A/N: This story is finally, finally finished, and will be posted in more or less regular intervals. Illustrations are pending. Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy,
Brynn
x
Chapter Two: Apotheosisx
"Sir, Agent Coulson and Miss Potts have left the building," the machine informed them.
Stark had by this time drained all three glasses of champagne and was in the process of pouring himself a fourth one. "You work for the SIS, but you're not a field agent," he summarised once he had gulped down the bubbly liquid. "R and D?"
Q nodded. He remained sitting on the sofa while Stark paced around, filled with nervous energy and watching the data from the tablet, which he had transferred to the holographic projections.
"And you're here because PEGASUS imploded?"
Q steepled his fingers and wished he had a mug of Earl Grey to hold onto. "When the research complex went down, one of our agents had been posted in the vicinity. We have reasons to believe he is alive, but no idea about his location and some suspicions about his condition." No need to mention yet that Bond was possibly mind-controlled; better to have Stark believe him wounded.
Stark seemed surprised. "You're not after PEGASUS?"
"An hour ago, I would not have given a damn about it," Q said. "Now, however…" He pointed to the hologram of the Hypercube. "I know what that is. I know of some things it can… facilitate."
"You do?" Stark invited him to expound.
Q scoffed. "How long have they had it?"
"How long have they been using it to build weapons and claimed to me it was clean energy research, you mean?" Stark rephrased. "You wait, and I'll have JARVIS relay the basic info once I have it."
Q would have very much liked to know both, but he wasn't about to sit around. "I don't have time for that. I need to go find our agent."
"Do you even know where to start? And while we're at it, the fuck is a lab rat doing extraction of a field agent?" Concentrating on different matters, Stark apparently lost his ability to censor his mouth.
"A lab rat can be a field agent," Q protested, trying to draw attention further away from the fact that it was very, very obvious that this operation was not sanctioned by MI-6. "What else is Iron Man?"
"Touché."
Now, Q thought, now he keenly missed magic. Bond had mentioned Stuttgart in four days, but even assuming that he had any intention to turn up there, he would not be there yet. No, he would have gone to the ground – and requested extraction through the official channels – or he had been taken somewhere. To the same place, presumably, as the Hypercube.
When inert, the Hypercube had very little effect on its environment. When used, however, the effect was quite profound. It would have left behind a glaringly obvious trail.
"I need meteorological data for the past twenty-four hours, concentrating on Adirondack."
Stark paused in his pacing and softly cursed. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"Perhaps a significant part of your attention is still focused on Miss Potts and Agent Coulson," his machine replied.
Stark glared at the ceiling. "Donate you to a public high school. Or a Zoo. No difference. I need coffee. Come on, Johnny-boy, let's get coffee. Did I mention I've got great coffee?"
"I prefer tea."
"Heathen."
x
The weather maps, compiled and analysed by Stark's sentient computer, showed very clearly where the attack on the PEGASUS complex had originated, and which way the attacker had gone after it was over. The Hypercube disrupted the natural patterns severely enough to leave traces for hours afterwards.
Q was sitting Indian style on a mat in a large, mostly empty, warehouse-like room that he knew would in the next months be transformed into Stark's workshop. Presently, there was nothing much to exclaim over, except maybe the holographic projections, which were so futuristic that they would have made Boothroyd cry. Stark was using those, so Q was stuck with an otherwise perfectly acceptable TFT-LCD, 23 inch screen.
"Got them," Q announced once he was sure of the present location of the Hypercube.
"So fast?" Stark came over to kneel at the edge of the mat and lean over Q's shoulder. "Not hidden very well?"
Q shrugged. "They might do better once the Hypercube's emissions lessen. Right now they're still visible on the map. Here-" he stabbed his finger at the display in the center of an improbably circular depression.
"That's less than fifty miles from here," Stark observed.
"Why travel far? If they know enough about the Hypercube-" and Q was sure that whoever was after it knew too damn much, "-they know it's pointless to hide yet. In another twenty-four hours, this data would be useless. Then you'd have to go by the radiation it gives off in its inert state, and with the current infrastructure that's like searching for a particular drop of water in a river."
"Bet you dinner Banner could do it," Stark muttered, but his eyes were glued to his tablet, and chances were he had no idea what his mouth was saying.
