The late morning light was streaming through the massive windows of the living area when Steve stepped out of the elevator, still wiping off sweat from his workout. The insomnia that had plagued the supersoldier since he had woken up three months ago hadn't faded despite the change in accommodations, so three a.m. had found him in the gym, slamming his fists into punching bags until their filling littered the floor.

By the time he had finished cleaning it all up, it was well into the morning, so Steve was bracing himself to meet the entire team in the kitchen. Part of him wanted to slink back to his room, but the other part of him, the boy from Brooklyn, remembered that he owed Tony Stark an apology. So he had gritted his teeth and pressed the button for the floor two floors above his.

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting when the lift doors slid open and he cautiously poked his head out. Arguing, or maybe polite chatter. But what greeted him was silence. He wandered his way through the living area and once again paused at the threshold of the kitchen. It was empty save for the red-headed assassin sitting at the massive table, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at a brown folder in front of her.

'Captain Rogers,' she said in greeting, even though her back was to him and he was certain he hadn't made a sound.

'Agent Romanoff,'

She was dressed similarly to when he had first met her on the helicarrier, in pastel blue t-shirt, jacket and jeans, which seemed to be her default style whenever she wasn't in uniform. It was a little surreal, seeing the deadly assassin doing something as normal as sitting there with coffee, even though Steve had fought next to her.

He fidgeted with his towel by the entrance for several seconds before voicing his next question, gesturing weakly towards the empty kitchen.

'Uh, where is everybody?'

Natasha glanced towards the ceiling and even though Steve had 'met' JARVIS yesterday, it was still a shock to hear the disembodied voice in a British accent.

'Agent Romanoff. Captain Rogers. Dr. Banner is currently reading in his room. Miss Potts is in her office on the 70th floor. Sir is half-comatose in the penthouse and Agent Barton is in the air vents above you.'

Natasha rolled her eyes at the last statement, wrapping her hands more tightly around the coffee mug. 'Thank you, JARVIS,'

'My pleasure.'

'Oh,' Steve exhaled. 'Right. Computer system in the… walls.'

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling slow and stupid in this new century. He could feel Romanoff's eyes on him and it only compounded the feeling.

'I dropped by SHIELD this morning,' she finally said, breaking the awkward silence. 'They said we can't join clean-up just yet, Ross is probably still around.'

Steve nodded slowly, tossing the towel onto his shoulder before venturing into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of milk. Other than drinks, the fridge was sadly barren, save for a few pieces of fruit, which he grabbed. The effects of exercise and his high metabolism were making themselves known through his stomach.

'Is that a new mission?' He asked, gesturing to the file with the glass of milk.

Natasha paused slightly, setting the coffee mug gently back down on the table.

'No,' she said, looking him in the eye, expression carefully neutral, 'this is paperwork. For Agent Coulson. The arrangements for his funeral.'

The breath caught in Steve's throat and he exhaled sharply, staring down at the floor.

'Oh,' He forced himself to look back at her unreadable green gaze, 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be,' she said simply, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, 'He knew what he was doing.'

Her eyes suddenly skipped back to the ceiling, but this time they were focused on the vent cover.

'Clint,' she snapped, 'Get down here.'

There was no response, but the spy's gaze never wavered. Then the cover was pulled to the side and five feet and eight inches of lithe archer dropped out, landing neatly next to the table.

Steve thought that the complete lack of shock he felt was proof of how insane his life had become.

'Captain.' Barton's blue-gray eyes focused on him and Steve couldn't help but notice the dark rings under them and the crumpled state of his clothes, the same ones he had been wearing yesterday.

'Agent Barton,' He replied, but the archer's gaze had already transferred itself to the file on the table, expression unreadable.

Natasha leaned towards him, gripping his arm and the way Clint stiffened slightly wasn't missed by any of them. She murmured something in another language and when Clint glanced up to look at her, for a second Steve saw a flash of grief and heavy guilt mixed in the archer's eyes. It was almost like looking at a reflection of himself after Bucky's death.

There was something in the assassin's shared look that made Steve uncomfortable, as though he was intruding on an insanely private moment.

