Quest For Rage, a Queer as Folk + Avengers Crossover fanfic

Disclaimer: Don't own them. Not getting paid for this.

Summary: The Avengers meet the one man who might actually be a worse case of infantile over-ambitious promiscuous narcissistic megalomania (with the addition of secret philanthropy) than Tony Stark: Brian Kinney. Also, they're expected to save the day.

Warnings: TWT, slash (cough-Queer as Folk-cough), mild sexual situations, profanity, crack-induced OOC (Rage!Brian, JT!Justin)

A/N: I didn't want to! Justin made me! It's totally involuntary!

It's not a plausible story – it's not meant to be plausible. It's meant to be funny and absurd. Let me know if you like it.

Brynn

Quest For Rage

"…and therefore," Romanov concludes, "we request official assignment to deal with the… Violator."

"I already have someone inside," Nick says in his more gravelly voice, although not nearly as gravelly as the one he uses when he talks to the WSC. He surveys the adult version of Rescue Rangers gathered below his post, all geared up and trying to intimidate him by crowding him. He extends a moderate effort to not roll his eyes.

Romanov, at the head of the group, has obviously elected herself as a speaker. She stands with her legs wide apart, which shows off her thighs very nicely, but as a combat stance is absolutely useless (which she knows better than anyone). She opens her mouth to protest.

"As it is," Nick cuts her off before she can get a word out, "I was considering an extraction before the new intel has been brought in, so I will be giving you the green light – provided you will make a fair attempt at sticking to the plan this time." He glares at Stark.

Stark gives Nick – and everyone else, because they all know who Nick's talking about – a smarmy smirk. He claps his hands. "So – party time?"

"I'm not sure if a viable threat of poisoning several millions of people is my idea of a party," Banner points out, off-handedly deposing Stark from his proverbial pulpit.

There is a moment when Nick is almost certain that Stark is about to shrug and say something along the lines of 'it's just Pittsburgh,' but that is the Stark of old. This new one is – shockingly – somewhat willing to accept that certain lines should not be crossed if he wants to be a member of the team. And whatever he may say to the opposite effect, he does want to be a member of this team. After all – not that Nick likes admitting it – it never would have been put together or worked without that bastard.

Now, Nick muses, he's about to add another bastard to the mix. The file for this 'mission,' if it can even be called such, should never have made it to his desk, but Nick's assigning it anyway – to see the faces of his team. If he has to put up with their antics, it's only expected that he wants to extract his own pound of flesh.

"The jet is ready," he announces grimly, scowling at them. "And Stark…"

Nick leaves the threat hanging, not so much because the implication is clear, as simply because he realizes all too well that there is nothing he can threaten the man with. He is too rich, too clever, too politically-minded, has friends in shady yet high places and so far his A.I. has proven immune to all cracking attempts.

"I know," Stark replies, smirking. He really does know, unfortunately.

"Can we, please, set off before people start dying?" Rogers inquires stiffly.

"Right," Romanov agrees with him.

Barton nods in tacit agreement and Thor offers a confirming grumble. Banner appears torn between inserting a little rationality into the argument or leaving it be, and in the end decides to keep his cool, which Nick – and the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. – deeply appreciates.

"Your wish is my command, oh Captain!" Stark exclaims mockingly.

The corners of Rogers' eyes tighten, but not in anger – as would have happened not so long ago – rather fighting to keep his serious face on.

Nick waits until they are gone and then sighs. He hoped that at least Rogers would prove immune to Stark's own brand of charming insanity.

"Agent Hill," he calls out.

"Yes, sir?" the woman replies readily, stepping forth to enter the scope of Nick's limited vision on the left side.

"Prepare to receive the boy. Employ the usual protocols and…" Frankly, they are all aware that when it comes to these two Superantihero disasters, the protocols are usually abandoned within minutes.

"I understand, sir," Hill replies reliably.

The jet is brand new – Thor with mild embarrassment recalls what has happened to the previous one – but it is similar enough to what he knows that boarding and strapping himself into the seat (it's policy, apparently; he wouldn't bother otherwise) poses no problems.

The group layers itself around him. He has started observing the process and the alterations in the seating arrangement simply because in the beginning, he wanted to be prepared for the inevitable clash, should Tony and Steve or Tony and Natasha be placed next to one another.

"Are you well?" he asks of Bruce when the man moves next to him with a small, wan smile.

Bruce hums. "A little queasy. I've had a long day and I would rather be home than here."

"It appears that the battle shall not be a fierce one," Thor estimates. "If you are unwell, remain aboard this vessel and rely onto us to win the fight."

Bruce makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I'll be fine. I'd just prefer to not let the Other Guy out if I don't have to."

Thor nods. "I shall see to it that you are not required."

Over Bruce's words of thanks, Thor hears a muffled curse. Natasha passes by, throws herself into the pilot seat, straps herself in and crosses her arms in front of her chest, while Clint focuses fully on the preparations for the take-off.

Apparently, Natasha is not feeling joyful about the upcoming villain-thwarting either.

"Don't ask," she orders before Thor can utter a single word. "Cramps. You don't want to know. Don't ask."

Thor can be wise when the situation calls for it. He nods and turns back to Bruce.

Bruce is, not entirely surreptitiously, watching the on-goings to his right side.

Steve does not look as ill as Bruce, or as pained and angered as Natasha, but there is a disconsolation written in his face. He has not laughed today, as far as Thor recalls, and what little he has spoken pertained strictly to the mission.

Tony disengages the helmet of his suit and prods Steve's shoulder. "Cheer up, buddy. We're going to Philadelphia."

"Is that a reason to be excited?" Steve inquires softly, staring at the floor of the cabin.

"No," Tony admits. "But I thought it might make you feel better."

Steve hunches his shoulders, but Thor can still see that the man is smiling, if helplessly. Perhaps Tony's attempt has been more successful than it has seemed at first?

