Everyone was at a loss. . . Some in despair, some were furious. Blood speckled trading cards were lying offensively upon the glass conference table in front of everyone's gaze; especially that of Captain Steve Rogers. His brows were furrowed in profound concentration upon his own trading cards. He meant something to someone after all. He wasn't just an old man or a washed out hero like he felt he was. Captain America was someone's role model, and he did not even get the chance to sign the damn cards.

Rogers leaned his elbows the table and rested his face near his steepled hands, still staring at the stained cards. He couldn't have saved him. He was nowhere near the prison when Loki attacked there was no way he could have saved. . .

He tried not to let his conscious get to him; he tried to not let his remorse devour him whole. Though, it was useless. No matter how many times he ran the scenario through his head, he always came to the same result – he could have helped him. But how? He had been helping Stark at the time, keeping him from getting sliced to Iron-bits in the turbines of the Helicarrier. Surely Stark would have been fine without him. No, he wouldn't have.

Rogers reached forward and clutched the blemished cards in his hands reverently. He took the cuff of his plaid shirt and wiped blood from his picture, yet there was still a deep set stain that would not go away as he cleaned the cards as best as he could. Captain Rogers licked the pad of his thumb and tried again to clear the rouge color from the vintage paper cards, but to no avail.

The remorseful look in his clear azure eyes never left him as he pulled a pen from the table and signed in a beautiful script that read:

To my hero,

You will be Avenged.

-Steve Rogers (Captain America)

He wrote that on all five cards, making sure to keep the word in a legible place for everyone he showed to see. After staring at the trading cards for surely over five minutes he took out his wallet and placed them all neatly in the places where photos were meant to be placed.

His wallet was generally plain. S.H.I.E.L.D issued I.D. card rested at the very back of his wallet out of sight; whereas his "Government Issued" license with a fraud alias of, Steven Roberts, was tucked snuggly in the front along with a Social Security card behind it. Again, tucked neatly in a pile in the largest fold, with the edges crisp and straight, sat money, stacked in a way where all the heads of the Presidents were facing forward and the money was placed in a least to greatest amount. In the picture holder sat one lonely picture of Margaret "Peggy" Carter that he scrounged up from an old military database. It was nothing special like a sweetheart picture that was popular in his time, just a regular military identification card. Her hair was done up in a tight bun with a military cap on her head. A straight placid face stared back at him. But it was all he had.

He thought his wallet was in need of a bit of embellishment. (Not that Peggy's picture wasn't enough.) The trading cards added that perfect bit something that it needed; it had personal value now.

Across the room, Thor Odinson stood chin between forefinger and thumb staring at the wall. It was a grave moment between each member of the "team" and no one needed to say anything after Fury's heart wrenching words. He didn't think anyone felt as bad as he did.

If he hadn't of fallen for his brother's trick . . . then –

While the Son of Coul was busy being a hero, he was locked behind a thick glass wall, staring helplessly as his brother stabbed the Son of Coul, known as Phil, in the back.

He couldn't say much about Agent Phil Coulson, but he was a valiant man. The last time he remembered having contact with the man was in New Mexico, when he had tried to get his hammer back along with Jane Foster's items. And even then he knew that the Son of Coul was the glue that held everything together in this operation. He was the man who did the work in a suit and tie, while Director Fury walked around being the brooding leader that seemed like he did all the work in a S.H.I.E.L.D. issued jumpsuit, leather trench coat, and eye patch. . . The man thought he was in charge and held everything together.

But even Fury knew, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he knew that Coulson, the glue, ran the show. Everything depended on that man. And Thor respected him for that.

He let out a heavy breath and rolled his eyes up the ceiling in exasperation. How could this have happened? How could he have let this happened? Everything he had done in the battle on the Helicarrier meant absolutely nothing. If could have just taken the time to assess the situation before charging into battle wildly, none of this would've happened. They would still have the witty S.H.I.E.L.D. agent that everyone took advantage of.

