"He never talked about himself if he could help it."
Steve drags his gaze away from the lettering on the slab of marble before them to the archer standing at his side. Clint's expression is haggard, troubled. His eyes never leave the headstone.
"You could pick up on some things, sure. I worked long enough and close enough with him to get to know him a bit… but anything that came before me? I've never been able to get it out of him."
"He liked his privacy," Steve infers.
"Coulson knew everything about everyone. He was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secret keeper. But no one knew anything about him. I think he liked it that way, you know, that air of mystery to keep the new recruits in line," Clint murmurs. "But at the end of the day? I guess I just have to stand here and say I don't really know the guy any more than you do. And now I don't suppose I ever will."
Steve's brow furrows as he watches Clint turn and walk away from the grave. Natasha's walking toward him. She reaches out, fingertips ghosting over the archer's elbow as she passes and Steve swears Clint flinches. His eyes follow Clint until the man disappears behind trees and bushes and he turns his attention instead to the redhead beside him.
"Agent Barton says he didn't really know Agent Coulson that well," Steve says.
"He's exaggerating," Natasha insists. "Strike Team Delta was… close. We've all been to Coulson's home. Crashed there. Licked wounds there. Ate breakfast there. It was an informal base of operations outside of S.H.I.E.L.D."
She tilts her head.
"But I understand what he means. Phil never was one to volunteer information about himself," Natasha admits.
"So no one knows anything about him prior to when they began working for S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Steve asks with some perplexity.
Natasha considers the question.
"Fury," she reports. "Two or three others max. He was good at keeping secrets; even more-so when they were his own."
She pats his bicep.
"Try not to dwell on it, Cap. You'll get soaked and those cards will be in even worse shape than they are now."
As she turns away, her fingers brushing gently over the top of the marker, Steve doesn't bother asking how she knew he had the bloodied trading cards in his pocket. He blinks as the first drops of rain his him and, shrugging further into his jacket against the unseasonably cool wind, looks to the headstone.
Just who in the world was Phil Coulson?