Phillip J. Coulson stood in the rain staring at the fresh grave before him, feeling like he had lost his entire world. A wheezing-groaning noise faded into the howling wind somewhere behind him. Perhaps he should have been crying. Maybe he should be raging at the world. Instead he felt numb. He ran his eyes over the names.

ROBERT JOHN COULSON

JULIE MARIA COULSON

His parents. His father, five years gone and now his mother, lost in a house fire, along with the rest of his world. All he had left was a backpack full of clothes and a package.

The clothes he remembered packing after yet another stupid argument with his mother. He remembered the angry words and the hurt that drove him to shove a few handfuls of clothes into a bag and run. He'd done it before, even managed to stay away for an entire month once, after his father's heart attack. He always went back though. He always came back for her, his mother. Sure he didn't always get along with his mom, but when tempers calmed she was always so patient, so loving and if he was honest, she was still hurting.

He'd only been gone a week when the news caught up with him. The funeral had already happened by the time he got back. So he stood there, in the rain, staring at the two stones before him. No epitaphs just names and dates.

He considered his future. Most would probably say that fourteen was too young to be alone. Mostly he agreed, he'd been alone before but he'd always had somewhere to go back to. A safety net. He had no family left. No grandparents, no aunts or uncles. All he had was himself, a backpack full of clothes and a package.

He fished it out of his bag and looked at it. He couldn't quite recall how he ended up with the small box slightly bigger than a deck of cards. A vague recollection of a woman saying something about a fresh start. Was that his mother's voice? He was somewhat ashamed that he already had trouble remembering exactly how she sounded. Staring at the box, he couldn't clearly remember where it had come from, but he did know what he was supposed to do with it.

It was still raining as Phil Coulson hit the doorbell to the small house. There was no shelter over the stoop so he stood in the rain waiting for an answer. Thankfully he didn't have to wait long.

The door swung open quickly and Phil looked up at the looming figure. It was a black man (or was he supposed to say African-American these days?) He was tall and imposing, dressed in black and he held himself like a man that could be very dangerous.

"What?" His voice wasn't exactly unkind, just like he expected you to get to the point and quickly.

"I'm looking for Nicholas Fury." Phil's voice was firm and held no uncertainty. While he was sure this man could kill him very painfully, and get away with it, he had never been the type to ruffle easily.

He kept perfectly composed as the man looked him up and down before looking around the street. He didn't flinch when a strong hand reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

"Get in here, kid. You look like a damned drowned rat." Phil was pulled into the house and the door shut firmly behind him.

He swung the backpack onto the floor at his feet and stood in the hall dripping as the stranger moved to a closet near the back of the hall. He looked through the door-less openings in the hall and saw only functional furniture. The utilitarian design lacked personality but as Phil looked back toward the man that had pulled him inside he decided that perhaps the lack of personality was a personality all to itself.

The stranger, although at this point Phil was sure he was the one he was looking for, tossed Phil a towel and stood seeming to lean on one of the shelves in the closet. Phil suspected he was holding onto a gun.

"What's your name kid?" He asked as Phil rubbed the towel over his head.

"Phil Coulson."

"And why is Phil Coulson looking for me?" With the tacit confirmation that this man was Nick Fury, Phil tossed the towel over his shoulder and reached down for his pack.

"I have something for you." He ignored the sound of a gun cocking, confirming his suspicions. He didn't slow or speed up his reach into the bag. He pulled out the box and stood straight again.

Looking toward Fury he noticed a hand gun pointed at him. He didn't flinch or even blink at the sight, though for Fury's piece of mind he did kick the backpack out of his reach as he held out the box.

Fury lifted his eyebrow at the kid's lack of reaction to having a weapon pointed at him. He'd noticed the boy kicking the bag away but he didn't seem scared or even intimidated with the 9mm pointed at his head. Fury gestured with the gun and Phil moved into the dining room as directed.

He placed the box at one end of the table and moved to take a seat at the other. He stripped off his jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair, and laid the towel down on the seat before sitting on it. He kept his hands clearly visible on the table as Fury moved towards the box.

Fury had to admit, this kid was kinda unnerving. He was too cool. He kept the gun trained on him as he glanced down at the box. It seemed to be a cheaply made wooden box, sealed with packing tape.

"What's in the box?" He asked, eyeing the kid for deception.

"Don't know." Was the simple reply. Fury's eyebrow rose again.

"And you're not curious?"

"No." Phil's voice remained calm and even through everything. He refused to be intimidated, but everything told Fury he was being honest. Damn this kid was weird. Fury pulled out a switch blade and flicked it open with a practiced movement as he set the gun down beside the box.

"Where'd it come from?"

"Don't know." Fury eyed the boy. What the hell?

"You don't know?" The kid shrugged before returning to his motionless state. Fury picked up the box and sliced through the tape. He took a moment to sniff at the separation. It didn't smell like explosives. If anything it smelled like… paper. Fury carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a letter, and something metallic loose beneath it. Fury set the box on the table and sat as he pulled out the letter.

Phil Coulson stayed still as the older man read, occasionally flicking his sight off the paper to the boy at the other end of the table. Finishing the letter he folded the paper back up and put it back in the box before closing it. The small box then went into a pocket on the inside of his coat. He looked back over the table to the kid who had brought it and sighed.

The boy hadn't moved an inch. He wasn't flustered by anything and hadn't even flinched at a gun in his face. He'd make one hell of an agent with a bit of training, or maybe a lot. He couldn't get a great read on him yet. But the kid was young. He had time. He stood and picked up his weapons. Stowing the knife back in his pocket and flicking the safety on the gun.

"Grab your stuff, kid. Guess you're staying with me now." The only response he got was a raised eyebrow as Phil lifted himself from the seat.

He didn't really have anywhere else to go and while he had no idea what the letter said, he supposed he could trust Fury, for now at least. If the letter was important, he'd learn what it said eventually.

If only he knew it would take getting stabbed in the heart to find out.