story, clenching his teeth when the Hulk moved in his mind, roaring at the injustice done to his friend, and almost trembled at the sheer trust being shown to him.
That night led to a bond not easily broken, and a growing friendship that would eventually be stronger than adamantium.
Clint and Natasha learning this had started with a simple mission.
Or, to be exact, what was supposed to be an easy mission. The intelligence had been outdated, and the mission had gone from a simple recon to a several-day retrieval effort. Thankfully, none of them had been injured past bruises and their pride, but they had all come out of it exhausted, and if they had to look at the inside of a SHIELD building in the next few days, well, it would be far too soon.
Steve had gone to his apartment, Tony shooting off a remark about a wasted free room that he ignored for the roar of his bike. Bruce had wondered if the Captain ever really, honestly listened to what the other genius said.
Clint had glanced at Tony, half-moons under his eyes belying just how tired he was, and his look said "If I have to go to SHIELD, someone will have an arrow through the eye".
Tony didn't doubt him.
He had also just rolled his eyes, gesturing to the back of the Quinjet. His words upon Clint and Natasha entering the tower were, "I have rooms, more rooms than you could want. Natasha knows. Ask JARVIS if you need anything," while he and Bruce went to the lab to wind down before they both crashed.
They hadn't left.
Of course, Clint and Natasha had both gone back and looked through the folders they were given on the other two. They read and reread about anything that they may need to know about the two scientists. That's what they did. They were SHIELD agents, they trusted the information they were given. Tony had done the same, rereading what meager amount there was on the two spies. Bruce did on principle, just looking for triggers he should avoid.
They all knew they didn't know all they needed too, but they thought they knew enough to at least get by.
It was a month after they had originally come to the tower that Tony found Clint dangling out of the air vents in the lab at three in the morning. Those pale eyes were dark and focused on a point nowhere near the lab.
He had been working for over 30 hours straight, he knew that much, but there was no way he was going to let something as small as sleep get in the way of this new project. It was somewhere around three in the morning, but the bright lab lights and the blue screens made it so that there was no way to tell what time it was based on light. He had turned around to reach for the coffee cup he knew was somewhere near him, only to look up to see Clint hanging from the air vents.
He didn't jump, he didn't, but it was a close thing. His eyes never left the archer as he reached over and grabbed the mug now in sight. Tony didn't know if Clint was aware that Tony had spotted him or if he had no clue, but Barton then dropped silently to the floor, eyes still focused far, far away.
Tony took a gulp of his mostly cold coffee, grimaced at the taste, and grabbed a tablet that had been lying on the workspace, resigning himself to be watched.
It took longer than Tony had expected, but eventually Clint's shadowed stare went from blank and far-off to blinking into focus. He looked at the billionaire like he was surprised this was where he had ended up, before schooling his features into that calm, blank face Tony had started associating with all SHIELD agents.
Tony wasn't fooled. He wasn't labeled a genius for nothing, and he could still see the shadows in his teammate's face, in his eyes.
He set the tablet down, waiting to see if there was a reason the man had come down here or if it was just nighttime wandering.
His patience was rewarded, as eventually the archer's lip quirked up in a small smile. "I just wanted to say thanks for the place to crash."
Neither mentioned that the "place to crash" had turned into a "place to stay" which, and this neither of them knew then, would eventually turn into "home".
Tony just grinned, eyes dancing with humor, and replied with, "Well, if you're going to nest in the air vents, you might as well have the best ones."
At this, Clint's small smile turned into a full out grin and he laughed, a barking kind of laugh that was partially surprised and mostly amused, and he just replied with, "Thanks."
As Clint turned to walk out the door, Tony smiled. That was the first time Tony had really seen him smile.
Tony soon found out that all jokes about a circus were a no-go. He was occasionally abrasive and crude, but he wasn't intentionally hurtful. Even if he didn't know the why, he knew those jokes were something he needed to stop. And so, he did, keeping his comments on the man's name or his obsession with the vents or the relationship with his bow or anything else that came to mind that wasn't related to the circus.
He soon learned that the man trusted as easily as he did, which meant almost not at all. He found out that the man was as fiercely loyal as his aim was sharp.