'Excuse me,' Steve mumbled and made a hasty exit from the kitchen.

…

Never let it be said that the agents weren't efficient. Most of the arrangements for Phil's funeral had already been done by SHIELD. All Clint and Natasha had to do was decide who should be there and what should be done. That very afternoon, memos were sent to the Avengers and select SHIELD agents and two other people, informing them that the funeral service for Phillip Robert Coulson would be held tomorrow morning.

Pepper cancelled her appointments. Tony had JARVIS lock the liquor cabinets till the next day. Bruce crept out of his room long enough to ask if Tony could loan a dark suit jacket and spent the night impressing on the Other Guy the importance of staying calm. He was surprisingly compliant. Maria Hill spent the night emptying clip after clip of bullets in SHIELD's shooting range. Steve pulled out a stack of stained trading cards from a corner of his backpack and signed every one, before putting them in an envelope addressed to Patrick Clancy's office in Robertson & Finnigan Banking. They would be re-routed to find their way to the now-vacant desk of Phil Coulson, senior handler of SHIELD. He would have been in the gym, but it was occupied by Natasha, who was wrecking nearly as many punching bags as he had the night before by whipping out her knives and stabbing them, wishing she could shut off her emotions as easily as the Red Room had wanted her to. On the roof, eyes stinging not just from the wind, Clint Barton sat right on the lip of the ledge; letting his legs dangle over the drop, and dared himself to jump.

…

When morning rolled around it was with a mournful grey sky and gentle drizzle, almost as though the world mourned the loss of Phil Coulson with them. A small group dressed in black was gathered around a marble headstone in a cemetery and as Tony cast his gaze about, he couldn't help thinking that the Agent deserved so much more. Yet he knew that the man would have hated a grand occasion, so it was just as well planning had been left to the two assassins and not him.

The service was short and simple, just a few words read over the casket before it was buried. They all stayed through the ceremony, until the priest awkwardly shook Natasha's hand and hurried away. There was no shortage of funerals to conduct after the attack.

With a warning for them to return to the tower quickly –Ross was still after them- Director Fury and Agent Hill took their leave. Tony, Pepper, Steve and Bruce stood a distance away from the grave, Tony with his arm wrapped around Pepper's shoulders as she cried softly. Steve held a large black umbrella aloft over the group, shielding them from the drizzle.

The inventor's throat was unusually tight. He averted his gaze from the grave, as though looking away could somehow make the whole damn situation go away but instead he saw a young woman standing in front of a grave a few rows away. It wasn't unusual, there were a fair number of people in the cemetery today but her gaze was fixed on their little group. She gripped a black umbrella tightly, brown hair starting to frizz slightly in the rain and looked like she had been punched in the stomach one too many times. Stunned grief was still etched on her face for a half-second when her gaze met Tony's, then she let her umbrella fall forward, shielding her as she turned and left.

The knot in his stomach tightened, grief crawling up the length of his throat. He had been half-hoping and half-dreading that she would actually come. He really wasn't sure how to even breach the situation, but he figured it was the very least he could do for Phil Coulson.

'I didn't know he had a brother.' Bruce mumbled from where he stood with his hands in his pockets, curly head bowed.

Tony gazed at the headstone, with the words Phillip Robert Coulson tidily engraved on it. Below the name were three words:

Friend, brother, hero.

'He didn't,' Tony muttered, 'No known family.'

'Sometime family doesn't have to be by blood,' Steve's gaze was distant, but it was still fixed on the two agents standing further in front of them, out of the umbrella's protection and closer to the grave.

Neither had bothered with dressing particularly formally, which was just as well since rain was slowly soaking through the two of them. They had stood right by the grave throughout the service, stiff-shouldered and tense. Halfway through, Clint's hand had reached out, almost unconsciously, to tightly grip Natasha's.

Now though, a faint tremor seemed to run through the archer and without warning he crumpled to his knees in front of the grave, head bowed and fingers clenched in the loose soil.