The Son of Coul was a valiant man, one whom he would hold in high regards until his own death and then even into the afterlife in Valhalla.

Even now he assumes that the Son of Coul is in Valhalla. He died heroically in battle and Thor was sure that the Valkyries had collected him.

He took another deep breath, placed his hands on his hips, and bent his head down to look at his feet.

Standing, more like pacing behind Rogers, Tony Stark bit his thumbnail in thought, a scowl etched across his face. Pepper was going to be upset. She liked the Coulson guy. And well Tony guessed he was an alright man. But Pepper would be devastated.

He however couldn't care less. Another person died. So did a few twenty others on the Helicarrier today. What would one other man matter? People died every day. We would all move on. But Pepper wouldn't, she would miss having lunch with Agent Coulson every other week.

His girlfriend would miss bantering back and forth with the Government agent. She's miss having their own little inside joke about the Strategic Homeland Intervention blah blah blah. . .

Just the other day he remembered Pepper referring to Coulson by his first name Phil. He, then, responded with ". . . his first name is Agent. . ." Pepper welcomed him as a friend with a smile, and Tony welcomed him with a sarcastic remark towards an unwelcome colleague.

Pepper took the files that he himself wouldn't take from Coulson . . . and yet she still gave them to him, after taking his own flute of champagne of course.

After he helped keep Pepper safe from the Iron Monger, Obadiah Stane, she had kept in contact with the S.H.I.. agent, despite the fact he had, only at the time, wanted him debriefed from his time over in Afghanistan.

He knew she would be upset because, he remembered all the friendly banter, all the sarcastic remarks, all of the hollow threats of being tazed , and left on the carpet to drool while he watched Supernanny . . .

It was then that Tony Stark knew that Pepper wasn't the only one he was referring to . . .

Tears smudged across the clear glass of Darcy's glasses could be seen by everyone in the room. She had been the only one to actually let her emotions run rampant inside and outside of her body at the moment. Darcy didn't whine, or whimper, or moan, or scream, only silent tears rolled down her pale cheeks dragging that days makeup with them. The tears that didn't fall into the rim of her glasses rolled slowly over her eyelids, mingling with her mascara and eyeliner.

She sat in the uncomfortable metal chair with her knees pulled up to her chest and her too big Culver University Virginia sweatshirt tucked down over them. The girl sniffled and took off her glasses to toss them down on the glass conference table as she brought the opposite hand up and used the sleeve of her sweatshirt to wipe away her tears. This only succeeded in smudging her dark eye makeup even more.

Her toes curled onto the rim of the metal chair till they turned white in color; her black flats sat messily on the floor below her chair.

No one had anything to say to her. Not even Tony, who was the only person in the room that knew of their situation. She knew that Tony didn't say anything to anyone except Pepper, I mean how could Pepper not know. After New Mexico incident, Darcy was referred to Tony Stark as an assistant when only Dr. Jane Foster was offered a job at S.H.I.. He loved Darcy's sarcastic attitude and though of her as his protégé. Pepper loved having her around, as there was another girl to talk to who was almost unaffected by Tony's Playboy attitude. Of course that was good due to the fact that he and Pepper were currently in a relationship.

Plus Darcy knew Pepper never had to worry about Tony hitting on her due to the fact that her boyfriend threatened to shoot him if he so much as breathed in her direction.

Steve Rogers glanced in her direction and guilt panged in his chest, but he glanced away nonetheless.

No one glanced in Natasha's and Clint's direction as they entered the room. Neither of them spoke. Again, nothing needed to be said. Natasha stepped quietly behind Darcy and placed a gloved hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

It was then that Darcy let her arms fall forward onto the table, burying her face in them as more sobs wracked her body.

Today was the worst day ever and it's only eight o'clock in the morning.

A/N: Tell me should I make this a story? I'm a big fan DarcyXCoulson. I've only been able to find like two stories. Please support DarcyXCoulson!

-Calamity