He stared into the mirror; it had been an acquisition from a Dumpster, left for rubbish by a builder doing up a place on his usual run route, the guy had looked at him a little funny and just nodded when Phil had asked if he could have it. It was no wonder; it hadn't even been nice when it was brand new, and it was a long way from that now. His self-respect had been a little dented when a group of youth's walking by while he rummaging around to get it out and called him a tramp. He'd felt incredibly self-conscious walking down the street and hoped and prayed he didn't meet anyone he knew. By that he meant employees as he had found he had precious little in the way of friends since his breakup with Nick. It seemed they were all Nick's friends or too embarrassed to get in the middle of a breaking relationship to stick with either. He had May of course, but she was still someone that worked for him, and he had Skye but ditto. The nearest thing he had to a friend these days was the coffee shop owner, Clint. His one treat of the week was quickly turning into Saturday morning routine of breakfast and coffee with him. Well, not with him per say, there had been the occasional time that he had sat down with him but mostly they'd just chat while Clint got on with prep. Phil was always sure to get there early before the shop opened; it was Clint's suggestion, he wouldn't just turn up early forcing the guy to open. It's nice, much easier than that first tension filled morning on that fateful rain drenched day.

Phil stared at his reflection in the old black pitted mirror; he noticed the sappy smile that had crept over his face at his thoughts before grimacing and turning away in distaste. He wished he'd left the damn mirror where it was.

After all, his reflection only reinforced what was happening in his life. He'd lost weight; May had noticed of course, so far he had managed to wave it off but if it continued he didn't like to think of the conversation that would ensue. It had to be ironic that the owner of a restaurant struggled to afford to eat properly. Add to that all the financial worries and the weight seemed to pour off him like the witch melting in 'The Wizard of Oz.'

Every penny quite literally counted now, and even the discounted breakfast (and yes he was well aware that Barton didn't charge him full wack) on Saturday made him feel guilty about his spending. He went without a full meal for the rest day to make up for it. He went without a few main meals these days, and it was starting to show round his waist line. The stupid thing was Melinda would cook him up a meal every day if he asked for it, but pride was a multi-facetted monster. But it was one of the few things he had left, that and his restaurant. The economic truth was that restaurants takings were the only thing keeping him from the gutter, so wasting produce on him was not on the agenda. Nearly every hard earned penny got ploughed back in to keep the place going, wage bills and running costs took the bulk of profits; anything left was gobbled up by the bank in debt repayments.

It wasn't like he could cook gourmet food on a camping stove anyway!

He finished dressing; he put on the last of his running kit, his well-worn and battered sneakers. One good thing of living here was that he had more time to run, it probably wasn't helping with his weight though, now he thought about it, but he could always fall back on that as an excuse if anyone noticed.

He loved to run.

It's the one thing he took from his time in the army, well, that and Nick of course. They had met shortly before he'd left.

Phil hadn't enjoyed his time in the army. He'd ignored his mother as a young man; she'd told him it wasn't for him, he'd still done it, like every young eager boy would.

She'd been right.

He had hoped for a life of physical adventure, and she had seen a life of destruction and death, a career her husband had lead willingly, a man that Phil had idolised, but she had known that her son was a very different character to his father.

Phil had thrived in training. In school he had cursed his lack of height, in the army he used it to his full advantage. While the young men around him were still coming to terms with how their brains controlled their long limbs, Phil was nimble and coordinated in his movement. He couldn't be described as muscular or powerful, but he was precise, and the army liked accuracy. The army liked their recruits to listen as well, and Phil had no problem with authority, unlike some that joined up for the thrill, and the perceived respect they would gain amongst their peers, he didn't want to look tough or use the illusion of the uniform to garner power. Those that came with that attitude didn't have it for long, the army had seen hundreds of angry young men and women and if they wanted to get through its ranks that approach had to change, fast.

His mother knew him well, and when Phil had faced action, it was with that shocking realisation. It didn't mean that he wasn't good at it; he was exceptional at it, fast thinking and fearless, it caught the eye of many a high ranking officer but he also had no appetite for it, in fact, he had a definite distaste for it.

Nick had been different; he had loved being a soldier, and he would still have been there given a choice but his injuries had put a pay to that. Nick loved the rush combat gave him, and he had still been searching for a replacement when he had died.

Phil startled out of his thoughts when there was a knock on the front door. He ran down the flight of stairs and opened the door to find the mailman standing there.

"Sorry, it's too big to post."

Phil took the large packet, and then thanked the guy before running back up and throwing the envelope down on the table, he knew what it was, it had his writing on it. Nick's landlord had insisted that Phil leave him with a self-addressed envelope so that he could forward any mail on, and from the size of it there was a whole lot, probably a load of junk mail. He would deal with it later; he had no desire to even open the thing.

He grabbed a bottle of water and headed out the door once again, this time with his keys in his pocket and the intention to run a good few cobweb out of his skull.

...

He was heading home when he rounded the corner to see a for sale sign going up over Clint's shop, he stopped in his tracks staring up as the contractors nailing the board up.