Earthmen are, it appears to him, very unnecessarily complicated, in all the ways of life. In Thor's understanding, friendship should be expressed through kindness and generosity, and rewarded in enjoyment of time spent together. When he looks around he sees little of that and yet these people call themselves friends. They know each other well (to an astounding depth, in some cases, otherwise Tony would not have managed to bring cheer to Steve so easily) and wish no ill upon one another, and yet insults are a daily fare and rather than striving to reach accord on points of contention, disagreements are resolved through conflict.

It is… Thor pauses, and glances around again. It is like a family.

As this is not time for tears of emotion, he takes a deep breath and settles to wait until they reach the land of Philadelphia.

When Clint lands the jet, Bruce is ecstatic to get out of that cramped and increasingly claustrophobia-inducing cabin.

They disembark in the centre of what used to be the playing-field of a school. The campus appears still mostly intact, but all windows are boarded over and there is a huge 'for-sale' sign on the face of the main building.

Also, a line of cars and vans, serving as the cover for an undetermined number of belligerents cuts the team off from the main building, which apparently doubles as headquarters.

"Is this for real?" Tony asks – rhetorically, surveying the opposition.

Steve sighs. "Let's just… let's get it over with."

"If you still do not feel well," Thor says in what passes as whisper for him, but is not nearly quiet enough to be unheard by any of the other four, "there would be no dishonor in staying back."

"Thanks," Bruce replies blandly, and mentally searches for ways around the blockade.

"JARVIS says there is a blacked-out cube on a sub-level," Tony informs them. "If there's anything worthwhile in this place, it will be there. Security centre's in the former IT lab – second floor, right wing. There's a jammer on the uppermost floor. Intercoms won't work."

"I'll take the jammer," Bruce suggests. "Just… switch it off, right?"

"Yes, and maybe pull the plug – just in case," Clint assures him. He puts his hand on Natasha's shoulder.

Natasha straightens as if she was drawing energy from her friend. "Alright, Clint and I go forward, clear the way for Bruce, scout the building and get into the lab. You three…" she glances at Tony, Thor and Steve, "…keep these guys entertained. It's no fun fighting on two fronts."

"Roger, ma'am," Tony snarks without any real bite.

"Come on," Clint mutters.

Tony blows up one of the cars.

Clint and Natasha set out sprinting and Bruce tries to follow on their heels. He's a little fascinated (though not really surprised) to see the two slice through the enemy line where Tony's helped open it. It will close behind Bruce again, he's sure, but there is enough time for him to get to the other side. Also, he's kind of invulnerable, so he's not really worried. Still, he doesn't want the Other Guy out for this – really, there's no need. He can see why Fury was so dismissive about the situation. The Avengers truly are redundant here.

Even the regular police would have been able to manage the situation.

Bruce loses the two spies before they reach the former school.

He walks into the dilapidated building through the side entrance. There is a pile of dead guards lying by the wall where Clint and Natasha have left them. Bruce grimaces, but it's not like it actually bothers him that much. He's, sadly, used to it.

The corridors are abandoned – apparently, today's villain hasn't had the time to implement any emergency protocols for his people, because leaving the base unprotected is just mind-numbingly stupid.

Then again, Clint and Nat have gone this way before him, so maybe he's just not seeing the original defenses. Well, his priority is the jammer, anyway. They need communication to prevent 'friendly fire.' There's enough 'friendly fire' going on between them on a day-to-day basis, and they really don't need it in battle. Points to Violator for the idea, though.

The last corpse slumps over in its swivel-chair and Clint wipes his hand into his trousers. He prefers to shoot – hands-on killing is disgusting.

Natasha seats herself in front of a screen and starts clicking – there is an actual mouse – through the active applications. They do not conveniently keep the blueprints of the building on that computer, but it does have access to all the security cameras. In theory. They just need to wait for Bruce to disable the jammer.

Natasha grimaces and winds her arm around her belly.

"That's unusual," Clint remarks. "Should I be worried?"

"What's a little poison between friends?" Natasha counter-questions.

Clint clenches his teeth. It's nothing, he knows. She'll be fine, otherwise she wouldn't be here. Having something to do at least takes her mind off the pain, and the adrenaline might help dampen it.

Still, he has to ask. "Have you taken-"

"Yes."

"And-"

"Yes, and I can't have another, or it would slow down my reflexes."

Clint can't think of anything to say to that. He pats her shoulder, and when that's not rebuffed, dares stroke her hair. It's a testament to her tiredness that she simply closes her eyes and doesn't attempt to eviscerate him.

"Stop," she requests.

Clint complies.

The connection with the cameras activates. Natasha starts clicking through them.

Clint raises his intercom. "Thanks, Bruce," he says.

"Happy to help," Bruce's voice replies. He sounds distracted. "Frighteningly, the jammer is in a bedroom. I kid you not – there is a bed, a closet and a disconcerting amount of nude magazines in here. Also, a personal computer."

Clint scowls. Stark has said nothing about that.

"Try and get in?" Steve's voice suggests.

"And if you can't, grab the whole box and I'll have at it," Stark adds.

"Sorry, I'll have to disappoint," Bruce replies. "There's nothing on this hard-drive, no media anywhere around, no shared documents. The only thing here is Skype. A single contact. It's online, by the way."

"Wait, wait!" Clint grabs Natasha's shoulder. "Go back."

Natasha switches to the previous camera and then to the one before it.

"There." Clint taps the screen with his nail.

"What… ah." Natasha leans closer. "Is that a hostage?"

"A hostage?" Steve exclaims over the com. "Can you get them out?"

"Can you zoom it in?" Clint inquires, putting Steve on hold for the time being, trying to make out whether the person is tied up, or simply choosing to lounge in a rather uncomfortable pose.

Natasha throws him a look over her shoulder. "If the local Supervillain shopped at Stark Industries, maybe. This-" she points at the console with disgust, "-is low-tech even compared to KGB surveillance during the Cold War."

Clint shrugs. His capacity for technology is rather limited to weaponry and vehicles. "Plan?"

"The contact's called Auditorium, by the way," Bruce informs them.

"Someone got clever," Natasha grumbles. "Physically disabled access to the LAN in the basement. We have to actually go down to the lab to get Fury his files – if the feed here is real-time, there are a good dozen guards and a titanium door. A low-tech opening mechanism."

