Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/845849.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel, Marvel_(Movies), Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, The_Avengers_(2012)
  Relationship:
      Bruce_Banner/Clint_Barton
  Character:
      Clint_Barton, Bruce_Banner, Hulk_(Marvel), Guest_stars_in_order_of
      appearance, Thaddeus_Ross, Betty_Ross, Tony_Stark, Thor_(Marvel), Charles
      Xavier, Logan_(X-Men), Richard_Fisk, Vernon_van_Dyne, Janet_Van_Dyne,
      Hank_Pym, Nick_Fury, Maria_Hill, Carol_Danvers, Thor, Steve_Rogers, James
      Rhodey, Original_Male_Character, Original_Female_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Backstory, Evolution, Hurt/Comfort, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Past_Sexual
      Assault, Past_Child_Abuse, really_bad_shark_movies, fun_in_the_sun, Human
      Experimentation, Violence, Depression, Submission, Rough_Sex, sassy
      Janet, BAMF_Phil_Coulson, Homophobic_Language, Interrogation, Oral_Sex,
      Rape/Non-con_Elements, Sexual_Abuse, Torture, Child_Abuse
  Series:
      Part 10 of Clint_and_Bruce_(Hulkeye)
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-16 Completed: 2013-09-14 Chapters: 10/10 Words: 62529
****** Not All Who Wander ******
by cakeisnotpie
Summary
     When General Thunderbolt Ross reappears, Bruce knows things are going
     to go from bad to worse. With all the changes that have happened
     since he joined the Avengers, it was only a matter of time before the
     cycle of cat and mouse they'd always played started up again. Only
     now, Bruce and the Hulk have an ace up their sleeves -- one Clint
     Barton.
     This is the first part of a story arc called "The Broken Blade" and
     the 10th story in the Hulkeye series. This story is told from Bruce
     and the Big Guy's point of view. The second part of this series,
     "From the Ashes" will be told from Clint's POV. You can read this
     without reading the others, but some things will make more sense if
     you go back and start with "Know When to Hold 'Em."
     Warning: this gets dark at the end. Appropriate trigger warnings are
     noted at the beginning of the chapter in question.
Notes
     “All that is gold does not glitter,
     Not all those who wander are lost;
     The old that is strong does not wither,
     Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
     From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
     A light from the shadows shall spring;
     Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
     The crownless again shall be king.”
     J. R. R. Tolkien
      
     THE STORY THUS FAR: After defeating Monica Rappaccini, the boys ran
     afoul of Richard Fisk, son of the Kingpin, and H.Y.D.R.A. leader in
     Las Vegas where they were injected with nannites. Then the Tesseract
     went sentient and an alien race came looking for it, splitting Bruce
     and the Hulk into two separate entities (they got better); Clint was
     gifted with the ability to create dreamscapes and Phil Coulson lives!
     Then Gabriel the Trickster (maybe/maybe not) sent them into alternate
     universes of their own making, trying to prepare them for something
     bad that is coming. In Clint's vampire AU, he almost died and was
     only saved by Bruce sharing blood and turning him. But now both Clint
     and Bruce seem to be changing at a molecular level ....
See the end of the work for more notes
***** A Shadow of the Past *****
THEN
“What are you doing here?”
Bruce glanced up from his microscope where he’d been staring at the latest in a
line of disappointing slides; they were on the wrong track with this last
experiment and time was ticking. They needed to go back to serum 41b, the last
truly successful point, and start again. He saw Betty stand up quickly, turn
her clipboard over and walk purposefully to the door of the lab. Only one
person would make Elizabeth Ross bite her lip … General Thaddeus E.
“Thunderbolt” Ross, her father.
“How’s my girl?” He was wearing his dress uniform, a chest full of medals and
pins, arms held open for a hug. From what Betty had told Bruce, he half-
expected a mountain of man, an imposing giant with silver hair who’d start
issuing commands the second he stepped into the room. He reeked of authority,
surveying the room with his dark brown eyes, missing nothing.  But he was
shorter than Bruce, maybe 5’ 8” or so, a slim build, just the start of grey
streaks around his temples, and the smile on his face at seeing his daughter
was genuine. “I had a meeting at the Jet Propulsion Facility and thought I’d
just drop in and take the chance you’d be free for dinner tonight. If you can
pull yourself away from the lab that is.”
“Of course I can. There’s a little Chinese place that has good Moo Goo Gai Pan
just around the corner. You’ll love it.” Betty went into his arms, her petite
frame disappearing into a bear hug, ebony black curls pressed into his chest. 
“When do you want to go? I have a few things to finish up here and then I can
be ready.”
He stepped back and seemed to notice Bruce for the first time, but it was an
act; Bruce’s early warning system had been rippling up his spine, the tiny
hairs on his neck tingling since the second the General had walked in the lab.
One of the earliest survival lessons he’d learn was to recognize the signs, to
pick up on body language. Betty’s dad was happy to see her, but he had more on
his agenda that just talking to his daughter, and Bruce didn’t need to be a
genius to know it had something to do with him.
The second day after Bruce had set foot on the California Institute of
Technology campus for his post-doc research fellowship, Elizabeth Ross had
simply walked in, announced she was his assistant and never left; she’d wanted
to work with him after reading his dissertation and when she wanted something,
Betty was a force of nature to be reckoned with.  Within a week, Betty had
installed herself not only in the lab, but in Bruce’s life, showing up at his
apartment door to drag him to a free concert, bringing peanut butter and
strawberry jam sandwiches for long days in the lab – which Bruce ate even if he
preferred grape jelly – and taking him down to the local pub. He owed her a
lot; she was more than just an amazingly intelligent scientist, she was one of
the best friends he’d ever had. He didn’t have to tell her that he wasn’t
interested in more than that; halfway through the first semester, he showed up
at their usual table in the pub and found her with a handsome NASA engineer, a
surprise blind date. Both men were uncomfortable and no date was forthcoming,
but her nonchalant attitude about his sexual preference was refreshing and made
him love her a little bit more. She was the little sister he’d never had, the
one who had escaped the terror of the house he was raised in.
Not that Betty didn’t have her own problems. She was constantly running up
against the old boy network at Caltech, fighting battles to be taken seriously
as a scientist, not ogled as a body.  And then there was her relationship with
her father; she loved the man and he’d done his best to raise her after her
mother died, but he was in the Army and often gone, leaving her first at
boarding schools and then with friends as she got older. The fact that she had
differing opinions about the role of the military was a source of tension
between them. But lately, the fact that she was unmarried and had not provided
Ross with grandbabies to sit on his knee and spoil rotten was the biggest
issue; he wanted her to find a nice army guy and settled down. She wanted to
find a cure for cancer. Both seemed to think the two things were mutually
exclusive.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend? Banner, is it?” Ross crossed
over to him, holding out his hand. Despite Bruce’s reluctance, he was backed
into a corner, literally, between the table and the back wall. Removing his
reading glasses and dropping them on the table, he wiped his hands on his old
khakis and shook the General’s hand.
“Dr. Bruce Banner, pleased to meet you, sir.” His voice wavered a little.
“So, Bruce, what are your intentions towards my daughter?” Ross speared him
with an intense look and Bruce felt like a smear on one of his slides,
magnified under the stern gaze.
“Ah, um, Betty is my colleague and one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever
known,” Bruce stumbled but managed to answer.
“Dad.” Betty used her warning voice, the one that sent undergrads running; it
didn’t faze Ross at all. She’d learned it from him.
“I have to determine if you’re good enough for my little girl.” There was the
command voice; Bruce wanted to step back, but he didn’t. He did, however, drop
his eyes and blink, giving Ross the upper hand.
“Sir, I really don’t …” He didn’t know how to explain without getting into more
trouble. Realizing he was wringing his hands, he tucked them into his pockets.
“Dad. Bruce and I are not dating and are never going to be dating. He’s my
friend, a brilliant scientist, but we are not getting married.” Betty was
unbowed by her father’s directness, facing him down easily. 
“Okay, okay. You can’t blame me for trying. If you spend all your time in this
lab, how are you going to meet anyone?” Ross held up a hand when Betty would
have argued, forestalling the familiar argument. “So, how is the research
going? Any progress on, what is it? Gamma radiation and muscle growth?”
“Cellular regeneration, dad, and it’s good. We’re close to a breakthrough,”
Betty responded, the standard answer they gave everyone. Almost two years into
the fellowship, and they had very little in the way of results; they’d learned
valuable information, but nothing concrete like a formula or a serum that was
ready for testing.
“Better make that breakthrough,” Ross said. “Isn’t your money running out
soon?”
“Oh, everything will be fine. The implications for cancer research are too
important; there are any number of big pharm R & Ds that will pick us up.”
Betty sounded so sure, just like she always did. Bruce wished he could be that
confident about the future.  That confident about anything.
“I know you don’t like to hear this, but remember, the U. S. Army has deep
pockets.” He dangled the option out there.
“And help you create super soldiers? No thanks.” Betty shook her head,
rejecting the idea. “Bruce agrees with me on this. We’re saving people, not
killing them.”
“You’d rather be run out of business than work for me? You know how many
medical advances came from military applications?” Ross’s voice grew more
strident; Bruce did step back then, wanting out of the brewing fight. Noticing
the movement, Ross drew himself to a halt. “But that’s for another day, eh? Let
me treat you both to a good dinner. Bruce, you coming?”
Before he could form a response, Betty jumped in. “Bruce has to teach a class
tonight, so it’s just you and me.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” he managed to get out, shooting Betty a grateful look.
“Next time.” Clapping Bruce on the back, Ross said to Betty, “I’ll pick you up
in an hour?”
“Sure, Dad.”  As she walked him to the door, Ross turned a calculating look
back on Bruce; the tension between Bruce’s shoulder blades grew as he caught
the eye of the General. There was more going on here, he’d bet anything.
 
NOW
Flashes of gold danced like lightning bugs across his vision; he waved them
away with a meaty hand, and then dug his green fists into his temples where
discomfort knifed into his brain. He roared as a golden bug buzzed by him,
swatting at it.
“Big Guy? You hear me? Got a komodo heading for the school. Can you get it?”
Metal Head’s voice was too loud, and his back teeth vibrated with the
syllables; biting down, he ground his jaw back and forth as the flashing bugs
grew in number. Swinging his arms, he tried to brush them off but they came
back again and again.
“Kids. Save kids.” He focused on that and jumped, covering two blocks in one
step, another two in the second. The monster was a big lizard, like the one
he’d watched a show about with Cupid; the TV man had called it a dragon with
legs, and it had chased him down a road. Only this one was changed by men who
stuck it full of needles; the Hulk hated those kinds of men, the same kinds who
wanted to chain him down and hurt him. He felt bad for the dragon, but the kids
in the playground were screaming and the yellow flashes were swirling around
him, distracting him; jumping on the monster’s back, he grabbed it by the neck
and wrestled it over onto its back, holding it there. Then the bugs swarmed up
his arms to his chest, and the Hulk roared, flinging the lizard away from him
and frantically scratching at his skin, trying desperately to get them off. He
could feel their little legs tapping their way across his body, a creepy-crawly
feeling that gave him shivers.  A swift pain – the lizard’s teeth sinking into
his shoulder – and he reacted blindly, catching the animal in one hand and
ripping it free, breaking its neck easily and tossing it to the ground. The
screams of the children reached him then, and he saw them, huddled together,
staring at him. One little brown haired girl huddled inside the monkey bars,
and she scuttled away from him when he raised his hand to help her; long deep
gouges ran up his arm where he’d scratched himself and drops of blood fell to
the ground.
“Another incoming. Python this time. Somebody maxed out their exotic animal
budget for this show.”
The next wave of gold was overwhelming, covering his body from head to toe, a
cloud that tightened around him until he was screaming, flailing his arms. His
hand banged into metal and he ripped it out of the ground, swinging at the
suffocating mass; they started to sting, pricks that itched and throbbed.
“Whoa, Big Green! What’s going on?”
He felt the metal in his hand connect with a hard surface with a loud clang and
Metal Head let out a whoosh of air; the flashes flowed over the bar and gave it
a golden glow.
“Hulk, can you hear me?”
They were on his face now, in his nose, crawling over his lips. He shut his
eyes and mouth as he felt them fly into his ears. Brushes turn to punches as he
tried to get the bugs off with his hands.
“Something’s wrong! Get the kids out of here! Jarvis, tape and analyze the …”
The Hulk forced his eyes open in time to see Thunder God with the brown-haired
girl in his arms, the other kids behind him. Metal Head was hovering near him;
a long dent ran across his chest. Then he looked at his own hands, what was
left of the monkey bars clenched like a weapon, and he cried out in
frustration, the flashes and bugs gone in an instant as if they’d never been
there.
“No. Hulk not hurt. Hulk need to …”
An excruciating agony filled his head, and he dropped the metal and cradled it
with both hands, screaming in rage. He could see the fear in the children’s
eyes, the protective arms of the Thunder God, the way Metal Head moved between
the Hulk and the kids. With an enormous leap, he bounded up, not caring what
direction he was going, his only thought to get away, away from kids and people
he could hurt. The cloud followed him, tendrils curling towards him; he ran,
keeping ahead of it, long leaps eating up ground.  The town gave way to houses
that were further apart; he saw trees and headed for them, going until there
was nothing but the tall boughs and the craggy rocks of a wilderness area.
Landing on the edge of a particularly high ridge, he lost his balance, spinning
his arms to balance, then tumbling down into the ravine below, smashing his
head on the rocks as he went.
The sky was above him, blue and filled with white fluffy clouds, the kinds that
looked like animals and ships; he lay on his back, sunk down into the loamy
earth. It was soft, actually, and he was tired. The little guy was rising up
inside of him; maybe little doc could stop the bugs and the flashes and the
headache that was pounding inside his skull. What the Hulk needed was Cupid;
Cupid would know what to do, would make him feel better. Little Doc could get
Cupid. The change didn’t come easily, as if his body was fighting his brain; as
much as the Hulk wanted the little guy to fix things, Bruce had to rip his way
out.
“It was only a matter of time, you know.”
Bruce glanced over, disoriented and confused, a massive migraine coloring his
sight; prickly hot skin, the least little movement made his stomach roil. The
man had to be a figment of his imagination because he looked just like he did
in Bruce’s dreams, the same robust General who’d chased him throughout half the
world. A little more paunch than when they’d first met, but still vibrant and
self-assured, in his combat fatigues, one of his favorite cigars in his hand.
He couldn’t be real; how would Ross know where to find him here, in the middle
of nowhere?
“No, I don’t know.” Words hurt; hell, just forming a coherent thought made his
head pop open a few stitches. “But I imagine you’re going to tell me what you
think. You do love to hear yourself talk.” 
“Barton’s smart mouth is rubbing off on you, Banner.” Ross winced at that bad
pun. “You’re evolving. With everything you’ve been through lately, there have
to be changes. Nannites. Cosmic radiation. Tesseract energy. Whatever that
trickster did to you.  Each alone might not have an effect, but together?” Ross
smiled kindly at him, the father figure mask he always tried to wear, but Bruce
knew better than to trust anything the man said.
“How do you know all that?” Bruce demanded.  The General hit him where he knew
it would hurt; Bruce had seen the data and a perfect storm was brewing at a
molecular level, his worst nightmare coming true.
“You think I don’t have my inside sources? Going to let you just wander around
New York without watching you?” Ross laughed and tapped the end of his cigar,
letting hot ash drop to the forest floor.
“I’m in control. Things are different now.” Bruce rubbed his throbbing temples.
 
“Right. Because of your new found friends and your little boyfriend. The one
you’ve poisoned now?” A long, slow smile, the teeth of a shark that sensed
blood, Ross cut to the quick. “What does your precious science say about that?”
Spikes of tension, anger curling in his stomach, a rock hard knot of fear.
“Dying here.” Clint coughed and blood ran down his chin. “Only one way. Make me
… like you.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking, what you’d be. It’s a curse,” Bruce argued.
“Not a curse. A gift. Want you. Forever.” Clint’s eyes drifted closed, his
fingers loosened … he was fading fast and there was little time to think
through the implications, only seconds to make the choice. Live without Clint
or live with what he was about to do to Clint. Clint’s chest rose and fell
slowly … then one more time, hesitating too long between each breath; ripping
open his cuff, Bruce bit into his own wrist, blood welling up, and tilted the
liquid into Clint’s slack mouth a few drops at a time, waiting to offer more
until Clint convulsively swallowed, damning him to the same half-life Bruce
led. Ultimate selfishness, Bruce thought, that’s what it was, no act of
salvation. He was condemning Clint even as he saved him.
“That wasn’t real. It was just a dream.” A moot point since Bruce had seen
Clint’s test results himself. Gabriel the Trickster had trapped them in a
number of alternate universes, trying to teach them a lesson and keep them
distracted; most of the others couldn’t remember what they’d dreamed, but Bruce
remembered all of them.  In Clint’s vampire world, Clint had almost died at
Kingpin’s hand and Bruce had to save him; what they hadn’t known was the events
of those universes had effects in the real world. Somehow, they had a bond now,
a kind of psychic connection, as strange as it sounded, and Clint was showing
signs of increased gamma radiation. None of it made logical sense, but the data
didn’t lie.
“You’re getting more dangerous, Banner; this illusion of control you’ve sold to
Stark and SHIELD and the others? We both know it’s horseshit. Everyone else may
have bought it, but not me. I’ve just been waiting for you to show your true
colors.” Ross stood and stretched, a habit he had after sitting for too long.
“You should turn yourself in now, before you cause more damage. After that
little display with the kids today, I’ll have you soon anyway. If you come
quietly, it will save your friends some damage, and I might let that archer of
yours alone. Defy me and you can sit in the cell I’ve got ready and watch our
scientists take your boyfriend apart to study.”
The golden swarm darted out from behind a corpse of trees, lasering in on
Bruce, circling then descending on every inch of exposed skin. He threw his
head back and screamed, racked by bands of pressure in his head and a multitude
of burning stings until the Other Guy had to battle his way back to the
surface, the pain too much for Bruce to stand.  Even before he was fully
changed, the Hulk jumped up, pain driving him out of the clearing with a long
leap. Over and over again, he tried to outrun the flashes but they always
caught up and fell back on him; his voice grew hoarse from his roars as he
fled. Finally, the Hulk, miles away from where he’d started, collapsed back
into himself when the swarm disappeared, leaving a naked, shaking man who knew
the time he’d dreaded had come.
After what seemed an eternity but was only a few minutes, Bruce was able to sit
up and fumble in the inner pockets of Tony’s miracle pants for his emergency
stash: starkphone, credit cards, three different driver’s licenses, and a full
wallet of cash. Tony could track him via the phone, so he didn’t have much
time; he stood, shaky, and checked the GPS map before he typed in a quick
message, erased it, typed a different one, then erased that one as well.
Seconds ticked away before he reached his decision; one last time, he typed a
message and hit send before he turned the phone over, popped out the battery
and the SIM card and disengaged the tracker. Dead now, he left it on a broken
tree and started walking away from the nearest habitation, aiming instead for a
different destination. Following the sound of the water, he found the river and
walked upstream, bare feet stepping into the icy coldness, crossing back and
forth three times before he was satisfied his scent was gone, keeping under the
leafy foliage to avoid detection from above. He was lucky; sunny and warm, it
was a beautiful spring day, and he’d kept himself in shape running on the
treadmill, doing yoga with Natasha, sparring with Tony and Steve … and he
didn’t need to think about that. What he needed was to get a move on so he
could disappear.