Tony started forward slightly but Pepper wrapped an arm around his waist, anchoring him to her side. The quartet stood there, quiet witnesses to the assassin's grief. Carefully, Natasha crouched down next to Clint, one hand on her partner's back, the other on their handler's headstone. Even from where they stood they could see Clint trembling as he glanced upwards, lips framing soundless apologies. Natasha's gaze was fixed on the grave, face impassive but Tony could practically feel the tension in her rigid joints, the pain she was valiantly fighting back.

…

The drizzle had mutated into a thunderstorm by late afternoon, so Tony let out a sigh of relief as he hurried into warm, dry café, leaving Happy to stow the umbrella away and order himself a cup of coffee.

He walked along the L-shaped counter towards the back of the establishment where the small booths were tucked away from the windows and slid into the one on the far left.

'Is all this secrecy really necessary?' he asked, 'It's not like I'm exactly inconspicuous, mind you.'

The woman opposite him tilted her head, brown hair spilling out of a messy ponytail as she regarded him.

'That depends on whether you think having the CIA know that I'm talking to Tony Stark is a good idea.'

Her voice was still hoarse, eyes still red-rimmed and Tony sighed, ducking his head in acknowledgement.

'What do you want?' she asked softly, staring into the depths of her cup of coffee, one hand playing with the collar of her turtleneck. The faint outline of a necklace could be seen underneath.

'I uh, saw you at the funeral. At the other side of the cemetery.'

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. 'I tried, but I couldn't stay away. Stupid, right?' she shook her head, 'I take it that you're not the only one who noticed me?'

'Well the other two who know you weren't some random passer-by aren't about to go tattle. You did get an invitation too, you know.'

'How are they doing?'

Tony raised an eyebrow, reaching across the table to snag a fry from her untouched plate of food.

'How do you think they're doing? You could talk to them.'

She shook her head again, 'Where's the point in doing that now?' tiredness seemed to cling to her as she looked up at him again. 'You still haven't told me what you want.'

He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before looking at her right in the eye. 'I just want to know if you need anything. Anything that used to be his. Trading cards, letters, whatever.'

'Why do you care?' Her tone wasn't rude, just curious.

'Because… Because…' He cast his gaze heavenwards and shook his head in exasperation, 'Must there be a reason? I'm trying to do something good here, don't make me even try to explain it.'

She reached up to push her hair out of her face as she stirred her coffee. Their little booth was silent for a long time before:

'In his desk. The second drawer on the left, when you take it out, there's a picture taped to the bottom. That's all I want.'

'I'll see what I can do.' He murmured, standing up to leave.

'Mr. Stark,' she was looking at him, gaze fixed and serious, 'Thank you.'

Tony grimaced slightly, raising an eyebrow, 'Call me Tony. Mr. Stark is my dad.'

With that, he hurried back out again, closely followed by Happy and the umbrella, leaving the brown-haired woman staring morosely at the table, already reaching for napkins to stem the tears.

…

Undisclosed subterranean location.

The quiet hiss of the ventilator and the steady beeping from the monitors were the only sounds in the room. Nick Fury grimaced. The room was far too white. All four windowless walls were alabaster, the floor was a single patch of spotless ivory and the chair he sat on was white. The man lying in said bed was also far too pale for the Director's liking. If it weren't for his head of dark hair and the steady rising and falling of his chest, Phil Coulson would have blended right into the bed sheets.

Nick sighed, letting his hands rest on the railings by the side of the bed, 'They're going to kill me for this.' He let his one eye stare tiredly at his second-in-command's face 'But what else am I supposed to do? You better wake up, you son of a bitch.'

He paused, but there was no response from the comatose agent, as always. Tubes, needles and bandages were still attached to many surfaces of Phil Coulson. The clipboard at the end of the table detailed the surgeries he had gone through, and the many more that were to come.

Nick Fury leaned close to the handler, trying not focus on the thick tube taped to Phil's mouth or the one running up his nose, his voice almost a growl.

'C'mon Agent. We need you.'

A/N: 1. This chapter was a complete bitch to write.

2. There're are some unanswered bits in it, but they'll be answered in another chapter or another fic, promise!

3. Coulson lives.

4. I've been reading some books on writing and realizing how screwed up my writing is, especially chapter 2 :( Rawr.