AN: Credit goes to Marvel Comics, Marvel Studios, the writers of Iron Man (2008), and finally Clark Gregg himself for his wonderful portrayal of everyone's favorite SHIELD agent. With thanks to Forgotten Honor for beta'ing.

Prologue

Nothing said Americana like a 50's style diner set on a desert road addressed in the Middle of God-knows-where, Southwest United States. Nothing was also better for when a couple of government secret agents and colleagues wanted to hold their bi-weekly meetings to catch up on the events of their unique line of work, bounce ideas off one another, and come up with creative solutions to problems the average citizen couldn't even begin to dream of.

Rose's Place fit that bill to a capital T. They also had great pancakes and a mean cup of coffee.

Jasper Stillwell, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. and exactly one half of the people that attended these aforementioned meetings, sighed and ran a hand over his smooth head as he exited his burgundy company issued car. The desert sun was murder when you were bald and spent most of your time indoors pouring over copious amounts of intelligence work. Not that he would trade his position for more field time just to catch a few rays, he liked to leave the footwork to his colleague, but it still felt like his skull was the griddle that Rose used to fry her delicious cakes every time he came out here. Maybe this time they could discuss a standard issue baseball cap to come with the suit and sidearm. Something classy, with a logo and everything. He would be sure to bring it up after the first cup of joe.

Stillwell spared a glance to the black Acura that was parked in its usual place under the half dead Joshua tree in front of the diner. If it was there that meant he wasn't the first to arrive, which meant he had lost their long standing bet again, and that meant the first round of coffee and a breakfast entree of the winner's choice was going on his tab. Resigning himself, Jasper walked past the car and the tree, in which a desert dwelling bird of some sort was chattering up a storm, towards the shiny chrome doors that led to his pancake heaven.

The doors opened before the agent could even raise a hand to the handle. A burly man, whose face reminded Stillwell of the Neanderthal exhibit at the Natural History Museum, was leaving at the same time he was entering, and proceeded to push past the suit, knocking shoulders with Jasper harder than was really necessary.
Even being the self-titled "Cubicle Hero of Intelligence" that he had become, Stillwell still felt his body tense with the S.H.E.I.L.D. training that had been drilled into him for years at the academy. Almost instantly he could think of seven different ways he could bring "Caveman" down to his knees. Three involved seriously damaging some important goods of the man. One involved the ballpoint pen in his left suit pocket, which was a particularly good one, but since already losing the bet had left a bad taste in his mouth, Jasper decided to go with a simpler option.

"Excuse me," Stillwell said politely as he let his body gracefully turn with the force of the push until he had his back towards the diner. He plastered on an insincere but convincing smile, the one agents usually used when dealing with the usually unsuspecting public in an effort to disarm and relax.
"Caveman" looked over his shoulder and grunted something Jasper decided to take as a goodwill apology before stomping off in the direction of the tree, going around the Acura in a wide curve.

Stillwell watched him get into a beat up pickup truck before the government agent allowed himself to breath again, straightened his suit and tie before pushing the chrome doors open and stepping into air conditioned bliss. His eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight to a montage made up of various bits of American culture designed to swell your national pride and make you crave that classic diner cuisine. Red vinyl booths went all the way down the windowed outer wall while matching bar stools accompanied a chrome plated bar. Pictures of old fashioned carhops serving classic model Fords and Chevys decked the walls, along with a few old records with bright labels for color. A jaunty rockabilly tune was playing from a jukebox sitting in a corner while the only member of the wait staff, decked out in the diner standard of a blue dress and stark white apron, noted his arrival by putting on a fresh pot of coffee.

Jasper nodded and gave Cheryl the waitress a more friendly smile as he took long strides towards the only booth that was occupied in the entire place. In one smooth motion he flattened his tie and slid into the opposite side of the table, settling down comfortably while giving his colleague a quick once over in order to judge his mood this morning. "Geez, you look like you lost your best gun."

Phil Coulson, agent of S.H.E.I.L.D. and the other half of these meetings, looked up from his scrambled eggs and bacon with a tight smile. "Nothing that dramatic."
Cheryl arrived with a hot mug of the good stuff and sat it down in front of Stillwell, who thanked her gratefully and took a sip to test the murky brown waters. Three creams, three sugars; a liquid heart attack in a cup. It was perfect.

The waitress smiled all the way up to her sparkling blue eyes, knowing that she had her best customers' orders just how they always asked for them. "So that'll be a number three with extra maple syrup, warmed up, right?"

"Mm. Better add an extra short stack to that," Jasper answered back. "I have a feeling I'll be needing it." Cheryl nodded and winked, a little something extra she added every week just for him, and sashayed back around the bar and into the kitchen to put in the orders for the seventy year old pancake goddess, Rose.

Stillwell waited until the kitchen door swung closed before he leaned back into the comfy padded booth backing, unwrapped a spoon from the napkin on his side and absently stirred his coffee counter clockwise. "Does this have something to do with the excursion to the Northeast? Did it go that badly?"

Coulson, who had returned to his breakfast while Stillwell and the waitress played their little flirting game, stabbed his fork at a particularly stubborn part of egg that refused to be picked up. "You've read the reports, I assume. Why ask if you know the answer?"

Jasper shrugged. "Your retelling of it brings the words on the page to life." Coulson snorted in amusement before taking a bite. "So, what happened in Upstate New York that has you grouchier than usual?"

"I'm never grouchy," Coulson countered as he picked up a glass of orange juice. "I just have a pragmatic outlook on life. And if you must know..." He paused to take a sip and to leave a bit of suspense for Stillwell, who was now leaning forward. "We accomplished our objective and now have the subject under our jurisdiction. End of story."

"If it was, you wouldn't have been glaring at your bacon when I came in," Stillwell replied with a frown. "Come on, Coulson, I'm at level six clearance. I can know what really happened up there, and you can tell me the story better than a report."

Coulson sat his juice down with a sigh. "You're not going to leave me alone until I tell you, is that it?"

"Yep," Jasper replied, smug with his triumph over his colleague. The kitchen door swung back open and Cheryl emerged, laden down with a tray stacked four high with golden brown, sugary pancakes that the gods of Asgard would die for. He gleefully picked up his knife and fork to dig in as soon as the plate was set in front of him. He was getting his favorite breakfast and what promised to be a good "on the job" story from Phil Coulson.

It something worth loosing a bet every once in awhile for.