The fight had been early in the morning, not long after school had started; now
it was closing in on lunchtime. He came to a campground, skirted around some
cabins, and found clothes hanging on a line, only slightly damp; he took jeans
and a plaid shirt, leaving his miracle pants in the communal shower house trash
can; he didn’t trust that Tony couldn’t track those too. A map by the camp
store gave him directions and information, so he cut across country to the
shared parking lot for an extended hiking trail. He picked out an older yellow
Subaru covered with dirt, parking permit on the dash showing the owners weren’t
due to return for three more days, and drove out with the spare key that was
under the wheel well and a half a tank of gas. Taking a random direction,
turning when he felt like it, sticking to small two-lane back roads, he drove
for a couple hours in the massive forest; the third town he came across was a
place where five trailheads started and people came to go backpacking and spend
day trips in the woods, a place perfect for his needs. Parking the car in an
alley behind a convenience store, he liberated a muddy pair of work boots from
the bed of a pickup and made a beeline to one of the three banks on the main
street. There was just enough time before closing to hit all of them and make a
cash withdrawal on the credit cards; he’d found that small town people
understood cash deals, and his story about a woman selling a bass boat AND a
brand new four wheeler to get rid of her ex-husband’s toys was met with smiles
and nods. After he exited the last one, he took out the limit at all the ATMS
he could find in twenty minutes, building up a nice nest egg, then he tossed
all the cards in a dumpster behind the town grocery store, crossed the street
into the pharmacy, bought a backpack, socks, a pack of underwear, bottles of
water, aspirin, protein bars, and a six pack of Mountain Dew. His last item of
business was to catch the very handy town trolley that ran out to the
trailheads; this time he chose a battered Honda and did a U-turn, heading right
back in the direction he’d come from.
The total time in town was just under an hour, and he was surprised Tony hadn’t
found him yet; the instant that first transaction went through, Jarvis would
pinpoint his location and with the suit, Tony could be there fast. Ross would
be slower; the cards were secure ones with Stark tech, so Ross had to be
telling the truth about inside help if he had access to that information.
Still, as the miles ticked on the odometer, his worry about Ross slipped away;
with enough cash now, Bruce was on familiar ground. He knew how to double back,
set a random pattern, wander without purpose; he stopped and topped off, under
$20 each time, picking the gas stations least likely to have security cameras.
Keeping off the interstates, he stayed with rural America, places where street
cams were virtually non-existent and paying cash wasn’t all that unusual.  He
switched cars again outside of Cincinnati, a Ford F-50 overnighting in a cut
rate airport shuttle lot, and kept going on a sugar and caffeine buzz that
pushed back the ache in his head.
The sun sank beneath the horizon and the night rolled by, minutes turning to
hours in the broad beams of the headlights. He had nothing but the scan button
on the radio and his own thoughts chasing each other in his brain as he drove.
The scientist in him played the numbers game, reinterpreting the results of the
last tests over and over, slamming into the same walls, the lack of answers,
too many variables unknown.  Project a new hypothesis and reject it, the simple
logical process was soothing; science didn’t require emotional leaps. Facts
were facts, a kind of lullaby for the anxiety and worry that simmered; he could
pretend the dread wasn’t there, but his grasp was tight on the wheel and his
leg was jiggling on the floorboard. Faces of frightened children, the headache
stretched behind his eyes, body a taut wire ready to snap, Tony’s voice
vibrating in his teeth, and Clint gone, off on a top secret mission, all too
conveniently absent.  Ross had come at him sideways, assuming Bruce hadn’t
dreamed all this up; the General was obstinate, sure he was right, and would
never give up. He was counting on Bruce to run rather than put innocents at
risk and threatening Clint was going for the jugular.
From the Other Guy, grumbles and uneasy shifting, anger tinted with a knot of
fear, memories of the pain still fresh. A spike of longing for Cupid, the
desire to turn around and smash Ross into a greasy pulp, disgust at himself
because of a little girl’s tears. Hunkered down, hiding, licking his wounds,
the Other Guy huddled in. And, if he muted the science and the worry and the
anger, Bruce could sense the adrenaline surge, controlled energy, masked
concern … Clint as a low level background to all the rest of the currents. That
connection comforted him, the knowledge of Clint’s safety lulling the Other Guy
and calming Bruce.
Drive-ins had cameras, so he grabbed a sandwich at the deli of a small mom &
pop store in Tennessee about two in the afternoon; the nice couple chatted
about the weather without a second glance at him.  He bought a ball cap that
said “I Bleed Big Orange,” sunglasses, a large coffee, and three bottles of 5-
hour Energy, turned west towards Memphis then south into Mississippi, dumping
the truck for a non-descript Chrysler sedan. At some point as the sun dipped
westward, the caffeine threw his system into overload, and he knew the crash
was coming; no amount of energy drink was going to get him through the rebound
migraine that was forming like a storm front across his brow. Time for him to
stop was fast approaching, so he pointed the car east again and rolled into
Anniston, Alabama just after 8 p.m.  Leaving the car in the employee lot of the
Piggly Wiggly, Bruce dragged himself and his backpack to the Victorian Inn,
tapping lightly on number 207, the room facing a small copse of trees on the
end of the row. The door cracked immediately, and he shut it quickly behind
him, locking it and sliding the deadbolt.
“You took your time.”
For the first time since the flashes began, Bruce let out the breath he was
holding and looked at Clint. All the planning, the contingencies, and here they
were, going on the run together. If he didn’t feel like throwing up, he’d make
some joke about the whole situation being romantic. 
“I thought you were out of the country?” This had been Clint’s first official
mission as a fully reinstated SHIELD agent; abandoning it in the middle to go
AWOL with him probably wasn’t going to be a good move.   
“Nope, we were in New Orleans.” Clint was shirtless, clad only in a pair of low
riding black jeans, his chest speckled with drops of water. Staring, Bruce took
in the newly dyed spiky blonde hair Clint was drying and the small gold loop in
Clint’s left ear.  A tattoo was on his left bicep, some sort of crest, and
another, Celtic scrollwork, curled around the other arm like a cuff. “Someone
should explain to the bad guys that if you want to send us off on wild goose
chase, they’ve got make it plausible. Hard to believe the tip that H.Y.D.R.A.
bosses were gathering in NOLA when all the hotels are booked for a dentist
convention and the Modern Language Association. Not a room to be had anywhere.
Coulson and I were already thinking about heading back when I got your text. He
stayed to lay a false trail for me.”
Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the tattoos; he liked them. A lot. And the
blonde hair made Clint look years younger.  If his damn head wasn’t about to
explode, he’d appreciate the view a lot more.
“Like it?” Clint turned around, arms extended. There was a third tattoo, low on
his back, just near his spine, peeking above the frayed belt loops: a Celtic
cross. “Not sure if I’m going biker or townie. Thought I’d let you decide.”
“I, uh …” Exhaustion crashed in on Bruce, riding along with a wave of nausea;
fingers trembled and words became impossible. No sleep, too much caffeine,
running too hard,– he’d held himself together for the last 36 hours and now,
here with Clint, he finally gave in.
“Holy hell, Bruce.” Clint’s hands caught Bruce’s shoulders and guided him down
into one of the overstuffed chintz covered chairs. “Sit down. God, I can feel
the pain. I’ll be right back.”
Gripping the arms of the chair with his hands, Bruce leaned against the
cushioned back, closing his eyes and breathing in through his nose. The tiniest
of flicker started on the back of his eyelid and then Clint was there, pressing
something cool into his hand.
“Take these,” Clint said, holding out the four pills. “Tylenol 3 with codeine.
At double the dose, it might let you get to sleep before you burn it off.”
He had little to lose, so he sat up and took them, swallowing with the cold
iced water in the small glass. For a second he thought they weren’t going to
stay down, but then it passed and he sighed, leaning back again. Clint knelt
down, unlaced Bruce’s boots and pulled them off.
“Where did you get these nasty things?” He kept his voice soothing, talking as
he took off the socks and found the right spot on the sole of Bruce’s foot,
finger pressing; the waves of agony lessened, flowing down from Bruce’s head
and out of his body.
“Pickup truck in Davis City, West Virginia.” Clint’s fingers were tender and
yet strong as they circled and worked up Bruce’s feet to his ankles, finding
another spot, bringing a little more relief. “Tony should have found me there.
I used the credit cards for cash advances.”
“Tony ordered Jarvis to delay reporting any hit by an hour; he’s convinced
there’s a mole in the system, and he’s knee deep in ferreting him or her out.
I’d pity the person when Tony finds ‘em, but he’ll have to wait until I’m done
with the bastard first.” Bruce was listening, but Clint’s massage was relaxing
his tense muscles. “Hank’s got the video and data from yesterday; he and Carol
are on the closed system in the bio lab working on it. No one else has access.”
“He said he had someone on the inside,” Bruce murmured.  Clint’s hands paused
then he moved to Bruce’s hands, pinching the skin in the valley between Bruce’s
thumb and first finger. The pain flared then receded like the tide rolling out,
draining away.
“Who?” Deceptively calm, Clint continued to find the pressure points to release
tension, but Bruce felt the spike of anger beneath. Last thing Bruce needed was
to stir up the Other Guy and just the barest thought about the General make the
Hulk raise his head and growl.
“Any way to convince you being around me right now isn’t safe? I’d tell you to
stay away, but you have some strange sort of death wish.” Maybe it was the
codeine or maybe the jumbled thoughts from the lack of sleep and the headache,
but, whatever the reason, Bruce’s filters were all turned off.  “Haven’t I
already done enough?”
“Come on, Doc, I jump off buildings and fight giant lizards for a living; this
is a cakewalk comparatively.” Clint’s hands were on Bruce’s head now, working
his way into his hair, skating along his temples to twin spots above his eyes
that burned like hell when Clint pushed in; the hurt collapsed under those
points, slowly dulling. It wasn’t gone, but Bruce was floating above it now.
“And, yeah, you’ve done enough for me, but I’m selfish enough to want more of
you. Besides, I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
“Clint,” Bruce gently chided him. “You know what I mean.”
With a little grin, Clint brushed a very light kiss across Bruce’s lips. “Come
on, Doc, let’s get you and the Big Guy into bed. He’s tired and feeling
cuddly.”
“I’m not sure I like you knowing what the Other Guy is feeling,” Bruce
pretended to complain, but he was having trouble staying awake.
“You love it, and you know it.” Gently, Clint pulled him up and walked him to
the bed, easing him down, undressing him and pulling up just the light sheet.
“Love you.” Bruce sighed as the last tension bled away from his body. The
lights went off one by one until the cool room was almost dark but for the glow
from outside under the curtains. He heard Clint checking the door, going back
into the bathroom, going over the settings on the jammer one last time. By the
time Clint slipped into the bed, Bruce was almost gone, hovering just on the
edge of a deep, medicated sleep.
“Love you too,” Clint murmured, one hand slipping around Bruce’s waist. “I’m
glad you went through with the plan; I’d have found you anyway and you know
it.”
“Yeah. I know.” He eased his head to the side, feeling muffled, as if it was
filled with cotton, but he wanted to see Clint, assure the Other Guy that Clint
was there. He raised a hand and traced the familiar plane of Clint’s cheek.
“Shouldn’t have, but happy I did.”
“We’ll figure this out.” Clint sounded so sure. Bruce wished he was that
confident. “Get some rest.”
Bruce let his heavy lids fall closed and sank down into the very soft mattress,
slowing his brain; calculations wound to a stop and the Other Guy drifted off.
 Clint was just inches away, the cool breeze from the air conditioner drifted
over Bruce, and the warm weight of Clint’s arm tethered him.
“Who has someone on the inside?” Clint whispered.
“Thunderbolt. General Ross.” The name fell into the dark, a threat for the
morning; for now, Bruce and the Hulk were safe.
***** Many Meetings *****
Chapter Summary
     Clint's plan is simple; figure out what the hell is going on and take
     Ross out To do that they need help, so they head to Charleston, SC to
     meet a big name in cell mutation and genetics ... one Charles Xavier.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry to take so long to get this up. Family vacation this week, so
     not a lot of time to write. :)
     Action coming in the next chapter! :)
     So, I've decided to call my Hulkeye stories the Cake!verse since I've
     long since left the MCU or even the 616. This chapter delves into
     Bruce's history and it's all my own making. I'm mixing canon for the
     Cake!verse (my stories), MCU references, 616 history, and my own
     spin. So, fair warning, if you don't like stories that reinvent
     history of characters, you might not like this one.
THEN
“I’m sorry,” Phillip Sterns was saying, “but the board’s vote was final. You
can of course have time to find a new location, say six months?”
Betty’s anger flushed her cheeks red, and she refused to sit down, pacing the
small office, avoiding the overflowing bookshelves and the stacks of ungraded
papers. Keeping his own cool, Bruce stayed seated; he’d known this was coming,
just like all the others, one more roadblock. At least Phillip was going for
the soft let down and not the kick in the ass, get the hell out. The fourth
company to cut their funding in as many years, Phillip was the last of their
friends from CalTech to call on; from here on out, there was no one else to
beg, borrow, or steal the money from.
“Why?” Betty demanded; she’d tried to take the rejections well, but the pattern
was so obvious that even she had to see it now. “We were promised three years!”
“If there was anything I could take to the board, I would, Betty. I argued for
you, but they’re looking to go another direction.” Phillip dropped his eyes
when he said that last bit, the obvious party line from the company lawyers.
“Honestly, I tried.”
“You told them about the successful test in the rats, right? Bruce, tell him
about the test.” Betty knew it was a lost cause; her voice was already
hopeless, but she had to keep trying. A burning center of hate settled into
Bruce’s chest when he saw the tired lines around her eyes; how could someone
who claimed to love her do this to her? Goddamn bully, that’s what he was.
“One test isn’t enough. You promised you were ready for trials when you came
here,” Phillip argued. “I’m sorry, Betty, but my hands are tied.”
“Right. Well, don’t think I don’t know how companies work. Every bit of data is
ours; if I even see a hint of our research come out of here …” She trailed off,
gripping the back of a hard plastic chair tightly; letting out a slow breath,
she closed her eyes. “We’ll be out by the end of the month.” She slammed the
door behind her for good measure; Bruce watched her swing it shut with all her
weight to get a good reverberation.
“I really am sorry, Bruce.” Phillip sat down heavily in his desk chair and put
his head in his hands. “They won’t listen.”
“What was it? Licenses? Government contracts? OSHA?” Bruce asked gently.
Phillip’s head came back up with a snap. “It’s always something and it always
will be. When they want a project, they get it.” He stood up and offered his
hand to the other man. “You tried harder than the last two places. Thanks for
that.”
As he turned to go, Phillip spoke. “Good luck, Bruce. I think you’re going to
need it.”
Bruce was well aware of the machinations General Ross was capable of; an
obsession burned in that man’s heart, borne from misplaced patriotic zeal and
deep-seated distrust of the private sector. It didn’t help that Ross made no
bones about his feelings for Bruce, going from forced pleasantness to outright
hostility in the last few years. Strange thing was, Bruce understood obsession;
he was just as driven in his research, the goal tantalizingly close yet
constantly slipping away, spending long hours in the lab and sacrificing any
kind of life outside of his work. He knew Phillip was right; they needed
concrete data, but with no funding, it was never going to happen now. Not
unless they gave in and went to work for the army and there was little way in
hell Betty was going to do that.  That meant Bruce’s life work was done,
petering out because of one man’s stubborn pursuit, his best friend’s noble
ideals, and his own failure to find the answers. That truth burned as he tried
to swallow it.
“Don’t say it; I don’t want to fight” were Betty’s first words when he entered
the lab; she preferred to live with the illusion that her father wasn’t behind
it all, that he was just some pawn in the military industrial complex rather
than one of the main cogs. They’d had this argument before; once Betty hadn’t
spoken to him for a week and a half after he suggested an IRS audit for the
second company had been her father’s work. Sagging down into a chair with a
sigh, she folded her arms and put her head down. “We’re done, aren’t we?
There’s nowhere else to go.”
“You’re not giving up now, are you?” Bruce said, more upbeat than he felt.
“Elizabeth Ross doesn’t cry uncle.”
She looked up and laughed, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes, one
escaping and leaving a slick trail over her cheek. “We’re out of options,
Bruce. And we both know how close we are! Just one more test, that’s all we
need.”
“Look,” Bruce put a hand on her shoulder, “why don’t you call Glenn and get him
to take you out drinking and dancing. Enjoy yourself. Then we’ll tackle this
fresh in the morning.”
“While you sit here all alone? Let’s make it a party. Glenn’s got a friend
who’s really perfect for you; we’ll call him up.” Betty still hadn’t given up
finding Bruce someone; even now, she was thinking of her friend’s happiness. It
was an endearing, if sometimes annoying trait.
“Betty, you know I appreciate it, but I’d be terrible company; you and Glenn
don’t need a wet blanket. I’ll meet you here at 10 am, and we’ll hit the ground
running to find new funding.” He was helping her up, handing over her purse
from where it was tucked in a file drawer.
“Fine, but only if you leave right now with me. You can wallow at home just as
well as here.” She knew him too well; if he stayed, he’d jump right back in and
lose himself in the numbers, probably fall asleep at a computer terminal again.
“Walk me to the car and I’ll drop you off.”
He followed her out to the parking lot, listening to her running commentary of
anger and frustration, sliding into the passenger seat of her little red
Mustang convertible. The whole ten minute drive, she didn’t stop venting her
emotions; Bruce nodded and gave little noises of support but his brain was back
in the lab, circling the problem, examining it again. Betty was right. They
were so close. All they need was one successful test then the practical
applications would put dollar signs in the board’s eyes; money would trump
Ross’s power plays. Just one human test.
NOW
“It’s not fair,” Bruce complained as he looked in the mirror. He ran a hand
across his super short buzz cut; brown curls were gone, the grey at his temples
more noticeable. “You look sexy as hell, even hotter than usual, and I look
like your father or something.”
He woken to the smell of coffee, feeling refreshed after a good eight hours of
sleep, then Clint had dragged him into the bathroom for a ‘quick change.’ Of
all the options, the clippers were the easiest, but it had been a long time
since he’d cut it this short. He was regretting it already.
 “Older brother, maybe,” Clint grinned as he dumped the last of Bruce’s shorn
locks into a plastic bag to throw out. “But I will miss the curls around my
fingers.” The wicked look he gave Bruce was the last straw; Clint had been
teasing him the whole morning, walking around in his jeans, and generally being
as sexy as possible. He was usually the sleepy one, wanting to stay in bed, so
the role reversal was working for Bruce. Slipping his boxers down and kicking
out of them, Bruce started the shower.
“Definitely not a brother,” he said, wrapping his hand around the crest tattoo
and pulling Clint towards him. “Better take those jeans off if you want to wear
them today.” Soon as Clint was naked, Bruce corralled him into the shower
stall, pushing him against the tile wall and going for the sensitive earlobe,
sucking the whole thing in his mouth and slipping the tip of his tongue between
the loop and Clint’s skin.
“God, Bruce, straight for the jugular,” Clint moaned.
Bruce just hummed and pulled a little harder; he closed the distance between
their bodies, caught Clint’s wrists and pinned him. Hips slipped up and down,
bring their cocks into contact, the friction an incredible jolt of energy;
Bruce’s lips moved to cover Clint’s and his tongue tasted coffee and hint of
toothpaste as he lazily explored the curves and sharp edges of his mouth.
