If Rocket notices her white-knuckle grip on the cloth, he's diplomatic enough not to say so. Everybody's got dead people, and everyday things that remind you of what you've lost that you can't prepare yourself for because it's everywhere and everything. And makin' people talk about it when they aren't ready is a recipe for disaster. So he keeps his mouth shut, and keeps rubbing at the streaks on the glass until they're gone.

On the other side of the planet, where the summer sun never sets, Thor is jolted out of a mildly hungover doze by an electronic chime that takes him several long moments to recognize. He drags himself to a sitting position, running his hand through hair that's now long enough to get unruly, and fumbles for the device to answer it before he can think better of it. "Hello?" he mumbles, and presses the heel of his metal palm into his eye to ease the ache that's taken up residence there.