They look at each other. Sometimes retina-scans and A.I.s can make life much, much easier for spies. A good old trusty key-and-password combination, and suddenly it's more practical to bring along the Hulk and go through the wall.

"I'll scout it out and call for backup," Clint suggests. "You are better at psychoanalysis. If that person's a plant, you're more likely to figure them out."

Natasha nods. "Bruce, why don't you try and call? If nothing else, I'd bet Stark could find the I.P. address."

Clint sets out through the uncharacteristically dreary corridors. The building more than anything reminds him of high schools – not a good thought at all for him. His own experience with schools notwithstanding, now is really not the time to think about Francis.

"Uhh…" a tinny voice sounds from the outdated speakers on each side of the long (and mostly covered by loads of rubbish) stage opposite the chair Justin's been strapped to. "Testing, testing…?"

"You're not whom I expected," Justin says, slightly surprised. These days usually follow a sort of routine, and now that that's been disrupted, he's even getting into the mood a little. This might just not be the usual 'boredom – fear for his life – boredom – sex' sequence. "Either of them," he adds when the owner of the voice hesitates.

He's half-hard, and it's sort of uncomfortable, since his hands are quite firmly attached to the steel construction of the chair. He's going to have some really suspicious bruises for weeks, and he's not even having fun acquiring them. What a rip-off. Seriously, he's been taken from shops, from streets, from the Academy and one memorable time from Debbie's kitchen. He's been tied, strapped to various constructions, caged, drugged, locked in with dangerous animals and suspended from heights above water. He's not quite what people call experienced in this business, because he just doesn't have the qualifications to be a Superhero, but he's still alive. It's earned him a bit of a rep – which is the reason why he's been abducted that often.

This is his most boring abduction to date. He's not even feeling threatened, just uncomfortable, and Brian's taking his sweet time doing whatever posturing he deems necessary to make it across to the heterosexuals that he doesn't give a damn about them.

"The… Violator," the potentially friendly voice speaks again, "as he calls himself, has been… that is to say, is being detained," the voice assures him.

Justin shrugs, as much as the straps allow him to. "I'm not really worried about him. Who are you?"

"I'm… ah, I'm with the Avengers."

Justin frowns. He has sent off the generic request for immediate removal from Mark the (hilariously non-aptly named) Violator, but that should have gone to Brian, with a copy to Carl's official e-mail, not anywhere near S.H.I.E.L.D.

Justin doesn't like it when Fury gets involved in a situation, because it inevitably complicates their lives. Even the Agent's considerable sex-appeal doesn't make the encounters worth it. Also, there is that threat of an immediate loss of extremity, should there be any touching without explicit invitation, and even Brian isn't arrogant enough to discount it and try anything.

"I'm Bruce."

"Hello," Justin returns, resting his head against the backrest of the chair and scrutinizing the ceiling for lack of anything better to do. "I'm JT."

"Like Kirk?" Bruce asks.

"…like what?"

"Captain Kirk, from Star Trek," Bruce explains. "He's JT, too."

"Is he?" Justin mutters. Just his luck to be stuck conversing with the Avenger's token geek. Not that he's got anything against geeks (bad experiences with Michael being neither here nor there), except that there are few topics they have in common. "So, I'm guessing you're in Mark's bedroom, if you're talking to me through Skype." And now he's resorted to stating the obvious. Fuck, waiting for Brian can be so tedious sometimes.

"Bedroom, right," Bruce agrees. "Who's Mark?"

"The Violator?" Justin counter-questions. Obviously, the Avengers' intel sucks, and not in a positive, life-affirming way. "I'd ask what you're doing in there, but I'm not sure I want to know." Mark's kind of fugly.

"I've switched off the jammer to re-enable communication, then I found this microphone, and now I'm talking to you."

Justin snorts. "Well, I've put on my big-boy panties today, so I think you can leave me on my own. I'm not going to fall apart in a fit of hysteria." He is an old hand at this. It's just that he's never been patient, and the waiting is getting on his nerves.

"Just hold on for a while," Bruce insists, probably thinking that Justin's in shock and not processing his situation right. "The rest of the team is outside, playing around with the rag-tag group that used to serve as security around here, but my friend is coming to get you."

"No need," Justin replies. "I'll be fine."

There's a crackle of static and then a surprised: "You don't want to be rescued?"

Justin smiles. "My regularly scheduled rescue is pending. Four-ten, Bruce."

"Bruce, sorry to pull you away from your fun, but…" Tony leaves the rest of the sentence hanging and turns to blow up the van with the tommy-guns inside before its crew can start shooting anywhere in the direction of the less bulletproof members of the team.

"Right," Bruce acknowledges into the com.

Steve reflexively ducks and covers when the van blows up, and then feels a little embarrassed. Still, better embarrassed than dead. The new-and-improved suit – a secret Santa gift from Tony – is tougher than tough, but that is no excuse to invite a rain of shrapnel.

"I'm on my way," Bruce adds. There's no sound of static in their communicators, and the utter lack of background noise suggests Bruce has switched to standby.

They don't exactly need him here, and Steve can't begin to guess why Tony's called him in. Thor has the Violator detained – that is, unconscious and slung over his shoulder – and Tony's systematically sniping down the scattered resistance.

Steve feels a little useless.

He opens a channel and asks: "Clint, have you obtained the objective?"

"Give me a second," the man replies. "This isn't the standard smash and go. Also, titanium doors appear to be resistant to arrows."

Steve is tempted to close his eyes and pray for patience, but there is still the handful of shooters scattered around, so he doesn't risk it. "Tony, you're contagious," he mutters, sinking into cover behind a turned-over jeep that hasn't survived Thor's entrance.

"It's inevitable." Tony has apparently heard Steve's complaint, because Steve can hear him smirking under the Iron Man helmet. "You're all smart enough to recognize my awesomeness. Imitation's the highest form of flattery, and you know-"

"You're a sucker for flattery," Steve cuts in. He has to admit, Anthony Stark has grown on him. In a very morbid way, the man appears as if he needed someone to take care of him and… well, Steve's never really been very good about suppressing those instincts.