Content to stay that way, Bruce kept kissing Clint, rubbing at a slow pace,
letting the sensation build, enjoying the slide of skin and the warmth of the
water raining over them. His mouth traced along Clint’s jaw, down the curve of
his neck; freeing one of Clint’s hands, he tangled their fingers together and
brought them around their cocks. They both groaned in time with the slick sound
of their thrusts, and Bruce watched the pleasure chase across Clint’s face;
when he caught his teeth with his bottom lip, Bruce knew Clint was almost at
the edge, so he brought his lips to Clint’s ear and whispered, “Come with me.”
“Always,” Clint said. He came first and Bruce followed close behind; resting
his head on Clint’s shoulder, he gasped along with the last few jerks,
breathing shallowly until his heart rate returned to normal.  “Someone woke up
on the right side of the bed this morning,” Clint drawled.
“Damn tattoos. You knew what you were doing, waltzing around in those jeans,”
Bruce said with a smile, stepping back and grabbing the tiny bar of soap the
hotel provided.
“Maybe I’ll get a real one,” Clint mused, his eyes glinting with humor. “You
can pick it out, tell me where you like it. Then I’ll use it to rile you up
when I want you … no, wait, that would be all the time and I guess I have to
wear clothes occasionally. Couldn’t be on my arms thought – those show in the
suit – so someplace else, maybe one on my ass.”
“If you’re trying to distract me, it’s working,” Bruce offered because it was
true. He hadn’t thought about Ross more than twice so far this morning. “But we
need to head out of here soon. What’s the plan? I know you have one.”
“Just so happens, there’s someone in Charleston who might be able to help.”
Clint turned serious, but kept running his soapy hands over Bruce; he was a
master at multi-tasking and those calloused fingers skimming over Bruce’s skin
felt really good and calming. “Charles Xavier is giving a lecture tonight at
the College of Charleston; we can be there by early afternoon.”
“I’ve been meaning to meet him; man’s a genius when it comes to genetics and
DNA mapping. If he doesn’t know what’s happening, we’re up shit creek.” Bruce
was a little in awe of Professor X, honestly; such an amazing brain and a good
man to boot. “Would be nice to have the data to share with him, but we’ll make
do.”
“Actually, Tony sent you a present, a completely self-contained tablet and a
jump drive with all the data they had before Nat left. No internet connection
enabled and security out the ass; it’s keyed to your biometrics and only you
can turn it on, so I can’t even touch it. If you do connect to the internet,
it’s got some kind of router that bounces off so many satellites or some such
craziness that no one can trace it.”
The stab of worry hit him; Tony, Natasha … too many people knew, making it that
much easier to find him. Clint was a measure of trust that pushed his comfort
level; all the rest was way out of his experience. He shook his head, thinking
of leaving the whole duffle behind, the urge to flee strong enough for him to
shut off the shower, pull back the curtain, and grab a towel.
Clint caught his arm, stopping him; they stood dripping water on the tile
floor. “It’s okay, Doc. Nobody knows I’m with you except Phil and Natasha, and
they don’t know where we are. Phil’s got everyone believing I’m with him in New
Orleans; Natasha didn’t tell Tony anything, and she’s more than capable of
making sure there weren’t any tracking devices. Look, Tony is absolutely trying
to find you, but you know how he feels about Fury, much less Ross. Better to
let him do things and think he’s helping than try to shut him out. Honestly,
Tony’s a damn good friend to have working for you.”
“I’m just not used to it … having friends, you know?” Bruce tossed Clint a
towel. “Every time I’ve trusted someone, let them help me, they’ve ended up
hurt or worse.” The last time he’d seen Betty flashed in his mind, along with
the guilt that weighed him down. What he’d done to her, one of his best friends
… he couldn’t even bear to think about Clint in the line of fire because of
him.
“She’s fine, you know, married and living in Arizona,” Clint said, Bruce’s
worry loud enough to cross the connection between them. “SHIELD’s been keeping
tabs on her and the General for a long time now, at least since Peru.”
“How can she be fine? Her own father almost killed her to get to me. I should
do this on my own; less collateral damage that way. Just stop fighting it so
fewer people end up dead.” He dried himself off and tossed the single white
hotel towel on the floor; Clint kept the dark towel with them to make it look
like there had been only one person in the room.
“You’ve got to know Ross is never going to stop. Even if you turned yourself
over, he wouldn’t be satisfied. He’d come after me and Tony and Steve and
everyone who has seen you or helped you; the man is certifiable. The Army’s
sent him to get therapy three times now; the only reason he still has any power
is a handful of buddies in positions of authority that keep giving him more
rope. One day, he’ll go too far and cross over into Monica Rappacinni
territory, if he hasn’t already.” Clint followed him out into the bedroom.
“Best thing to do is take him out of the equation now; a nice little room in a
mental ward would do.”
“And whose plan is that? Fury’s? Tony’s?” Bruce felt the Other Guy stirring,
all this talk about Ross and Betty angering both of them. The tiniest flash of
gold crossed his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed it away.
“Actually, I have four different plans to take care of Ross and two of them
involve his mangled corpse riddled with arrows. My plans. No one else’s. And
we’ve talked about this before.” Clint removed one of the pillows from the bed,
fluffed it back up, and replaced it, straightening the covers on one side.
Bruce could feel his frustration level rising, but Clint kept his tone calm and
even.
“I’m perfectly capable of making plans and handling this on my own.” Even as he
said the words, the Other Guy rumbled his displeasure; he didn’t want to do
this without Cupid.
“Of course you are. You evaded him for years and you’re better now, in control.
You don’t have to do it alone anymore, so why would you?” Clint dragged on his
jeans and dug in his duffle, taking out a Notre Dame Fighting Irish shirt. With
a sigh, he stopped in front of Bruce and looked up into his eyes, challenging
him. “I do this for a living, Bruce. Why not let me help you?”
“If he hurts you …” It all came down to that, the fear of losing Clint, of
being the one to cause him pain.
“Odds are more likely that I’ll hurt him.” Clint gave a feral smile, the
smallest glimpse of a part of him that he rarely showed. The Other Guy growled
his approval of Clint’s sentiment. “I plan on taking the bastard apart, one way
or another. Just like the Hulk has plans for Loki.”
Bruce relented, not sure why he was arguing in the first place; Clint could
take care of himself that was for sure. “I’ll admit you’re an asset.”
“I’m a handy guy to have around.” Clint grabbed Bruce's still naked ass; Bruce
sighed as Clint wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Stress relief, massages,
back scrubber ….”
“Distraction, smart ass …” Bruce shot back. He could sense the coiled tension
in Clint, the deep well of patience that masked his own worries and fears.
“Okay, let’s see what’s in that duffle for me to wear. I’m hesitant to open it.
Probably leather pants and a biker vest.”
“Nope. But you’d look pretty good in that.” Clint pulled out the second duffle
and unzipped it. “Tasha packed it, so I imagine there’s lots of black.”
Clint was right; the jeans and Metallica were black. After dressing, Bruce left
first, and he walked a few blocks over to a Mexican market that Clint had
scoped out the day before; open 24/7, they were serving breakfast at the little
bar in the back. Ordering some huevos ranchero burritos with habanero sauce and
spicy hash browns, he grabbed some bottles of water and a few salty snacks for
the road along with two large cups of very strong chicory coffee. Clint picked
him up in a green Dodge Ram with a dent in its front fender; they made good
time, avoiding rush hour in Atlanta by using smaller highways and circling out
of the way. The whole way, the data grabbed his attention, and he poured over
the video footage and the bio readings – he only noticed they’d stopped because
Clint swiped the tablet away from him. Somewhere near New Ellenton, South
Carolina, they ate at an honest-to-god barbeque place complete with a homemade
smoker next to the cement block building; they devoured amazing pulled pork and
coleslaw sandwiches outside, grease and sauce dropping onto the gravel beneath
the benches. Clint finished a whole pint of mac-n-cheese on his own, driving
Bruce crazy licking the spoon and moaning a little in the back of his throat
until Bruce had to laugh. In Beach Island, they stopped at the small library to
use the public access computers; Clint checked the chat boards for messages and
Bruce looked up articles in JAMA and other journals. It all seemed so wrong –
the laughter, the lust, the moments of pure contentment when he’d look over at
Clint’s profile; the chase had always been fraught with fear and regret, not
this strange sense of serenity.
They rolled into downtown Charleston about 4 p.m. and left the truck in parking
lot on Concord and Cumberland to walk to the Planter’s Inn on North Market,
carrying their bags and the backpack. The downtown was bustling with some sort
of art fair, stalls set up in Waterfront Park and food trucks lined up along
Bay Street. Weaving in and out of the crowd, Bruce’s mind was wrapped up in his
failure to see any answers, even with the video and Jarvis’ readings; he
couldn’t help but remember the little house on Short Street, wondering what
he’d see if he wandered that way. So much of Clint’s alternate world had been
so real -- the Edmundston-Alston House was actually on E. Bay Street – and
Bruce had a sudden yearning to go see it. Maybe one day they could come back to
this historic city and truly enjoy it, but not today. And wasn’t that a shock
that he was thinking of them in a future tense in the middle of this?
“Should we call ahead?” He was worried the last two days had gone too well. 
The longer he went before the shit hit the fan, the worse it was going to be.
“Something tells me we don’t need to,” Clint said as he nodded at the man
approaching them; tall and imposing, he stood out from the rest of the people
in his red plaid shirt, worn jeans and cowboy boots.  Glowering and foreboding,
he wasn’t exactly a welcoming committee. “Why would Xavier bring him?”
“What the hell, Barton? You come, ass in hand, looking for help?” The man
asked, dark eyes spearing Clint and looking Bruce over from head to toe. “What
trouble are you dragging our way?”
“You wound me, Logan. Can’t I just drop in for a visit?” Clint shot back. Ah,
the famous Logan, also known as Wolverine. One of Xavier’s X-men, and a deadly
one at that. Wolverine usually left a trail of bodies behind him where he went.
“Hell, no. Not with him in tow,” Logan sneered. “If it were up to me, I’d kick
your ass three ways to Sunday, but the Professor is expecting you.”
“Don’t let the gruff exterior fool you, doc. Logan’s an asshole through and
through,” Clint said in a mock whisper as they followed the other man back to
the hotel. Logan only growled at them and took them in through the loading dock
and up the service stairs, avoiding the lobby and elevator cameras, remaining
silent the rest of the way despite Clint’s repeated attempts to needle him into
conversation.
“Agent Barton,” Charles Xavier wheeled his chair over to meet them as they came
into the sitting room. His wore an expensive suit, and he was smiling at them.
 “And Dr. Banner. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“You too, Professor. Please call me Bruce. I’m a big fan of your research.”
Bruce held out his hand, and Xavier shook it.
“Of course, as long as you call me Charles. I understand you have a problem to
present to me?” He motioned to the couch. “Would you like something to eat or
drink? We can order something.”
“Thanks, but we’re fine.” Bruce sat down and pulled the tablet from his
backpack; Clint remained standing, glaring at Logan, looking for the world like
a gunslinger from the Wild West waiting on his opponent to draw.
“Dial it back a few notches, please. You’re broadcasting testosterone far too
loud.” Xavier spoke to the two locked in a staring battle.  “Logan, I’m sure
the Agent can keep watch out the windows if you want to check the perimeter
again.”
“I don’t like it. Last thing we need is to invite anymore trouble with the
military,” Logan seemed unwilling to move.
“You have voiced your concerns already, and we’re going to help them.” Calm
voice, at ease, and yet still very much in control. Logan reluctantly loosened
his stance and finally strode out of the room, moving to each window and exit
as he went. “Logan’s very good at looking out for me and I appreciate that. His
heightened danger sense has saved my life more than once.”
“Danger sense. Nice way to say he’s a paranoid asshole,” Clint muttered under
his breath. Bruce glanced up at him and Clint winked, moving to stand behind
him, resting his hands on Bruce’s shoulders. Xavier didn’t react at all to the
contact.  “Anyway, we’re here for you. I’ll be the bigger man and can ignore
Wolfie.”
“I heard that,” Logan said from the next room.
As if the whole byplay didn’t happen, Bruce handed the tablet over to Xavier.
“Here’s the most recent data we have; I’m concerned about the rate of change in
the gamma markings in the noradrenaline levels.”
“Actually, if I may, there’s an easier way.” The Professor laid the tablet on
his knees. “The absorption of knowledge is much faster if I share the
experience with you. Assuming you’re willing.”
Bruce tensed and Clint’s hands squeezed lightly. The thought of someone in his
head, memories open for inspection, the darkest secrets laid bare – he’d be
exposing himself to another ‘s gaze and he wasn’t sure he could do it. But he
knew Xavier was right; it would speed up the process and allow the Professor to
understand, and, maybe, a second set of eyes, especially from someone who
specialized in the field, might be what he needed.
“I promise that you will control what we see. You need only think of the
specific information that is relevant.”
“It won’t be just me, you know.” Bruce wasn’t sure how the Other Guy would
react to the unknown presence. “It could be dangerous.”
“I live in a house filled with teenagers with mutant abilities. I think I can
handle it,” Xavier smiled. “You can stop anytime you want.”
With a deep breath, he nodded agreement; he had to find answers before he hurt
someone or found himself in Ross’s clutches yet again.
“I’ll be right here.” Clint rubbed his shoulders, his comforting sense of trust
and unwavering support easing Bruce’s worries.
Xavier reached a hand out and touched Bruce’s temple, leaning forward, eyes
closed. Between one blink and the next, Bruce found himself standing in their
room at the Tower with everything exactly as he’d left it. Covers askew on the
bed, his glasses on the nightstand balanced on a book he’d been reading, half
empty cup of tea on the dresser, and Clint’s sweatshirt still hanging across
the back of the Other Guy’s favorite chair. So normal, just like the last 48
hours hadn’t occurred.
“Your safe place.” Xavier spoke; gone was the distinguished older bald man in a
wheelchair. In his place was a handsome young man with dark brown hair in a
casual pair of khakis and a button-down shirt, standing just to his left. The
blue eyes, however, were the same, filled with understanding and maturity.
Turning, Bruce caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser;
curly hair, pants, glasses, and Clint’s favorite purple shirt, he looked the
age he’d been in Peru, only stronger, more confident.
“Residual self-image,” The Hulk said from the doorway. As overwhelming as
always, this version was even more similar to Bruce, the intelligent brown eyes
surveying the other two men. 
“What?” The response surprised Bruce.
“Red pill. Neo. Agent Smith,” The Hulk explained in a very patient tone. “White
Rabbit. Trinity.”
“He’s right. This is your mental image of yourself, the picture you carry in
your mind. The Matrix got that part correct.” Xavier walked over to the Hulk
and held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Charles Xavier.”
“Hulk.” His hand dwarfed the Professor’s, but Xavier never hesitated as he
clasped the big fingers. “You stop gold bugs? Help Cupid?”
“I’m going to try. Why don’t’ we start with the gold bugs? Can you show me?” He
asked.
“No. Hurt. Hulk not like.” A stubborn set of the jaw, the Hulk refused,
crossing his massive arms over his chest.
“Yes.” Bruce wanted to get to the heart of the matter; he squared his shoulders
and prepared to argue.
“That’s okay. We can start elsewhere; pick a variable, something related. Best
to ease into this,” Xavier offered.
Bruce thought about the changes; as he did the images around them shifted,
warped and refocused.
The Hulk roared and rushed into the shimmering sphere; pain cleaved through his
body as a force ripped into him, shoving, rearranging, tearing out bits and
pieces.
A lancing beam blinding the Hulk, Dr. Doom laughing as the change was forced
upon him; he lost his footing, falling backwards, Bruce fighting his way out
then strong arms wound around his waist and a voice whispered in his ear,
“Don’t worry, Doc. I’ve got you.”
 A hallway, Phil Coulson in a hospital gown, Maria Hill shouting, a blast wave,
then a tendril worming its way into his body; his throat closed tight, nothing
but tiny gasps of air, and body riddled with red patches of burning skin.
A gaping hole in Clint’s chest, trickle of blood on his chin, no time, dooms
him or save him. “It’s not a curse. It’s a gift,” Clint said.
“Mine,” he growled.  Jealousy flaring as the woman kissed Cupid; wrapping his
hand Clint’s arm, dragging him away, shoving him back, taking what the Hulk
wants, mouths locked together.
Clint laid out on the sheets, eyes hooded with desire, arching beneath him, the
taste of his skin, the tang of coppery liquid as teeth sank in.
Alien sex pollen running in his veins, Bruce and the Hulk were in agreement
about what they needed; kneeling over Clint, sliding hands along his back,
holding him down, long smooth thrusts, whispering “Mine.”
“Sorry,” Bruce apologized, dragging his mind back; now they stood in his lab at
the Tower, neutral territory. “I didn’t mean to …”
“It might have been a while for me, but I certainly do remember how sex works.”
Xavier’s eyes glinted with humor and a hint of sadness. “If I may say, it’s
nice to see some happiness. That’s hard to come by.”
Bruce could feel himself blushing, but it was the Hulk who spoke up. “Hulk love
Cupid. Cupid good for Hulk and Little Doc.” He wasn’t embarrassed at all.
“I can see that.” Stepping around a table, Xavier seemed to pluck a glowing
purple strand from the air; it curled around both Bruce and the Hulk’s chests,
the other end disappearing through a wall. “Interesting. I’ve only seen a
connection like this twice before.” He gave it a gentle tug and worry for Bruce
mixed with annoyance at Logan flowed into him through the line; Bruce could
almost hear Clint reining in his smartass response to the other man. “Yes, very
fascinating.” Xavier tugged again, harder, like reeling in a fishing line, and
Clint stumbled into the lab; Hulk caught him before he fell into a table.
“Whoa. Um, hi?” Dark jeans and a grey Henley adorned his body along with his
favorite boots, his hair a little longer and a little blonder than normal, his
arm guard on his right forearm and his archer’s glove on his left hand. “Hey,
Jade Jaws. Nice catch.” He tousled the hair of the twelve-year-old green boy
who gazed up adoringly. “Desert of the real? Cool! Can I …” He changed in an
instant; same black jeans and grey shirt, but now he had his targeting
sunglasses and a long black leather duster. “Yes!” With a particularly sassy
smile, he winked at Bruce.
“Really?” Bruce asked. Clint shrugged and changed again, this time he was clad
in a tank top complete with tattoos, low riders, and gold earrings.
“Okay, I’m done.” That damn sexy look to let Bruce know he’d picked the outfit
just for him. Distraction, indeed. That attitude was one of the things that
attracted Bruce, the opposite of his own strategies for dealing with life; even
though he knew Clint’s bravado masked his own insecurities, Bruce loved that
smart mouth just the same.
Xavier had watched the byplay, pressing his lips together to keep from
laughing. “Quite a connection you have, Agent Barton. It started with this
Gabriel fellow? The metaphor of sharing blood is very obvious, don’t you
agree?”
“That’s the most likely theory,” Bruce nodded.  “But I have no idea how it
works or why he did it.”
“Trickster or angel magic, maybe,” Clint offered.  “Preparation for the threat
he mentioned.”
“Magic? That would make sense. Take what is already possible and add catalytic
energy. Jumpstart the process if you will,” Xavier mused. “Perhaps if we go
back to the very beginning?”
“I don’t want to.” The Hulk’s voice was still large and booming, a strange
sound to be coming from the younger body. “I don’t like it.”
