She's a tough cookie, he had been warned very thoroughly by second hand couriers when he was told of what would be happening.
And he could handle it, he had assured them, not caring two ways about the situation.
It wasn't like he was really given a choice, in his opinion.
She'd proved them all right, of course.
Tough, in so many ways.
Mentally, physically, a knowledge so wide for someone so young and unworldly as she was. She wanted to think she was tough, growing up in New York state, but she wasn't until she found war - or rather, war found her.
Still, he applauded her resolve because not many mortals made it so far after witnessing and being a part of an Asgardian battle as she had.
So, he's surprised, when he finds her in the garden. Kyla is there, humming some off tune little number as she rummages through the dirt, plucking flowers she shouldn't but who would dare stop her?
What surprises him is the fact that her hands are shaking, around a slip of paper with two shiny spots of wetness on the reflection of two faces. Its her, younger, youthful, and a man two heads taller than her with a broad, proud grin on her face. They wear the typical S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms and look so fresh faced, so naive, so unprepared for what really lay beyond their training.
She knows he's approaching, and he doesn't try to hide it, and he hears a sniff as she straightens herself, wiping at her face. She folds her hands over the photo in her lap, watching Kyla start to sing in her crude, young voice, getting words mixed, and she almost laughs.
Almost.
"Tears, I see," he stops beside her, watching Kyla now.
"None of your business, I see," she mocks him and pushes her hair back.
"I was merely being curious."
"Don't be, its not for you," she quipped.
"No need to be so hostile," he chided.
He could hear her growl softly, but did not risk chuckling at her short fuse. Always so hot headed, always ready to fight even when there was none to be found.
She would create one.
"What was his name," he questioned, closing his eyes to the breeze that pushed through the columns around him.
She did not speak for a long time, and he was patient with that, content to sit here for the moment with her. He could smell the city from here, pleasant scents making his nerves ease after the mornings courtly duties. Fresh bread and the incoming blooms' of the turning year, lilac and jasmine, perhaps roses somewhere on the edge of the tundra.
"Christopher," she mumbled and uncovered the photo, staring down at it.
He watched her run a thumb over the mans fave from the corner of his eye, humming softly. "A strong name."
"Weak," she murmured. "He was weak..."
"For you to have been...associated with him? I doubt it."
"Well he was," she snapped, but it was soft and weak. "Got himself killed...when I told him not to. Didn't know how to follow orders..."
However she had to justify her feelings.
"How old?"
"She was two when he passed," she wiped at her face bit he did not have a clear view of her tears. "She had...just started trying to say 'da'."
He said nothing again, scratching at his wrist as Kyla giggled at the friendly butterflies that flitted around her hair.
"I am sorry, if it is any consolation."
"It isn't."
"Of course."