The Imperial Kitchen Chinese restaurant sat in an unremarkable alley in Manhattan's Chinatown. Its storefront was small, but its food was authentic. Lin Xiao had been there a few times, and every time he ate there, tears streamed down his face as he said it tasted like his mother's cooking.
Coulson stood at the entrance, looking up at the sign. "Are you sure the food here is good?" he asked.
"Boss, trust me." Lin Xiao pushed open the door and stepped aside to let Coulson enter first. "Their kung pao chicken ranks in the top three in all of New York."
Still somewhat skeptical, Coulson walked inside.
The restaurant was small, with only eight tables. A few ink paintings hung on the walls, and erhu music played so quietly over the speakers that it was almost inaudible. The owner, a man from Fujian in his sixties, greeted Lin Xiao in heavily accented English when he saw him, then led them to the private room at the very back. As soon as Lin Xiao went upstairs to the room, he ordered a bottle of Moutai.
Coulson raised an eyebrow at the bottle.
"What's this?"
"Moutai." Lin Xiao pulled out a chair and sat down, his tone casual. "Dragon Country's national liquor. Have a little. It won't go to your head."
Coulson did not refuse. To him, having dinner and a couple of drinks with a subordinate was the most natural way to build rapport. Besides, although Lin Xiao's performance at the press conference today had caused considerable chaos, at least he had shown no aggression. Director Fury was right. This man needed observation, and a dinner table was the best place for it.
The dishes arrived one after another: kung pao chicken, twice-cooked pork, mapo tofu, and hot-and-sour soup, all ordered by Lin Xiao. Coulson picked up a piece of kung pao chicken with his chopsticks and chewed for a few seconds, his expression shifting from noncommittal to surprised.
"This really is good."
"Told you I wasn't lying." Smiling, Lin Xiao poured Coulson a cup of Moutai.
Coulson lifted the cup and took a small sip. The liquor slid down his throat, and warmth spread from his stomach. He rarely drank baijiu, but at that moment, he felt making an occasional exception would do no harm.
After they had sampled the dishes and gone through several rounds of drinks, the meal was well underway.
Lin Xiao set down his chopsticks and sighed.
Coulson noticed. He put down his cup and asked in his usual gentle tone, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's just..." Lin Xiao shook his head, his expression turning somewhat forlorn. "I just wanted to thank you for giving me this opportunity, boss."
"What for?"
"Someone like me never dreamed of getting into S.H.I.E.L.D." Lin Xiao lowered his head, turning his cup between his fingers, a trace of self-mockery in his voice. "I'm too big, I'm not educated, and being a little strong is the only thing I'm good at. When I looked for work before, they wouldn't even give me an interview. Know what they said the moment they saw me? 'With a build like yours, why don't you work security?'"
Coulson fell silent for a moment. He knew it was true. He had read Lin Xiao's file countless times, and it was all clearly documented.
"And today," Lin Xiao continued, his voice growing quieter, "I was just standing there, doing nothing. All I did was smile. That Stark took a dislike to me and singled me out to go to Afghanistan. Boss, I'm not afraid of dying. I just... I just feel so wronged."
He lifted his head, his eyes reddening.
Coulson froze.
In twenty years on the job, he had seen countless people cry in front of him: hostages, informants, rookie agents, even certain big shots. But having a muscular giant who stood two meters ten tall and could punch a sandbag through a wall get red-eyed in front of him was a sight far more powerful than he had anticipated.
"I just wanted to be a clerk." Lin Xiao's voice was slightly hoarse. "A steady life, sitting in an office, sorting documents, collecting my paycheck at the end of the month, and saving enough to move out of that lousy apartment. That's all. Why is it so hard?"
Coulson set down his chopsticks, his expression becoming utterly serious.
"Lin Xiao, listen to me." Coulson spoke sincerely. "The Stark business didn't happen because you did something wrong. Quite the opposite. It happened because you did too well. Your performance at today's press conference was... well, somewhat unexpected, but you drew everyone's attention. You don't understand Tony Stark yet. He's used to being the center of attention, used to having every eye on him alone. You stole his spotlight, and he didn't like it, so he pulled this on you."
"So he was getting back at me?"
"More or less." Coulson lifted his cup and took another sip. "But that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Security for Stark's Afghanistan trip is extremely tight. You'll just be there to make up the numbers. There won't be any danger. And if you perform well, you might even earn a few extra performance points."
Lin Xiao lowered his head and said nothing.