Leading the Avengers is, occasionally, like having five problem children.

"Nat?" Steve asks, watching as Tony takes out a machinegun nest on the roof of the lower building opposite.

"On my way – to free the – hostage!" Natasha informs him in between gasps. She is running, obviously.

"Need some help?" Maybe he will be of some use on this trip, after all?

"No – it's just – one person," Natasha replies.

Steve sighs. He looks around himself at the property damage and the bodies. It's a grossly mishandled situation all around. He has been becoming accustomed to being a part of the emergency-response team, and he expects to be faced with threats that need to be dealt with by dispensing indiscriminate destruction.

This… This has been overkill, in every way.

He wishes Agent Fury did not let them go.

As if that wasn't bad enough, a man in a ripped up sleeveless black shirt and black trousers flies across the night sky above them.

"Did you see that?" Steve exclaims, craning to see where the... person is flying, but they have disappeared round the corner of the building. He can't believe his eyes.

"It looked like a man, but it didn't appear to be one," Thor offers, furrowing his brows.

Tony, worried, confirms: "I saw it. But, strangely, JARVIS didn't. Don't know about you, but I'm finally in a mood for some serious ass-kicking. Starting with the fucker that just messed with my brain."

Natasha kicks the auditorium door in and stomps over the wreckage into the huge, dust-covered room. There are tracks all over the floor, some leading to the stage up to the stairs, others spanning from the door to the chair situated between the front row of the moth-eaten audition seats and the stage.

Tied to this chair with several thick straps of leather is a very young boy, dressed in a sweated-through generic white shirt, a pair of clingy jeans, topped with a head of champagne-blond hair.

He is staring at Natasha like he doesn't comprehend her presence.

"Are you an Avenger, too?" he inquires, squinting at her. Then, matching her up to some more accurate news footage, he guesses: "The Black Widow?"

Natasha nods and determinedly crosses the room to the boy. She kneels by his side, pulls out a knife and cuts the straps one by one.

The boy whimpers a bit when his hands are freed and brings them forth to expect them.

Natasha sees ugly blue and green patches, but that is to be expected. She stands and offers her hand. "Come on! We need to get out of here!"

The boy blinks up at her and shakes his head. "Oh, don't worry about me. My Superhero's going to be here any moment now."

The wall to Natasha's left side caves in. She spins, expecting Hulk.

"That'll be him," the blond boy announces, gingerly inspecting the heavily contused wrists.

A figure appears from the cloud of dust covering the hole.

In the first instance Natasha thinks it's Clint, with a diagonal rip in the front of his top. Then some of the dust settles, the man straightens and walks in. He is taller and more slender than Clint, with messier hair and huge black eye-shadows that completely swallow his eyes. He doesn't even really look ridiculous (except for the artistic rip) – more like a short-haired imitation of Alice Cooper.

"Hey, Sunshine," the man says with a heavy dose of irony, and strolls up to the now unstrapped boy.

"Hi," the boy replies flatly. "Took your sweet time."

When Natasha looks again, there is no hole in the wall and no dust. She hasn't received a blow to the head, but maybe she should go for one. How the Hell has this guy gotten inside, and who is he?

"Well," the new-comer explains, "since you've picked the day of the dreaded dinner with Mother Taylor to get napped, I figured I might as well stall to make sure we really can't make it."

"Coward," the boy grumbles, but lets himself be pulled out of the chair and into the man's arms. He presses his forehead to the guy's sternum.

"I love your Mother," the would-be Superhero stage-whispers into the boy's ear.

"I know, dear," the boy fobs him off.

"Excuse me?" Natasha raises her voice to be heard over their banter (even Steve and Stark aren't this bad!). "I thought this was a battle to save-" well, not mankind, exactly… "-the townspeople, not a soap opera?"

"She's right," the man agrees, leering at the boy. "This is boring. Not a naked body in sight. Let's fix that."

Natasha spins on her heel and strides off to find something to take out her aggression on. Those two can take care of themselves. And if not, it's no skin off her nose.

"I'm in," Clint announces from the com.

"I'm out of here," Natasha proclaims a moment later.

Thor frowns. She does not sound well. Perhaps her malaise has worsened?

"Nat, are you alright?" Steve inquires, forlornly sitting down onto the hood of a car. The night has gone quiet. Dead, even, a more sensitive person would say.

"Peachy keen," Natasha replies, although her sarcasm is tangible. "Have you seen a guy in black-"

"He flew over our heads," Tony offers. "Except he didn't really. It was an illusion."

"He's taking the hostage," Natasha informs them.

"He is?" Tony inquires.

"Agent Fury spoke of another Agent already deployed to solve the situation," Thor reminds them.

"Right," Natasha admits. "He's certainly unusual enough."

Tony, having cut off the feed momentarily, grins at Thor and says: "Give the baby a popsicle."

Thor suspects he is lucky to not understand what Tony means by this.

"Clint, how are you doing?" Steve asks, not allowing himself to be distracted from the mission.

"I don't have the first clue what this is," Clint admits. "I'm taking the comp with me. Bruce, you can have it."

This is an obvious slight to Tony, but no one mentions it.

Indeed, Bruce is already coming up to re-join the group, and both Tony and Steve appear to be watching the front entrance to the building with great interest. Thor turns to look, too.

The flying man from earlier appears to be descending onto the lawn, holding a figure in his arms. Once he touches the ground, he lets the person down and, side by side, they walk toward the Avengers.

"I'd say good evening, but I'd be lying," the masked, not-truly-flying man with the ripped costume speaks loudly as they approach. "My car's parked two blocks away, but Fury wants me in, so I think I'll hitchhike with you."

Thor, Steve and Bruce balk at the audacity.

Tony snorts. "Yeah, right. Straight to the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, without even introducing yourself. We've done that once, and… Not in a hurry to do it again."

The stranger smirks back. "Ah, so Fury didn't tell you about me. That's nice of him."