Q secretly agreed. Provided that Bruce Banner could be located, and made to come, he probably could have found even something as skilled at hiding itself as the Hypercube. Humans were continuously stepping out of the shadow of their race.
Q emailed his techs and requested updates on double-oh-seven and double-oh-six. No news on the Bond front – just as expected. He received Trevelyan's new number in the second info packet, along with the notification that the agent had requested a week of leave, which was granted on recommendation from Medical alone. Q would just wager that double-oh-six thought Germany was nice this time of year.
He checked Trevelyan's phone. Bond had not made any further contact. No one had made contact. Going by the phone, an uninitiated observer would have thought that Trevelyan led a very boring life.
"I need to go," he said after a while. The window of opportunity was shrinking, and Stark had more work to do in a few hours than any team of scientists could be expected to accomplish in a week.
"I'd offer to lend you the armor, but it's got sentimental value," Stark quipped. He set down the tablet and instructed the machine to turn up the lights. "Are you seriously walking into the lion's den on your own? What are you – a mutant? No problem if you are, some of my friends… well, no, some of my acquaintances are mutants, and they're no worse to be around than regular homo sapiens people. No better either. Just people. Only usually weirder. And by weird I mean… blue."
"I am not a mutant," Q assured him. He stood, stretched to make his spine pop in several places (causing Stark to grimace) and tilted his head to the side. "I do have several aces up my sleeves."
That was a lie. He had no weapons except a Beretta that would be very redundant against anything of Æsir or Jötnar origin, a couple of knives, and his wits. He also had a fool's hope of tricking the geis on him into granting him absolution, but that was subject to chance and he could not rely on it.
Stark idly tapped the tablet, then glanced over his shoulder and asked: "You wanna borrow a car?"
Q nodded. "That would be great."
x
Q parked the unconscionably flashy Pontiac Trans Am a block away from the building that according to Stark, Stark's machine and Q's own calculations housed the Hypercube.
It was just past midnight and he was going to get out of this car, walk through the persistent drizzle and make like a double-oh until he got to Bond and… No, it really was not a good plan. He had a good feeling about it, however, and it had been a while since he could be unrestrainedly destructive.
He checked his gun, but left it in the holster and instead took up a titanium shaft with a cuspate end, which he had liberated from Stark's crates of broken, failed and forgotten technology. He had no idea what it had been, or had been supposed to become, but right now it was a lethal object in the hands of a man whose preferred weapon had always been a spear.
Down the street he crossed the little car park, knocked on the window of the porter's lodge and (inspired by Stark's bullshit) pretended to be partially deaf. When the man inside opened the door to come out and get rid of Q bodily, he received the pointy end of the shaft between his ribs, whereupon he began to expire.
An odd blue glow ran out of his eyes seconds before he breathed last. He tried to speak. "How… I'd… not me… Bertha…"
Q got the gist. It was mind-control after all.
He recovered the man's keys and let himself into the building. He remained in the dark, keeping his steps as quiet as possible. He could hear distant sounds, voices and the humming of technical devices, but nothing distinctive. He found two guards – silenced one with a chop to the neck that crushed the larynx, struck the other over the head with the shaft.
At least he still had this. It was strange to use a spear without magic, but it was not impossible, and it had not stopped feeling natural. He had not ceased being a warrior, even robbed of most of his power.
That was gratifying.
Q continued exploring the building, which apparently served as a wholesale business for cables, and killed three more mortals with progressive ease.
After the Allfather had caught him on the Bifröst, he had decided that since the punishment had worked so well in reforming one of his sons, it would work just as well on the other.
When had anything worked the same on them, Q asked. When? They had needed different tutors, different weapons, different fighting styles – they even sought out very different people to take to bed. Some days it felt like – ha, ha – they were not related at all. Stranding Q on Midgard had been an all-around bad idea.
For the Allfather. Because all that Q could think about it was that the Æsir had given him a home that had been moderately comfortable and welcoming, even if he had chosen to turn his blind eye to the instances of battery Q had suffered in his household. He would not have allowed such a thing to happen to his real son, but that was a privilege of blood relation, and Q accepted that. So what if now, after the truth had come out and set him free, he was no longer welcome in that home?
