Hi there! If you're just joining me, welcome :D And if you're a good ole veteran, welcome back! Enjoy the shenanegans of the crew...in a Chinese restaurant, where nothing can go wrong. Right?

The glass pane of the door was streaked with aged grime as Phil Coulson reached out with a cautious hand, swinging it open with a single motion. He barely paid any notice to the small tinkling bells that let out a soft ring, and stepped in. Wow. Ros wasn't joking when she said it wasn't like other Chinese restaurants. For one, there wasn't a shortage of dark corners. Not to mention the shady, hunched looking group in one of said dark corners.

And finally, there was the plume of smoke that was emitting from the back end of the kitchen. Phil was pretty sure that didn't fall under standard operating procedure. He briefly wondered how they'd managed to escape inspection all these years before shaking his head and stepping up to the hulking man standing to his right.

"Uh, Phil Coulson?" The man said nothing, simply staring Phil down. Phil adjusted his glasses nervously - more force of habit than anything - before chancing another look up. "I - I'm from the SHIELD? Uh. South Harlem International Eating Living Directory? I - I'm here to see -" He squinted down at his hand; unfortunately, with his having gotten lost three times on the way here, the name was smudged into an unintelligible blur. "Melissa Moy?"

At least he got a crack out of the guy in front of him. "Melinda May's our head chef and owner," the man corrected, chuckling at Phil's look of relief and embarrassment. Melinda May. Well, at least he was close. "Name's Alphonso Mackenzie, but they call me Mack 'round here." His handshake nearly took Phil's arm off, and he came away already planning a gym workout for the weekend. "Why don't you grab a seat, and we'll get one of the servers out here in a minute."

Still somewhat shaken by the encounter, Phil took a seat at one of the nearby red cloth-covered table, doing a double take at the chopsticks on the table. Why, oh why had he chosen to take this assignment? He could've stuck with the Portuguese cafe in Hell's Kitchen. Or the new Italian place over on West 36th and Seventh. (At least they had gelato.) But no, he'd been in such a fit to impress Rosalind that he'd taken the riskiest assignment known to man like him - the Chinese restaurant buried deep into a back alley in Manhattan Chinatown.

"Whoa, you're new." A frazzled looking woman dashed out, skidding to a stop in front of the table with the teapot hanging from her arm. "Haven't seen you around here before. Hey, Fitz!" she yelled to the kitchen. "We got fresh meat!"

Phil held his hand up. "Actually, I'm just from the South Harlem -"

"And he's from the papers!" The woman cocked her head, listening for a reply before her mouth stretched into a grin. "Excellent. Well, welcome to May's Golden Dragon, I'm Skye, I'm your server today, yes, I can speak Mandarin, yes, this tea is hot, don't try to drink it right after you pour it." She plonked the teapot onto the tablecloth and poured him a cup of tea, the brownish liquid sending up a plume of steam into the air. "Drink," she smirked, catching Phil's hesitant look. "I promise it's better than it looks." Indeed. The tea was the right amount of bitter, but not so flavorful that it took over all of the tastebuds in his mouth. Phil hummed, putting the teacup down. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Skye, right?" he asked the woman. She nodded. "Can I get a menu?"

The smirk returned. "Don't worry, sir, we have a...special menu for the fresh meat that walk through the doors." Skye whipped out a notepad. "Now. Any allergies, severe dislikes, things that might make you projectile vomit across the room?" Phil shook his head hurriedly, and Skye scribbled 'FEED EVERYTHING' before stuffing the notepad into the back pocket of her jeans. "And what's your name?"

Phil gave her a weird look. "Why would you need to know my name?"

"I make it a point to get to know my customers," Skye fake drawled, looking offended. "Do that, and they tip higher." She grinned. "Plus, if you're going to be my new dad, I have to at least know your name."

The promise of a date with Rosalind was all that kept Phil from hightailing it right out of the restaurant right then and there.

"I'm kidding!" Skye laughed, and the tight ball of tension in Phil's chest loosened just a little. A little. He wasn't sure if Skye was deranged, determined, or both. "We need your name for the ticket. Aren't really any table numbers around here. And like I said, you're the fresh meat." She refilled his teacup without spilling a drop. "Soon, you'll be a regular. I always know the names of my regulars. So. Your name?"

"Phil? Phil. Phil Coulson. I'm Phil Coulson."