Before the others could react, Clint dropped to one knee and looked into the
scared brown eyes. “I’m right here with you. No one is going to hurt you,
promise.” All gangly arms and legs, the six-year-old shook his head; Clint just
held his arms open and swept the three-year-old up when he stepped into the
protective circle. Once the Hulk buried his face in Clint’s neck, he nodded,
sniffling slightly and Clint passed the nod on to the others. “We’re ready.”
Lab to lab, the scene changed, so much alike and yet so different. Advanced
computers vanished, replaced by boxy IBM models, tiny screens with glowing
green data. Tony’s penchant for only the best changed to mismatched chairs
pillaged from other labs, older equipment and dull industrial tile on the
floors, no windows to let in light. Sitting amid a clutter of papers and test
tubes, staring at the syringe in his hand, a much younger Bruce – so slim with
messy curls, dark circles under his eyes, paused just before the moment when
everything changed. The digital clock on the wall read 2:56 a.m. Striding over
to the computer, Xavier looked at the numbers then down at the equations
scrawled on the papers.
“This is the formula you used?” He pointed at the screen. Bruce had yet to
move, transfixed by the sight before him; he nodded, but didn’t look, his
attention on the needle that was about to break the skin. “Here’s the problem.”
Xavier pointed to a specific phrase in brackets.
Bruce blinked, coming back into focus, and really examined the formula. “Huh.
That’s can’t be right.” He stared at the 3 where .03 should have been. “At that
level of magnification, I would have been dead in seconds. No, my memory must
be wrong.”
“Perhaps.” Xavier didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe we should ask the Hulk.”
“No. I won’t.” Turning his head, the child version of the Big Guy clung to
Clint, refusing to answer. Bruce felt as if the ground was dropping out from
under his feet, the formula taking on a life of its own, dancing in the air,
tantalizing with a truth he didn’t want to see.
“I was frustrated, angry, exhausted; I sent Betty home and came back. I could
have made a mistake.” The admission pained him, but the fact was, he’d been so
out of his head and his hate for Ross clouded his mind along with fears of
failure, that he might prove his father right.
“Hulk not mistake. Hulk help Bruce; Bruce hate Hulk.” Big now, nostrils
flaring, hurt in his eyes, the Hulk faced Bruce.
Tony cleared Bruce’s screen, leaving nothing for him to hide behind. “Hey, I
read all about your accident. That much gamma radiation should have killed
you.”
“So you’re saying the Hulk … the Other Guy … saved my life? That’s nice. It’s a
nice sentiment. Saved it for what?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“There are layers to Tony Stark that he hides well,” Xavier commented.
“But that would mean the Other Guy was already there before I …” Bruce’s head
spun at the implications then a flood of images, quick as flashes, darting
across his mind.
“You’re a monster,” his father yelled, hand slamming into Bruce’s cheek, and a
spark of hatred flared inside of him, the energy of that fire keeping him from
crying and crumpling to the ground.
Shaking, silent tears rolling down his face, darkness surrounding him in the
stifling space of the locked closet; a voice whispered that soon he’d be strong
enough, big enough to not be scared.
Running flat out, heart pounding, breaths torn from his chest, air burning as
he sucked it in, taunting voices too close, promising more pain; the creek
loomed ahead and he pushed off with a foot, using the power in his legs to
bound across to the other side that was just a little too far.
Red mist in his vision as they held him pinned, cheek scrapping across the
concrete block of the wall, the agony ripping up his spine; he thrust his head
back and felt the solid contact of skull to fragile nose. The boy screamed and
Bruce was free, a voice in his head telling him to run.
Strong hands caught him before he could hit the floor, and Clint held him
tight. “Come out of Bruce, come back to me. They can’t hurt you anymore. I’ve
got you.” The connection flared – worry, fear, a burning hate for those who’d
hurt him, but overall, overwhelming, unconditionally, love – and he pulled away
from the brink.
“What am I?” Tremors racked his body and he had to pry his eyes open. Clint’s
blue grey ones filled with concern and the liquid brown of the Hulk stared down
at him. “What are we?”
The flashes came from nowhere, like a tornado touching down, circling around
Bruce and the Hulk, enveloping their bodies, covering them in bites. The Hulk
roared and Bruce cried out; Clint refused to let go, the golden bugs crawling
up his arms too, turning purple as they swarmed his torso.
“Play the memory out,” Xavier shouted. “You have to see.”
Tired. So tired. He wasn’t a failure and he’d be damned if he let Ross win.
Pricking the skin, the needle sank down through the flesh and found a vein;
pressing the plunger, he watched as it spread, a greenish tinge that colored
his arm and crept up to his shoulder. Then came the fire, burning its way into
his chest, metallic taste of blood rising up in his throat, gagging him; he
flailed his arms as he stumbled off the stool and his elbow hit a collection of
beakers, shattering them, spilling their contents. Before they could mix, he
was ripping at his clothes, muscles growing, body changing. When the explosion
came, the Hulk hunkered down, tough skin protecting his body, wash of chemicals
increasing his size and fanning his temper.
“Stop.” Bruce’s voice was shaky, but he focused on Clint’s arms wrapped around
him and the pain in the Hulk’s eyes then they were back in the hotel room,
Xavier dropping his hands. Clint was slumped over the back of the couch; he
pushed up and swatted away Logan’s help.
“Sit down before you fall down, Hawkass,” Logan ordered.
“No mouth-to-mouth, Wolfie,” Clint snarked back, but he came around and sat
next to Bruce, immediately twining his fingers around Bruce’s. “That’s what
happened to the Big Guy? Hell, no wonder he ran. I wanted to rip my flesh off
to get it to stop.”
All tied up with what he’d learned, Bruce couldn’t put together a coherent
answer; he needed time to process, to understand the Other Guy’s role in his
life. To think that the Hulk had already been present before the accident? Did
that mean he was the monster his father always said he was? Or was the Hulk the
reason he’d survived all of it, had made it this far?
“Acceleration of a naturally occurring mutation. Taken all together, it’s a
confluence of variables; you had already shown your ability to adapt and
protect yourself; the nannites, the Tesseract energy, cosmic radiation caused
more alterations, and now the process has been sped up.” Xavier put a hand on
Bruce’s knee. “You don’t have a choice. You have to quit fighting it and let it
run its course. You’ve been resisting the truth your whole life; this time it
might kill both of you if you don’t face it.”
Not what he wanted to hear. “Mutant. You’re suggesting I’m a mutant? And
Clint?”
“What is a mutant? Humans have strengths; some of them are geniuses who build
arc reactors and metal suits. Some are soldiers willing to die for their
country whose DNA has been manipulated through serums and science. It’s a
natural progression; I believe this is the future of humanity.” He spoke with
surety. “We are the next step, born this way; Gabriel and the Tesseract just
skipped over a generation or two in your case.”
“You think I was already …” He couldn’t follow that thought to its logical
conclusion, not sure he wanted to.
“The Hulk probably would never have been more than a defense mechanism, a way
to strengthen your resolve and adapt to adversity, nothing outside the normal
range. The explosion was the first catalyst that changed you,” he answered.
“Wait a minute. I’m just a plain old vanilla human,” Clint protested.
“Superior eyesight, coordination, and you never miss? Within the realm of
acceptable human skills, but on the very high end, wouldn’t you say? Your
grandchildren or great-grandchildren might very well be mutants.”
“So what? I’m going to grow wings or some such shit?” Clint didn’t seem all
that upset by the idea.
“Oh, god, no. He’s impossible to be around now,” Logan complained.
“I can’t ascertain what the end will be, but I doubt there will be any physical
alterations, much as you might wish it,” Xavier said.
“Wings would be cool.” Clint smirked at Logan. “I could fly rings around you,
old man.” Logan didn’t respond, just rolled his eyes and huffed.
Clint with wings? That was a thought and a half. His muscular chest bare, with
hawk like wings spread out behind him? Okay, Bruce just might have found a new
little kink because that stirred his libido. There were just a few drawbacks.
“They’d be hell on the uniform. And Tony and his puns. We’d never hear the end
of it.”
Clint’s smile widened at Bruce’s use of ‘we.’ “The Big Guy’d love it. Cupid
flying? Ha!”
Bruce changed the subject to get them back on track. “And the connection
between us? You said you’d seen it before?” he asked Xavier.
“A psychic link is very rare; in the ancient world, they were called shield
mates; medieval legends talk about bonding. Usually it’s between people with
natural abilities like telepathy, forged in adversity. Makes both stronger,
drawing upon each other’s strength, but there are dangers too. Sharing too much
saps the giver, and what happens to one affects the other. ” Again, that sad
look was there and then gone, replaced by intense concentration. His eyes
snapped to Logan who was moving even before the Professor spoke. “We have
company coming.”
Clint was in motion in a blink, unzipping his bag and grabbing his bow and
quiver. “I’ll take the stairs; we need to get Bruce out of the building. What
are we looking at? How many?”
“Only two, but they’re mutants. I don’t recognize them,” Xavier said, closing
his eyes again, fingers to his temples. “Not part of Magneto’s known
associates, probably freelancers. Unfortunately, there’s too many of those to
keep track of. They’re locked onto Bruce.”
“Well, they’ve got a surprise coming then,” Logan grinned. “Let’s set out a
nice little welcome for them on the roof, shall we?”
 
 
***** Flight to the Ford *****
Chapter Summary
     A fight, new friends, seafood, shopping, sex and a pool. Running has
     never been like this before for Bruce.
Chapter Notes
     Had to used Charleston SC again and I just came back from the Beach,
     so Holden Beach it is. Things are starting to come together for Bruce
     and Clint. But, as always, things get darker before the dawn.
THEN
First, there had been the fear, the pain – fists and bruises and handprints and
darkness and tears. Then, older, books and knowledge and learning and adults
who told him he was smart and awards and degrees that almost drowned out the
voices whispering he was a monster, a joke, a loser, a disappointment, just
another weakling to be used. She was there – beautiful black hair, soft hands,
quiet voice – but with her was the other, the belligerent, angry bully, worse
because he smiled and wore a uniform. You were supposed to be able to trust
people in uniforms, but it wasn’t true. Had never been true. Nowhere to go, no
hope for more time, and she was crying, upset, frustrated; poison flushed into
veins, burning as it flooded, and he was free, pushing his way out, taking
over, saving the little guy just like he’d done before, so many times, only now
he could fight back with their body. Explosion, fire, sirens, and he was
running away, the chaos too much. Giant leaps, lashing out at anything that got
in his way, his head aching, ripped at the seams, the pain too much to bear. A
starry expanse above him, hard rock beneath him, huddled against the cold, he
was alone, so very alone. He sat and shivered and wondered just what to do now,
terrified, confused, on his own.
The Hulk was a newborn and there was no one there to take care of him.
NOW
Bruce watched their approach as they came in for a landing; he stood in the
exposed expanse between the emergency access door and the massive air
conditioning units that were humming as evening fell, combating the mugginess
that would only become worse in the summer months. Every neuron in his body was
firing rapid pulses, his muscles twitching to move, to avoid the confrontation.
A voice in his head was chanting “Get off the roof, get off the roof, get off
the roof,” and he tamped down on the smile that threatened to spread across his
face; the Other Guy loved the movie Mulan almost as much as he love Tangled. At
least one of them was happy with the plan; Bruce had reservations about the
whole ‘go be the bait’ part of this. Let the Other Guy loose in downtown
Charleston? Not the way he wanted to remember the city.
The first guy was built like a linebacker, arms so muscular that he couldn’t
put them down by his side, veins just beneath the surface, running between
tendon and skin; his costume was garish, bright blue and orange spandex with a
lucho libra vibe. A colorful mask covered his face; only the tanned skin of his
arms gave any indication to his ethnicity. The second was flying, carefully
setting Nacho Wrestler Dude down (oh, god, Clint was wearing off on him. Now he
was coming up with silly names) then landing, a flutter of white as the long
strips of leather sewn to the seam of his sleeves and across his back danced
from the motion. At least he wore a black cat suit and a black hood over his
head, white strip with eye slits tied around his head; white was unforgiving
even if he was lean and muscular like a runner. Disco Cat looked winded from
carrying Nacho, not a good way to start this encounter.
“Hey,” Bruce said. Disco Cat startled, eyes widening; Nacho planted his feet
and rumbled deep in his chest. “You guys looking for me?” They shared a glance
and Disco Cat nodded.
“I am Slammer. Come quietly and no one has to get smashed,” Nacho demanded. As
clear as if he was standing next to him, Bruce felt Clint’s snort of derision.
“Seriously? You’re going with that?” Bruce cocked his head and looked the man
up and down; he was beginning to wonder if these two had any idea what they’d
gotten themselves into. “Do you know who I am?”
“Don’t care,” he replied, taking a step forward, trying to look threatening.
“Turbo, do it.”
Disco Cat – Turbo – spun, straps flying out, little arcs of energy jumping
between the metal brads on the ends, spiraling into threads; Nacho Slammer
reached out and tugged, weaving them between his hands as fast as Turbo could
spin new ones until he had a net. The whole process took only a few seconds and
then he cast it out, dropping it over Bruce. The lines constricted, keeping him
immobile. He flexed his arms, testing, and they tightened with a tingle; the
more pressure he applied the stronger the discharge.
“Nice. I can see how this could be useful. Can you make other things with it?”
He kept his voice calm and conversational; Disco Cat – no, damn it, Turbo – was
looking decidedly uncomfortable with Bruce’s reaction. Nacho Slammer didn’t
seem to care.
“Aren’t you even going to fight a little? Damn disappointing.” Nacho Slammer
pouted. Pouted. Bruce shook his head, and the energy lines glistened as they
shifted.
“You can’t be that dumb,” he mused. Xavier had said these guys were hired
muscle; they must have come pretty cheap.
“Something’s wrong,” Turbo finally spoke, just a hint of Australian accent. “He
said this guy was dangerous. He’s about as scary as my accountant.”
“Well, Ross does like to lie, although his favorite dodge is to tell you only
half the truth,” Bruce offered as if consoling them.
“Hey, he knows …” Nacho Slammer started, but Turbo cut him off.
“Shut up, Edwards. Just grab him and let’s go. I’ve got a really bad feeling
about this.”
The wrestler only got one step before an arrow hit him in the meat of his
thigh; cursing he went down on one knee. Before Turbo could move two more
pinned some of his flaps to the ground, pulling him over with the impact. They
wanted to take them alive, find out what Ross was up to.
“I just have a few questions and then I’ll let you go,” Bruce said. “Don’t be
stupid and you might survive this.”
Obviously, Nacho Slammer was that dumb because he roared and charged Bruce,
anger pouring off of him in waves, his intent clear. A blur intercepted and
knocked him backwards; the big body skidded across the gravel, knocking down an
antenna array before he came to a stop and jumped back up. Logan growled …
really growled … and extended long, razor sharp claws.
“Bring it big boy,” he challenged, his dark eyes flashing as he flexed his arms
and bared his teeth.
Turbo had freed himself and he lifted off, spinning in mid-air, building up
another charge; an arrow and a flash, a mini-EMP pulse, and the sparks
discharged into the closest metal surfaces. Unfortunately one of them blew out
an air conditioning unit, sending up black smoke as it ground to a halt.
“Son of a bitch!” the mutant was pissed now, landing and stalking towards
Bruce; the next arrow hit a wall of energy, bouncing away. Closing his fingers
into a fist, the energy around Bruce started to collapse in, growing hotter
until it threatened to leave scorch marks on his skin. “I don’t give a shit who
you are. Nobody messes with me.”
“Important safety tip, moron. Be sure you get all the information before you
take a job.” Bruce leaned forward, the threads sizzling, burning through his
clothes, and he let the Hulk rise to the surface, his skin shimmering into
green and expanding, pushing back against the threads. The collapsing cage
slowed, let out little hisses, and then shattered, exploding outward. “Smashing
is the Other Guy’s business and he doesn’t take kindly to idiots.”
The scream made Turbo whip his head around; Nacho Slammer was on the ground,
arm cradled to his chest, blood pooling on the ground beneath him, Logan
looming over him, ready for another strike. “Fuck this,” Turbo cursed. “Get up
Edwards.” He threw his hands out, an arc of energy shooting between his
fingers; with a flip of the wrist he sent it towards Clint’s position, sparks
trailing behind. In a blink, he sent another towards Logan who didn’t even
bother to dodge, just took the blast and stared down at the guy on the ground.
“Yeah, get up,” Logan kicked the big guy who was still on his knees.
“Not fucking dying for some lying dickwad.” Nacho Slammer’s eyes were glazed
with pain. “That’s the Hulk and Wolverine, damn it. I give, okay? Call me an
ambulance.”
“Idiot.” Disco Turbo threw a lance of electricity that danced around his fallen
partner’s body; Slammer jerked and fell back, passing out. “I’ll just do it
myself.” 
The arrow hit the ground a good foot away from Disco Turbo and the man barely
noticed it, so intent on building up yet more charges to throw. The net blew
out of the arrow head, whipping up, the weighted ends spinning and catching
him, trapping his arms at his sides. Where the ropes touched, they clung
together, impossible to separate not matter how much he struggled.
“A net arrow? Really old school, Barton,” Logan huffed.
“You should see the boomerang one,” Clint called.
“You think you’re smart?” Disco Turbo asked then he laughed. “You are so
screwed.”
The woman simply appeared without even a pop of warning; Bruce had only a few
seconds to take her in. Completely normal, she looked for the world like a
college student in her jeans and Aeropostale t-shirt. Average height – 5’ 4” or
so – her shoulder length brown hair was layered around her face, blowing free
as she reached a hand towards Bruce. Then the most miraculous thing happened;
Clint’s arrow whizzed between them and missed. Missed. She made the tiniest of
body adjustment and the projectile sailed harmlessly past her, fletching
dragging across the short sleeve of her blue shirt.
“No time. They’re coming,” she said; Bruce could see her dark chocolate brown
eyes now that she was close. “Distraction for the real attack.”
As if a curtain was lifted, the whump, whump of the nearby rotors sounded as
the first lines hit the roof; the uniformed men zipped down, guns ready in one
hand, some already cocking and aiming before they landed. The green uniforms
with the yellow straps left no doubt who they were, and the overwhelming
numbers of them meant business. H.Y.D.R.A. was in the game now.
“Smug bastard going to get what’s coming to you,” Disco Turbo laughed.
“Outgunned now, aren’t you?”
The attack came swiftly; Logan was a blur of motion, launching himself at the
nearest group of H.Y.D.R.A. agents, slicing through them with a howl. An arrow
whispered by and hit the pilot of one of the big Hueys hovering above; he
slumped over the control stick and the helicopter veered off, the men still on
the lines jumping off. Three made it to the roof, but one slammed down onto the
pavement below.  A second arrow whizzed up and attached itself to the side of
another Huey before a rain of bullets strafed Clint’s position.  After a count
of five, the arrowhead exploded and that helicopter jerked as the pilot fought
for control, aiming the now flaming machine out over the Cooper River, towing
two men dangling beneath. Logan was mowing through the men, bullets not even
slowing him down; the H.Y.D.R.A. agents began to balk, pulling away from the
mutant, but other clusters charged towards where the arrows came from as a
bigger group headed right for Bruce and the woman. The other two, Disco Turbo
and Nacho Slammer, they all but ignored. The Other Guy was pushing at the
seams, wanting out; images of swinging a big wide metal body around and casting
it out into the sea were flashing in his head. The Hulk wanted to play and
helicopters were a favorite toy.
“That’s him,” Disco Turbo was pointing at Bruce. “Get the bastard.” One of the
men, an officer by his uniform, pointed his pistol at Disco Turbo’s head, point
blank, and fired. Nacho Slammer cried out, but kept his head down, curling into
a fetal position to protect himself.