He found another person who bantered and snipped and commented instead of showing affection, because that was what they were used to, that was what was safe.
He got to know the man that the files didn't know.
Clint Barton watched. That was what he was good at, that was what his job was, and that was what made him a damn good assassin. His eyes caught things others didn't, things others thought they had hidden.
So, the day Steve came to visit the tower, Clint knew he was going to stay long before his bags had arrived that night. He also noticed that, for a guy who had lived in an apartment for almost a year and a half, he had far less luggage that most would think. He also noticed the faint hesitation in the Captain before he stepped into the tower, into the rooms he was shown, as if he wasn't sure he was welcome, wanted.
He had done the reading, of course; they all had. They all knew that there were things the files left out, but he hadn't expected there to be so much.
It had all started when, one morning a little after five, Clint walked into the living room they all seemed to share to find Steve sitting on the couch, bundled in two blankets and shivering, sketching.
Clint noticed several things all at once. One, was the fact that the blankets seemed to be stretched around the man like they were all that was holding him together, and the next was that he was shivering, skin-trembling, teeth-chattering shivering. And the last thing he noticed was the sketch. A woman Clint had never seen before, but recognized immediately.
Charcoal curls and full lips and velvet covered steel smile. Peggy Carter.
There were cracks in the charcoal pencil he had in his hand.
Clint's jaw twitched, and when he stepped into the room, his steps echoed in the silence.
He made his way over to the kitchen area, picking a pot from the cabinet and filling it with water and putting it on the stove. When he turned around, Steve was watching him.
His stare wasn't the strong, determined stare of Captain America, it was the broken, sad look of Steve Rogers, forced from his home and life and love and lost in this new world.
They stood in silence for a moment before Clint, in a rare show of emotion, smiled a small, empathetic smile and tried to show his support in words, "Hot chocolate?"
Steve nodded, swallowing hard before replying, voice hoarse and cracking just barely, "Yeah, yeah, that'd be nice."
And that morning led to Clint noticing things, little things, that the files hadn't told him.
Like, how he'd sometimes find Steve sitting on the roof well before dawn, looking at the stars that were the only things that had stayed the same. He noticed how dark his normally pale blue eyes were after some nights, when he would find him pulverizing sand bags in the gym on the same mornings when he normally went for a run. He saw how sometimes Steve's eyes would cloud over when he sat down to sketch, and how some of his drawings made the muscles in his hands tighten so hard the wood under his fingers would break.
And how, no matter how many times he had done it, the man always flinched when opening the freezer door.
Clint saw all of these things. He watched and waited and learned about Steve just like he had learned about the rest of his team. He was shown just how much the files he had thought he could rely on left out. He followed the others example by putting those files away, content with learning about his new friends—slowly becoming family—by simply interacting and watching.
Steve was their Captain, their leader. It made sense that he had read the files, trying his best to learn what he could about the people he was leading so that he could both work with them and strategize their battles. He poured over the files looking for strengths, weakness, anything that could help him make sure his team, the people he was starting to consider family, were as safe as possible in their line of work.
Just like everyone else, he had thought he had known the rest of them.
It was three weeks after he had moved into the tower when it happened.
Even with him needing less sleep than the average person, he still had to rest at some point, and that sometimes led to where he was now. Walking among the halls of the tower, shivering despite the heat, and blinking away reminders of the past, he stumbled his way into the gym, hoping to find some kind of comfort, something familiar. He always did this when he woke up like he had, wandering his way to the gym before determination took over and suddenly he was punching away at the demons from the past. That's all he was looking for, that little comforting routine.
What he found shocked him enough that the nightmare that plagued his mind was forced to the back of his thoughts as he tried to understand what he was seeing.
You didn't sneak up on Natasha. You just didn't. The only person who could even get close was Clint, and even he only got close enough for her to turn her head and smirk at him.
But here she was, methodically beating the sandbag Steve normally claimed. He could only see her back, but he could tell by what he saw that there was something wrong. Her deep red curls were flying around her; her tight workout gear clung to overly tense muscles. He could tell by the set of her shoulders that something was off.
That in itself was odd. She was normally as unreadable as a foreign language.
He took a couple steps closer to her, making sure his steps were heavy and loud. He swallowed, taking the last few steps closer to the woman before stopping, so close he could hear her shallow, ragged breathing.