Strangely, that remark is not sarcastic even though Thor would expect it to be – he's becoming better and better with every passing day at recognizing the various forms of Earthians' humor, from irony to sarcasm to malicious mocking. They are so very diverse.

"And you are?" Steve inquires, looking at the other person, who has so far remained in the unknown Superhero's shadow. It is a boy – or a young man – who seems quite calm for having been detained by an insane maniac for hours.

"JT?" Bruce guesses.

Thor and the others quizzically turn to Bruce.

"Bruce," the young man replies, smiling at Bruce. "Nice to meet you in person."

"Likewise," Bruce agrees. Then he shakes himself and addresses the rest of the team: "JT has been found bound in the auditorium. We've talked a little through a channel set up by the Violator."

"I let you out of my sight for a couple of hours…" the Superhero grumbles.

JT rolls his eyes.

"You two know each other, then?" Steve says, watching the two with suspicion.

"I'm cursed with him," the Superhero exclaims emphatically.

JT rolls his eyes again. "Yeah, right. You wouldn't know what to do without me."

"One of these days you'll get kidnapped and I won't bother," the man threatens.

The boy snorts. "You're so evil."

"I'm sweet," the man protests.

Thor is worried, of course, but then Tony speaks: "Fury's just sent a memo to JARVIS. We're to bring the both of them back to the base." He disengages the helmet and narrows his eyes at the two strangers. "Hop on and strap in."

Bruce silently leads the way into the jet. Thor follows after the strangers, unwilling to turn his back on them. He deposits the enemy leader none too gently in the storage space.

Steve lags behind, every once in a while looking over his shoulder. "Nat?" he quietly inquires.

"We're fine," Clint's voice replies. "Nat's found us a new toy."

A moment later there is a roar of engine, and a motorcycle manned by two people (one of whom has hair vivid enough to be seen as red even from a distance, despite the meager starlight) shoots out of a side-building and zooms off down the road.

"Regr-"

"Let us know if you need to be picked up in the morning," Tony tells the two jauntily, cutting off Steve's order to return to the team.

Steve climbs up into the jet, sits down and hides his face in his hands. Thor wishes he could cheer him up like only Tony can, but he is unable to, so he simply sits down next to him and tried to offer silent comfort by simply being present.

He barely notices the strangers settling down on his other side.

Tony, in the meantime, is too busy filling in for Clint. He pushes buttons and adjusts controls. "Now, let's see if I can fly this babe." His fingers pause over a virtual keyboard. The jet lifts off. He whistles. "Not bad, Fury. Not bad at all."

Maria is, by virtue of her position, present for the confrontation.

Thor pauses to hand off an unconscious body to Agents Pierce, Bergman and Maloney.

"Kinney!" the Chief rumbles as the group strides from the runway inside the HQ.

"Fury!" returns the man addressed in a much lighter and slightly mocking tone. He is clad in his usual costume, which suggests that he hasn't made fast friends with the Avengers.

"A word," the Chief orders Kinney. "Agent Hill, make sure Taylor's comfortable in the meantime."

Maria nods. Her eyes sweep over Stark, Rogers, Thor and Banner, before they come to rest on the blue-eyed young man as-good-as glued to Kinney's side.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Sunshine," Kinney orders. His eyes briefly stray to Richard Sawyer, standing a respectful one and half a step behind Maria.

Maria is almost used to the presence of an underling by now. She hasn't expected that being the Chief's aid would entail having her own group of subordinates, but she almost enjoys it now. Some days.

Not today.

Kinney leaves in the Chief's wake. Other Agents see to it that the Avengers make it to their designated rooms without any unnecessary detours (which are liable to happen in Stark's case).

"Ave, Maria!" teasingly calls out the blond, who is not so much a Superantihero (as the Chief calls them), rather an accessory to one.

"Hello, JT," Maria replies, managing to hide her exasperation between the façade of long-suffering tolerance.

"Haven't seen you in a while," the boy continues, smiling widely and happily. He is extremely polite, too (unless circumstances make him switch off the profanity filter; then he has quite the mouth on him). "Doing well?"

"Thank you. I've hopped a pay grade since the last time," Maria admits. JT is one of the very few people in this business who are genuinely happy for her when she succeeds at something.

"Congrats," the boy says. Then he grins over her shoulder. "Who's your colleague?"

"Agent Hill?" Sawyer yelps, seeking guidance on how to react. He's a little green. Maria likes his potential, and she's determined to train him up, but as of yet he is not quite ready to meet a Superhero (or anyone in their league) one on one.

"This is Agent Sawyer," Maria says.

JT grins and gives the man a faux-shy wave. "Hello, Agent Sawyer. I'm JT. You know where I'm supposed to go?"

Sawyer takes a half-step backwards and convulsively swallows. "Y-yes, but Agent Hill-"

JT turns to Maria, nearly blinding her with the light reflection from two rows of perfect teeth. "Maria, do you think you can get me something to change into? I've been wearing this-" he tugs on his t-shirt, "for more than twelve hours, though a kidnapping, an imprisonment and a battle. I desperately need a shower. Agent Sawyer will show me around, right, Agent?"

There go the protocols, Maria thinks, resigned to it by now. Still, Rage is not someone to cross, definitely not about something as simple as making his boy-toy happy by providing a different attendant. Kinney can be, in the classic, oft-repeated words of Nick Fury, 'a major pain in the ass' when he wants.

"I… Should I, ma'am?" Sawyer asks, glancing from JT to Maria and back several times.

"Very well," Maria agrees. She glares at JT. "You know-"

"I don't go where I'm not invited," JT assures her.

Maria shakes her head at the innuendo and leaves to requisition a spare uniform for the young man.

Brian would feel like he's died and gone to the place where all the eye-candies live… were it not for Fury's presence. Not that Fury isn't hot, because he is, but Brian suspects that the guy is hetero anyway – that's why he's such a dick.

Pity.

Still, it's past midnight, a whole new day, and Brian gives a one-finger salute to the closing door once Fury's safely on its other side.