“Get behind me,” Bruce yelled to the woman; she’d taken up a fighting stance, a
Walther PPK appearing in her hand. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry about that.” She fired off two quick shots, aiming at random
spots; in both instances a man walked right into the line of her fire. Dodging,
she constantly moved in a seemingly chaotic pattern that kept her out of harm’s
way. Spinning, she kicked out and connected with an arm that wasn’t there two
seconds before. “I can get out of the way.”
That was as long as he could hold back; the change took him swiftly and easily,
between two breaths he was Bruce and then the Hulk was roaring a challenge,
straining his muscles and tightening his massive fists. With one swipe, four
men flew over the edge of the roof; Logan shouted and spun another man into the
Hulk’s sphere, and he batted that guy off as well, grinning.
“Wolfie pitch,” he laughed, bullets bouncing off his skin. “Hulk bat thousand.”
“He did not just call me …” Logan complained.
“It means he likes you,” Clint called, darting out into the open to fire three
more arrows before he disappeared behind the air conditioning unit.
“Great, now I have a big blue AND a big green guy wanting to be my friend. My
life gets crazier by the minute.” Logan groused. He never stopped fighting,
deflecting bullets with his claws before slicing at the nearest target.
“Well, he is more likely to stick to love taps than smashing if he likes you.”
Clint took out two more from the top of the metal structure then rolled off to
find another perch. “Hey, Big Guy, Wolverine is like Thor. He can take it.”
“Hulk mad at Cupid. Cupid shoot whirlybirds.” The Hulk was laughing, joking
that Clint had already downed two of the aircraft.
“Gentlemen,” the woman said as her gun barked again. “Really? Is now the time?”
She moved like a dancer, gliding between punches and bullets as if she had an
invisible map only see could see. Hulk liked that dancing show, the one were
the silly famous people learned how to do the tango; he liked Derek and Maks.
Cupid was jealous of how much he liked them. A third and fourth Huey appeared,
more men at the ready to attack. The Hulk didn’t hear them at all, and he had
excellent hearing, so they must be like the big SHIELD boat that could
disappear. Didn’t matter because now he could play.
“Mine!” The Hulk bounded to the edge of the roof and pushed off, flying up and
catching the landing skid of the closest one, knocking men out and shaking it
as he ripped out panels and wires. “Cupid no shoot!” he shouted back down.
“Over the water, Big Guy!” Clint yelled back. “Or no fresh seafood for you.”
The Hulk was torn; big bada boom of the copter crashing or shrimp? Hard choice.
At least there’d be a splash when it went in the harbor.
“Seafood?” Tango Girl asked. For the moment the roof was empty, and she and
Clint stood behind the wall of the doorway, out of firing range, reloading her
pistol and gathering what arrows they could reach for the next charge.
“He loves shrimp by the bucketful,” Clint explained. “I’m Clint, by the way.”
He offered her his hand.
“Rachel.” Tango Girl took it and shook it firmly. “Ross has gone off the
reservation, if you didn’t figure it out. There will be more coming.”
“Yeah, the mutant mercs and H.Y.D.R.A gave that away.” Clint aimed and fired
again, making sure two more didn’t make it down to the roof. With a roar, the
Hulk pulled the copter out of the sky, landing on the next building and
swinging it in a circle before he let it go; with a mechanical squeal, it
arched into Charleston bay, rotors bent and spinning uselessly. Men jumped out
as soon as it was over the water, trying to avoid going down with the broken
machine. “That only counts as one!” Clint yelled over to the Big Guy who
flashed a wolfish grin and jumped for the remaining helicopter. Cupid was still
ahead of him in the things that fly category and he aimed to remedy that.
As his meaty green hand closed around the skid, a man leaned out of the open
door and pointed a small device at the Hulk’s head.  Flashes of gold swarmed
down and surrounded him, biting stings and crawling feet that were a thousand
pricks of pain; with a scream, he batting at the bugs with his free hand,
shaking the whole helicopter as he did. Shouts from below … he could hear Cupid
telling him to hang on, Tango Girl calling for someone named Jace, and Wolfie’s
bellow coming nearer as a blur passed and landed on the man who’d hurt him.
“Don’t fight it,” Cupid was calling to him, but it hurt; they were burrowing
under his skin, making little holes as they dug down deep into his muscles. The
world was lurching around him as the helicopter spun out of control and the
bugs hit his nerves, shooting spasms that fired through his body. He couldn’t
hold on; his fingers cramped and then flew open, and he was falling, the brick
buildings below rushing up to meet him.
No bucket of shrimp tonight, the Hulk thought as he plummeted, and he felt bad
for disappointing Cupid. Then a soft touch brushed his shoulder and a quiet
voice said “I’ve got you.” He hit the water hard, a back flop that would have
emptied a pool, but the ocean just took his weight and shoved him right back
up; he was floating, being towed along, the waves helping to push him. Tears
mixed with the salty water, the gold melting into his very bones, as he finally
lost consciousness.
===============================================================================
 
Light filtered in through the closed hurricane shutters; overhead a ceiling fan
circled lazily above the massive four poster bed. Bruce kicked back the sheets
and comforter, pushed up to his elbows, and surveyed the room. A large TV sat
opposite the bed, a leather recliner in the corner, an open door revealed an en
suite bathroom, and two doors opened out into a hallway. He had no clue where
he was, only that his glasses were on the nightstand and two duffle bags were
on the floor. A set of clothes – khaki shorts, briefs, flip flops, and a purple
t-shirt – were draped across the chair; without his miracle pants, he’d lost
what he was wearing when he changed. The rumble from his stomach was loud and
made up his mind for him; rolling off the edge of the king size mattress he
pulled on the briefs and shorts, tugged the shirt over his head, and went out
into the hallway.
His body ached. No, that wasn’t right. His body felt like it had been rolled
flat and then re-inflated. He flexed his fingers; they felt stubby and swollen;
pads of his feet were sensitive against the rubber soles. His eyes were gritty
and everything was slightly out of focus even with his glasses on. Still, he
could make out two more bedrooms on the opposite side of the hall and the
staircase that descended to the floor below. A door led out onto a veranda and
he could see another house across the street, what looked like a river behind
it with fishing boats sailing by. Taking the stairs carefully, he came down
into a front entryway, a formal living room with a fireplace to his left and a
dining room to his right. The main door opened onto another veranda directly
below the first one; turning, he made his way back the hallway until he found a
gourmet kitchen with grey granite countertops, a built in gas stove, and a
stainless steel refrigerator. Beyond the counter was a family room with a
comfortable sectional sofa and a massive big screen TV; the open shutters
showed more houses and a glimpse of the wide expanse of ocean surf. Clint was
crashed on the couch, the TV tuned to a news channel, the volume turned down
low. On the screen, Anderson Cooper was talking about an aborted terrorist
attack in Charleston, SC; they cut to a video of Professor Xavier giving a
statement about how pleased he was with the response of local law enforcement
and why his lecture went on as planned. Cutting back to Cooper, the anchor
lamented the fact that there was not a single piece of video of the actual
incursion before they cut to commercial with a promise to have a terrorist
expert on after the break.
“Xavier handled all the details, it seems. Terrorist attack, indeed,” Bruce
mused, impressed by the cover story and power of the professor’s abilities to
control what people remembered. A big green guy hanging from a helicopter
couldn’t have easily gone unnoticed; Xavier must have suppressed the memory.
That took a large amount of skill and energy.
 “Hey, you’re awake.” Clint stood up and turned off the TV.  “You hungry? Of
course you are. Not much to eat here – I finished off the last of the leftover
pizza for breakfast – but if you’re up to it, I’ll take you out for seafood.
There’s a good little place just across the bridge, real hole-in-the-wall and
they have shrimp by the bucket. I sort of promised the Big Guy.”
Bruce felt the Other Guy rumble in pleasure at the thought of food, happy that
Clint was okay and not mad. “I remember Charleston and then falling, and
hitting water instead of the ground. Where are we?”
“Long story for eating, short one now. This is Holden Beach, North Carolina.
Rachel – that’s the woman who appeared, remember her? – had her partner
teleport you out into the ocean – more on that later – and her brother rented
us this house under fake names. We can stay for at least a week. Xavier put
what he called a ‘dampener field’ around us, so we should be untraceable for a
bit.” Clint grabbed a set of keys, dropped the jammer in his pocket, and Bruce
followed him out the front door and down more stairs to a Honda CRV parked in
the driveway. The afternoon was muggy and humid, black clouds of a storm front
chasing along the coast, casting scuttling shadows on the road. “It was a bad
one, Bruce. The Hulk was in serious pain. We got you out of the water only
after you changed back.” He looked over, concern evident.  “I could feel it
too. Like it was ripping you apart from the inside.”
Clint turned the car onto the one main road and in less than a minute, they
were crossing a curving bridge over the intracoastal_waterway, the small_island
spread_out_beneath_them. From north tip to south end, the island was maybe
three miles long and less than half a mile wide; nothing but houses lined the
streets that alternated with protected grassland and dunes. No high rises
condos dotted the landscape and the only businesses Bruce could see were an ice
cream shop, a raw bar, and a small café next to the town hall. A non-
denominational chapel and a couple of rental places finished out the ‘business’
district of the island. At the end of the bridge, they turned left onto a
gravel road and back to the shore, pulling into the dusty lot of a small
concrete_block_and_weathered_wood_building. It was between lunch and supper, so
there weren’t many people. Bruce’s feet still felt tender in his cheap flip
flops, but both of them fit right in with their beach bum attire; Clint was
wearing shorts and a grey tank with his own set of bargain bin plastic flops.
The place was as far from an elegant Tony Stark restaurant as you could get;
you ordered at a weathered wooden bar from menus written in colored chalk,
grabbed your own beer from the cooler and sat out on the deck where you could
watch the chartered fishing boats take off from the dock below. Old license
plates lined the walls around the bar where the only other patrons sat,
watching two big screen TVs, both tuned to sports channels. They ordered a
pound of steamed shrimp, a dozen steamed clams, conch fritters, and Bruce had
to try_a_shrimp_burger. Sitting in the farthest corner with a great view of the
bridge and island, Clint pulled the white plastic chair out, put his back to
the wall, and Bruce sat opposite him, giving them a 360 degree view.   
“Let’s start with how you’re feeling.” Clint swigged his beer; he was worried,
Bruce could feel that. The connection pulsed between them, stronger than
before; maybe a by-product of the earlier probing or the latest round of
accelerated changing. Or it could just be lust, always riding high after the
Other Guy was in a fight; Bruce’s theory was that the endorphin level took
longer to drop back down than his physical body.
“The details are hazy, but I remember this time it went deep, like down to the
bones. I was a little … off … when I woke up, but now I feel good, honestly.”
Bruce was surprised to admit it, but he was awake and really raring to go. “I
wish I had some way to get data, blood samples, see what’s going on.”
“Well, actually, we might be able to. Rachel and her crew said they could run
interference for us, if need be, get us things. And, yeah, I know; more people
who know about our whereabouts and we know next to nothing about them.” Clint
leaned his elbows on the table and watched a sailboat ease and head for a dock
at the back of one of the waterway houses. “The Professor vouched for them.
They’re freelancers, some sort of mutant version of the A-team from what I
could gather. Rachel’s ex-F.B.I. – enhanced extra fast perception – and her
brother Ben is a computer guru, a contractor with the NSA; he did something
that makes it look like we reserved this place last year. They have a partner,
Jace, an ex-Navy SEAL who can teleport; he’s the one who moved the Big Guy over
the Atlantic in time and then got us here. Ross tried to hire them but they
turned him down; Rachel figured out what he was up to and contacted Xavier.”
“The perception explains why you missed her. Normal humans have a lag time
between when they see something and when it registers in their brain; imagine
if you saw and reacted at the exact same time,” Bruce explained and realized
that sounded exactly like what Clint already did. “Actually, that’s how you
shoot; all those variables run by in an instant. So she knew where your shot
would land and just got out of the way.”
“Cool mutant ability. Probably better than wings, I’ll admit. Wouldn’t mind
boosting that up a bit.” Clint’s eyes tracked the waitress coming over with a
tray of food. She was in her late 20s, jeans shorts highlighting long tan legs,
and white shirt with the restaurant’s logo not too tight; she had a bright
smile as she approached them.
“You guys must be hungry,” she said as she set the various paper plates down
and one silver metal bucket filled to the brim with boiled shrimp plus another
empty one for the shells. “Here for the week?”
“Looking forward to it. There’s nowhere to get fresh seafood like this in
Wellington,” Clint countered easily. He lied so well and so convincingly
sometimes Bruce thought he should worry about that. But the enticing smell of
old bay seasoning was pushing the Other Guy’s hunger buttons; he took his first
bite of the shrimp burger and remoulade sauce dripped out the sides.
“Well, let me get you another beer?” When Bruce only nodded so he could take
another bite, she laughed and went back into the restaurant.
“The house has Wi-Fi, so we can check the chat boards; if you make a list of
equipment, we’ll see about getting it delivered and you can work to your
heart’s content.” Clint put some clams on the empty plate she’d given him and
snagged some fries from Bruce’s plate. “But the place to start is the device
the H.Y.D.R.A. guy used to set you off.”
“What?” A vague memory of someone looking down, pointing his hand at the Hulk;
that one tugged at something else, another image that was just on the edge of
his brain. “We have it?”
“Rachel saw it fall and caught it; it’s back at the house.” Clint popped a
fritter in his mouth and closed his eyes, enjoying the taste. Bruce was
building a nice pile of shrimp shells as he worked through the bucket, his
fingers drenched in butter and spices. “They know what’s going on and how to
control it to some measure.”
 “That was one of the possibilities; the nannites from Las Vegas that were
inactive and then active again. Hank thought they could use them to gain
information about our basic DNA structures; it’s not a big leap to manipulation
from there, is it? The nannites interacted with the Tesseract energy, tried to
rewrite my DNA; maybe they were engineered to do that by their creators. Once
set in motion, they haven’t stopped, and you have them too.” Bruce wiped his
fingers with one of the paper towels from the roll on the table; no fancy
napkins here, just garlic butter in a white bowl, tartar and hot sauce in tiny
plastic bottles. The breeze kicked up, ruffling Clint’s hair as he licked his
fingers; Bruce felt a stab of lust, wanting to taste the spice in Clint’s
mouth. While one part of his brain was racing ahead with new data, changing
hypotheses to match, the Other Guy was slowly being sedated with food, and the
Clint awareness meter was pegging into the red.
“Well, we can take care of that back at the house.” The double meaning of
Clint’s words was clear from his steady gaze and the way he sucked his thumb in
his mouth. “You amaze me, how you can have all that running in your brain at
once. Me, I have to focus, explore all the avenues. You can be solving advanced
math problems, dealing with the Other Guy, and still have time to think about …
other things.”
“I wish I could focus like you; that’s a handy skill to have. You see so many
things I miss. Maybe that’s your superpower. Intensity and perception,” Bruce
laughed and ate the last clam; his burger was already gone and there were very
few of the shrimp or fritters left. “What are your opinions on what we should
do?”
Clint sat back and let Bruce finish off the last bites, eyeing him intently.
“Well, for one, it’s freakin’ weird to have someone talking in your head from
far away. Professor X did that after the Big Guy went down. Very strange. You,
I don’t really hear, just sort of know what you’re feeling … and if you don’t
stop broadcasting so loud I might have to do something about it right here …
but he explained what he was doing and where we were going and BOOM here we
were. No wonder he can keep all those kids in line. Two, Ross has completely
gone around the bend; I’m willing to bet that the Army doesn’t know where he is
or what he’s doing. We should use that to our advantage, get someone on his
trail. Rhodey knows the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who should be
interested in hearing Ross is hiring freelancer mutants and working with
H.Y.D.R.A. Turnabout’s fair play after all.”
“They’ve never done anything about him before,” Bruce protested. He had a hard
time imagining the Army reining in Ross; they’d invested so much time and
energy into Ross’s Hulkbuster squad up to this point. “I can’t imagine they’d
start now.”
“Yeah, well, they’ve never had Tony on their ass and SHIELD in your corner
before either. The playing field has changed. There are Hulk pajamas for kids,
for heaven’s sake. And if he’s working with a group on the terrorist watch
list?” Clint shook his head, obviously trying to convince Bruce. “Third, I
think we should stop, get some supplies, and hold up for a few days rather than
run again. Take advantage of the moment for you to get some perspective, tear
apart that little box, see what Hank and Carol have come up with. I certainly
won’t complain about having to lie around on the beach while you work. Or the
pool. Did you see the pool? I could get some sun, maybe read a book.”
Bruce’s gut instinct was to run, always run, but he’d been racing away from his
problems most of his life, hiding in closets or foreign countries, avoiding
facing the Other Guy head on. He’d never had a reason not to bolt at the first
hint of trouble, and usually, the impulse saved lives and massive property
damage; to be honest, he avoided relationships precisely because lovers made
the need to escape that much more difficult. But now? Tony had started the
change the day he’d shook Bruce’s hand and began the green rage monster fan
club. Then there’d been Natasha telling him they could use a little worse and
Steve ordering the Other Guy to smash and catching Tony. The circle just kept
getting bigger – Coulson and Thor and Jane and Darcy and Selvig and Hank and
Carol – running would mean leaving all of them behind, and he could probably do
it if one very battered and bruised guy with a quiver and a dark cloud
shadowing his ever step hadn’t wandered back into his life. Running wasn’t an
option anymore unless Clint went with him. And he’d do it too, joking the whole
way; no, Bruce was invested in a way he’d never been before, and, surprisingly,
his heart was lighter and more content despite the very real dangers they
faced.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” He wiped his hands on one of the wet wipes the
waitress brought over. “Shopping it is.”
“Oh, if you’re going to the Food Lion, now is a good time. It gets insane
between 4 and 8 pm on Saturdays; most people check in around 4 to 5 then head
over,” the waitress offered, stopping to clear of their table. Taking out a
small card, she wrote her number on the back. “Look, if you want to get out, go
get a drink or anything, my sister and I are locals. We know the best places.
Just give us a call.”  She winked and she put the card on the table. “Enjoy
your week.”
The laugh bubbled up, but Bruce tamped it back down, along with the spurt of
jealousy from the Other Guy. She’d offered a double date, after all, and hadn’t
said who she was interested in. Clint raised an eyebrow when Bruce pocketed the
card, but you never knew when a native perspective might come in handy.  They
were both smiling as they got in the car; instead of crossing the bridge back
to the island, they turned left and drove the one-third of a mile to the only
red light in the whole town, a four way stop that encompassed a little shopping
plaza and a row of local stores. Clint parked in front of the Surf Shop, and
they spent a half an hour putzing around, pleasantly surprised to find major
brands like Oakley, Ron Jon, and Under Armour. The ‘surrender the booty’ beach
towel with a giant skull and crossbones found its way into their basket at
Clint’s insistence, as did a more generic towel for Bruce (he absolutely
refused to let Clint get the Justin Beiber one), along with a pair of swim
trunks for both of them, a float for the pool with a cup holder (Bruce wasn’t
sure why it had to have that), more flip flops, a zip up hoodie with a pirate
ship for Clint, and a plain yellow Under Armour sweatshirt for Bruce.
Sunglasses went in as well. Bruce couldn’t talk Clint into the purple Speedos;
he really did want to see Clint’s ass in them, but he wasn’t willing to wear a
pair of his own to get Clint to agree.