"Natasha," His voice seemed loud in the quiet room, the only sounds their breathing and the dull thuds on the sandbag.
"Natasha," he said more loudly and still got no response.
Before thinking about what would happen (if he had, he wouldn't have done it, but he didn't know her well enough to know what else to do) he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, trying to draw her away from… whatever had captured her attention.
It happened before he had time to blink. His hand was suddenly off her shoulder and falling before his wrist was caught in a tight grip, the fingers going numb almost immediately, and he looked up to stare down the barrel of the pistol (he didn't want to know where she had kept it) now pointed between his eyes.
He raised his free hand in the universal symbol for surrender, but his eyes were drawn to her face instead to the steady barrel of the gun. While her cheeks weren't wet, her eyes glittered in the artificial lighting. Her face was pale; her already ivory skin almost white. There were faint half-moons of exhaustion below her eyes, which were blank and dark and haunted. He swallowed back the shock and fear he felt at the sight, as he had never seen the woman anything other than fine. She was always ready, always prepared, always professional and cool and blank. And while most people wouldn't see the little signs that the assassin was distressed, he saw them.
"Natasha." He kept his voice calm, hoping and praying that somehow, for some reason, he got through to her.
She'd never forgive herself if she shot him. That much he was sure about.
"Natasha, let's put the gun away." He made no move to take the gun, and his voice was soft and steady. He never moved from his hand from its place in the air.
Suddenly, something clicked. He could see it in her eyes when it happened. They went from blank and staring to sharp and focused and something else he couldn't quite name. Her lips parted on a silent gasp and the gun was gone in the blink of an eye. She let go of his wrist, and he suppressed the urge to shake the appendage, attempting to get feeling in the numb fingers.
An onslaught of emotion flickered on her face before he blinked and it was gone, those green eyes cool and professional and normal again.
"Captain," she said, and her voice didn't hold an ounce of infliction. Even through the blankness, he heard everything she didn't say. Like the "Anyone finds out about this, and they will never find your body" and the "Don't say a word about that not being normal" and, most importantly, the "I'm sorry".
And then she was gone, striding past him as if she had just gotten coffee and not pointed a gun between his eyes. She had put herself back together so fast he almost wondered if he'd imagined the look in her eyes. Almost.
He never forgot though, and suddenly he was looking for all those little ticks that weren't in the file he was given. He was looking for the things he had witnessed but never really seen.
Like the way her mouth curled the barest amount with dry humor. Or the way they could all tell when she was Natasha and not Natalie or Nicole or any other persona she'd had to take on. He noticed the way her eyes softened when she saw Clint really smile, or how she actually smiled when Tony had grinned and called her Tasha. He saw the way she eventually warmed up to Bruce, or as much as she warmed to anyone. He noticed that she trusted no one, or rather, no one besides them, and how even then no one was truly certain she trusted them. He realized that no one really minded it.
He was now seeing all that those files hadn't held.
Natasha was an assassin. That was her job. She was able to slip into a place and make it look like she was comfortable and then get her job done and make it look like she was never there. She was able to find out the deepest, darkest secrets of the people the job spoke of, and in the end she would always, always be the one winning. She was calm. She was cool. She was blank.
She wasn't with these people.
But, just like always, she noticed things. She learned things. She read the files and then made her own observations. She read the files, but she didn't trust them. She trusted no one.
Or, she used to trust no one.
Especially not the man who's inner demon had been bent on her destruction.
That changed, of course, slowly, and then she witnessed something that made her wariness change very, very fast.
It didn't take living in the tower very long to realize just how afraid Bruce Banner was. It was, surprisingly, not of other people, but of himself.
That was the first time her opinion of him softened.
She noticed that Tony was the only one out of all of them that could get his real smile, not the self-depreciating curl of his lips that most people saw. She noticed his laughs were, at most, sarcastic and seemed mostly directed back at himself, and she had only heard a genuine laugh from him once, when Tony had been talking about something she couldn't hear and, all of a sudden, Bruce was laughing. Eyes crinkled and hand on his stomach and great, deep laughs, even though Tony looked as stunned and confused as she had ever seen him. Bruce had just calmed down, his laughs quieting and his expression easing into a smile (one of the real smiles, she noticed) and he said something she couldn't quite hear that made Tony's expression seemed to cement before he honest-to-God hugged the man.
