Chapter Text
Lord Banner was easy to keep track of, with his distinctive green waistcoats and his way of stomping through the corridors of the house. His temper was quite notorious among the members of the ton, as were his extravagant apologies immediately after he lost his temper. A noted society hostess had once remarked that it seemed as if there were two Lord Banners: the charming, if slightly rumpled, leading scientist and “the other man” who smashed vases and made cutting comments. Jemma had heard from that some hostess that he and Fitz had had an infamous falling out seven months ago and although they appeared to have made up, rumor had it that the memory was still fresh in Lord Banner's mind. Surely she could use that fight, whatever it had been about, to her advantage.
Another day of watching finally yielded results when she saw Fitz wander into the second library and Lord Banner follow shortly after, with a determined look upon his face. Jemma slipped in before the door had closed and concealed herself behind a pair of sturdy oak bookshelves. She'd even selected a soft brown gown that morning, for the purposes of better camouflage. Fitz was pretending to be absorbed in a book—she recognized that look of fake concentration, his eyebrows pulled together too sharply to be accidental—and sending sideways wary looks at Lord Banner as he pulled out a chair and sat down across from Fitz. “Fitz,” Lord Banner attempted. No response. He tapped on the cover of Fitz's book. Still no response. “Leo,” Lord Banner said and tugged the book down.
“Bruce.” Fitz flipped the book back up.
“I'm not going away, you know.” Lord Banner said patiently, leaning back in his chair.
“I'm busy. Very busy. Reading about--” Fitz peered around the corner of his book to read the title. “Reading about mushrooms. And I already received quite an extensive lecture from Skye, so I'm not in need of one from you.”
“How do you know that Skye told me? She'd probably be breaking all kinds of regulations to tell me, since I'm not even a member of the British branch of the Initiative.” The capital letter practically spoke itself.
“So you've joined the American branch now?” There was a long, awkward silence until Lord Banner straightened his cravat, leaned forward in his chair, opened his mouth, and closed it again. He tried again, thought better of it, and finally tried a third time.
“I'm not part of any branch. I still stand by what I told you in November, but that doesn't mean I forfeited the right to ask you what the hell you were thinking when you went after a mechanical sea serpent that the Order had planted in your loch? Why do you persist in leading such an alarmingly dangerous lifestyle and driving everyone in your life mad?” Lord Banner tugged frantically at his cravat with one hand and slammed the other down on the table. “This is exactly why we broke it off, Leo, because I couldn't spend another day wondering what new ways you'd devised to irritate the Evil League of Evil—and I know that's not their name, thank you very much—invent devices that tend to blow up in your face, and generally endanger yourself every hour on the half hour!”
“We broke it off because seven months ago, you hopped on the first airship to America to chase after a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist,” Fitz snapped back, finally abandoning his book. “It couldn't have been more obvious than if you'd floated a giant sign over London reading Leopold Fitz, I am leaving you for an uncouth, if brilliant, American in twelve-foot-high letters.”
“Us breaking it off doesn't mean that I stopped worrying about you. I'd have to be bloody insane to stop worrying about you—you're the kind of person who requires regularly scheduled worry sessions. I have it penciled in my calendar for every Tuesday at 2pm.”
“That's perfectly ridiculous. I expected that I'd get Tuesdays and Thursdays at the very least,” Fitz said haughtily. But a tiny smile was creeping across his face and, her ear pressed against the bookcase, Jemma suspected that he was softening. Too bad, she thought. Some scheming part of her had hoped for a truly spectacular fight, one that would leave Lord Banner in a raging, secret-spilling mood. And maybe, just maybe, that part of her had been jealous too.
Lord Banner took a deep breath and leaned across the table. “I do want to be friends, Leo. Can you believe that?”
“I still think that I'm entitled to at least another month of sulking,” Fitz grumbled. “But yes, I do. You know that I do.”
“You're madly in love and happier from ever, from all accounts of it. You are absolutely not entitled to sulk.” Lord Banner rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, imploring the crystal chandeliers for help. “And I'm still mad at you for being a reckless idiot. Just so we're clear on that.”
“I'm not in love!” Fitz squawked and stood up. Jemma barely restrained her giggle—she hadn't known that his voice went that high. “Even if I were in love, I would retain the right to sulk because...doesn't feel the same.” His voice was muffled as he ducked under the table to retrieve another stack of books and Jemma found herself leaning in to hear better despite her best intentions. Fitz's personal life was none of her business, particularly his love life, and now was certainly not the time to test out the ear trumpet prototype lurking in a neatly labeled box two shelves down and one to the left of her. “Not that kind of girl...never even tried to proposition me.” Fitz was talking audibly again and she peered between two shelves to spot his long legs (and rather nice bum) sticking out from underneath the table. “And I've been propositioned quite a bit, by the most unlikely people, I'll have you know. It's not that I'm unproposition-able...simply not interested in that kind of thing, she said so herself. There's nothing—no chasing, no courtship—going on there.”