Here he had a new world, one that he had but touched without even tasting, and one that he was finding more and more engaging with every passing day.
Finally, all that was left was the main hall, the place of business, which was partially illuminated by ceiling lamps along one of the shorter walls. He stood in the shadows of the hallway and viewed his opposition.
There were three men and two women. One of the men was Bond. Another carried a scepter that shone the same blue as all their eyes did.
Q could not see the Hypercube.
"We have a visitor," spoke the man with the scepter, and unmistakably turned to face Q, as if he could see him through the shadows. It was more likely he could sense Q. His face, now that it came within sight, was obviously not human. He was of neither Æsir nor Vanir, neither Jötnar nor Áltar nor Dvergar, and of other races Q had but heard. "Have you come to join us, little human?" he called out and then he laughed, for too long and too desperately to even resemble sanity.
"He is one of my colleagues," Bond spoke. "Very dangerous."
Q had to look at him. There was an unnatural expression on Bond's face – something like happiness, perhaps euphoria, but forced, struggling against facial muscles used to scowling and sneering and smirking. This was not Bond, only a simulacrum with all Bond's knowledge.
How bloody bad was that?
"Then you have definitely come to join us," the extraterrestrial with the scepter concluded, and laughed again. "Bring him to me."
Bond and the third man, also blond and unfairly muscular (with the muscles clearly visible under his sleeveless, skin-tight overall), strode over to Q; the stranger ripped the shaft out of Q's hands and threw it aside onto the huge coils of cables, while Bond wound his huge, way too warm arm around Q's waist and gently but without allowing the slightest possibility of struggle dragged Q over into the light.
Q could feel the magic of the sceptre, and once again regretted that the Allfather had bound his powers. Learning to live without them had been a hassle, but he had always been adaptable.
Electricity and indoor plumbing almost made up for it.
The thing Q liked most about Midgard was how clean all the civilised mortals were. Even now, after a day AWOL, Bond was not stinking like a barn. Q also appreciated the lack of the Allfather and some of Thor's comrades. Thor himself, he was on the fence about.
Magic… well, magic hadn't been necessary for everyday survival here. He could usually get by without it. Just as, a snide part of him insisted, Thor could have survived without Mjölnir.
Now, however, it would be handy.
The extraterrestrial stepped closer; from the sleeve of his black woolen coat stuck out a clawed hand in which he gripped Q's jaw to tilt his head back. The creature's eyes were dark, not shining blue like those of the mortals he had bewitched, but he was no less controlled by the weapon he carried.
Q elbowed Bond, who decided that now that his 'leader' had Q firmly in his taloned grip, there was no need to paw at him anymore. He backed away and remained between the two women, who presently draped themselves over him. Business as usual in the world of double-oh-seven.
"You picked the wrong mortal," Q slurred through the grip on his jaw. "This one is mine."
"And who are you, little maggot?" the creature inquired, snarling to show off a mouth full of sharp teeth and truly horrifying halitosis.
"I go by Q," Q replied.
"Your name means nothing." The creature drew itself taller, so much so that Q could barely stand on his tiptoes and almost choked. The tip of the scepter touched the front of his cardigan. "You are nothing. I come bearing the power of the Chitauri! Soon, this whole planet will burn and you with-urk."
Q blinked and looked down at his hands. His hands were covered with gloves. Not any gloves, but his gloves. As he stared at them incredulously, a golden glow radiated from his body and enveloped him, momentarily materialising into his armour. The helmet was a little inappropriate for the occasion, but he couldn't be dissatisfied with the theatricality of the instance when his magic had returned to him.
He did not believe that the Allfather's binding spell had failed, so that meant that Q must have fulfilled the condition. Offering to sacrifice his life for the life of a mortal was what it took, after all?
How trivial.
"I would ask for your name," he said to the creature that appeared to be dying in a painful manner on the floor of its own lair, "but I see you are not in the condition to introduce yourself." Never mind, then. The idiot had had enough time to impart all relevant information.
A coil of fire sprang inside Q's stomach. He had a brief vision of the memory of Thor standing up for the meaningless village in America, its meaningless, cowering people, and perhaps comprehended a little of that self-righteous drive to oppose all enemy forces to defend, to protect. It was what Q had done for Asgard, and it was, apparently, what he was going to do for Midgard – the final step to adopting Midgard as his own, his kingdom to rule and to protect.