Skye laughed and dashed off. "Nice to meet you, Phil Coulson! Your food should be out soon!"

"Fresh meat, huh?"

Bobbi Morse edged past Skye with a tray supporter tucked under her arm, the other brunette already balancing a tray laden with dishes on both hands. It'd been a while since she'd seen fresh meat, and having come from fresh meat herself, she was plenty aware how the May family ran things. She just hoped this one wouldn't run off before they got to the fried pig intestines.

"Yeah, this one looks a keeper," Skye said breezily as she began to set the plates onto the table in the corner, including a large bowl of egg drop soup into the center surrounded by several smaller bowls and a ladle. Fresh murmurs of approval went up from around its occupants. "He didn't even run when I pulled the dad line. Most single guys run at the dad line."

Bobbi chuckled, leaning over to ladle the soup from the large central bowl to the smaller ones. "Which one is it again? Dude in the middle table? What, didn't want to put him too close to Mack?" She stopped for a minute and straightened up, the prickly familiar feeling of a leery stare at her chest beginning to set in. Most of the seedy Asian men at the table had the grace to stare down at the starched white tablecloth when she glared up at them, pausing momentarily from her ladling.

All except one. Well, at least it was the same guy from last week. And the week before that, and the week before that. Honestly, who else had she been expecting? Bobbi sighed, sending her own frosty glare right back.

"Tíngzhǐ dīngzhe tā de xiōngbù, Yáng," Skye deadpanned without even looking up. The man, caught, muttered a 'pssh' and turned back to his conversation with the man next to him. "Honestly, does he not know they're fake?" she wondered out loud, earning a smack on the shoulder from Bobbi. "Hey, watch it, Morse. You know how the Chinese mafia gets when we mess up their food."

"Oh, please," Bobbi shot back, smiling sunnily at said mafia members before picking up the tray table and sauntering to the kitchen. "They can't get upset at me. I have boobs and an ass. I'm still waiting for the day they bring their mothers in and they try to matchmake me with their grandsons."

They entered the kitchen, Skye dropping off her now-empty tray before leaning against the counter to wipe the sweat off her face. "Hey, Fitz, how we doing with the fresh meat intro?"

"I wish you'd stop callin' it fresh meat, Skye," Leo Fitz emerged from a fresh billow of steam, red-faced and sweating. "Makes it sound like they're prey or somethin'." He handed her a plate of fried rice, hot off the wok. "Took down the spice, just like you said." When Bobbi gave him a look, he threw his hands up in protest. "I mean it! 'S nothing like Garner!"

"Fitz, he was drooling. On the carpet." Needless to say, that attempt at matchmaking had not gone well. "You know how May hates it when people drool on the carpet." Skye sniffed the plate just in case she needed to warn Phil. "And I like this one. Try not to scare him off with your spiciness."

"Way more than a Scot should have," Bobbi mumbled under her breath.

Fitz rolled his eyes at her. "Fine. No spicy ribs for you tonight, Morse."

Skye just laughed and headed out of the kitchen at Bobbi's petulant whine, their argument fading out of earshot to the sounds of fresh vegetables hitting hot oil. The kitchen door swung open just in time for her to see one of two things.

First, the array of plates they'd just set down at the Chinese mafia's table were now all over the floor, some shattered and others flung aside. A full-blown brawl had broken out among the men, and from what Skye could pick up, someone'd questioned the quality of the knockoff handbags being brought to a deal...again. She winced as she heard a bone crack, wondering if she should put down her plate of fried rice and call an ambulance.

But when the man who'd presumably had his arm broken reached out and socked his attacker right in the jaw, she decided he'd be alright. Hm. She wondered who'd bet on him landing the worst injury this week. Mack always had a knack for betting on the underdogs, and it'd served him well time and time again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a horrified Phil Coulson edge towards the door, clearly trying to make it out of the situation unscathed. Skye wanted to call out and stop him - after all, he hadn't even had a chance to try their fried rice! - but doing so would've drawn the mafia's attention to the fact that there'd been a foreigner in their territory.

And if there was something they hated more than oversalted soup, it was foreigners in their territory.

She nodded at Mack, who waited before the small bell's tinkling went silent before he waded over to the fight, pulling apart the Chinese men easily. He didn't even flinch when one of them landed a tricky hit to his leg, just held on with a blank facial expression until the man stopped flailing. The other security guards did the same, their stance clearly infused with the weariness of men who'd done this way too many times in their lives.