That was one of the other times her opinion had softened.
She would watch and listen and notice things, just like she always did. She saw the way he could get angry without getting angry. She witnessed the sheer control he had, even when he shouldn't have it. And, at one point, she was confronted with this all at once.
She was walking the hallways one night, mapping out the corridors and doors and everything in the tower just like she did with all new places, when it happened. A door a little bit ahead of her eased open and a dark form she immediately recognized as Bruce ran out. His shoulders were hunched, and while he had one hand tangled in his curly hair, the other was fisted at his side. His muscles were tense and he was shaking, but he hadn't seen her.
She could walk away right now, silent and invisible and undetected. She could turn on her heel and be the only one to know she had seen him like this.
She would be the only one to know that she would have left him like this.
She was not a sentimental person. She didn't dwell on the past. She was an assassin, and in her line of work, either of those things could get you killed, and both would put you out of a job. She didn't jeopardize that. She kept herself blank and cool and uncaring, and she didn't let people—or emotions—get in her way. There were certain things she made sure to steer clear from, getting close to people, especially dangerous individuals who happened to share a tower with her, was one of them. There were just things she didn't do.
She knew she'd never be able to wipe her ledger clean if she turned away right then, and she knew that if she left, this was as close to these people as she would ever get. And, against all training and instinct, she wanted to know this conglomeration of misfits.
She followed him.
To be as tense as he was, he moved quickly and quietly. His footsteps barely making a sound against the plush carpet as he led the way to the communal common room. She was slightly surprised; he wasn't known to frequent the common room at a normal time, let alone when feeling like this. He made no indication that he was aware of her or not, but by the way he seemed to not notice much of their surroundings, she couldn't be too sure. She kept her footsteps silent anyway.
Eventually they got to the kitchen they all seemed to share. He stepped through the doorway and the light flickered on, and she frowned internally at the sharp wince that ran over him. Standing in the entry way, she watched as he filled the kettle and got a mug out, his muscles tense as stone.
She stepped forward, and, knowing that sneaking up on the man would be the opposite of productive, said softly, "Bruce?"
She didn't miss the flinch at the sound of his name, or the way his already tense muscles tightened. She didn't comment on the dropped tea bag or the way he seemed to try to curl into himself.
She walked forward, into the room and going to the edge of the kitchen. When he turned to face her, his eyes were wide and afraid and emerald green. She clamped down on the jolt of fear that ran through her.
His muscles didn't relax, but the fear in his eyes lessened. He sighed and then carefully picked up the tea bag he had dropped and then placed it in the mug. His movements were mechanical and paced, as if one wrong move would bring the world down around his shoulders.
She briefly wondered if he knew what that felt like and then realized that he must have. They all had, at one point or another.
She took a couple steps closer to him, leaning her hip against the counter the team normally ate at and watched him. She pursed her lips the slightest bit when he tensed at her coming the slightest bit closer.
When he looked back up at her from where he was getting a second tea bag his eyes were still jade, pained and haunted and green, green, green. It was almost a shy look, almost meek and mild and unassuming, but like everything else he did, there was a confidence there too. He moved like he wanted to remain unseen, but he talked like he wanted to be heard. There was a caution and some confidence in everything the man did. So, when he looked at her with that apologetic green gaze, she was ready for the steady but still apologetic words. "Tea, Miss Romanov?
"Natasha," she replied smoothly. They'd been living in the same tower for over two months and fighting side by side since before then. "But, no, thank you."
Since when does she let other people use her first name?
Bruce just sent her that small smile that she had somehow grown used to and poured his own cup of tea, he looked back up dark and amusement was dancing in his now-hazel eyes. She didn't even try to stomp down on the relief that jolted through her, making her eyes soften just the slightest amount.
There had to have been something to bring this one. He and Tony were used to erratic sleeping schedules and going on barely hours for days on end, but he wasn't known for his tea runs at four in the morning, especially when his eyes blazed emerald green. No, this wasn't normal (they didn't do normal, but when had they?), and she had a feeling she knew why it had happened at all.