“She might not be chasing, but you're definitely caught,” Lord Banner chuckled as Fitz shot him another glare and exited the library with an exasperated sigh and a stack of books. “And I noticed that you didn't promise me to stay out of trouble either!” he shouted after Fitz and slumped back in the armchair, muttering something about scientists with hero complexes and how he'd thought he was free and clear, and then someone thought he could invent a blasted metal suit and on and on in a distinctly grumpy manner. Jemma gave him a minute more to brood before stepping out, marching over to Lord Banner, and planting herself in front of him.
“I'm not going away until you tell me about Fitz's secret society,” she said firmly.
“No idea what you're talking about. Where would you ever get an idea like that?” Lord Banner said brusquely and fixed his eyes on hers, attempting to stare her down. Unfortunately for Lord Banner, Jemma had spent much of her early childhood engaged in staring contests with her older brother. She won every time.
“My winning streak currently stands at 263 and counting,” she told him. “I also have scones, a copy of Mr. Thackeray's Vanity Fair, and a rare and unusual neurotoxin hidden on my person. What do you have, Lord Banner?”
“I have an awful reputation. Making Miss Cavendish cry when I forgot to ask her to dance, breaking all manner of expensive things in the middle of arguments.”
“I don't cry that easily and anything of value that you could break in here is far too heavy for you to lift. I checked in advance.” Jemma tilted her chin up in defiance and gave him a glare that at twelve had once made three grown men cry. “All I want is to know what Fitz has gotten himself entangled in, and why he won't tell me about it. No nefarious purposes.” Lord Banner stayed silent and they continued to stare at each other. Five minutes later, after a few mutually agreed upon breaks for blinking, she decided to redouble her efforts and started tapping her foot rhythmically against the floor. Lord Banner visibly twitched but remained silent. Another five minutes passed, and she started humming. Jemma had been told repeatedly that she lacked any sense of pitch, and she slowly increased her volume as the minutes ticked by. Lord Banner was now fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair yet he still refused to speak. Clearly, it was time to unleash her penultimate weapon. “I really didn't want to do this,” Jemma told him.
And with that, she pulled a scone from her pocket and proceeded to eat it slowly and messily, scattering crumbs across the expanse of the table, crunching as loudly as it was possible to crunch on a scone, and all the while humming a medley of the latest music hall songs, horribly off key. Lord Banner finally snapped when she hit the ninth tower of “The Twelve Towers of Bray”. “It started about a year and a half ago, when Lord Coulson and Secretary Fury got together for lunch. Someone should have stopped them before we all got entangled in this hero business,” Lord Banner blurted out.
“Stopped them from doing what?” Jemma leaned forward, still holding his gaze.
“It's called the Initiative for Scientific Progress, Prosperity, and Peace over here. The Americans are simply calling it the Avengers Initiative, though I have no earthly idea what they're planning to avenge. I'm sure they'll find something: Americans are quite skilled at inventing things to avenge. Anyway, it's meant to do what the title says. Work for scientific advances and peaceful progress, starting on both sides of the Atlantic and then spreading to the Continent. The French are trying to start up a branch, though I've heard they've become mired in arguments about cheese,” he replied.
“Then what does the octopus mean? Fitz turned white when he saw it on the serpent.”
“The Order of the Octopus has been trying to recruit him for years. To invent evil devices for them and such.” Lord Banner said vaguely. “First they tried bribes and incentives but he wasn't tempted in the slightest. Then they moved on to trying to get close to his family members and his sisters weren't having any of that. So now it looks like they've progressed to direct threats. The serpent was meant to be a warning that they're watching him. At least, that's what I think.” he added quickly. “I was never a member of the Order—tired of assuming that we always know best—and so that's really all I know, since Fitz stopped talking to me for a while. Because of the Initiative, and the Airship Incident, and the fact that he's the most stubborn human I've--”
“Excuse me, Lord Banner.” Jemma interrupted, rising to her feet and sweeping him an elegant curtsy. “Thank you very much for your help but I have a pressing social engagement with Lady Skye. I wish you luck with your...philanthropist,” she added as she headed out the door. “Really I do.”
Skye was holding court in the front parlor, surrounded by ladies and gentlemen hanging on her every word, but when she saw Jemma, she immediately rose, made a polite excuse, and steered Jemma outside into the garden with alacrity. “Who did you weasel the secret out of?” Skye asked urgently, her head bent toward Jemma's like they were exchanging nothing more than pieces of idle gossip.
“Lord Banner.”
“Well done. So are you planning to blackmail us all with this knowledge for your own private laboratory?” Skye threw her head back and laughed charmingly for the onlookers, her eyes pure steel.
“Quite the contrary. I want to be a part of it.”