Then they drove through the light and stopped at the Walgreens; the first order
of business was a new pair of pre-paid phones, then sunscreen, another set of
towels to use in the house, acetaminophen and ibuprofen, soap, dishwasher and
washing machine detergent, bug spray, and other necessities. Clint spent
fifteen minutes going through the bargain DVD bin, picking out movies to watch
on the big screen TV and crowing when he found one Bruce hadn’t seen. He scored
Big Trouble in Little China, Clue, and Lake Placid then found the paperback
rack and picked up the latest Vince Flynn thriller and A Feast of Crows by
George R. R. Martin. The clerk laughed when Clint told a story about pocketing
both their cellphones on the beach earlier, forgetting and losing them in the
ocean; surprisingly, the clerk said, that happened quite often, almost as much
as lost car keys. Walking across the parking lot after depositing their bags in
the car, Clint sent Bruce on in to start shopping. Since he was on his own,
Bruce went right to the fruits and vegetable section, getting lettuce and
mushrooms and peppers and onions and tomatoes for a salad; thinking about the
grill outside the back door, he tossed in some corn and two big baking potatoes
along with bananas and half a watermelon and made a mental note to pick up the
makings of a marinade. Picking up some chicken, he found a whole wine aisle
with a decent selection, even unearthing a bottle of Kings Estate Pinot Gris
and an Albada Tinto that had to go in the cart. Fresh herbs to season things,
and then he gave in and threw in two thick N Y strip steaks. By the time Clint
caught up to him, he was on the snack aisle, and Clint picked chips and ran to
get some dip while Bruce tossed in the Other Guy’s favorite brand of pretzels.
A box of Clint’s sugary cereal was matched by an organic granola Bruce was
pleased to find on the shelf; the beer section was an amazingly deep selection
of all the usual brands plus make your own six packs of local and craft beers.
Clint had to try some of the pouches to throw in the freezer (strawberry and
peach daiquiris for the Big Guy’s sweet tooth), and the grand total surprised
Bruce when they finally managed to check out with far too many bags to haul to
the car and back up the steps of the house. Before they left, Clint ran into
the little China Gate restaurant and picked up the food he’d ordered, two big
bags full, steaming hot.
“Come on, I know you’re still hungry,” Clint explained. “I wanted dumplings and
I got you Kung Pao shrimp. We can eat the leftovers for dinner.” He would have
laughed at Clint, but the Other Guy sniffed and gave a contented sigh at the
thought of more food; seems he still had room for more. The kitchen countertop
was full by the time they got everything inside; they made quick work of
putting away the food, tucking the beer in the side of the refrigerator door.
“How about we toss our suits on and take the food out to the pool. I’ll run up
and get the tablet …” Clint started to circle the counter but Bruce stepped in
his path and backed him up against the edge of the granite. “Oh, I see. We’re
still feeling frisky, are we?”
“You tell me.” Bruce curled his hands around Clint’s hips and rubbed with his
half-hard erection, no mistaking his intent. He nuzzled along the curve of
Clint’s neck, smelling the comforting familiar scent mixed with the salty tang
of the ocean.
“There are five beds in this house, one of which is as big as a yacht, a two
person Jacuzzi tub, a shower the size of my first apartment, two couches,  and
a dining room table …” Clint sighed as Bruce tugged down the collar of his t-
shirt and brushed his teeth across the vein. “Oh, hell, that’s fighting dirty.”
“Where’s the bag from the drugstore?” Bruce leaned his whole body along Clint’s
as he stretched and rummaged through what was left to put away. His hand closed
on the rectangular box and dragged it over.
“Here?” Clint grinned and ground himself hard against Bruce. “Kinky fucker,
aren’t you?”
“And you damn well love it,” Bruce nipped at Clint’s earlobe, then along the
jaw line. Sliding over the skin, he caught Clint’s lower lip and sucked it into
his mouth. “Right here. Right now.”
Kissing Clint was like breathing in pure energy, taking in air he needed to
survive; the slick slide of tongues was better than the sweetest wine, spicy
and addicting, and Bruce needed nothing else but this, the warmth in his groin,
the clench of muscles as arousal built. The feel of smooth skin under his
fingers as he bunched up the soft cotton, tracing the muscles, running along
the scars he knew so well, Clint’s chest rising and falling, faster, tiny moans
vibrating under Bruce’s fingertips. Clint lifted his arms and Bruce pulled the
shirt over Clint’s head, running his hands from wrists to shoulder, breaking
the kiss only as the material passed between them then diving back into Clint’s
mouth.  Bruce continued stroking, easing down Clint’s shorts and briefs and
then his own; his thumbs pressed along Clint’s hip bones, held him tight as
their cocks rubbed together. Finally, he left Clint breathless and slid down to
his knees, keeping his eyes on Clint’s.
“God, you’re going for a full frontal assault, aren’t you?” Clint’s laugh was
half moan.
“Not exactly.” Bruce kissed the head of Clint’s cock then turned him around; he
cupped that perfect taut ass, parted the cheeks and licked a stripe down until
he circled the tight muscle.
“Holy fuck.” Clint dropped his head onto the counter top, cheek flush on the
cool rock. “God, yes.”
Bruce’s chuckle caused Clint to clench up and each swipe sent shivers up
Clint’s spine; little aborted groans, each tremor as he flicked his tongue
inside, the way Clint pushed back to meet him, the pleas for more that rolled
out of Clint’s mouth – all of it made his own cock harden and start to leak. He
kept at it until Clint’s words devolved into sobs of pleasure, pressing inside
as Clint clenched tight around Bruce’s tongue. Rising up, he circled Clint’s
waist, holding him still as he fumbled with the box, ripping it open and
dumping the tube out. Clint started laughing as Bruce tried to unscrew the cap
with just one hand.
“You could help you know,” Bruce groused; he got the top off only to find
nothing coming out.
“Got to break the seal,” Clint offered, making no move to help, just smiling
and wiggling his ass up against Bruce’s cock. Letting go of Clint, Bruce
finally got some gel on his fingers; he slipped two inside, fast and hard, and
Clint’s laugh turned into a breathy moan.
“Thanks for the help.” Bruce’s other hand traced Clint’s spine up to his neck
then pushed his head down on the counter. Slick from Bruce’s tongue, Clint
opened up easily as Bruce thrust his fingers in and out, scissoring them and
earning a gasp of pleasure when he found the right spot.
“You were … really graceful,” Clint said, grin still on his face, turning his
head to watch Bruce. “Nice to know … I’m not the only one … who’s sometimes a
goof … ah, fuck.”  His eyes rolled back as Bruce hit the spot again. “Yeah,
that’s good. Nice and hard will do it for me.”
“I think I know that by now.” Bruce pulled his fingers out and slicked up his
cock; lining himself up, he held Clint’s shoulders down as he drove up and in,
seating himself by increments until Clint was tight around him. “You’re pushy
and impatient and always in a hurry. Good thing I’m in the same mood.” There
was something about seizing the desire and riding it, hands clutching first at
Clint’s shoulders, then his waist, then his neck, then buried in his hair,
yanking his head back so he lifted his hips and shoved back to meet Bruce’s own
thrusts. He couldn’t explain it, the way in which all the spinning threads in
his head joined together: how the scientist gave in to the bliss of the most
basic of equations, the thrust and drag and force and friction; how the Hulk
purred, wanting to wrap Cupid up in his grasp and keep him like this, always
his; and how Bruce, just Bruce, felt whole and loved and so damn good, in
complete agreement with the Other Guy and staying right here.
“God, Doc, I need …” Clint was the one fumbling now, going for the roll of
paper towels just out of reach, stretching his arm out; his fingers caught the
edge of a sheet before it tipped over and rolled off the counter and across the
floor. “Damn it,” Clint cursed, bunching up a few sheets and ripping them off
the roll; Bruce was too lost in the coiling tension in his gut to make fun of
him for the mishap. He bent forward, kissing a line along Clint’s shoulder
blade, lips tickling Clint’s ear.
“You ready to come for me?” He asked, never pausing as he thrust harder and
faster, just like Clint liked it, snapping his hips to get extra leverage. One
hand buried in Clint’s hair, the other slipped around to stroke his aching
cock, and Clint blurted out his agreement.
“Fuck, yes.”
Without hesitation, Bruce bit down on Clint’s jugular, not breaking the skin
but hard enough he’d be bruised in the morning. Clint bucked, his whole body
rocked, and his hips curved forward as he climaxed, the paper towels catching
the pearly liquid; aftershocks shimmied through his body and Bruce came too as
Clint tightened around him, pressing up until he was spent and collapsing back
onto Clint. They lay braced on the counter, panting.
“Damn, that was good.” Clint moaned, his chest heaving.
 “So, you said something about Chinese food and the pool? Maybe a beer?” Bruce
managed to say after he got his breath back; he pushed up and slipped out of
Clint, picking up the paper towel roll from the floor to help them clean up.
“Well, now I’m thinking nap, thank you very much, but I can do that on my new
float with an ice cold beer in the cup holder.” Clint stretched as he moved,
working out the kinks from leaning over. “Give me a minute to bring the brain
back online and I’ll be right with you. Seriously, Doc, you can get fabulously
horny anytime you want. Honest. I like it. And I know the Hulk enjoyed it.”
“I’m not sure I like you knowing what the Other Guy is thinking. You could gang
up on me.” Bruce gathered up his clothes, including the new ones.
“Always a problem with a threesome, isn’t it?” Clint grinned.
 
***** The Ring Goes South *****
Chapter Summary
     The beach is idyllic, Bruce reconnects with an old friend ... and
     things suddenly get worse.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry to be so long posting this chapter. Real life drama intruded
     and then I struggled, rewriting this one multiple times. Still not
     completely happy with it, but I'm ready to move on. Hope you enjoy
     it! I'll be back in regular writing schedule now.
     Some references to earlier stories in here, especially "Know When to
     Hold 'Em" and "It Takes Two."
See the end of the chapter for more notes
THEN
“Restrain him!” Ross shouted.
A dart hit him and he felt the burn of the medication enter his system. “Smash
puny men!” he roared in challenge even as his limbs slowed and he felt the need
to sleep, to close his eyes.
“Good god, what does it take to bring this hulking beast down?”
Needles, sharp and thick, boring into his skin, sinking down into his muscles.
Pain, hurt, stop, make it stop. Bright lights, blinding, tears leaking from the
corner of his eyes, lids held open with metal prongs. Hurts, hurts, make it
stop. Reflection off of the knife, sharp, slicing. Make it stop. Electricity
coursing through his body, fire in his veins, explosions in his head. MAKE IT
STOP. Straining up, ripping apart the leather, the metal, tearing rope,
slamming against flesh and bone. STOP IT.  Flames, rubble, guns, angry voices,
more pain. SMASH.
“Bruce? It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” Her voice, quiet and low, a soft
hand on his face, stroking.
Opening his eyes, Bruce tried to focus on the familiar sound. Betty leaned over
him, her face streaked with black ash, a dark bruise above her left eye,
butterfly bandage holding a long cut closed.
“Betty.” His throat was dry. Everything hurt, but the pain was receding; he
realized he was naked and hunched down, covering his crotch with his hand.
“Where am I?”
“Somewhere safe.” A blanket covered him and Betty helped him tuck it in tight.
“You brought us here. Do you remember?”
Flashes then – General Ross’s angry face, tanks, unknown doctors, Betty crying,
the agony.
 “Not really. I was in Bangladesh, and they found me. I tried to run, but ...
you were there at the facility?” He didn’t want to believe Betty was part of
it, the military response team, the experiments. She hated her father’s
methods.
“You were uncontrollable. Dad called, told me he was going to cure you; I
didn’t believe him, of course, but I thought if I got close enough I could get
you out of there.” Her steady stroking was soothing and that was exactly the
type of crazy plan Betty would have, Bruce thought, relieved.  “Turns out, you
had to save me. They used me to get you mad.” Her eyes darkened, a storm
brewing there that boded ill for her father. “It was horrible, what they did.”
“Betty, you need to get away from me.” Bruce could feel the anger stirring,
growing hotter as more images flooded his brain. “He’ll hurt you … the other …
I can’t control him.”
“You won’t hurt me, Bruce. I know that.” She disagreed; she was always like
that, make up her mind and damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. “I was right
there in the room with you and I’m fine.”
“God, Betty, listen to me. He’s not me and he might not mean to, but look at
you. You’re cut and bruised; he did that.”
“An accident, that’s all.  You trust me.” Betty argued. “It’s the gamma rays,
Bruce. They’ve affected your DNA, heightening your strength. If we work at it,
you can learn to control yourself.”
“He is NOT me. He’s a monster. Get away from me.” Bruce scuttled back even as
the change took him; like ripping his skin into two halves, deep and intense,
he fought to stay conscious, to not be shoved aside again. “Save yourself.”
The rage consumed Bruce and the Other Guy lashed out, feeling the satisfaction
of destruction as concrete crumbled under his fist.  “Not little guy. Not a
monster. I am Hulk.”
NOW                                                                                                                                                             
Bruce put the box down on the table, the last screw tightened back into place.
Finally, he understood how it worked and the purpose of the electromagnetic
field it emitted. He was ready for the next step; he just didn’t want to take
it. The last few days had been almost idyllic, even if he was technically on
the run; no disruptions, no mutants or H.Y.D.R.A. or military men, just the
beach and science and Clint.  Was it all that wrong to want to enjoy this
feeling?
Sure, he’d spent most of his time working on the device that was triggering the
transformation. A list of equipment sent via a chat board on Sunday morning
netted a quick response; a knock on the door a few hours later and a young
Latino man – the Jace who could teleport – brought not only the requested
items, but some gifts and miscellaneous things from the others. Tony had sent a
new jammer, a 12-hour-modified version in response to the schematics of the
trigger device that Clint had sent Phil who passed them through Natasha to
Steve and finally to Tony. He’d also included a bottle of scotch and box of
cupcakes, chocolate coconut and peanut butter cup, with condoms on them. There
were data files already loaded on another tablet from Carol and Hank, plus
surveillance reports on Ross from Natasha, background on the two mutants that
had attacked them and detailed H.Y.D.R.A. movements from Phil. With all the
different devices, randomizing their internet access and expanding the number
of chat boards and email accounts made the information flow back and forth
easily. In a way, Bruce felt he had accomplished more than when he was in the
Tower.
The balance was different here; instead of alone in a lab, he was at the dining
room table or sitting with his feet buried deep in the sand or relaxing on a
lounge chair by the pool. Clint simply picked up Bruce’s tablet, tossed him the
sunscreen and dragged him out of the house; it was just as easy to read the
latest research papers on the beach as it was inside. Meanwhile, Clint swam and
soaked up the rays, finished the Vince Flynn and started on the Martin, watched
movies on another tablet or snoozed on the float. They fell into a
companionable schedule – Clint was up early, running the length of the beach
and back up the main street, returning to find Bruce already at work. When
experiments were running or he was waiting on responses, Bruce wandered over to
the shore and read, relaxing in the rental chairs under a big umbrella. 
Sometimes Bruce joined Clint in the water to satisfy the Other Guy who loved
the waves and was frustrated at not being able to come out. Lunch, more work,
and then research by the pool for most of the afternoon. A nice dinner – they
fired up the grill every night – and more work while Clint watched movies or
read or popped some popcorn to distract Bruce with the smell of garlic salt
until he joined Clint on the couch. At some point, Clint cajoled him up to bed,
usually when he was already asleep on his feet.  Added to that were the random
seductions; stealthy as hell, Clint would completely sidetrack Bruce with
touches and smiles and that damn sexy body of his for a quick blowjob on the
couch, a slow and easy hand job in the shower, sleepy morning sex in bed, or
sand covered friction in the outdoor shower. He’d work Bruce up on the beach
with words and glances, and then they’d race each other back to the house to
make love in the entry way, getting water on the floor and sunscreen smears on
the wall.
Despite all of that – or maybe because of it -- Bruce had pretty much broken
the logjam and was standing on the cusp of solving the whole mystery. The key
had been accepting that the Other Guy was already present before the original
accident; every theory had assumed the Hulk was caused by the exposure to gamma
radiation. Now, working out from the concept that the radiation augmented an
existing trait, so many variables fell into place. He’d never made room for the
emotional component beyond anger; shortsighted from the very beginning, blinded
by his own desire to separate himself from the Hulk, Bruce should have seen it,
the way the Hulk protected Betty, cared about children and animals, recognized
Natasha, saved Tony, fell hard for Clint … the answer had been there the whole
time.
Now he was certain that gamma radiation, in large doses, could target
mutations, working on a molecular level to take existing above normal behaviors
and jump the evolution forward by generations. Same with the Tesseract energy -
- Selvig’s intelligence, Clint’s intuition, Phil’s constitution were all
enhanced albeit only in the short term with serious side effects. Once the
initial exposure ended, the subject continued on a normal trajectory of
development based upon the changed abilities. The years between the Hulk’s
emergence and now showed slow but steady progress in the area of control and
integration, the biggest strides happening after Bruce joined the Avengers
Initiative.
That’s how it should have stayed except for two unexpected variables: the
nannites and the cosmic radiation of the Chaoue’s spheres. The replicators, as
Clint like to call the nanotech they were both infected with, were designed to
scan; they floated inert in the bloodstream until they received a signal to
download their stored data. Clint’s allergic reaction was not caused by the
nannites themselves but by a separate serum that stripped them of their
protective shell; his body immediately tried to reject the now foreign bodies,
producing histamine to fight them off.  When Bruce was ‘separated’ by the
spheres, the nannites’ code was rewritten to aid in the cloning process by the
alien technology, creating new DNA based upon Bruce’s pre-Hulk profile.
Additional exposure to that radiation caused the degradation of the created DNA
and, much like the original accident  instigated the process that was now
occurring in both his and Clint’s bodies. In his last communication with Carol,
he’d asked her to check in on Erik and Phil as well, to see if something
similar was happening there. Not that he was bothered by either man harboring
latent mutant powers – honestly the types of people who ended up working for
SHIELD or in high levels of research probably had a touch of something outside
the norm -- but he wanted to rule out the possibility that humans without the
nannites were affected. And he’d sent Tony and Steve a warning; both of them
had been inside that last sphere and both had nannites in their blood.
“You’re thinking hard.” Clint’s hands settled on his shoulders, working on the
knots Bruce hadn’t even realized had formed there. “I know that look; you’re
close.”
“Yes. I’ve got a handle on the why; still have to work out the where it’s going
part, but I’m positive whatever changes are coming, they’ll be natural
outgrowths of what we already are.” Bruce relaxed back into the chair, his head
bumping Clint’s chest.
“So, no wings,” Clint smelled of the coconut lotion he liked to use and salt
from the sea; Bruce was coming to really like that scent. Wonder if Tony could
get a cologne made like that? “Damn, I had ideas about shirts to highlight
them. Hawk feathers, none of that white fluffy angel shit.”
“Sorry.” Bruce picked up the device and rotated it in his hand. “I’m sort of at
a crossroads here. Much as I hate to say it, I think we need to find an expert
in the field of electromagnetics and radiation.”
“Been expecting that.” Clint ran a hand over Bruce’s head where his hair was
beginning to grow out again already, the close shave now more of a crew cut.
“When this is over, let’s come back here. I know we could do Tony’s island
again, but I sort of like the small town feel of this place. We can let the Big
Guy out more.” He snatched the box from Bruce’s hand. “So, you have someone in
mind?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Betty Ross-Talbot.” Clint beat him to the punch. “Hey, I can read scientific
papers too, Doc. She’s the top in the field on gamma radiation, EM, and the
future of cancer treatments. You know how dangerous it would be to get anywhere
near her.  Besides the General, H.Y.D.R.A. will have their eyes on her too. She
could lead them right to us.”