He wasn't alone in the shitty past department here, and they were as familiar with nightmares as they were with the backs of their own hands. He wasn't alone, not in this.
She pressed her lips into a flat like, one that didn't do away with the cool façade that she could never fully let down and still managed to convey as much concern to fill up the blank face. She didn't know when she started to think of these people like that, like family, and she didn't know if it was good or bad, but she knew she wouldn't take it back. Not this.
And just like she was trained to do, what she was born to do, she protected what was hers.
Letting her eyes soften when Bruce's eyes came back up to meet hers, she said, "You can talk to us, Bruce. Maybe not all of us, but at least Tony. We look after our own, Doc."
His answering smile was wider than she thought was possible with the man and set under chocolate eyes.
She didn't let the relief she was feeling show, but it was there. It was also the start of the fairly quick incline into a friendship she had never thought about being in. A friendship that helped her see just how lacking those files really were.
When Thor eventually made it back to Earth, he was immediately offered a place in the team's new home. It was an offer that he took up gladly, praising their generosity and smiling that brilliant smile of his that was both innocent and wise at the same time. He was welcome in the tower just like the rest of their band of misfits were, and they learned as much about him as they did about the others that lived with them over time.
Only, this time, no one reached for the files. They were sitting in closets collecting dust or resting in digital folders where their last viewed date was slowly crawling farther and farther away. No one even gave a thought to the files SHIELD had on the resident god. They all just sat back and knew that they would learn about the Thunderer like they had with all their other teammates, through experience and shared knowledge and paying attention. At this point, they all knew that those files held none of the things they were looking for, none of the personal details that made living with someone easier and more comfortable.
So they paid attention. And, eventually, they all learned about him. It came to them in shades, and they all learned different things about the god and their other teammates, but they learned.
Tony smiled and gave a real, genuine laugh when he realized Thor could discuss natural weather patterns and electricity and astronomy with even the most knowledgeable scholars, but could barely work the toaster in the communal kitchen. He also saw the amused smile that lifted the god's lips when anyone mentioned a taser.
Bruce once woke after a battle to flashbacks from his time as the Hulk, Thor's hammer prominent in his memories with grumbling respect echoing through the contours of his mind, Thor's bright grin as he was truly able to use his full strength etched into his mind.
Clint noticed the way his mouth tightened when faced with some of the older mythology, as if he was remembering a time he'd rather forget. He watched as Thor threw himself into the readings anyway, as if he could find something, anything, that would both bring back what was lost and fix what was current.
Steve woke one morning on the couch, blankets wrapped tightly around him and his sketchpad in the floor beside his pencils, with Thor staring at the falling snow outside the window with the barest light of remembered joy with the overwhelming darkness of loss in his eyes. He didn't miss that this look reappeared every time it snowed.
Natasha saw how grateful he was for the place to stay, how humbled he was that he was just given all this, but how, even with all the grandeur of the tower, he was never surprised at the extravagance. She saw the way he reverted back to cold nobility when distressed even when he was blazing fire when angry. She saw the passion that ran under his skin just like it ran under the rest of theirs, and she saw the want for good just like she saw in all the others she had come to know like family.
Somewhere along the line, they had gone from thinking about all those Norse legends as stories to them as just Thor's life. And, even more surprisingly, when they found Loki again, beaten and battered and haunted, almost a year and a half after Thor had joined them, with his green eyes (hadn't they been blue when they saw him last?) lost and dark, he wasn't the evil psychopath that tried to take over the world, he was Thor's little brother who had always had something against him. They didn't like him, but they couldn't just leave him.
So, no, SHIELD files on the Avengers weren't as detailed as they had hoped(they made sure themselves later; they didn't want anyone else knowing those little things about their family, not when they knew only because of hard earned trust) but they were glad of that now. They were a family, a family formed of experience and hardship and trust, and they hadn't needed detailed files to get where they were. They were glad they didn't have it, in the end. They had grown to know and love these other broken souls as well as they did anyone, and it wasn't thanks to being given knowledge they didn't understand or deserve.
At first glance, SHIELD files seem very thorough, but they are family and they know better, and they are perfectly content to leave them that way.