Looking at him, Coulson felt rather uncomfortable himself.
"Boss," Lin Xiao suddenly said, his voice muffled, "I want to go home."
"Home?"
"Yeah." Lin Xiao nodded. "That lousy apartment in Queens. Sure, there's a couple upstairs who love fighting, a lunatic next door who plays the saxophone in the middle of the night, and an old drunk downstairs who likes throwing up by the stairs, but at least it's my own place. I want to go back and sleep. Once I sober up, I won't feel so bad."
Coulson was silent for a long while.
Then he made a decision that violated the code he had followed through twenty years as an agent: he poured himself another cup. Since Lin Xiao had opened his heart, he ought to play along.
"Honestly," Coulson said, lifting his cup, his tone far more relaxed than usual, "these past few days haven't been easy on you either. An ordinary person would have needed ages to finish those documents, but you got them done in a single morning. Keeping you at S.H.I.E.L.D. as a clerk really would waste your talents. That's why the director wants to develop you properly, but you keep refusing to appreciate it, so..."
He stopped halfway through. Realizing he seemed to have said a little too much, he raised his cup and drained it.
"The director?" Lin Xiao narrowed his eyes. "Boss, you mean Director Nick Fury? Since when has he been interested in me?"
Coulson lowered his head, a sharp gleam flashing through his eyes. Then he pretended the alcohol had gone to his head, patted Lin Xiao's shoulder, and said:
"I'll tell you, but don't let this get out."
"I promise." Lin Xiao raised three fingers, his expression outrageously sincere.
Coulson leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. "The day you first came for your interview, you punched through a wall. My hand was already on the alarm button. I was just about to press it-"
He paused and pointed at his ear.
"Director Fury gave me an order directly through my earpiece: 'Keep him calm first. See what his terms are.' He was watching you from the surveillance room the entire time. Why do you think you passed? The standard testing wall for field agents is reinforced. The data from that punch of yours was sent to the lab and analyzed several times afterward."
Lin Xiao's expression shifted subtly.
Coulson continued, speaking faster and faster, as though pouring out a secret he had kept for a long time. "To be honest, the agency's assessment of you was 'unfathomable.' Your physical metrics were off the charts, your administrative efficiency was extremely high, yet your personality assessment said 'gentle and harmless, with an extreme desire for stability.' Those three labels would contradict each other on anyone else, but somehow they all fit you."
He picked up the bottle and poured himself another cup, splashing a few drops onto the tablecloth.
"What was it the director called you? A giant sloth at a full sprint. You look lazy, like you only want to lie around without moving, but once you start running, nobody can stop you. He both loves and hates you. What he hates is not knowing why you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. It makes him uneasy. What he loves is your talent. He can't bear to let someone like you slip through his fingers."
At this point, Coulson sighed, his finger unconsciously tracing circles around the rim of his cup.
"Actually, having you enter the inner area today was the director's arrangement too. He wanted to see how you'd react in a genuinely high-pressure environment. There were military representatives and reporters everywhere. Any hotheaded rookie would have been nervous walking in there. But you went and stole Tony Stark's spotlight, then got singled out to accompany him to Afghanistan."
Coulson gave a bitter chuckle.
"The director said over the comms, 'Unexpected, but understandable,' then told me to arrange your Afghanistan itinerary. The way he sees it, this mission will be your real entrance assessment. If you come back alive, you'll receive focused development and be made a level-one agent."
"What if I don't go?" Lin Xiao asked.
"Don't go?" Coulson was already a little tipsy, and his dismissive wave was twice as broad as usual. "The director said if even this couldn't get you in line, he'd transfer you to the Antarctic station to sort files." At that, Coulson looked up with a mischievous grin. "'Better out of sight and out of mind than keeping a powder keg at my side.' Those were Director Nick's exact words."
"I'd advise you to go. Afghanistan will take two weeks at most. Antarctica could mean a lifetime. Hic. Besides, you won't be going for nothing. The higher-ups will give you compensation."
Lin Xiao fell silent for a few seconds, then picked up the bottle and refilled Coulson's cup, curiosity appearing on his face. "Boss, what kind of compensation?"
"You little rascal." He shook his head and pointed at Lin Xiao. "A moment ago, you were red-eyed and saying you wanted to go home. Now you hear there's something in it for you, and suddenly you're eager. The director said a hundred thousand dollars and an assigned car, all reported for tax."
"Reported for tax?" Lin Xiao's eyes brightened slightly the instant he heard those words.