"…they are all mine," he breathed. It felt good. It felt like he had finally achieved what he had wanted, finally become who he was supposed to be.
The blue light of magic receded from Bond's eyes, and the agent forced the women off of himself. He stood straight, speedily regaining his balance and his poise.
Q dismissed his armour but it was too late to hide its existence from Bond. He would not even try.
Bond looked him in the eye. His irises had returned to their natural blue-grey colour. Q found he could breathe more easily in the presence of his magic and the knowledge that not only had Bond not willfully betrayed Britain (betrayed Q), but he was also not controlled anymore.
"Jesus!" one of the women pronounced, and a moment later threw up.
The other one dispassionately watched her for a few seconds and then fainted. Bond grabbed her to prevent her from braining herself and settled her on the floor.
The male stranger blinked a few times, rubbed at his ears and clenched his jaw, as if fighting not to scream. He did a short breathing exercise and calmed down enough to open his eyes again and look around. "Selvig," he said.
Q glanced at Bond. Bond didn't have any idea where the physicist might be, either.
"I need a phone," the man insisted.
"Me too," added the sick woman, before shuffling off a few steps to the side from her puddle of vomit and dropping onto her butt.
Q pulled out his phone and dialled the last used number.
"You're not dead," said the man on the other end of the line rather than his machine.
Q felt quite privileged. "No. Check the weather maps. Is it still here?"
There was a while of silence, broken only by the conscious woman's demands to call 911, which, in Q's opinion, could wait.
"Shit," Stark said emphatically. "It's moved North. It's going straight for that monster storm over Canada. In twenty minutes it's gone."
"We can't get there in twenty minutes," Q pointed out. The Pontiac was a beautiful car, but still just a car. Whoever had taken the Hypercube had to be flying it. That would be risky in a storm, but far from impossible, and if they were mind-controlled, too, they would not mind such a risk.
"I can't go, either," Stark assured Q, before it even occurred to Q that was an option.
"That would kill you," Q agreed. It was just guessing – Stark had been doing miracles with his armour – but flying into a storm encased in what amounted to a tin can could not end well for a mortal man.
"Mnahhh…" Stark disagreed, but it sounded like he wasn't sure enough to start arguing about it.
"So what now?" Q asked. He had hoped that the Hypercube could be recovered, but fortunately he was not as much of an optimist as to expect that it would happen. He was even pleasantly surprised by the successful localisation of Bond, and suspicious of his speedy and painless de-brainwash.
"Now SHIELD brings in Banner," Stark replied jauntily. "Look, honeypie, I'm sorry, but I've gotta run. See you on the flipside."
"Fare well," Q replied before he could think better of it, but his only response was a beeping tone. That was just as well.
"That was not the Department," Bond opined. Whatever might have clued him in?
"I need to make a call," the stranger demanded. "I am an agent of SHIELD-"
Q reached into the left outer pocket of his parka, pulled out a burn-phone and threw it at the man, who caught it with a dancer-like motion and started pushing buttons without even glancing at the screen. While he was so occupied, Q briefly hesitated over the corpse of the creature and its weapon.
He didn't dare touch the sceptre, because the magic of it seemed vicious and, to use a Midgardian word, toxic. It was a tool of control, but it controlled its wielder first and foremost, far more tightly and irresistibly than anyone it affected through momentary contact. Q did not currently have the power to destroy it, and he could not move it without being directly influenced by it, so he resorted to leaving it there.
He attempted to plant a tracer on it, but the technology burst in a flower of tiny multi-coloured lightning bolts upon coming within ten centimetres of the weapon. Q gave it up.
He moved forward just in time to evade Bond's hand when the agent reached for him.
"We need to get out of here," he whispered, walking faster. He made a detour to the side to recover his titanium shaft – that was a damn good shaft, and he would happily keep it, once he cleaned the blood off of it – but otherwise selected the shortest way to the exit.
"Hey," the SHIELD agent called out, "where are you- stop!"
Bond fell into step with Q.