"Gàosù wǒ nǐ méiyǒu yìyì, bùyào mìnglìng shāyú tāng." At the sound of that low, almost growled voice, the men went silent, straightening up in almost a comical fashion. Skye and Mack even stood to attention, the former hastily setting the fried rice onto a nearby table.

If there was anyone at all the Chinese mafia had to fear, it was the woman that allowed them to do their business. And it was safe to say Melinda Qiaolian May wasn't looking too satisfied with their behavior.

(At least to the men. Skye had the pleasure of knowing that as soon as they left the premises each time, May would round up the untarnished food and send Skye out to feed the homeless. Frightening, her ass.)

"Qiào liǎn," One of the elder members, goatee and sideburns tinged with gray, bowed his head. "Yīxiē màoyì de xìjié bèi rènwéi shì bù mǎnyì de." Behind them, Skye resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Talk about overkill.

"Zhè shì shénme, zhège yuè dì wǔ cì? Wǒ bù xīwàng nǐmen de qīzi duìfù nǐ suǒ fù de qián ér gǎndào gāoxìng." May, ever so cool, quirked an eyebrow at the men, who looked even more ashamed than when Bobbi'd caught Yang staring at her chest.

'Fifth?' Skye mouthed to Mack, who nodded. Damn. She'd probably missed a brawl or two while she'd been studying for the last couple of weeks. Waiting tables was fun, sure, but that diploma wasn't going to earn itself.

"Gěi wǒmen zhàngdān." May gave him a sharp, curt nod, and with a single hand motion, all of the mafia members were filing out of the restaurant. Some of them, Skye noted with glee, had sauce all over their pants. Oh boy. That was going to be a fun one to get clean. When the last man had departed, May sighed, her eyes flicking over the damage.

"What do we say, May?" Mack asked, rubbing his hands together. "$100? $150?" A sharp crack alerted them to the fact that the glass Lazy Susan had split right down the middle. "$200?"

May snorted. "Are you kidding me? I had that thing imported. That's at least $300 right there. Tell Morse she wins." Bobbi's cheer could be heard from the kitchen as May's glance switched over to the now cold plate of fried rice. "Who was that for, Skye?"

"Oh!" Skye snatched up the plate of fried rice. "We had fresh meat today. Guy by the name of Phil Coulson. Said he worked for some paper named The SHIELD?" When May's eyebrows went up, she sighed. "He ran when he saw the fight break out between the mafia dudes."

Well, at least there'd be a homeless man getting a fresh container of fried rice today.

"What do you mean, you ran when you saw the mafia fight break out?"

Rosalind Price only paced when she was agitated. Very agitated. And at this moment, she was ready to wear a hole in her carpet. If Phil Coulson hadn't been one of her best, she'd have him clearing out his desk yesterday. (That, and he was marginally cute. Marginally. In a way one would look at a golden retriever.)

Phil tried to raise his hand meekly in defense. "Ms. Price, it seemed like a situation best handled by the restaurant without any extra witnesses..."

Rosalind sighed. He had a point. An annoying one, but a point nonetheless. "Did you at least get any food?"

Phil gulped, thinking of the spread Skye'd said had been laid out for him. "...No?"

Her head snapped up to give him a steely glare. "Get out of my office, Coulson. And don't come back until you've managed to sit through a whole meal at May's. I don't care whether it's sixteen courses long or if a mafia gets beat up three inches from your face. Get me. That. Review. Dismissed." Coulson ran out of her office faster than he'd fled the scene of May's.

Tíngzhǐ dīngzhe tā de xiōngbù, Yáng - Stop staring at her boobs, Yang.

Gàosù wǒ nǐ méiyǒu yìyì, bùyào mìnglìng shāyú tāng - Tell me you had the sense not to order the shark fin soup.

Yīxiē màoyì de xìjié bèi rènwéi shì bù mǎnyì de. - The specifics of a trade were deemed...unsatisfactory by some.

Zhè shì shénme, zhège yuè dì wǔ cì? Wǒ bù xīwàng nǐmen de qīzi duìfù nǐ suǒ fù de qián ér gǎndào gāoxìng. - That makes...what, the fifth time this month? I don't expect your wives are happy with the money you're paying for damages.

Gěi wǒmen zhàngdān. - Send us the bill.

Aren't we going to be off for an adventure. Be sure to leave a review! Hugs if you do!