He's whistling when he opens the door, freezing immediately at the unwanted presence of people in his room, his office.
He sees her first: the cold and calculated look as she analyzes the stack of manila folders he's left on his desk (Fitz, Simmons, Ward, Mei), continuing to pretend he's not there; worn boots and untied laces leaving trails of dirt on the surface of the desk; chair tipped back on two legs, poised in between order and chaos.
Just as they knew this was still his office, he knows that he won't find one without the other, so he's not surprised when Clint appears from the floor behind the desk, sanding behind his partner.
They don't understand how happy he is to see him, an aura they don't return.
"Do you need something?" Natasha asks after a second.
"You're trespassing," he states with a smile, and he means for it to be a joke. A joke like before, and it takes a minute of the silence for him to realize it's not like that anymore, it cant be.
She looks up then, flipping the files closed and dropping them on the desk with a thud that paper shouldn't have, a thud that makes him wince because he knows she's dropping more than just paper.
"Well, the man who owns this office is dead-" she stops herself midsentence. "Except he's not. Or so I heard." Her voice drips with mock surprise and hurt. It sends shivers of ice down his spine.
The chair returns to the ground and she pulls her feet down one by one, laces clinking softly.
She stands gracefully and with confidence, level with him now, and the full effect of her glare is received. He never thought he'd be on the end of one of these, and he doesn't like it one bit.
"We're supposed to be a team."
A ripping sound echoes through the office, through his mind, and Clint steps forward, tossing his Strike Team Delta patch on top of the folders and it sits on the desk with a weight that makes him want to fall to his knees.
Natasha follows suit and she doesn't regret it, though she thinks she should. The bare shoulder of her jacket leaves her feeling a little emptier. She's making a point.
This is the room in which they've been broken and rebuilt so many times she's lost count. The walls have seen her tears and heard his screams, and this is their final goodbye.
Clint reaches out and squeezes her hand, and she knows that's the ticket to leave.
"We'll see you around, Agent Coulson," she says but not like a promise, not like before. Now she's holding him together, pulling the knife of betrayal from his back, and they leave their old friend in the dust of regret.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but he's already lost them.
The heavy door is slammed in their wake. It echoes in the empty corridor and she thinks of it symbolically, another past she's refusing let affect her future.
They will recover. the calm that has overtaken the anger in his eyes enough to keep them going.