"SHIELD will descend on this place soon enough; I'd rather be far away by that time. Bond, you'll have to disappear and turn up in London later this week. Just make up some story – everything you put into reports sounds like bad fiction anyway – no one can disprove it, with what happened in Pottersville-"
Bond grabbed him and pushed him up against the wall, with the cold shaft pressed across his neck.
Q reflexively blasted him off with a burst of magic. Recently freed, it was on hair-trigger.
"What are you?" the agent demanded, backing away to stand against the opposite wall of the corridor, not frightened – perhaps he did not have it in him to be frightened – but cautious and very conscious of what he had just seen Q do to a thinking being with nary a twitch of his fingers.
Q grinned. "Extraterrestrial."
Bond scoffed. His hand strayed to his belt, but he did not have a weapon on him. He shook his head in mock-dismay. "Really? And already infiltrated into the highest rungs of the Secret Service." At least he was not dismissing Q's statement out of hand. Admittedly, after being mind-controlled by a scepter-wielding alien and watching the effects of a destructive spell, not to mention Q's inconveniently exhibiting magic, it would not have been such a far-fetched story.
Q shrugged. "It did take me a few months."
"Oh." Bond solemnly nodded. "A few months."
"Yes." Q found himself smiling. It had been a good few months, enjoyable, full of new knowledge and new experiences, of people who had embarrassed themselves by underestimating him and of unprecedented freedom. "You… mortals are quite inventive."
Bond rubbed his temples, leant back against the cold, damp wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Just how fucked are we?"
Q grinned. There was a possibility that Bond would try to attack him out of some desperate hope that he might have a chance to kill Q. It wouldn't work, of course – far more powerful creatures had tried and burnt. It was a failing of his own bleeding heart that he simply wished it wouldn't come to it.
He could have lied. Could have told Bond that he was going to raze the whole planet and leave no two stones standing, or he could have told him that he wasn't going to do anything 'harmful' unless he was really bored, which wouldn't be anytime soon, since the position of the Quartermaster allowed him a lot of 'sanctioned' destructive fun. And when he stepped out of line, he had even more leeway than a double-oh agent.
The – slightly frightening – truth of the matter was that Q didn't know. He didn't know what he was going to do, what he might be forced to do, or if he would change his mind in a month or in a year. He wasn't an attention deficient hyperactive puppy like his brother (thank the Norns!), but he also did not have the Allfather's patience. In this, his reckless, bloodthirsty Jötunn heritage prevailed. He saw no reason to return to Asgard, just as he saw no reason to leave Midgard, seeing as it provided a multitude of its own amusements. And it was his, no matter what Thor might think.
Thor already had a realm to reign over. If he started to shoulder in on Q's domain, he would find out how much Q had held back in their spars to avoid doing permanent damage to him.
"We need to get out of here, double-oh-seven," Q repeated. "I'll drive you part of the way, but I trust you are resourceful enough to make the rest of it on your own."
Bond deliberated for a long ten seconds, then nodded and beckoned Q to precede him.
Apparently it was too early to turn his back on the alien. But that was okay. Q could work with that.
x
Unbeknownst to anyone present in the warehouse, Q had left behind a spell.
It had come surprisingly easy to him as the overflowing magic itself hurried to conform into the shape he had in mind. He released it, temporarily connected to the SHIELD agent yet capable of disengaging as needed. Certainly, he was more interested in other parts of SHIELD than the Medical or holding cells, where this agent would unavoidably end in a few hours.
It had truly been very kind of him to spare Bond the same fate. He knew Bond had not turned, and he was reassured in the agent's loyalties and in his mental autonomy, but others would not be. Why borrow trouble? Bond could just claim to have followed his usual modus operandi in going off the grid.
The text message to Trevelyan was an aberration, but Trevelyan could not expose it without implicating himself. And by midnight, Q would have half a dozen witnesses in his branch who would swear on their lives that he had been feeling unwell and taken a sick day. Oh, the joys of magic.
After he had returned Stark's car (he was not sure why he bothered, except that it was a truly beautiful piece of engineering and having it stolen or destroyed would have been criminal), the trip to London took him all of five minutes, and required no lengthy sojourns within Norns-forgotten flying contraptions consisting of metal and glue. He could bring his spear with him, too, which would have been Hel to smuggle through airport security.
