The Consultant
The wreckage was quite impressive, really. Overturned cars and piles of rubble lined the street, impeding the progress of the vehicle making it's way through the epicenter of the destruction. Broken glass crunched under the feet of the workers who toiled to rebuild their beloved town mere hours after the disaster that had laid waste to it.
Puente Antiguo would recover, but the damage was lasting. The attack had cost hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage, nearly cost a few lives, and, worst of all, it had cost the residents their peace of mind. They had been shocked into painful awareness of the fact that their small corner of the world was not infallible.
The black SUV navigated the orange pylons easily, and in short order, was turning into the large car park outside a non-descript warehouse. Or, rather, a parking lot, Mycroft Holmes reminded himself as the gigantic vehicle came to a stop.
Gathering his briefcase and conspicuously out-of-season umbrella, he pushed open his own door before the hulking, suit-clad driver could do it for him. As he emerged into the hot air of the sunbaked desert, he allowed himself a moment to pine for his fleet of sleek, unobtrusive cars. They were much more efficient than these petrol-sucking monstrosities, and just as bulletproof.
He sighed and stretched his shoulders while the driver/bodyguard led him through the building. However spacious a private jet might be, it was 10 hours of air travel, and far from comfortable. It couldn't be helped, he mourned. Though it would certainly have been more convenient for a killer automaton attack to happen in Europe.
After a silent trip into the air-conditioned building, and a short walk down an echoing, grey hallway, they stopped at an unmarked room, and his escort spoke briefly into his radio before opening the door and motioning him inside.
The office was plain, equipped with a grey metal desk and rolling chair. Three televisions were set up on a long table to the side, each of them playing a different local news channel on mute. Headlines scrolled, some of them using words like "earthquake" and "unexplained".
"You must be Mr. Holmes."
A black man in a long leather coat and an eye patch strode toward him, palm extended. The man had a firm handshake, and his face, with its single visible eye, was taciturn and impatient.
"I am, indeed. Are you the leader of this operation?" Mycroft already knew who he was, of course, and had a thick file in his briefcase with his name on it.
"Nick Fury, director of SHIELD. I'd tell you I was happy to have you with us, but there's nothing happy about the situation we're in." The man's deep frown spoke volumes about how happy he really was to see him.
The three agents in the room were just as tense as their leader. All of them were large, silent and clad entirely in black from their sunglasses to their large combat boots. One wore a suit, but the others looked ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. Mycroft took note of their concealed weapons.
"Quite right," he said, and smiled politely. He placed his briefcase on the empty desk and spun the combination dials. Just as he unlocked the case with a click, the door opened again. The guard at the door let in another man in a suit and woman dressed like the other agents.
"Ah, there he is, the man of the hour."
Fury knew this man, quite well, if the familiar clap on the shoulder the man received was anything to go on. Fury ushered him forward and gestured to Mycroft.
"This is Mr. Holmes. He's the expert the board called in." Incorrect, he'd called the board to let them know he'd called himself in.
The man turned a curious gaze to Mycroft. "The expert in what?"
"Everything," he cut in, smoothly. "And you are?"
"Agent Coulson."
They shook hands, and he could feel that Agent Coulson's were strong, but not work-roughened. Military-trained, said the haircut and bearing, but the hands and the pristine suit said office worker. A wordsmith like himself, he gathered, some similar role.
"Glad to have you on board, Mr. Holmes," he said, his small, friendly smile giving nothing away.
"Happy to be of service," he returned, similarly polite, but unforthcoming. "Now, unless we're expecting anyone else, I'd like to start."
Agent Coulson's brows rose at his authoritative tone, and Fury's frown grew more thunderous, if that was even possible. He turned away from them both and drew a file from his case. Flipping through the folder, he found what he wanted and passed a crisp paper to both Fury and Agent Coulson.
"This is a press release I've drafted on behalf of the U.S. Military. According to them, the robot that terrorized this town yesterday was a malfunctioning prototype of an unmanned version of—" he checked his notes, "Mr. Stark's suits. The plan is to focus on the heroics of the local police force, and assure the public that the danger is over and the program has been suspended indefinitely. If anyone asks, Thor Odinson and his colleagues are soldiers, and they've been rewarded for their part in stopping the faulty machine. My people have been infiltrating social media, removing the most graphic of the footage captured during the attack, but there's only so much we can do in that regard. There are already a few conspiracy theorists claiming alien activity, but they've been mostly disregarded.
Stunned silence met his pronouncements. The clock on the otherwise bare walls of the office counted three beats before Fury spoke, his voice tight. "That's your plan, is it?"
"Yes, it is. It's a good one. Shift the focus, calm the panic. Very effective after other, more typical disasters."
