"Coulson didn't make it."

The words ring in my head as I sit in a desolate, dark lab at 2 am, twirling a dagger in and out of my fingers.

"I'm sorry, Taylor, Coulson is gone."

Coulson had given me the dagger I was holding when we first met at the 'shutting down the weapons division' press conference, before I was on a team of heroes and back when my biggest worry was the PR department.

"Coulson didn't make it."

Back when he was alive.

"Coulson is gone."

I gnash my teeth as I stare holes in the dagger, wiping the blade clean on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It's an extremely thin blade, mainly for 'cloak-and-dagger' type operations or throwing at stuff or people. It's got a tempered steel hilt and a minimal rubber grip running in the dips where the fingers go, it was made to be used by nimble, fast hands.

"Coulson didn't make it…"

He was one of the few who know I even existed.

He believed in me.

"Taylor, Coulson is gone."

He was my friend.

"…gone…"

Just generally likeable, I think.

"…didn't make it…"

Seriously, not even my dad truly hated Coulson. Who hated Coulson?

…Loki, apparently.

"Gone, he didn't make it, he's gone, didn't make it, gone…"

"STOP IT!" I jump out of my chair and flick the dagger towards the far wall, watching as it sticks itself in a small crack in the concrete wall.

I run a hand through my hair and begin to pace, my breathing shortening as I begin to feel slightly claustrophobic.

I needed to get away.

Pick a state, any state, Taylor.

"Jarvis, look up small places in….hmmm….Maine. As north as possible, please."

"One of the most northern towns in Maine is Allagash, population 239. However, ma'am, I must warn you, it is technically part of Canada, you would do good to bring your passport."

"Alright." I begin walking towards the door, slipping my knife into my back pocket along the way. "Print out a passport then, we're going to Maine. Cue up Beta I."

Jarvis consents and ten minutes later I have a passport my hand and I'm standing out on the landing platform, waiting for my suit. "Jarvis," I command as the assembly bots start to whir around me, "take off as quietly as possible, and don't go fast until we get out of the city. Keep above cloud cover. Oh, and be sure to drop me off the grid."

"How far off, ma'am?"

"All the way. Just you and me, because I'm bringing my Jarvis-only earpiece. I'm leaving my phone here and the only reason I'm coming back before next week is if we get a mission that I absolutely need to be there for."

"Understood, ma'am. The suit is ready."

I quickly scribble a note for my dad, depositing it on the table next to my phone before calling the suit and letting it encase me.

I take off with my boots at a low hum, blending in with the nighttime noise of the city as I slip into the early morning sky and start flying north.

A~A~A

3 day later, I'm technically in Canada, and I have dyed blonde hair and brown eyes, and my name is Maria Esmeralda Ramone.

And all I'm doing is sitting on the steps of the tiny general store sipping ginger-ale out of an old fashioned bottle.

And I've essentially turned off all the emotion centers in my brain.

I've blocked them, anyways.

I'm doing, or at least trying to do, what I do best: think logically. About a human death.

So, basics: who was Phillip J. Coulson?

Well, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, first and foremost.

He always wore a suit and tie. Even in 90 degree, New Mexico heat.

He dated a cellist in Portland for a while, but he has – had, dang it - no significant other.

He was also my friend.

He called me, and I quote, 'a more likeable, agreeable version of my dad'.

He may have also been a little insane.

What sane adult gives a thirteen year old girl a knife upon first meeting?

And fanboys?

And believes in heroes?

Actually, I'm kind of glad for that last one.

He sort of saved the world, if you think about it. Because he rallied the Avengers, and then we saved mankind as we know it.

So, indirectly, Phil Coulson saved the world.

And the only reason he's dead is because he's a stupid, brave, self-sacrificing idiot of a hero, and I can't decide if I would hug him or slap him for that.

Probably neither, because guess what, he's dead.

Dead, cold, and stiff. There isn't even a grave, because S.H.I.E.L.D. did…something….with the body, I don't know.

And that's when is starts sinking in.

I'm never going to see that weird half-smirk thing he does, or that eyebrow that climbs his forehead whenever my dad says or does half the things he says or does.

Because of one man…er, god…that stabbed him, straight through the heart.

"Bud' ty proklyat , Loki," I snarl, "Chert vas v ad." I drain the last of the ginger ale, tossing it in the nearest trashcan before getting up and walking towards the bushes on a dead end road where I locked up my suit.

"Jarvis," I whisper, not moving my lips as I poke my ear, "remind me to make a statue or something of him."

"I will, ma'am."

I quickly return to my suit pack and my small pouch for a few other things. I pull a pad and pencil out of my pouch and start sketching ideas for a statue to add to the monument they're building back in Manhattan, a statue to commemorate the one person that did not need to die.

It may take a while, but you can't rush perfection.

Good thing I've got four more days in solidarity under my belt.

A~A~A

When my boots finally touch down onto the landing pad again, seven days after I left, it's early morning again, around 3am.

I try to slip back into the lab unnoticed, but it doesn't quite work that way.

"Welcome home."

I jump and stare at my dad, but he hasn't looked up from the project he's currently working on. "Uh, hi…?"

"I'm not mad." He looks up at me. "I understand. I probably would've done the same thing if I hadn't wanted to be here when you got back. So where did you end up?"

I shrug. "Somewhere," I mumble vaguely.

My dad just hums. "Just, ah, next time, if there is one, would you mind at least taking a tracker chip with you?"

I glance over to the table where my phone is still sitting. "Sure. Anyone try and take over the world while I was gone?"

He shakes his head. "Nope, all was quiet. Well, except for the worried superheroes. Jarvis, tell the others Taylor's back in the morning."

Jarvis complies as I pull out my pad from my pouch. "I have ideas."

"For…?"

"A statue."

My dad just gives me a look before nodding towards my table. "How long will that take?"

"I don't know, does it matter?"

"Of course not. All-nighters are practically a trademark by now."

I grin and laugh as I pull my toolbox and some sheet metal out, drawing some holograms over.

Welcome home indeed, I think.

First rule of grieving Phil?

We don't mention that Taylor went MIA for a week to do so.