Goddamn fucking business. He's still not sure how the damn twink got him into this – because he is very sure it's somehow the twink's fault.

"So you did not fly in?" Captain Bootylicious pipes up, not even pretending that he and his cohort haven't been eavesdropping on the debrief, even though Fury's assured him that they wouldn't.

Brian figures that, surrounded by men this hot, he can forgive and forget.

"No," he assures the walking wet dream, laces his fingers behind his head and stretches, not-so-inconspicuously showing off the merchandise. "I walked in, like a normal person. I just made you think you saw me fly in."

"I do not like that," America admits.

Brian shrugs. In his current position and clothes that amounts to some interesting play of muscle. "No one likes their mind being fucked with." He shrugs again. Too bad the Captain is not looking. "Can't say I give a shit."

Anthony Edward Stark, richer (but not hotter), with bigger IQ (but older) than Brian, seats himself in one of the thoughtfully provided leather armchairs. He picks a bottle of sparkling water from the glass coffee-table (which, in Brian's mind, is a feckless attempt to make the place seem more like a conference room and less like the interrogation chamber it actually is) and takes a deep draught. A drop of water trickles out of the corner of his mouth, through his beard and falls down onto his AC/DC t-shirt.

Brian's never thought Iron Man was sexy – it's a metal suit, for fuck's sake – but Anthony Stark is something else.

"So, mind-distortion and freaky control over sensory perception," Stark muses, absently passing the water to the Captain, who just as absently takes it, sinking into the next armchair. "That's scary enough on its own. Are we missing something yet?"

"I'm Superhot…" Brian replies facetiously, because he has to, although he doesn't hesitate to add: "and my cum increases healing-factor."

"What?" the Captain yelps in his manly voice.

Stark's jaw sinks. For a couple of second he gapes at Brian, and then whispers something that sounds suspiciously like 'I want.'

"I can heal men by fucking them," Brian paraphrases for the sake of America.

"…not women?" Stark raises an eyebrow.

"Never women," Brian emphatically confirms. His flesh goose-bumps when he even thinks about pussy.

"It's true," Justin speaks up from the doorway (damn twink, sneaking in like that) to assure the Avengers that Brian's just jerking their chains, and really doesn't fuck any women. And also that Brian's swimmers are a magic potion cure. "I got gay-bashed a few years back. Ended up with permanent brain-damage, according to the doctors. But it's all cleared up."

"And it was fun getting there." Brian leers at the boy, doing his damnedest to cheapen the thing between him and Justin in the eyes of the watching attractive men.

"What did you do – bath in Dr Erskine's serum?" the Captain asks, wide-eyed.

Justin, snickering, comes over and snags his own bottle of water. He's looking eatable at the moment, too – still damp from the shower, with the tight borrowed S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform clinging to his skin.

"Nah. I was born like this." Brian spreads his arms in his trademark blessing pose. "God's gift to gay PA."

Clint feels his jaw sinking with every of Brian Kinney's statements. He would very much like not to believe any of it, but the way Nat's eyes are progressively widening, she's not detecting any bullshit.

The motorbike-ruse has worked just as they expected it would. Fury had them picked up with barely fifteen-minute lag, and they've listened to the conversations going on through the bug Natasha's planted on the JT kid up until the kid showered.

And, good Lord, did Clint wish it hadn't been the case.

"About time to rejoin them," Natasha suggests.

Clint turns to the screen showing the scene from the conference room and surveys the four men in there. None of them shows any sign of immediate aggression. The young one – JT – doesn't even show the capability of aggression. Maybe he really is just a… close acquaintance of the Kinney guy. The villains kidnap Superheroes' family and friends all the time. It's practically a standard practice.

"The kid?" Clint asks under his breath.

Natasha pulls a grimace. "I don't know what he is, but safe is not it."

"You could lay him out with both hands tied behind your back."

Natasha shrugs. In truth, that doesn't mean much. She's used to fighting handicapped. "I can't put my finger on it, but something's off about him."

Clint knows better than to discount her instincts. "We'll be careful."

Natasha nods. "Let's go."

Bruce and Thor meet in the hallway, both freshly showered and glad to have avoided the initial clash with Fury. As the night goes on, the Agent will gradually calm down, so by this time he might even be civil.

Thor enters the conference room first, still thoughtfully trying to shield Bruce from any possible violence. It's sweet of him.

"Honestly, Brian," JT is grumbling at 'his' Superhero, "as much as I get kidnapped, you can just as well be using me as live bait… And you've been, too." He's apparently not stupid, after all. Which is balanced out by him being a whiny teenager. "And they take me, every time – hook, line and sinker. It's becoming dull. I thought the Superhero lifestyle would add spice to the fucking – Jesus fuck, was I naïve."

Bruce chokes on his spit.

The Superhero adopts a patronizing expression. "You said it, Sunshine."

"At least the costumes are nice," JT admits.

There's just a moment of expectant silence and then they finish, in unison: "But I prefer it off you."

Thor, standing in front of Bruce, freezes. He's a huge mountain of a god, and Bruce isn't going to turn into the Other Guy just to move him out of the doorway, so he settles for waiting.

Fortunately, it doesn't take too long.

"Are those two…?" Thor inquires hesitantly, practically tip-toeing along the wall (which, with him being the god of thunder, does have certain comic relief value) to take a seat and refreshment from the table.

"Yes, they are," Bruce informs him, slinking in his wake. It's not like the red string between the two isn't practically visible.

"Earth really is different from Asgard," Thor concludes uncomfortably, and squeezes himself into an armchair next to Steve.

"Nat!" Steve exclaims, catching onto an available distraction from the touchy-feely couple.

"Got tired of waiting around for us?" Natasha spits at Tony, planting her hand on her hip.

"Nah – saw you stealing the bike and figured you wanted a ride and… a ride." Tony grins at her, raising his hands palms-out to stave off any violence. "We didn't know how long you'd take, so we figured we might as well wait for you here."

Natasha must have her own reasons for accepting that, just as Tony had his for taking off without her and Clint. She turns to Superhero Brian (according to JT) and demands: "And you are?"

