It had taken him some time to get back in the States, security being what it was these days- but Nick Fury knew people, and people knew him... and they knew that when he called in a favor, they did what they could to help him out- and if he asked for a favor... well there were some people who were very good to have in your back pocket when shit hit the fan.
D.C., additionally, wasn't some place he wanted to spend too much time and not just because of the suited up rats that ran the place. All the pomp and circumstance and kitschy patriotism flouted as a shield in front of vanity and selfishness turned his stomach.
That was half of why he was here though, why he made a point to be here on this day in this place and why he'd risked coming all the way out here in the middle of the day because there was only so much a turned up coat collar and a pair of shades could cover.
The cigars probably didn't help either, but fuck it.
Stepping forward, past her shoulder, he took the wide glasses off and shoved them in his pocket, revealing that infamous eyepatch.
"Hey, kid." He said, pulling a piece of paper and a red crayon from his pocket as he approached the wall. His voice was low, colloquial, but no more than a tourist or a mourner making contact with a fellow American, which was exactly what he looked with his tracing paper up against the wall, carefully rubbing the width of the crayon against it to transfer the name from the wall onto his paper. "I'd say congratulations, but I think condolences are probably more in order."
After all, she got what he'd brought her in for those years ago- like he'd promised, but he had a feeling that ambition had lost some of it's luster over the past year... maybe even before.