"Of course we're leaving," he said, voice gruffer than usual. It was a pretty decent imitation of some of the guys in tracksuits that loitered around his building at home. Clint put on a snide look and glared at the man, committing his face to memory, and then took Q by the shoulder and steered him out.

"So do you need an escort to safety or whatever?" he asked, under his breath. "Or do you want to have a loud fight and split up? If it's the first, I know a place that does really good chicken tikka."