2. Chapter 2

Coulson's plan to be the next Captain America was derailed when he was ten and, despite being vaccinated, caught whooping cough that led to pneumonia. After several weeks in the ICU at Johns Hopkins Children's Center he lived and recovered, but his lungs became permanent liabilities and he never went anywhere without his inhaler. He wanted to play soccer and lacrosse but he ended up in the Chess Club and yoga; he wanted to join the Army, but instead got a full rides to Wesleyan (BS, Mathematics, summa cum laude) and then Wharton (MBA, Quantitative Finance). Becoming a CPA was practically an afterthought, but it was what paid off in the long run. He had always planned to work for a government agency, and when it came down to between the CIA and some agency so secretive they refused to tell him who they were until he signed a non-disclosure agreement, it was almost too easy to take the risk his poor health had always denied him.

Even better, SHIELD was fairly progressive since it was ostensibly an international organization, so Phil could be gay and a nerd and an accountant while not getting beaten up behind the dumpsters during lunch period (he really had no love lost for high school).

He was the person who kept the lights on at SHIELD and paid for Fury's little extravagancies (helicarrier what?) so in a way he was on the front lines, fighting evil. He liked to think he took the path Steve Rogers would have chosen, if he had never undergone the super-soldier serum treatment. It was a selfish delusion, but he cherished it all the same. He also made sure to keep the "Operation Iceman" field research project well-funded (and mostly on Stark Industries' dime, which Nick claimed was dark magic).

His first five years at SHIELD as a lowly accountant were spent auditing field missions, ironing out sweaty (sometimes bloody) faded receipts in Cantonese or Russian or Arabic and piecing together road trips based on credit card statements under the names of people who did not, actually, exist. He loathed every minute of it, he was good at it, and it set the tone for the rest of his career: he hated (almost) all assets and specialists, and they unanimously hated him.

Maria Hill had been a hard sell when she was promoted up from asset to handler to deputy director. She hated him, then she tolerated him, and eventually she respected him. They were not friends, but he knew that she understood the trauma he went through during budget season, as much as he understood the trauma she had on her hands dealing with specialists like Hawkeye and the Black Widow.

Twenty years after signing on, he was well above the dirty work of auditing specific accounts or operations, but he knew who the trouble makers were.

He tucked into his office after his meeting with Maria, trying not to fantasize about Hawkeye (Jesus, those arms, what the hell was a man supposed to do?) or dread the inevitable call from Fury. Instead, at 4:47pm exactly, Fury himself walked into his office. The bastard.

"I'm leaving in exactly 13 minutes." Phil pointed at the large analog clock he kept on his desk specifically for those kinds of moments.

Fury slowly, confidently sat down in the chair on the other side of Phil's desk, and Phil's stomach dropped. "What?"

"How's your health?"

"I haven't had an asthma attack in five years, Nick. What the hell do you want?"

"Grumpy asshole, I was just asking."

"No, you weren't."

"No, I wasn't. I need you in the field."

Phil blinked, then blinked again, and replayed the statement. "What?"

"There is a really dicey situation going on in Hungary, so I'm sending you and Strike Team Delta to Budapest to figure it out."

"I'm a numbers guy. Tell them to send me the data. Nothing I can't do remotely." Phil shook his head. His second job at SHIELD after being made Level 3 had been unraveling the bastardized finances of warlords and organized crime cartels, so it was not that unusual a request. Phil was still the best at it, and Nick was not going to be swayed by someone's pay grade or classified status (Phil was a Level 8, just because of the budget alone) from using them to his best advantage.

"Honestly I wish I could. I'm not keen on sending a certified liability into the field."

That stung, because Phil was at least rated on firearms and hand-to-hand, but he was hard pressed to argue. He was about as far from field-ready as any Level 2 file clerk. "Then don't. This is what satellites are for."

"Phil," Nick said, and the kindly tone set off major alarms in Phil's head. Nick took a deep breath. "You're the best, and while I'm known to throw my assets at problems like they are worker ants I can sacrifice by the dozen, I know when someone is critically valuable to this organization. That's you."

He stopped there, which bothered Phil more than anything else he had said. After a moment of silence, Phil frowned at him. "What's going on, Nick?"

"I came here instead of calling you up to mine because I'm relatively certain your office is clean, and your staff have all headed home already."

Phil knew what that meant. "Fuck. A mole?"

"You'll be going in to look at the finances of the group we've targeted, that's legitimate. But what I need you to find is how they tie back to SHIELD."

"It's going to look suspicious sending me out, you've never done that before." Phil tried not to thrill at the idea just a little, because the situation was pretty bad if Nick had to resort to it.

"Caught between the Scylla and Charybdis. Even locking the data up isn't enough, if the mole is high enough in our ranks. Transmitting it anywhere is a risk, so the only solution is to analyze it in situ. That means sending you, because you're the only one who can dig that deep, that fast."

"Still suspicious."

"Which is why tomorrow we're going to have a very public fight about the budget." Nick grinned and Phil groaned. "I'm pissed enough about it anyway, that won't be hard. I will really enjoy tearing you a new asshole. Then I will punish you by sending you out in the field on a so-called milk run to be baby-sat by Strike Team Delta, who are coincidentally already in the shit house."

"How very coincidental." Phil nodded.

"Not like that took any actual work on my part, they are in the shit house nine days out of ten." He shrugged before continuing. "The assets hate you, so it will unanimously be viewed by the Field Ops department as Delta being punished with having to put up with your prickly, delicate ass."

"Please don't talk about my ass; it will give everyone the wrong idea." Phil grimaced.

Nick laughed. "Meanwhile, every bureaucrat knows the reputation of Delta and will assume you're being punished by being sent out with them."

"For the record, I will not be responsible when this goes down in history as our 'Lover's Spat 08.'"

Nick laughed again.

"But do me a favor."

"What?" Nick stood up.

"Make sure their handler is Sitwell. I can't stand that fucker Blake, he's never advanced beyond high school economics and he thinks a checkbook register is accounting."

Nick nodded. "Done. See you tomorrow, lover boy."

"Oh just leave already." Phil didn't even look up as the Director walked out, too busy making a handwritten list of what he would need to pack for his 'go' bag, starting with his custom set of spreadsheet algorithms…and his inhaler.