"Crap isn't it," a familiar voice said beside him.

Phil turned at the sound, "What does it mean for you?"

"Apparently, it shouldn't make any difference at all, as I'm an occupying tenant with an agreement but it doesn't have that long to run before I need to sign a new one," he signed. "It's rather worrying."

"Yes, I'm sure."

Clint enquired, "You stopping in for a coffee?" Phil watched Clint's eyes wander over his sweat-soaked form.

"No, not today, I don't have time I'm afraid. Need to hit the shower and get ready for work."

"You ah... Really love the running?" Clint questioned seemingly prolonging their exchange.

Phil smiled, "Yep, keeps me trim," he said patting his stomach.

Clint's eyes briefly watched said stomach before snapping back up to Coulson's face, "Yeah, I can see that."

Phil shifted his feet, looking down at them as if he hadn't expected them to move, "I should," he gestured down the road with the hand that was still clutching his near empty water bottle.

"Yeah," Clint acknowledged.

"Right," Phil said pausing before looking quickly at Clint, "I'll ah... see you soon then."

"Yeah."

Phil forced his feet to move and started the jog back home, turning his head back in Clint direction once, and seeing the man still staring back at him. He sighed a little between breaths, soaked to the skin or hot and sweaty, Clint seemed to catch him at all his most disgusting moments.

Phil cursed as he shoved his apartment key in his pocket quickly. He watched Melinda walking down the street towards him; she didn't appear to be looking his way thankfully and so missed he exit from upstairs. He walked the few paces to the restaurant door and got ready to slot the key into the door, looking up as she drew near with a smile on his face.

"Morning."

"Phil."

Coulson smiled as he seated the key; Melinda was on her best morning form by the sound of it.

"Are you Mr. Coulson?"

Phil turned around in surprise before the door opened. Now standing behind May were two burly looking men. Both had the air of bouncers, standing in ill-fitting black suits and ties, shirts rumpled up under the unshapely jacket lapels. They looked about as uncomfortable as a poodle that had been dyed pink. Still, Phil felt himself swallow, looking up as they towered over him.

"Yes?"

"We are here on behalf of Mr. Reese," one of the men announced.

Phil looked from one to the other confused. "Who's Mr. Reese?"

One of suit clad sharks took a step forward, and Phil felt Melinda's hand land gently on his arm. The man said somewhat menacingly, "Mr. Reece wants his money."

Phil looked round sharply at May, fearful of where this was going, "Look I have no idea what you are talking about or who your is."

"We don't want any trouble," the man that hadn't moved said, but his tone didn't reassure, and the other guy was looking as threatening as he could. "Mister Reese has sent several notifications to," he looked down at the paperwork, "Nicolas Fury, without answer, your name is guarantor on the debt."

"What? No! Look you can tell your boss that Nick is dead, and no way am I going to be paying any more of his debts."

"Mister Reese won't like that; he runs a tight ship at the casino."

"Casino? Are you tell me this is a gambling debt."

"Yes, sir."

Phil looked furiously around, "Look, Nick and I weren't even together when he died, this has nothing to do with me and I don't appreciate being intimidated like this and if it continues I will be calling the cops."

He turned back to the door and with hands as steady as he could make them forced the handle down and shooed May in before stepping beyond the threshold himself and shutting the door on the men outside.

He walked over to the counter, checking around to see that the two men had disappeared before kicking out wildly with his foot. His shoe connected with a chair leg sending the thing scattering across the floor but thankfully not breaking, he felt feminine hands surround him wrapping round his waist and Melinda's body leaned into his from behind. They stayed like that for a few moments, she started gently rubbed across his chest as if soothing him, they didn't speak until he gave out long drawn out sigh, "How could he have done all this to me, Melinda?"

She sighed quietly too and mumbled from his shoulder where she had laid her head, "I don't think he planned on getting killed Phil."

Phil pulled away angrily, "Dead or alive he used my money and has left me to pick up all the pieces, it's clear he had no intention of paying anything back. Hell if he had gambled it all away he was probably just adding to it. He must have been laughing his head off at foolish me!"

"No, Phil, if this is all because of a gambling problem then he was just as much a victim, you know that, it's an addiction," she looked at him sadly, "he probably broke up with you because he couldn't face what he was doing to you, Phil."

"We could have dealt with it... if he'd told me." Phil tried to think about where it had all gone so wrong, he nearly choked on the following words as his thoughts came out loud unbidden, "what kind of shitty partner was I," he looked up at her glassy-eyed, "I didn't even fucking notice that he was in so much trouble."

She stepped up to him again and gripped his forearm, and said with authority, "This is not your fault, Nick choose not to tell you, that was his mistake, not yours."

Phil nodded his head at her and tried to smile.

She continued to hold his arm and said, "You do not deserve this Phil, but I think you need to be careful about those guys."

Phil just stared dumbly around the restaurant wondering if he could keep this place afloat through all these never-ending setbacks.