His Midgard home in Marylebone welcomed him with the smell of rotten fruit. He had brought that out of the fridge to snack on some days ago and then forgotten about when he left for work. How long had it been? Three days? Four? His Midgardian underlings called him a workaholic, but they did not understand his way of life. He did not work as Q. He was Q.
"…estimate no lingering after-effects," someone was saying near the blond SHIELD agent from New York.
Q closed his eyes and opened them again, corporeal yet intangible, invisible to human eyes, standing in an unmistakable counterpart of Medical. Just as he had predicted. He checked the clock; SHIELD worked fast.
"We'll keep him for observation if you insist, but I see no medical reason not to release him," an older woman with improbably red hair, wearing a lab coat, was saying to a younger woman with improbably red hair, wearing a catsuit.
The younger woman nodded, and threw a very unprofessional look at the man lying in the bed with his hands behind his head, annoyed as only an agent on a medical leave could be.
"Thanks, Doc."
"Thank us by taking him off our hands. He's a menace." The Doctor threw a dark look over her shoulder and made herself scarce.
"That is what he is paid for," the younger woman remarked.
It brought the slightest hint of a smile to the agent's lips, but one lasting only a moment. Soon enough, he was grim again, less irritated and more upset. "Nat," he said.
The woman switched to Russian, settling on the side of the bed and reaching for his hand. "I know, my friend." She squeezed his hand in hers. When he sat up and extended his hands, she folded him against her torso and held him fast. "I am glad you were returned to us so fast, but I cannot shake the suspicions."
The man attempted to disentangle himself, but it appeared that the woman was too strong.
"Not of you. Of who took you, of who released you, and what their intentions are. We have too much to do, are spreading ourselves too thin. If an enemy strikes now…"
Q rolled his eyes and let the spell go off to explore the facility. He quickly ascertained that it was, in fact, not a stationary building, but rather a mobile one. The hallways and rooms were equipped with airlocks, which were only necessary on airplanes and ships. He felt none of the anxiety of an airplane, but that might have been his lack of physical body.
"Barton identified one of his fellow victims as this man – James Bond, a British counterintelligence agent."
Q followed the sound of the speech and came upon the Bridge. There was a multitude of people sitting in front of screens, overseeing or just milling around. The tall black man in black leather, with a black eye-patch (Q was beginning to understand where Stark's idea of an agent's wardrobe came from) in the middle had to be the SHIELD Director, Nicholas Fury.
"It is likely," suggested a thin woman in a skintight overall next to him, "that the man who had come to Bond's rescue was also an agent. However, we have only a very sketchy description – moderately tall, uncertain body-type due to wearing a bulky anorak, wild dark hair."
Anthony Stark was leaning against a railing, arms crossed, and watching the pictures of Bond projected on one of Fury's terminal's screens (there were a lot of pictures; Bond just couldn't do inconspicuous). Stark appeared dead on his feet, with deep dark circles under his eyes mostly masked with judicious application of make-up. A con artist, born and bred.
Nothing in his countenance suggested that he had any additional information.
"Bond is the oldest surviving agent with the designation double-oh," Fury explained to his audience. "The double-oh program is one of the most wildly successful counterintelligence efforts in the world. Its turnover rate is off the charts, because its losses are ludicrous."
That Q absolutely agreed with. On the other hand, he had met all but one of the current double-oh agents personally, and all of them were traumatised sociopathic beasts who made murder, destruction and mortal danger into a game. He liked them all. He could just imagine that losing them would be frustrating.
It was worse with Bond. They were all his, of course, but Bond had been the first. He was the favourite. If what the Allfather felt toward Thor was anything like this, then Q could understand… Not forgive and forget, but understand. It was quite an insidious feeling.
"They call it the British Kamikaze Corps," Stark remarked faux wittily.
They did not – it was something that had come out of Stark's brain – but the name itself was fitting. Also, Q could not ignore the fact that Stark had to have known quite a bit about the programme to be able to name it so aptly.
On the other hand, the programme had existed since before World War II. Stark might have learned of it from his father, or from the retired Agent Carter, who had been a family friend. Security used to be far more offhand in the past than it was today.
The female agent flinched and looked at Stark as if he had just told her that he had privatised Christmas, too – and would she like a ticket? She was quite agog at the thought, obviously.