"Rich and fashionable," 'Brian' retorts.

"Yeah, right," Natasha says dubiously. "One of Agent Fury's little side-projects. So, what do you specialize in? Puppies and kittens?"

Clint, Tony, Steve, Thor and Bruce lie back and watch the scene unfold.

'Brian' does not become angry, as she has apparently wanted. Instead, he smirks, crosses his arms and replies: "Rescuing my long-term fuck. Keeps me busy enough, most days, in between my company, my dance-club and my son."

"Son?" Natasha inquires, tilting her head. Her eyes stray (intentionally, no doubt) to JT.

"Justin? Really?" the man practically yells. "Do I look fifty to you, Mata Hari? And didn't I just say I'm fucking him?"

Natasha turns to the security camera and accusingly points at it. "There's two of them!"

Bruce notices that Clint, Steve and Thor are also looking at Tony.

Fury strides in just when the discussion-slash-interrogation is about to descend into another free-for-all acquaintance-forming row.

By now, arguments are basically what amounts for team-building with the Avengers, so Natasha estimates that 'Justin' and 'Brian' are – thank any and all gods! – not to be a part of the Initiative.

Small mercies.

Even as it is, Steve has covered his eyes and pretends to not be there, while Bruce tries very hard to concentrate on the S.H.I.E.L.D. tablet he's borrowed. Clint is watching Natasha – still concerned about the poisoning, she'd bet.

Thor taps his fingers against the glass pane of the table.

"I see you have made your acquaintance with Rage," Fury states coolly, surveying the pandemonium. "Better known without the costume as Brian Kinney."

"Rage," Stark mockingly contemplates. "I would like that… except I'm not into emo teen-angst shit."

Kinney seems to stiffen.

Stark, obviously, takes that as an invitation to up the ante. "I mean, I could have called myself Rage – I had reason enough to be pissed at the world. And that's still nothing on Bruce, here-"

Stark is cut off as Kinney dissolves into a fit of laughter, leaning hard onto the backrest of an as-of-yet unoccupied seat.

Fury smirks.

"Hear that, Sunshine?" 'Kinney' mocks. "Emo teen-angst shit?"

"Fuck you, Brian!" JT retorts, scowls, and sticks out his lower lip.

"Your wish is my command, Princess," Kinney announces, and in three steps has the boy pushed against a wall and is checking out his tonsils with his tongue.

Natasha looks away, because she doesn't want to be subjected to this.

"You can't just…" Thor seems lost of words, gaping at the couple.

Natasha feels with him.

There's a slurping noise that makes her shudder.

"Stop that!" Steve shouts.

Fury seems to be ignoring the public indecency until the moment there's the sound of the zipper of JT's pants being opened. Fury growls. "Kinney, we all know you don't care about social norms. You don't have to prove it to us."

"Hey!" Kinney protests. "I just pulled the twink out of the clutches of uncertain death – again. I'm entitled to my celebratory fuck!"

"Could you…" Steve takes a deep breath, suffering etched into his face. "…not do that in public places?"

"It isn't half as much fun in private." Shockingly, it is the boy who says this.

"Fury!" Natasha blows up.

It's not like these things don't happen – they happen more often than she wants to think. It's happened to her, too. It's a part of the business. Sex isn't limited just to adults, especially when national security is on the line.

But she doesn't want to see it. "That kid's a kid! He can't be more than seventeen!"

"I'm twenty-three, lady, and he's been fucking me for good six years now," JT tells her.

"Oh, the amount of child-molestation jokes popping into my head…" Stark informs them.

Steve gives him a death glare.

"You jealous?" Stark inquires.

Natasha feels the veins in her forehead throbbing. She raises her fingers to touch her temple. Her face feels hot. Damn poison.

JT pulls his mouth away from the Kinney-creeper's face for a moment and stares at Natasha. "You know, that can't be good for your blood pressure. Have you tried smoking? Calms you right down."

Stark seizes in his armchair and starts laughing his ass off.

Natasha grits her teeth. The other option is letting out an inarticulate bellow of rage and… no. Just no.

"Separated at birth, those two," Barton observes about Kinney and Stark.

Nick would be hard-pressed to argue, but Kinney apparently doesn't share his point of view, because he snaps: "No fucking way! He could be my father!"

"Your father was a drunken asshole," Taylor points out mildly. He sits down onto the armrest of the chair Kinney has been leaning against, and sets his, still mostly full, bottle down.

"That would fit," Romanov observes.

Granted, Stark might have had his little problems with alcohol, and he isn't exactly the most approachable person.

Nevertheless, Nick has had enough of this crap, and he wants to finally get to the real objective of this mission, so he silences the contestants and glares Kinney into sitting his ass down (he might, possibly, feel a little proud of that achievement).

"Taylor, report!" he barks.

Taylor crosses his legs and starts talking: "Codename Violator. Real name Mark Collins, changed two years ago from Milton Cleukant – we can all imagine why, and what kind of psychological damage that might have inflicted upon unfortunate Milton who, considering the sheer hideousness of his mug that necessitates adding negative numbers to the hotness scale, probably never did."

There is a while of silence while most of the team processes.

Rogers seems disconcerted by the way the kid prolongs his vowels. Taylor's not the kind of in-your-face, pink-wearing, flamboyant queer, but he's still gone to great lengths to make himself obviously homosexual while remaining tasteful. Rogers, who's lived and breathed the blue discharge, miles away from even the obsolete Don't ask, don't tell, is probably this far from dazedly blinking and parroting an error message.

Kinney and Stark snort.

Taylor takes that as a bid to continue. "Average marks at high school, no sports, denied scholarship, a series of unsuccessful attempts to start a carrier, prolonged unemployment… the works. Has a forever-unfulfilled God complex in addition to severe mania and a list of addictions. From what I've observed, the person who empowered him and, basically, used him to lure out the Avengers in an attempt to abduct Captain America and reverse-engineer the serum, is his psychologist, most likely in the employ of a third side. Name withheld, of course, but I've availed myself to one of your Agents' phone," he glances at Nick with a smile like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, "tell him thanks when you find him, and not to call," he turns to Kinney, "you didn't miss out on anything worthwhile, Brian," looks back to the rest of the Avengers, "and a little creative networking got me the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center."