Agent Coulson finished scanning the document he'd been given, and handed it back to Mycroft. "You've got this all figured out, don't you?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the surprised tone. "I should. This is what I do, Agent Coulson. My name is synonymous with damage control." His name could also be found in the encyclopedia under government secrets, but they didn't need to know that.
"You've done this before?" the man asked, sounding genuinely interested.
"Not quite this type of problem, usually, but yes, I've handled my share of catastrophes, mostly political in nature." The agent gave him a curious look, so he explained. "I've tidied more than a few scandals in my day."
"People behave scandalously across the pond?" Coulson joked.
Mycroft chuckled. "Oh, I assure you, Americans do not corner the market on scandalous behaviour."
"I should hope not," he drawled.
Mycroft blinked, eyeing Coulson's smirk and the glint in his sharp eyes. Shaking off the odd comment, he turned to Fury again.
"Now, Director, as I mentioned, so far anyone claiming that the machine they saw was an alien weapon has been largely ignored, but the longer we fail to deny that claim, the easier it becomes to believe it. Therefore, we must move quickly. Take a look at the what I've drafted, and let me know if you see the need for any changes, but do not change anything without my approval." He reached into his briefcase again and pulled out another file. "This is a list of my needs. Computers, a printer, a few odds and ends to make my job easier, you understand. Please have someone deliver them here."
"And if I don't?" Fury bit off, and crossed his arms over his chest, pointedly not taking the list of requirements from Mycroft's hand.
It's going to be like that, is it? Mycroft thought.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked, innocently, preparing for the battle.
"I'm just supposed to do your bidding, like I'm some gopher intern?" Fury's jaw was tight, as were his hands, clenching and unclenching visibly as he glared.
"Good lord, no. I assume you have gophers. Send them, or, if they're all too terribly busy, my people will have the items delivered to me." He placed the list on the empty desk and plucked his phone from his breast pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get to work."
He nodded at Fury, attempting to dismiss him and turned away to rifle through the files in the open briefcase, but clearly, the man wasn't finished yet.
"I didn't come all the way to New Mexico to bend over for some bureaucrat who waltzes in like he owns the place."
Mycroft sighed and tightened his grip on the umbrella in his hand. He fixed Fury with his best British Government stare.
"All I need from you are a few gadgets and room to do what I've been hired to do." He paused, and couldn't resist adding, "And believe me, Sir, if I wanted you to bend over, you'd know."
A snort of laughter made both of them look toward the sound. Agent Coulson was covering his mouth to stifle the noise. He quickly cleared his throat and schooled his features. Fury whipped his gaze back to Mycroft.
"Listen here, Holmes, The only reason you've been invited here is because I have orders from on high to give you access. If it were up to me, we'd be dealing with this ourselves, with our own experts."
Mycroft dropped his polite, bland smile and stepped closer to his adversary. Not quite in his personal space, but close enough that the agents surrounding them straightened and moved their hands closer to their weapons. He met the man's angry gaze and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper.
"Director Fury, you are currently dealing with the aftermath of one of the most public occurrences of extra-terrestrial contact this country has seen in decades. If you wish to avoid the world finding out what we have come to know and the consequences that that would have on a global scale, you had better listen to me, and listen very closely. You may not realize the gravity of this situation or the magnitude of the problems we could be facing, but if you fail to follow my directions, or obstruct my work in any way, I will have no choice but to have you removed from the project."
Fury's face showed his insulted disbelief, "Removed? You don't have the power to do that."
"Don't I?" He gestured with the phone that still rested in his palm. "I can command more power with one push of a button on this phone than your entire team can possibly summon."
His words were met with a scoff. "You know that for sure, do you?"
Mycroft's eyes never wavered as he brought back his diplomatic not-quite-smile. "Yes, Director. I do. I know it just as surely as I know your social security number, your zip code—the house and the apartment—and the telephone numbers of three of your closest friends."
"Oh, really? I think you're bluffing."
He hadn't wanted to show his hand quite so soon, but the smug certainty written all over Fury's face rankled him more than expected.
"Do you?" The phone chirped as he brought the screen to life and began to recite a chain of numbers.
Mycroft saw the recognition dawn on Fury's face. His visible eye widened and he took a hasty step forward, his arm reaching for the phone. Mycroft swung the umbrella up and placed the tip in the center of his chest. The armed agents surrounding them tensed, as if the harmless brolly was a weapon. Astute of them, really.
"Ah, ah, ah, Director," he sing-songed. "Grabby hands are for children."