Her male colleague, dressed in a business suit as dictated by the mores of fashion, gave Stark a much less surprised glare. "Do we want to know how you know that?"
"I have an online friend in one of their branches," Stark quipped, eliciting disgusted sneers and sighs from all amassed SHIELD personnel.
Q narrowed his eyes. That was a hint Coulson would have caught, if he would not have realised the scam earlier, when Q's description was provided. Stark was playing with fire, even though Coulson was not present.
"Then see if you can find out anything useful!" Fury snapped.
Stark waved his hand. "Nah, we just exchange office gossip. Also, the weather in London is quite dreadful." He paused. "That's not confidential information, by the way. The weather in London is always dreadful."
The two agents repeated their earlier gestures of exasperation, but then they noticed that their Director did not seem to have the same equilibrium and was about, so to say, blow a gasket.
"This is what I have handlers for…" Fury looked around, hands balled into fists. "Sitwell, where's Coulson?"
"Escorting Miss Potts, as per your wishes," the suit informed him.
That did not help Fury's blood pressure at all. "I never authorized that, Sitwell! We're not a fucking SBS! I'm in the middle of a planetary emergency and Coulson's off playing Costner to some chick?
Sitwell convulsively swallowed, and his eyes strayed to Stark. Stark dispassionately looked back. Sitwell swallowed again.
"He's a multitasking marvel," Stark offered. He had fingers in more pies than even Q had suspected, if he could by-pass Fury within SHIELD. It probably didn't help that the whole organisation was desperate, and Stark was one of their cherished fledgling hopes for survival. That was a lot of power for one mortal, but Stark wore it damn well.
The woman raised her hand to the communication device at her ear. She listened and then relayed: "Sir, they've landed."
Fury nodded. "Initiate take-off."
A flurry of activity started, geared toward the operating of the mobile base around them. Indeed, soon enough, there was the familiar lurch and the sensation in Q's stomach that unmistakably informed him that he was flying. It seemed that he did not even need a stomach for that.
As soon as they were in the air and the cloaking device had been engaged – Q recognised it as reengineered knock-off of the one Boothroyd had created in his era of ridiculous cars – the Bridge was invaded by a group of six people, four of whom Q knew on sight, plus one that seemed familiar. Introductions ensued. The woman with Fury was Maria Hill, the other agent's name was Jasper Sitwell. Potts and Coulson came back with a Steven Rogers that looked barely old enough to drink, but judging by the adoration spewing out of Coulson's mouth, was actually the real Captain America. Whether 'the real' meant that he was the actor, or that he was the soldier was anyone's guess. Either way, he was in the wrong century.
That could be a most uncomfortable experience, and Q would rather forget about why he knew that.
The redhead from Medical was Natasha Romanov, the famous Black Widow who held one of the top spots on the 'list of enemies' in MI-6. Her formerly mind-controlled colleague went by Clint Barton or Hawkeye; the cringing man with the terrifying aura on her other side was introduced as Dr Banner.
That last name finally snapped Stark out of the morose funk he slipped into when Rogers first came in. He grew animated and came forward to shake the… the beast's hand. "It's good to meet you, Dr Banner. Your work on the anti-electron collisions is unparalleled… and I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage-monster."
The beast gaped; its mouth twisted in a moue and it took its hand back, grumbling with a lot more grace than could be expected: "Thanks." It looked around the room and realised that most of the people present were expecting him to lose control right at that very moment, and were cringing away from him – even the trained agents. It looked down at its hand, the one that Stark had shaken as if he was talking to a human being.
Stark had not moved an inch further away.
Q felt a fond smile spreading on his lips. Pity that the beast made even him nervous. There was something supremely off-putting about indestructibility.
"Come on," Stark said, and slowly, careful to not startle Banner, put his hand on the beast's elbow. "Let's leave the heroes to play at war. I'll show you the lab and you can show me some spectrometer magic. It will be like a science camp, but with more cool toys."
Banner chanced a shallow smile. "Haven't been to science camp for decades."
"Not missing out on much. I promise you'll have more fun with me. Have you ever seen an arc reactor? Bet you haven't. I can show you." Stark skillfully steered the beast toward the archway leading away from the Bridge, deeper into the belly of the aircraft. They passed through Q, warming him to his bones, and he considered whether to follow them or to stay with the executive group.