This time the silence is more protracted. Taylor briefly waits for some feedback, but when it's not coming, he picks the S.H.I.E.L.D. tablet Bruce has discarded from the table, sets it onto his thigh and starts drawing something with the tip of his finger. At a glance, it appears to be an overdramatized rendition of Rage.

"You're joking," Romanov says dryly once she's screwed her head back on.

She, along with Barton, Banner and Rogers gape at the boy, who's biting his lip, sitting very nearly in his Superhero sugar-daddy's lap, and finger-painting on a piece of fucking expensive government technology. Him being a blond, sweet-faced doll doesn't really help the image.

Nick counts himself fortunate that he'd reviewed their histories, including their SAT results, before he ever came into contact with either Kinney or Taylor. Kinney likes to pit the kid against strangers and laugh at the faces they make when they realize Taylor's smarter than anyone that… pretty… has any right to be.

Nick's perpetually oppositional Rescue Rangers didn't expect it either.

To be fair, Stark has somehow managed to figure the two out (probably seen shades of Potts in Taylor), and Thor is absently tracing the designs on his hammer, not having listened at all, but the rest are enough for Kinney to feel like he's sufficiently proven his superiority today.

"Very nice," Kinney says with enough sarcasm to kill a weak-willed person. "Want a cookie, Sunshine?"

Taylor releases his lower lip from between his teeth and, adjusting a line in the picture, faux-unthinkingly replies: "With that stick up your ass, isn't it like you're bottoming twenty-four/seven?"

Kinney freezes – and glares gory death at Stark, who chokes on his 'water.' Then he grips Taylor's chin in his hand and forces the boy to look up. "You didn't… You didn't just say that."

"Say what?" Taylor blinks at him, innocent and surprised. "I love you, Rage!" He smiles, slides his chin out of the grip, plants his mouth on Kinney's for a second, and returns to his spontaneous art project.

"Fucking twink," Kinney grouses, shaking his head.

Nick somehow doubts that there is a single person in the Nine Realms apart from Taylor who would have the slightest chance of asserting any amount of control over Kinney.

Tony is tired enough to consider crashing at the headquarters for the night, but when he counts in his head how close to Fury he would be sleeping, he quickly abandons the idea. He calls Pepper, and she assures him that a helicopter will be there to pick him up in twenty-five minutes.

That woman is a blessing.

Tony pulls on a jacket and makes his way toward the heliport. He's hom-

"Tony!" a voice calls him seconds before he's home-free. It's Kinney, accompanied by his slightly scary side-kick sex-toy. He is looking at Tony with readable intent, and following up on his initial call: "Can I call you Tony? Superb."

Tony smirks and shifts into his professional mode. He recognizes a consummate businessman when he sees one.

Kinney smirks back.

"Sure, Brian," Tony replies. He briefly glances at the blond limpet attached to Kinney's side. If he didn't know better, he would have guessed Taylor to be one of those decorative brain-dead bimbos, only in a male version.

"I know your company does its own advertising," Kinney prefaces whatever he's about to suggest (not manipulate out of Tony, because they both know they're on the same level, and any such attempt would probably result in another World War). "Good stuff. All added and subtracted, the same campaign for a couple of decades, sure, but there's a hint of innovation here and there. Very… competent."

Tony accepts the non-compliment in the spirit in which it has been given – he, too, would never admit that another company's tech could be good enough to compete with his. "I'll tell Pepper you like what she's been doing with the PR."

Kinney inclines his head and smiles a somewhat oily way. He's a shark alright.

Taylor glances up then. His attention being diverted from the mild groping he has been focused on is the only warning Tony has before Kinney switches the tracks on him.

"That's not what I wanted to talk about, anyway."

Tony shifts, feeling a little less like dying from exhaustion. It's business adrenaline kicking in.

Kinney hands him two identical flyers. There is the outline of an at least half naked man on them, and Tony is not entirely sure if he wants to look more closely.

"Babylon," Kinney explains. "It's my club. Down in the Pitts, but there's no better place if you want to have fun." His and Taylor's gleaming eyes suggest about the same thing as the advertizing does, and imply what kind of fun he means. "See if you can get Captain Fuckable to come along."

Both Kinney and Taylor direct disconcerting, lustful stares at the silhouette of the Cap, who's walking through the parking lot to his motorbike.

Tony doesn't like it. At all. In fact, he's going to do his very best to keep the Cap away from… that place.

Not that he has a problem with either homosexuality or promiscuity (he has the occasional hypocritical moment, but that would be overkill), it's just – Steve. There's no way Tony (or Bruce, or Barton or Romanov or even Thor) would ever throw Spangles to the wolves.

"I will tell him," Tony promises.

Kinney shrugs, giving Tony a once over before he nods. "Who knows. Maybe he'll appreciate it."

Tony doubts it. Also, by the way Taylor is trying to muffle his snickers, they are implying something completely different. Tony doesn't want to know.

"Well," he says, feigning awkwardness, "it's been a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, Mr Stark," Taylor replies and flutters his eyelashes.

They, finally, go away.

Although, once they're far enough away, Tony gives in to his curiosity and calls out: "Brian!"

"Yes?" Kinney turns.

"Why keep the name Rage?" If he doesn't like it, and thinks it makes him sound like an adolescent with a self-harming problem, why does he put on that mask and run around, calling himself an emotion he doesn't even feel most of the time (rather than something more fitting, like Perpetual Exasperation)?

Kinney looks at the blond boy, no longer attached to his side, but walking next to him almost like a normal person. Then he shrugs. "Why not?" He raises his hand in a wordless farewell.

They walk away, turn a corner, and a few moments later Tony can hear their griping argument in the distance.

He shudders. Yet another reason to steer clear of the emotional bullshit. Who knows what he would have been called instead Iron Man, if he were named by Pepper?

Probably something along the lines of Metal Asshole.