A/N: Not exactly the most eloquent thing I've ever written, but Phil needed it. I needed it. I don't know. Phil was my favorite Strategic Homeland—"Just call us S.H.I.E.L.D." agent. Phil needs something. And because Avengers. and because feels. and because angst. and because Phil.

Dedicated to Phil and Fishy for making me feel all the Pheels.

In Memoriam
—in memoriam, a Latin phrase that translates directly as 'in memory of'

"Did you mourn?"
"We all did."

They all mourn. Just in different ways.

There is a bloodstain on the wall.

None of them ever mention it or show any sign of letting it dwell in their thoughts, but Fury has noticed—with his 'good eye' as Stark likes to refer to it as—that there are a few rare moments just before a mission when they can be found gathered around the mark they refuse to let anyone clean away, and one or two of them at a time can be found giving it more than just a passing glance as they wander by it, fingers outstretched and tips barely brushing the surface.

The stain marks more than another casualty of battle—it is a moment of triumph, of death; it is where, separate as they were, they became a team, where they found something (no, someone) to avenge. It is where they go on their own to collect their thoughts, looking into the empty void before them (they never did replace the containment unit that would have housed the Hulk) and remembering what is and what was.

And so it comes to pass that Fury finds them gathered on the bridge, seated accordingly around the debriefing table and awaiting their next move in relative silence save for murmured banter. His frown deepens only because these people are never quiet—especially the Captain and Stark because they're always verbally going at it—but he would prefer not causing a scene and simply lets it slide, handing out folders and the phrase "You know what to do." In response, Barton slowly twirls his seat from side to side, eyes heavy and dark as he studies the clouds slipping past the Helicarrier, Romanoff's gaze sliding from the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem pasted across the manila envelope to her partner and then back again. Rogers diligently begins to skim through the pages and educate himself while Banner leafs through his once, Thor studying the one in his hold as if unsure of how to proceed. Stark, unsurprisingly, simply ignores the file and focuses his gaze elsewhere.

Fury bids them farewell them in a rustle of leather and air, his cloak billowing around him and the brief image of a bat passes through Romanoff's mind. Banner releases a solid, exhausted breath, dropping his folder to the table in order to slump back in his chair. He doesn't know the man they mourn and nor does his counterpart, but he suffers the same as anyone. The silence between them all is thick, suffocating: Rogers undoes the top button of his shirt because suddenly he can't breathe.

"Did I. . .?" Hawkeye finally breaks it, letting small cracks form in the permeable tension and in a strange way they all begin to relax. He leaves the question unfinished, if only out of fear when it comes to the answer. Natasha tells him no, no he didn't, but it clearly fails to alleviate his shoulders of the burdens they've gained. He is mentally broken, unstable, but none of them say anything to worsen the situation. Clint gives a gentle, inaudible sigh, closing his eyes and pressing the back of his head into his seat. Briefly, he feels Natasha grasp his arm before she pulls away.

The last mission was bad. They each nurse their own injury—a swollen ankle, black eye, wounded pride—and refrain from making eye contact because doing so would acknowledge the human in them and their humanity is their weakness. Their humanity makes them remember, and their humanity makes them feel. But they've had worse. They've had their bodies wounded, minds broken and spirits crushed and yet there is still that small driving force behind them.

That driving force has a name.

They are all exhausted in their own right: physically, emotionally, mentally. Their bellies full of leftover shawarma only because a decision couldn't be made on what else to have for lunch they all sit in their chairs and twirl idly. Rogers closes his docket and Barton stops spinning and for the briefest of moments, their world is at peace.

And so their mourning begins.

Every one of the Avengers mourns in their own way: Clint leans back into his seat and closes his eyes, Natasha looks out the window solemnly, Thor clasps a hand over his fist and bows his head. Bruce and Steve each mirror the gesture, the latter folding his hands in prayer. The only one who makes no obvious move is Tony, who continues his study of something the others can't see nor comprehend.

They each know guilt and they each know grief. They have dealt with death, they have dealt with defeat, but this. . .They don't like not being in control. Not being in control puts them on edge, and putting them on edge makes them volatile. This volatility makes them who they are, and Fury has warned them to keep their tempers in check while Agent Hill has warned them not to get attached (and they don't, at least, not to each other in a certain unnamed sense). They are a time bomb. A living, breathing, grieving time-bomb. A set of unstable chemicals set to implode upon themselves as soon as the match is struck.

Loki has struck that match.

Still, Thor cannot help but mourn his brother.

There is no individuality in this group. It is its own entity entirely, its own being. They all feel rage, hurt, envy, pride. Loss.

They only do it for him, really. Maybe.

They only know death, not how to accept it.

It was a very small, very quiet affair the memorial, but it doesn't rain. Stark almost wants to interpret it as a sign of sorts: it rained at his parents' funeral, but not at this one. All the same, the skies are overcast, the air muggy. Their clothing sticks to them like a second skin as they gather for the service. They don't see the body, and they don't ask to. Virginia "Pepper" Potts is there; Jane Foster has been contacted, but there is no cellist in Portland.

He goes by many names in their minds: Coulson, Phil, Phillip, Agent, Son of Coul.

The last carries the most weight with it because the man who said it, Thor, was the one to watch him die.

Rogers suddenly sits up and the others start, all whirling around to find him with his hand buried deep within his jacket pocket with a look of grim determination. None of them say anything, watching in collective silence as he withdraws his fist and clutches it before him. Next to him, Stark leans forward and observes as the fingers open, withholding the deck of cards in reverence. They are yellowed, vintage and bloodstained and Steve feels too egotistical after having carried these pictures of himself around that Coulson has protected for so long.

He is almost relieved to have them off of his person, and they are instead splayed across the table before him. The others slowly crowd around him, shifting a bit closer just as much as they can if only out of curiosity and muted respect. Tony carefully runs a thumb over the image of a star spangled man, the corner dyed red and its condition no longer mint.

From a distance, Fury keeps his eye on the group, patch turned to the monitors and shifted just enough to keep Hill in his peripheral.

Banner adjusts his lapel and toys with the space on his shirt where the button should have been. Rogers swallows slowly, thickly—his throat is tight, his mouth is dry. He forces himself to breathe again and Barton returns the card he's been studying to array set before them.

"Can I borrow a pen?"

Fury comes to stand by the pit again, staring down into its depths and gripping the railing. He has lost his one good eye, the man who still believed in heroes, and perhaps he is beginning to suffer for having believed in them as well. This group is unstable: a chaotic, lawful, neutral good that he can't control.

And yet Coulson died believing in them.

Eventually Fury turns away from the void, coat flapping around his legs as he begins his purposeful stride back to the bridge. He has hardly made it past the gaping hole in the wall where Loki had once stood and he has to pause mid-stride, swiveling his entire head to keep his eye patch from further hindering his sight. He doesn't understand, not at first, but the longer he stands there and continues his study he is eventually able to piece it all together. They needed the push, he reminds himself. It was a necessary evil.

They have been reminded of their humanity, and perhaps that is all he ever intended for.

Fury inclines his head in respect, a silent moment of bidding so long to one of the few people he truly trusted before he walks away, footfalls echoing with every stride he takes.

Attached to the wall just above where Agent Phillip J. Coulson died is a very simple, very uniform picture frame and housed inside of it is his complete collection of vintage Captain America trading cards. Each one is adorned with the different signature of the six heroes that he chose to believe in along with a small note of gratitude and appreciation.

Fury does not know when it happened and how it got there, but it is left there to serve in memoriam of everything they are and everything they stand for.

The Avengers deem him their hero, and there is a bloodstain on the wall.