Potts whispered something into Coulson's ear and, after exchanging nods, they both followed on the heels of the scientists, each with a suitcase in hand.
Q figured that he could always read up on the science later – it was unlikely that he would be able to contribute, since astrophysics made much more sense to him as magic than as science – and he would gather more useful intel by staying around Fury.
A phone rang and Q's consciousness left the construct at the SHIELD base to attend to matters in his London flat. Curiously, the caller ID displayed a denomination rather than the unknown number, which made the caller's identity obvious. Q was hard-pressed to find a valid argument against that amount of hubris.
"Supreme Imperator?" he asked upon accepting the call.
"What did you think SI stood for?" Stark returned. "I've got someone here you'd kill to meet."
"With a little perspective, you may find that killing is my day job," Q said, "so that does not really mean much. But say 'hi' to Dr Banner."
"How did you…" Stark paused and let his brain catch up to his mouth. It lacked a sound-effect– otherwise the cartoonish impression would have been picture-perfect, in Q's opinion. "Could be more 'Intelligence' in your Secret Service than I thought. Are you sure you're not a mutant? This is totally a judgment-free zone."
"Espionage has existed longer than telepaths. I am just that good at my job." Q swiped his fingers over the touchpad of his laptop. It came out of hibernation. One-handedly, he typed in his password. "Put me on speaker?"
Mock-nervous, Stark inquired: "You aren't going to kill me to get at Dr Banner, are you? I thought we had something special!" But he did put Q on speaker.
While the spell listened in on Sitwell coaxing the Captain America away from the Bridge to 'situate him' and on Fury and Hill plotting how to keep the World Security Council out of their hair for long enough to prevent the impending apocalypse, Q traced the location of Stark's phone – somewhere over the Pacific ocean – and re-opened his connection to the SHIELD servers, searching for the security cameras.
"Uhm… Hello Mr Stark's friend?" the beast's demure voice spoke, slightly distorted by the microphone.
Q wasn't looking to become bosom-buddies with the beast, but he was safe from it – thousands of miles away, practically as far as it was possible to get without leaving the planet – and the man-shaped shell was interesting to talk to.
"John," Q offered the pseudonym he had used with Stark. "I've read some of your work, Doctor. Very ambitious." Too ambitious – else he would not have turned himself into an abomination while attempting to prove the validity of his theories. That, however, would have been impolite to say, and politeness was the lode of the British culture. Since Q was currently British, it behooved him to conform to this ideal.
"Uh… thank you?"
"Oh, c'mon, Bruce!" Stark cut in. "Don't be shy. You're a genius – your brain is a weapon of mass destruction – and you're acting like an anemic wall-flower. Live a little!"
"I haven't been asked to dance in years," the beast replied drolly.
"I'm asking you! You and me and this sexy, sexy spectrometer. Let's boogey!"
Banner laughed helplessly. It was a low, hoarse, underused sound, and Q knew it was exactly what Stark had desired to hear.
"Mr Stark… Tony…"
"I'm not taking a no for an answer," Stark assured him. "And John won't mind – right, John? By the way, could you just give me hint? I'll find it out on my own eventually anyway, and you know it."
Q most certainly was not giving away his secrets, but he could offer something juicier, because his spell was still… casually passing by Hill and Fury and happening to have heard an interesting tidbit of info.
"Have you come across Phase Two yet? If not, Miss Potts and Agent Coulson have the files you extorted-" Q faked a cough, "I mean, requested in recompense."
Just before he hung up, alarms blared from the other end. Neither of the scientists panicked, one trained to keep his mental equilibrium in face of the improbable, the other being an avatar of chaos who had to have been used to it.
In the end it was Q whose reaction was the most pronounced. Having finally gained access to SHIELDs security system, he could see what – or rather, who – had caused the alert. Standing on top of the aircraft, between the fighter-interceptors, braced against the air currents, Mjölnir held fast in his mighty hand, was the one person whom Q hoped to avoid for a very long time yet.
Q disconnected the call and hunkered down to his laptop to get at SHIELD's active projects, with special emphasis of the Avengers Initiative.