Mycroft thought he might have overdone it a bit with that last quip, but Fury only gritted his teeth and stepped back. He lowered his umbrella, pocketed the phone and fixed Fury with a level stare. "Do not underestimate bureaucracy, Director. Do we have an understanding?"
"We do," Fury muttered and grabbed the list from the table before he stalked from the room, his agents in tow.
Mycroft didn't bother to watch them go. Instead, he checked his watch and cursed at the lost time spent jousting with Fury. He needed to have the final draft of the prepared statement emailed within the hour. Showing it to Fury had been merely a formality, as he had no intention of changing a word, and he'd have it sent off in minutes, but that depended on whether he had a stable Internet connection in this godforsaken town. He was busy putting the extra copies back in their folder, when a voice made him start.
"You're a cool one, aren't you?" Agent Coulson hadn't left with the others, he realized, instead staying behind to lean against the wall next to the door.
"Am I?" he asked, intrigued by this agent who didn't seem wary of him in the slightest.
Coulson pushed off the wall and walked slowly over to perch with one hip on the desk. "I haven't seen him that intimidated by someone in…" his eyes narrowed, considering, "Well, ever. Director Fury is not man who scares easy."
Unused to the compliments, Mycroft struggled not to fidget. "Wait until he finds out I have the photos from his last vacation in Cabo," he quipped.
His theatrical shudder made Coulson laugh again, unsuppressed this time. The sound of his genuine, easy chuckle was as pleasant as it was surprising. It was a singular man who found jokes about gross privacy invasion amusing.
A teasing light came into his eyes. "So, Mr. Holmes, do I have to start calling you boss, now that you're working for us?"
That was quite an abrupt change of topic, he mused, but answered honestly. "I work for no one. I merely consult."
"Oh," he said, blandly, and nodded, slowly. They fell silent while Mycroft shifted the piles of documents around and watched Coulson's face out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to be considering something, if the intense look on his face was anything to go by.
"That's a good trick, with the phone and the social security number," he said, after a few moments of weighty silence. "I might have to borrow it."
Mycroft smirked, and drawled, "Oh, that's nothing. Wait until I show you my best tricks."
"I'd like that," Coulson said, his voice unexpectedly low, and the teasing note in his voice made Mycroft bring his head up sharply from his papers. He searched the agent's face for confirmation that the subtle innuendo had been intentional. He found nothing in his amiable, handsome face that suggested he'd meant to allude to anything…except the twitch at the corner of his mouth where his smile threatened to turn into a grin.
He was searching the man's face so intently that he nearly jerked backward when Coulson reached over and tapped the phone that rested in his breast pocket.
"So, have you got all my personal details in that phone of yours, too? Address, cell number, all that jazz?"
Mycroft cleared his throat, and attempted to be as flippant and cool as he normally was, dammit. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Would you like to?"
Mycroft blinked and lost his voice for a moment. "Would I like what?"
"Like my phone number," he answered innocently, grinning full out now.
Mycroft raised his brow. "And why would I need that?" he asked, cautiously.
"So you could, I don't know, consult me. Over dinner, maybe." He shrugged and gestured to the TVs and the scrolling headlines. "Once the dust has settled a bit."
Mycroft shut the briefcase with a snap and turned to face the man fully. "Are you an expert, then, Agent Coulson?" He asked, and wet his lips with his tongue, mostly unintentionally. Mostly. They were in a desert, after all.
"Oh, I'd love to show you my expertise, Mr. Holmes." The teasing tone was gone now, replaced by a warm promise, but his gaze was no less sharp. Their eyes met and held for a few seconds, taut with potential.
Mycroft swallowed and made sure his voice came out even and controlled. "That would be…enlightening, Agent Coulson."
He rose from his seat on the desk and extended his hand. "Please, call me Phil."
"Mycroft," he returned, and grasped Phil's warm, dry palm for the second time that day. He didn't think he held the offered hand overlong, but the drag of their fingers as they came apart might have been a touch slower than it had been before.
"So," Phil said, and straightened, "should I write down my digits, or…"
"Oh, not to worry. I'm sure I'll find it somewhere." He said, breezily, and patted the phone that rested in his jacket.
"See that you do," he replied, and grinned one last time, inexplicably amused by Mycroft's implied omnipotence. With a nod and a cheeky American-style salute, Phil let himself out of the office.
Leaning back against the desk in the still room, he contemplated his umbrella for a few moments, processing the odd, but not unwelcome turn this sojourn had taken. He tapped the brolly against the tile floor a few times, then tugged the phone from his pocket. After selecting a long-distance number, he waited three rings for his PA to pick up.
"Sorry to wake you, dear. Could you run a background check for me? Agent Phil Coulson. I believe I'd like to consult with him before my trip is over."