“I know. I’ve got some ideas about how to avoid them,” Bruce looked up into
Clint’s eyes, willing him to understand. “Betty will trust me.”
“Okay.” Clint agreed, too easily Bruce thought. He’d obviously been thinking
about this and planning for it. “But we do it my way. No negotiation.”
“Done.” Bruce breathed a sigh of relief, trying not to think about seeing Betty
after all this time. He’d worried about her, a low level hum always in his
head, guilt gnawing his gut about her ruined life and career, all because of
his own arrogance and, now he knew, a stupid mistake. Even after she’d married
and gotten a prestigious research chair, had her first breakthrough, given the
keynote speech at the last year’s conference, the tabloids still called her the
‘Hulk’s girlfriend.’ Honestly, he wasn’t sure she’d agree to talk to him; maybe
she’d moved on, had left it all behind. But he needed her input.
===============================================================================
 
She looked good, older, more confident if that was possible, a little grey
sprinkled in the black hair near her temples, a few more laugh lines around the
edges of her mouth. Thin was a word he’d never used to describe her; she had
always had curves, the body of a 40s model, and she might be a little fuller
now, but she was still voluptuous and beautiful. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on
her nose; they looked good on her, another reminder of her intelligence. With a
smart green suit, black heels, and black shirt, Dr. Betty Ross-Talbot may have
been six inches shorter than the man in the room with her, but she was clearly
the one in charge of the conversation.
“Honestly, I’m flattered by your interest. You’re work on magnetism is
groundbreaking,” she was saying in the small conference room; the rest of the
panel had already left, leaving her alone with the man she thought was a
renowned scientist but was really Phil Coulson.
“Actually, Doctor, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
“What are you talking about?” She asked, standing, looking wary. “I’ll have you
know, I practice krav magna and can take care of myself.”
Bruce hesitated, watching the indignation cross Betty’s face, the stubborn set
of her face, through the crack in the doorway; he knew this was his cue, but
now that the moment was at hand, he wasn’t sure. Such a complex scheme, a real
pharmaceutical company whose CEO was interested in Betty’s work, Stark
Industries influence, a long planned conference, and now Betty was just in the
next room. Excitement mixed with anxiety as he stepped past the threshold.
“I know better than to corner you.” He stopped just inside. “You’ve got a mean
right hook; remember that guy in the bar in Houston? Went down like a rock.”
Her blue eyes widened, initial shock chased away by happiness; in three steps,
she was in his arms, hugging him tightly, her cheek pressed to his chest and it
felt like years rolled away .
“Bruce! Oh my God!” She pushed him back and surveyed him from head to toe. “You
look amazing. I’ve been following you, of course, since the Avengers started.
The Hulk playing well with others; I knew it! But you didn’t go to all these
lengths just to say hello, I imagine. This is about Dad, isn’t it?” She sighed,
but she kept her hands intertwined with Bruce’s. “He thinks I don’t know about
the board of inquiry and the forced retirement, but Glenn still has friends in
the chain of command. Dad’s being pushed out, his squad already dissolved; with
the new, more friendly Hulk, public opinion has turned against viewing you as a
threat to seeing you as an asset.”
“He’s gone rogue, Betty and I need your help for a few days.” Bruce extricated
his hand from her grasp and pulled the trigger out of his pocket. “We took this
off a H.Y.D.R.A. agent in Charleston. He’s working with them.”
“The terrorist attack where no one seems to remember the details?” Turning the
device over, she ran her fingers along the seam. “Sounded like a cover story.
EM magnifier, small scale, some sort of signal? Oh, Bruce, what has he done to
you?”
“If you can spare a couple days, I’ll show you all the data. We’ve got the
cover story of this conference. No one will know you’re missing,” Bruce said.
“Of course. Whatever I can. You know that.” Damn, he’d forgotten how sincere
she was, the same Betty who wanted to save him from the very beginning,
offering herself up without a second. “Glenn is in Arizona until late next week
anyway, so I’m all yours.” Her eyes were drawn over his shoulder. “Ah, ‘we.’ I
wondered who else that included.” Bruce glanced back, realizing Clint had
entered the room and was standing behind him; Betty brushed past him and headed
right for Clint. As she wrapped her arms around him, Clint stiffened,
uncomfortable for a few seconds then he awkwardly patted the petite woman on
the back, looking to Bruce for help. Bruce stifled a laugh at Clint’s
predicament.
“Um, yeah, hello,” Clint mumbled; Betty only squeezed harder before she stepped
back.
“I think I love you and I’ve never met you,” Betty said. “Anyone who can bring
Bruce out of his shell has to be pretty amazing. Betty Talbot.” She held out
her hand. “Old friend who is no threat.”
“Clint Barton.” He shook it. “Current friend who isn’t threatened.”
“Yes, we are going to get along perfectly,” Betty concluded, much to Bruce’s
amusement.
He wondered exactly what he’d gotten himself into within two hours. Getting
back to the beach house was easy thanks to Clint’s planning; quickly, Betty’s
suitcase was installed in the downstairs guest room and she was in the living
room, reading through Bruce’s notes, deep into the information.
“Good god, Bruce, this reads like a science fiction novel. Wormholes, spheres,
cosmic radiation … right out of Vonnegut.” Betty looked up at him. “What a
confluence of events.”
“Been a wild ride, that’s for sure.” Bruce had been looking at the most recent
data from Hank; extracting nannites from Tony, they had the tiny robotic
particles’ programming mostly mapped out. “But that’s my life now. Ironic,
isn’t it? You were always the risk taker.”
“And I’m the old married woman with the safe research job.” She laughed.
“You’re fast on your way to major breakthroughs in cancer treatments, though. I
know how much you wanted that.” Bruce remembered Betty’s drive to keep others
from suffering the same kind of loss she felt when her mother died so young.
“And you’ve saved the world multiple times already. So many people, Bruce;
you’ve helped so many.” She laid her hand on his, warm small palm comforting.
“Go ahead, say it, I know you want to.” In some ways, it’s like they’d never
been separated … and yet they were both so different now. He hadn’t realized
how much he’d missed her friendship.
“No one likes a sore winner,” she said, picking up the tablet again. “But I do
love to be right.”
A companionable silence fell for what could have been minutes, but was hours;
time ran differently in the throes of science. The Other Guy was thrilled Betty
was back; he stayed quiet as they ploughed into the problem at hand. It helped
that Bruce could hear Clint listening to Jack Burton fight Lo Pan just down the
hall in the family room; the Hulk had both his favorite people close.  Betty
attacked the problem from a completely different angle, working backwards from
the trigger and utilizing her own research on the reaction of mutated cells to
electromagnetic charges; Bruce kept doggedly rereading the data, hoping this
time he’d see something he’d missed. Yet, even with his concentration fully
focused, Bruce felt the tug and looked up to see Clint leaning against the
doorframe in his swim trunks and a tank top, shades perched on his head.
“Going out to the pool for a bit,” he announced. “Then I’ll run down when the
boats come in and get some seafood to grill, if that’s okay with you guys.”
“You cook?” Betty asked, eyeing Clint. Bruce didn’t blame her; Clint was
getting tan, his hair even blonder from the sun. The tank bared his arms, and
the tattoos were just starting to fade. Yeah, Bruce could completely understand
Betty’s reaction.
“Do you want to? That’s fine with me,” Clint offered.
“Oh, hell no. I burn water.” Betty looked at Bruce. “Tried to make mac & cheese
one time and ended up discovering something stronger than crazy glue.”
“At least we knew the fire alarm worked,” Bruce replied, grinning. “So keep her
away from the food.”
“Gotcha. Betty doesn’t play well in the kitchen.” Clint headed back down the
hallway; Bruce enjoyed the view before he turned back to his work.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you could kiss him if you want. I might be married, but
I can appreciate that really fine body; don’t let me stop you,” Betty said,
eyes twinkling, obviously having fun needling Bruce. “So, tell me how you found
your army man turned superhero. I bet you met cute.”
“Hey, you ended up with an ex-military guy.” Truth was, Bruce had been more
than surprised Betty had married an Army officer, especially one who had worked
for her father and the Hulkbuster squad.
“I know, right? But Glenn was determined and had a conscience. He wore me
down.”  She chuckled, and her face lit up with a special look as she talked
about her husband. “Don’t think just because it’s been a while, you can
sidetrack me. Hawkeye and you. Spill it.”
He took a moment to frame the story, to decide exactly how much to tell, what
words to use.
“I think the Other Guy noticed him first; Clint was good, better than the
others SHIELD sent to watch me. I probably wouldn’t have known he was there,
would have just thought he was another down on his luck gringo in South
America, but the Hulk started to sense him even if I couldn’t see him. We
settled into some strange sort of one-upmanship; I’d send him a drink at the
bar and he’d drop medicine off in my office at the clinic.” Bruce smiled at the
memory, trying not to get too sappy about the whole thing and failing
miserably. “Then they found me again and I stayed lost for a few more years
until New York happened and there he was. Turned out, we had a lot in common.
And now, well, it’s been over a year and he’s still around, so I guess we’re
doing something right.”
“Doesn’t hurt that he’s hot.”
“Yeah, that too,” Bruce agreed. It was impossible to quantify what drew him to
Clint and why they worked so well; chemistry alone wasn’t enough to cover the
way he felt, so he changed the subject. “Glenn’s not bad looking either.”
“Ah, so you’ve got a file on me?” Betty pretended outrage, but she wasn’t
surprised. “Clint does strike me as a thorough type … and you’ve got Stark’s
resources to boot. Yes, to answer the question, I am stupidly in love with my
husband. Best thing that ever happened to me. Just like Clint is so obviously
good for you.”
“God, don’t tell him any of that. He already thinks he’s the best marksman in
the world. Won’t want him to get a big head, even if it’s all true.”
Bantering with Betty felt good; they still worked together well, tossing ideas
back and forth, reviewing each other’s work, and Betty always could drag him
out of his shell to talk about life, the universe and everything. Soon, Bruce
knew Betty had honeymooned in Bermuda, hated the Dean of Arts and Sciences at
her university because he was a failed chemist who moved into administration,
and hadn’t spoken to her father in over five years. She managed to get Bruce to
tell her all about his and Clint’s island vacation, those famous pictures in
the tabloids, and the Hulk’s favorite movies.  Somewhere in the middle of the
stories and examining the data, Clint showed up with plates full of spicy
shrimp on skewers with grilled vegetables and glasses of the King Estates Pinot
Gris; chocolate cake appeared next to the microscope and disappeared just as
quickly. Then Clint was telling the tale of Tony’s big party in Vegas, complete
with the Power Ranger villain (the expunged version, safe for public
consumption) and talking about the games he and the Hulk liked to play in the
desert, making Betty’s laughs turn into very unladylike snorts that she tried
to hide behind her hand.
Later, Bruce looked up; Betty was recalibrating the trigger device for new
variables and Clint was sprawled across the comfy overstuffed floral chair, a
leg thrown over one arm, just a few chapters left in the book he was reading.
Eyes drawn to the muscles of Clint’s thigh, Bruce had the sudden urge to run
his hand along that sensitive skin and hear the noises Clint would make.  A
burst of emotion hit Bruce, fast and hard, the Other Guy slamming into his
heart and filling it up with his happiness. The overflow ran down the
connection and Clint looked up, catching Bruce staring; eyebrow quirked up in a
question and Clint’s mouth turned up at the edges. Casually, he shifted,
spreading his legs a little wider, settling down into the chair as if getting
comfortable. Bruce’s mouth went dry as muscles flexed and Clint pretended to go
back to reading, but looked entirely too smug; in retaliation, Bruce stretched,
putting his tablet on his lap and rolling his neck before reaching his hands
up. Clint was good, but Bruce knew he was watching even if he seemed to be deep
into the pages in front of him.
“Alright, boys, there’s a nice big bedroom upstairs you can just hie yourself
up to and play to your heart’s content.” Betty didn’t even look up from her
calculations.
Clint kicked his foot out and rolled up out of the chair. “Am I distracting
you?” He asked, all pretend innocence, but with a smug grin. “Heaven forbid.
I’ll just go catch that new shark movie, the one where there’s a tornado full
of them. I know better than to bother Bruce while he’s on a roll.” He sauntered
out, winking at Betty.
“Well?” Betty asked. “You just going to sit there?”
Bruce gathered up his tablet. “I can read just as well in the family room.
Wouldn’t want to miss a bad shark movie. You coming?”
“I’m fine right here or my room’s down the hall. Won’t even have to pass
through if I want to go to sleep.” She waved him off, a playful smile on her
lips as she didn’t watch him go.
===============================================================================
 
The crick in his neck woke him; the small throw pillow was folded over, but it
wasn’t enough to avoid the odd angle of his head as it rested on the arm of the
sofa. One hand and foot was on the floor, his other arm wrapped around Clint
who was weighing him down, curled up on his chest. Bruce tried to focus – his
glasses were on the coffee table – and he stretched his neck to relieve the
ache from sleeping all tangled together. A vague memory of chainsaws and water
spouts followed by a particularly bad movie with a two-headed shark eating
girls in bikinis floated into his consciousness, and he remembered Clint’s head
on his leg as he continued working into the wee hours of the morning. A rerun
of Lost in Space was playing on the muted TV; the first hint of light was
filtering in through the open blinds as the sun started to appear above the
Atlantic Ocean. The whole house was silent; Betty had gone to bed sometime
around 2 a.m., pleading jet lag.
He should get up and get back to work, but moving would disturb the stillness
of the moment; instead, he ran both hands down Clint’s back and over the curve
of his ass. When Clint’s breathing stayed deep and even, Bruce kept one hand
where it was and began to trace the lines of Clint’s body with the other,
fingers gliding over familiar contours.  He ran through the messy hair, long
enough now to twist around his pinky, outlined tattoos, curved around Clint’s
ear and gold hoop, along his jaw, and down his neck.
“Where’s Betty?” Clint mumbled, eyes still closed; he wiggled a little,
shifting his leg off the couch.
“Asleep.” Bruce didn’t stop stroking along Clint’s shoulder and over the
muscles in his arm.
“Mmmm.” Clint lifted his head and rested his chin on Bruce’s chest; heavy
lidded and groggy, he managed a half-smile. “Going back to sleep or getting up?
Or do I need to ask?” One of Clint’s legs was between Bruce’s, Bruce’s growing
interest pressing into Clint’s hip.
“I’ve got work to do, but it can wait.” He curled his fingers and squeezed
Clint’s ass. “We’ve done about all we can do here; I need a secure testing
facility for the next stage.”
Planting his hands and lifting up, Clint looked down at Bruce. “Testing?”
Bruce had the good sense to glance away as he answered. “Xavier did say to let
it happen.”
“You’re talking about forcible acceleration of your own change?” No, Clint
wasn’t happy about that. “God, Bruce, we’ll need one of the special rooms in
the Tower and even that won’t hold the Hulk. You know he won’t like it one
bit.”
“He’s not happy about the idea, granted,” Bruce agreed. That was an
understatement; the Other Guy was pissed at the very thought of Bruce
intentionally inflicted pain upon himself. “But even a few seconds and we’ll be
able to identify the mutation and project the trajectory of genetic alteration.
The information is invaluable.”
Intense blue-grey eyes stared into Bruce’s brown ones, searching deeply. “Every
precaution. The practice room, the one Tony had reinforced for the Big Guy and
Thor to spar. Hank, Carol, Betty, and every damn doctor we’re got. And I’m
there with you.”
“Agreed. That’s the plan.” Bruce caught Clint’s neck and brought their lips
together, an easy brush.
“Ah, you walked me into that, did you?” Clint grinned. “Damned easy to
manipulate, if that’s all it takes.”
“Trust me, you’re far from easy,” Bruce kissed him again. “Makes it worth the
trouble.”
“I think we need to move this upstairs, just in case Betty wakes up.” Rolling
his body, careful to drag across Bruce’s cock as he did, Clint stood up and
reached a hand down to pull Bruce up.
“Sounds like a plan,” Bruce said. They stumbled around the coffee table,
avoiding the breakfast bar in the growing light through the windows, and tried
to stifle their whispers as they headed up the stairs, treads creaking under
their feet. Clint insisted on stopping to kiss Bruce at the top, pressing him
into the wall by the door to the bedroom then tugging him by the hem of his
shirt until Bruce felt the bedpost against his back. “Close the door?”
Clint stepped away long enough to take his shirt off and catch the edge of the
door to push it closed; in two steps, he had Bruce’s wrists in his hand,
trapping them behind the post. Relaxing, Bruce parted his lips as Clint’s
tongue swept over them, giving him access and heating the kiss to blazing. If
he was nothing else, Clint was thorough when it came to kissing Bruce, content
to leave scorching marks behind as he covered Bruce’s mouth and again and again
with his own.
Between one breath and the next, everything changed. Clint moved, the gun from
the bedside table appearing in his hand; two shots barked into the morning
quiet, seconds before the front porch windows shattered. The H.Y.D.R.A. agents
were dead before their feet hit the wood floor, but others followed through the
openings and the hallway doors. They came from the bathroom, crashing through
the frosted glass blocks, out of the bedrooms, kicking in doors from the back
porches, too many for Clint to take out alone. Sliding over, Bruce let the
Other Guy take the wheel; he brushed by Bruce in passing, his voice startlingly
clear as he agreed – and then he slammed into wall, a heavy weight shoving the
Hulk back down hard. Throat closed, chest tight and heavy, Bruce stumbled, knee
dropping to the floor.
“Now we’ll have none of that.” General Ross entered through the second door; in
his hand he held a remote control with a number of different buttons, his
finger poised over one. “Lower the gun, Barton. I don’t want to press the red
button; I’d much rather Banner be alive.” Clint’s arm went down, gun by his
thigh. “Now put it on the floor.”
“Maybe I’ll just put a bullet between your eyes.” Clint was focused on the
older man.
“That’s an option,” Ross acknowledged. “But I suspect Dr. Banner’s going to
extend his arms and willingly put on these restraining bracers instead.”
“No way that’s …” Clint began, but stopped as his eyes rolled back and he
crashed to the floor, head hitting the edge of the footboard as he went down.
His whole body convulsed as purple tinged sparks danced along his spine; his
hands clenched, the gun fallen from his grip, and he groaned deep in his
throat.
“Leave him alone,” Bruce shouted; just the echo of Clint’s pain was enough to
make him nauseous.
 “Hands, Bruce.” Ross raised the control; his thumb was bearing down on a green
button. “You know how painful this is. Only you can end it.”
He didn’t have a choice; he could see the sparks moving around Clint’s body,
hear the agonized sounds Clint was trying to stifle. As soon as he lifted his
arms, one of the men snapped a restraining cuff on each of Bruce’s wrists. The
units were slimmer than the ones A.I.M. had used in the past, but obviously
served the same function; Bruce immediately felt the prick of a needle and the
rush of medication roll into his veins.
“Stop it,” he demanded. “Now.”
“Of course. See? I can be reasonable.” Ross moved his finger from the trigger
and Clint stilled, his rasping breaths loud in the room. Another man bent down
and slipped a collar around Clint’s neck, locking it in place.
“Clint? Talk to me.” Bruce turned to check on him, but a hand landed on his
shoulder and held him in place.