"Yes, reported for tax." Coulson nodded, his tone suggesting he had found the other man's weak spot. "The full amount. No messing around with tax-free allowances. A cash payment. A hundred thousand dollars, every cent clearly shown on your tax statement, not a penny missing. And Director Fury will make you a priority for development. He thinks very highly of you."
Lin Xiao's expression became extremely complicated.
On one hand, the "reported for tax" condition really had moved him. This was the first lesson he had learned after transmigrating: in America, anyone daring to offer you "tax-free" benefits was either a swindler or waiting to send you to prison. Reporting the full amount meant he could openly pocket the money as legitimate income without attracting the tax authorities' attention. On the other hand, he had finally confirmed something.
The old fox is pretending to be drunk, and he's still dangling empty promises.
A genuinely drunk man could not possibly say "reported for tax" so clearly, much less notice the slight contraction of Lin Xiao's pupils when he heard those words. Coulson had said it deliberately, using the condition Lin Xiao cared about most to cut off every excuse he had for backing out, then topping it off with a show of how highly Fury valued him.
Fine. Old ginger really is spicier.
Lin Xiao sneered inwardly, but the smile on his face grew even brighter. He lifted his cup, his voice three parts drunkenness and seven parts sincerity. "Boss, let me offer you a toast. Having a superior like you in this lifetime is a blessing for me, Lin Xiao."
Coulson clinked cups with him, and both drained their drinks.
At the same time, Lin Xiao stood and called toward the door, "Owner! More dishes!"
The owner lifted the curtain and poked half his head inside, asking in the Fujian dialect, "Add what?"
"One of everything that's most expensive on the menu. Got Australian lobster? King crab? Another serving of Buddha Jumps over the Wall too. Include the takeout in the bill." Lin Xiao waved grandly, as though he were treating tonight.
Coulson blinked, instinctively about to say, "There's no need to order so much." But seeing Lin Xiao's expression, which suggested he would take offense unless they ordered the most expensive dishes, he swallowed the words. Perhaps getting all that off his chest had put the kid in a better mood. That was fine, then. It was only a meal. At worst, he could expense it when he got back.
An hour and a half later, the bill arrived.
Taking the opportunity of a trip to the restroom, Coulson paid at the front counter. When the owner handed him the long slip of paper, he merely glanced casually at the final figure.
Then his face went from pale to ashen at a visible speed.
Six thousand eight hundred and forty-two dollars. Plus Lin Xiao's "little something to take home": a case of Moutai, an entire twelve-bottle case, and ten cartons of soft-pack Zhonghua cigarettes.
Coulson looked down at the absurdly long itemized bill, his fingers trembling slightly. Not from anger, but from pain. This was his personal credit card, not S.H.I.E.L.D.'s corporate card. He had originally assumed that Lin Xiao, who looked so honest, would order a couple of home-style dishes at most. Even if both of them stuffed themselves, it couldn't run over five hundred.
He had been wrong.
Coulson took a deep breath, folded the bill, and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket. In a matter of seconds, his expression shifted from "hurting too much to breathe" to "professional composure." Twenty years of psychological conditioning as an agent served one final purpose at that moment.
He returned, sat down at the table, and raised his cup, giving Lin Xiao a gentle smile. "Full? Let's go."
"Full, absolutely full." Lin Xiao patted his stomach and stood, carrying two large takeout bags containing Moutai, Zhonghua cigarettes, and a pile of leftover seafood and Buddha Jumps over the Wall. At the door, he turned back and gave Coulson a smile of tearful gratitude. "Boss, you really are a wonderful person. This meal cost you far too much."
"It's fine." Coulson's voice was as steady as if he were delivering a briefing. "Just a little money."
He saw Lin Xiao into a taxi and stood at the mouth of the alley, watching its taillights disappear around the corner. Then he lowered his head and took the bill from his inner jacket pocket again.
The streetlight shone on the figure. Six thousand eight hundred and forty-two dollars. Every digit stabbed at his retinas.
He took out his phone, opened S.H.I.E.L.D.'s reimbursement system, selected "meal and entertainment expenses," entered the amount, and tapped submit.
A red notification box appeared: "This expense exceeds the monthly meal and entertainment limit ($1,000). Please provide an explanation for special approval."
Coulson stared at the notification in silence for a full ten seconds. Then he turned off his phone, folded the bill again, and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket. With that piece of paper resting against his chest, he felt cold all over.