His head turned towards Bruce’s voice and eyes flooded with purple looked up at
him. “I’m okay,” Clint gasped out, his voice getting stronger as he spoke. “Why
do I get a collar? Think Ross is trying to tell me something?” Despite the
joke, Bruce could sense how badly Clint was thrown off his game; they’d both
been steadfastly ignoring the fact that Clint was also infected and at risk.
Ross had hit right at their weak spot.
“Dad! What are you doing?” Bruce swung his head around to see two men dragging
Betty into the room, her arms handcuffed together behind her back. She was
wearing shorts and a t-shirt, her hair messy and her glasses missing; a bruise
was already forming on her temple where she’d resisted.
“Following you. Isn’t it nice of her to tell me where to find you, Dr. Banner?”
“I didn’t,” Betty looked over at Bruce, eyes pleading before she looked back at
her father. “No. Bruce knows I wouldn’t help you.”
“Couldn’t be a bug; the jammer would stop the signal. Has to be something else
he can trace.” Clint sat up, shaking his head to clear it. “There’s any number
of possibilities; you’d never know they’d done it, Betty.”
“Very good.” Ross nodded. “Fifth generation nannites. Brand new topical
dispersal. So simple and virtually untraceable unless you have one of these
little babies.”
“Does H.Y.D.R.A steal every piece of tech?” Bruce asked; he was getting angry,
could feel the Hulk’s desire to smear the man into a puddle on the floor. “Von
Doom’s formula, A.I.M.’s delivery devices, FabMet’s nannites.”
“You’re not Ross.” Clint was certain, and the second he said it, Bruce knew it
was true.
“Thaddeus Ross would never work with H.Y.D.R.A. or mutants, and he certainly
wouldn’t let anyone hurt Betty,” Bruce agreed.
“You know, Clint, you were the biggest surprise. Stark was just what I
expected, Bruce very much like his files portray him, and Rogers, well, he was
pretty much as advertised except for the whole ‘Cap is gay’ part. Didn’t
imagine all the guy-on-guy action, I’ll admit. But here I thought Clint Barton
was a master assassin and marksman – the perception and foresight are never
mentioned in any reports.” Ross touched a spot high on his left chest; his
visage shimmered and dropped away. Bruce immediately recognized the man who
stood in front of them.
“Richard Fiske.” Inside, the Hulk began to slam against the dampening wall,
revving up his heart rate to burn off the sedation faster. “Or do you prefer
Robert?”
“Lord Master of the Universe is off the table,” Clint threw in, the purple
fading, leaving his normal blue-grey eyes. “Nifty gadget. Steal that from
Stargate Command? Let me guess. You’ve got Ross stashed somewhere in a big
cocoon, right?”
“NASA scientists are big fans of the show, and with all the budget cuts, it’s
amazing what you can get with the right amount of money.” Richard nodded and
the men jerked them all upright; Clint made his move, head butting the man in
front of him and lashing back with his foot, smashing into another man’s knee.
Shaking off the effects of the drug, Bruce’s muscles strained, and he swung the
two men who had a hold on him towards each other, slamming them together.
“Enough.” Fiske aimed the remote; Clint jolted, hands flying to the collar,
choking as purple flashes wound around his neck. Bruce folded to the floor,
stilettos of sharp pain lancing up his brain stem then cascading down his
spine. And Betty screamed, a red mist descending, enveloping her from head to
toe; she cradled her head and rolled into a fetal position.
“No!” Bruce crawled towards her, trying to reach out but his arms wouldn’t
respond. “What the hell have you done?”
“We need test subjects, of course. Now that I have your data, we’re ready for
human trials.” Fiske’s smile was cold and hollow, no empathy at all. “Seems
like poetic justice, doesn’t it? All the people connected to you, Bruce,
everyone you care about, everyone you hate.  Won’t they be the perfect choice?”
Chapter End Notes
     Richard Fiske is the Kingpin's son. Fun thing about working with
     comic books is that, even with the long history of backstories, there
     are so many I can pick and choose. I have to say I didn't know much
     about Betty Ross until I started working on this chapter. Fascinating
     woman.
***** A Knife in the Dark *****
Chapter Summary
     Richard Fiske reveals his intentions and other familiar faces enter
     the scene ... even if they're in different forms. The Hulk is tempted
     and makes a promise that has long term implications for the Avengers.
     Lots of violence in this chapter, so fair warning. Death of a minor
     characters ahead.
THEN
His eyelids felt like they had weights attached, gravity dragging them down
despite his best efforts to stay awake. Words turned to fish and swam on the
ancient screen, green minnows that darted out of their sentences, jumbling all
meaning. Drowning in the humidity, his shirt plastered to his back underneath
his white lab coat, he jerked his head up, trying to concentrate, but almost
forty-two hours without sleep was too much to ask, even for the Other Guy.
Still, the bacteria was spreading faster than they could administer precious
shots of antibiotics; politicians and freedom fighters and drug runners made it
impossible to get equipment in to build a better water system much less
encourage aid groups to send workers. Only the Red Cross had a presence here,
and that was because a local had studied in the U.S. and agreed to return and
open an office. Too dangerous was the verdict of all the others.
If he slept, more children and elderly people would die, innocents at the
highest risk of infection. So he kept pushing on, denying the exhaustion
hovering just at the edge of his vision and pulling on his limbs. He shouldn’t
have sat down, that was his first mistake. Walking the wards, checking on
patients, working in what was supposed to be a lab, all of those needed
movement, expenditures of energy. Sitting urged him to give in to the
temptation of fading out for just a few seconds. He propped his chin on a hand
and pinched the bridge of his nose … when had he taken off his glasses? Sliding
them back on, he tried to look at the lab results again but his stomach
rumbled, reminding him he last ate breakfast nine hours ago, a bowl of rice and
beans he’d wolfed down to satisfy the Other Guy’s need for carbs.
Food made him think of his last good meal, catfish steamed in a banana leaf
with yams, an ice cold beer to go with it, and the company of that man, the one
who was just watching him, nothing more. A terrible decision, really, to
interact with him; Bruce had learned the hard way about trusting the wrong
people, but there was a draw there, some invisible string that tugged on his
attention whenever those amazing eyes followed him. They were circling each
other, playing a little game, swapping beers and gazes and now sharing a table,
talking of nothing at all, just the weather and the food and the lazy way of
life in this tiny town in the middle of Peru.
Thinking of those eyes made Bruce remember the way mischief glinted when he
laughed, and then he remembered the long knobby fingers wrapped around the
brown bottle, beads of condensation wetting the tips as he tilted it back and
drank, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Just that one sip had stirred Bruce;
too much time had passed since he’d felt more than his own palm, and he needed
to do something about that, find some safe guy to have a quick fling with and
get it out of his system. This guy was not the type he should be fantasizing
about yanking up by the collar and kissing those lips that seemed to be
perpetually turned up at the edges. He wanted, wanted to see what kinds of
noises the man made when he was touched, wanted to find out if that ass was as
gorgeous naked as it looked in jeans, but Bruce didn’t even have a name to call
the object of his lust. So he’d left the guy and made his way to his own room,
gathering his threadbare towel and soap and locking himself in the communal box
they called a shower, running the lukewarm water and jacking off to the
imagined feel of those fingers stroking his cock, slick and just tight enough,
sinewy arms around his waist, phantom feel of a strong chest and a hard dick
sliding against him from behind, a whispered voice in his ear, ‘That’s right,
come for me ….’
“Have you been here all night?”
The voice pulled Bruce back; he was instantly grateful for the edge of the desk
that hid his current state of arousal. The embarrassment of being caught asleep
was better than Julio walking in on him palming himself and moaning.
“Seven new cases and we’re no closer. It’s resistant to the new antibiotics and
all we can do is keep them comfortable while we wait for the new lab reports.”
Bruce knew it was hopeless; without more resources, too many people were going
to die and no one seemed to care.
“That means you can get some sleep; the nurses and I will handle the rounds.”
Julio was a big man, dark hair and heavy beard, but he was all heart, giving
his life to make things better for the people of this province.
“Two more hours until the end of my shift …” Bruce’s stomach rumbled again,
loudly.
“Food and then sleep. You’ve already taken three shifts in a row.” Julio got
out of the way and motioned to the door.
“Couple of Margery’s empanadas does sound really good. If the results come back
…” Bruce levered up, keeping his coat strategically placed, surprisingly
unsteady on his feet.
“Si, si. I will contact you. Now go.”
The hottest part of the afternoon, Bruce walked into the sauna outside, pausing
on the steps of the hospital to wipe the fogged up lens of his glasses when the
Other Guy growled in his head, the throb of anger in his temples that preceded
an incident. He whipped his head up, eyes drawn to the building across from
him; a familiar face was standing on the roof, bow at the ready, arrow notched,
his attention further down the road where two black Suburbans were turning the
corner onto the hard packed dirt that served as a street.  An arrow flew,
slamming into the ground in front of the lead SUV, explosion flipping the heavy
vehicle, sending it crashing back into the second. Every instinct screamed at
Bruce to run, to take advantage of the distraction, but he hesitated, another
glance up; the man grinned and saluted before disappearing, and Bruce shrugged
his backpack more securely over his shoulders, cutting down an alley and
heading for one of the four bolt holes where he’d left emergency stashes. Even
as he ran, he had a few seconds of frustration; he’d never know the outcomes of
those test results, and he still didn’t know the name of the guy who’d just
saved him.
NOW
“As I’ve explained before, there is too much instability to sustain the
process. The problem is we’ve copied one genetic code and tried to overwrite
another with it. Each person’s DNA is unique and, genome mapping aside, we
still don’t exactly understand how the complexity of it all works together.”
Loud voice, angry, insistent, arguing. Bruce tried to focus on the tone, use it
to pull himself up from the medically induced sleep that weighed him down.
“It worked on the two of them; if I find out you are stalling …” Another,
threatening, cold and hard. Bruce knew that one, tried to pull the information
out of his fuzzy mind.
“Listen to me. We’re missing something. I can recreate the gamma and the cosmic
radiation – there are naturally occurring pockets of those. I’ve got all the
data from the spherical anomalies and the Tesseract. But there is another
variable, there has to be. Without it, the nannites will just keep trying to
build Bruce’s mutation into every subject, not enhance the subject’s own
natural traits.” Frustration and … fear. Yes that was fear Bruce heard.
“Right now, H.Y.D.R.A. Leader is breathing down my neck for super soldiers,
Hulks that are under control and able to follow orders. Personalized
enhancement can wait. Find a way to stabilize the nannites’ coding for the Red
program or your daughter will be the next unwilling volunteer.” Footsteps, a
door shutting, fists slamming into metal and irate sobs. 
Lids cracked open once, then again, and everything was out of focus until it
wasn’t. Arms and legs came back into his awareness, followed closely by the
knowledge they were pinned down, feet and hands tingling with cold. Flashes,
beeps, lines of color … monitors at work for all the vital functions with red,
green, white, and black wires snaking down and spanning his body, attached to
needles that sank into his sink or leads that prickled and itched.  His
orientation was wrong because there was no ceiling above him; instead he was
partially upright and could see the whole room in a glance. In the center was a
glass enclosure with lights suspended inside, brighter than the rest of the
room; a doorway big enough to roll a gurney through was open and arrays of
monitors were both inside and outside. Video terminals showed various camera
angles of what looked like an operating table; the grainy black and white feeds
were difficult to make out over the distance and equipment blocked Bruce’s view
of the person inside. Only a pale arm and a swath of naked chest were visible.
Outside the glass room, a lanky man in a lab coat, was sitting at a computer
terminal, small bald spot in the midst of his black hair reflecting the light,
face buried in his hands, his shoulders slumped and shaking. Hopelessness
radiated off of him as he slammed a fist down onto the keyboard, cursing as he
did. Anxiety spiked and Bruce turned his head to the left to find Betty
strapped down like he was. She was still unconscious and in her tank top and
shorts, legs and arms fitted into long grooves; her feet were mottled with
purple veins, the cold temperature in the room raising goose bumps along her
flesh. A purple discolored spot was blossoming over her left eye and around the
IV insertion point; all Betty had to do was bump something and she’d get a
bruise. Her monitors were steady, the slow pulse of someone deep under, but her
eyelids showed movement, REM jerks back and forth.
To the right was an empty space, monitor cords dangling, lights off where a
unit had been moved.  Fear warred with anger, and the Hulk roared inside of him
– but nothing happened, the medication H.Y.D.R.A. was giving him too strong for
him to shake off.  Then he looked further and saw a fourth person; Clint was
still in his shorts, restrained the same way as Betty, his bare skin a mosaic
of purple, black, red and even green. Clint had resisted, like always, and more
restraints weighed him down, including a band across his forehead that tilted
his neck so that the tiny needles could slip into the corner of his eyes and
transmit data. Bruce’s frustration grew; he struggled, straining against the
metal that held him down, the need to get free burning away the medication at a
high rate.
“Please. Please don’t struggle. They’ll see you and come and it will be worse
for all of you.” The scientist came towards Bruce; he put his body between
Bruce and the rest of the room, his face cast in shadows, turned away from the
lights.  Closer now, Bruce could see the ravages of stress on the man’s face,
the slight tremor in his hands; whoever he was, he wasn’t here of his own free
will. “The cameras are behind me. They can see you, but there are dead zones
for the audio because of interference from some of the equipment. If they know
you’re awake and trying to escape, they’ll send soldiers.”
“Why?” Bruce asked, hoping the one word would suffice. He dropped his eyelids
almost closed, leaving just a slit to see through and stilled. The Other Guy
even stood down from his efforts, leaning in to listen.
“H.Y.D.R.A. wants super soldiers, thinking Hulks they can control; we’re using
the genetic information the nannites gleaned from you combined with radiation
treatments, and we’re getting really close to what they see as acceptable loss
levels. I keep stalling Fiske, but I can’t keep up the subterfuge much longer;
once I’m successful, he’ll kill me and probably my daughter as well.” His voice
shook a little as he pretended to check Bruce’s vitals. Long slim fingers
rested on Bruce’s wrist to find his pulse; they were icy cold and trembling.
“Who are you?” There was something niggling at the back of Bruce’s memories, a
meeting or a conference.
“Vernon Van Dyne.” Bruce’s eyes widened; he had heard of the man, had attended
a couple of his lectures back at Caltech. His daughter, Janet, had been Betty’s
roommate in undergrad; Bruce had met Janet a number of times. She was vibrant
and fun and loved to laugh; the thought of her locked away in a cell pissed him
off.  This man next to him was a genius, and he doted on his daughter; Betty
always joked that the word no wasn’t in his vocabulary when it came to Janet.
H.Y.D.R.A. had chosen their victims well; if anyone could understand the cosmic
radiation and the spheres, it was Vernon, and threatening Janet was the way to
get him to agree to do it.
“I want your promise. Whatever happens, get Janet out when you go.” Van Dyne
glanced around as he hurried, altering the setting on the IV and changing the
defaults on some of the monitors.
“Of course. We’ll get everyone out; I promise.” The Hulk gave a satisfied huff
with Bruce’s statement; Betty, Janet, her father, the other patient … he and
Clint would leave no one behind.
“It’s too late for me and for him,” he nodded back towards the glass enclosure
as he worked. “Give it an hour and you should be shaking off the effects of the
suppressant, but be careful; Fiske always carries a trigger control now.  Be
sure and take the hard drive from the computer I was sitting at; everything is
on there in hidden files.”
“Are we ready for the next round of testing, doctor?” Two scientists entered
the room, walking to the glass enclosure; the tall slim one checked on the
patient on the table.  The second, a larger woman with spiky red hair and
stiletto pumps, cast a disapproving eye towards Van Dyne, watching him
carefully.
“Almost done with the data check; we can begin test Sigma 17. 4 anytime,” Van
Dyne answered.  With one last pleading look at Bruce, he joined the others. The
door to the enclosure slid shut, air hissing as it sealed, and all three donned
protective goggles before initiating the test.
All Bruce could do was watch as arcs of red tinted electricity descended and
danced along muscles that flexed and changed, growing in mass and size. The
body jolted, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, lifting off of the
table, bowing upwards while held down by a few restraints. Only the crackle of
the process was heard at first, then a low, guttural noise that grew, shifting
into a deep throated scream as the person fell into a grand mal seizure,
jerking out leads and breaking free with the arm Bruce could see.  Movement on
his left caught Bruce’s eye, and he angled his head to see Betty’s whole body
shaking, tiny red ripples rolling in waves from her toes to her head. Her eyes
were open, mouth parted in a silent cry.
“Another failure,” the female scientist said with a long-suffering sigh. “Check
the readouts, and let’s see the damage.”
“Massive growth of telomerase in the affected areas. Mutation rate increased by
68%,” the tall one replied. “At this level, subject will be dead within four
more attempts. I suggest we move on to another subject; the existing oncoviral
damage was too great.”
“We should continue with this subject,” Van Dyne argued. “He volunteered, and
we don’t want to risk corrupting a new subject if we can refine the process
first.” Both men looked to the woman for a decision; she was obviously in
charge or at least the highest on the H.Y.D.R.A. food chain at the moment.
“Use him up,” she said, not even looking at the subject. “No need to waste a
young body until we have to.”
Time was slowly ticking away; Bruce could feel the Hulk shaking off the
medication, becoming stronger.  The first test had taken maybe a total of
fifteen minutes; as they began the second one, Bruce worked on moving his
fingers and toes, with ever so tiny motions, preparing himself. He wished he
could wake up Clint first; the Hulk laughed in his head and crowed about saving
Cupid himself – and not letting him forget it. Then the lights flickered, the
man on the table screamed, and Betty thrashed against her bonds; a roar bounced
off the ceiling as a very large, very red version of the Hulk broke free and
shakily stood.
“Success!” The tall scientist cried.
The woman immediately tapped her ear and reported in. “Sir, we’ve done it.”
Vernon Van Dyne sank down into the nearest chair and simply stared at the
creature in front of him.
“Wha…” the Red Hulk tried to speak. “What … it worked? Did it work?”
A white hot ball of loathing crushed Bruce’s chest, pushing out all the air and
leaving him burning with rage. He knew that voice; Richard Fiske had mentioned
General Ross, but until this second Bruce hadn’t put the man who’d chased him
for years together with the person inside that little enclosure. General
Thaddeus Thunderbolt Ross was now the Red Hulk … and he’d damn well volunteered
for the process. Bruce wanted nothing more than to let the Hulk free to smear
the floor with the man, and the violence of that thought actually scared Bruce.
He considered himself the pacifist side of the equation, but on this point, he
agreed wholeheartedly with the Other Guy. Ross was working with H.Y.D.R.A. and
had put not only Bruce in danger, but Clint and Betty ... and Vernon and his
daughter ... as well. The man needed to be stopped.
“It appears the transition has been successful,” the tall scientist said in
reply. “Tell me, General, do you think you could return to your human form?”
Red Hulk thought about it and, after a minute or so had passed, began to shrink
back, becoming the aging General once more. He was wearing only a pair of pants
that were now in rags – the Hulk was inordinately happy that Ross didn’t have
Tony’s miracle material – and it struck Bruce that Ross had lost weight, his
hair graying with age.  Reaching back, Ross found the table and sank down on
it, hand holding his head.
“Takes a lot of energy, doesn’t it?” Ross mused. “No wonder it was easier to
catch Banner afterwards.”
“We have many tests to run,” Van Dyne said. “We’ll need full metabolic panels
and all the vitals, plus enzyme levels and …”
“Yes, yes, of course, but let us bask in the moment, Vernon,” Richard Fiske
said as he strolled into the room. “The first step in H.Y.D.R.A.’s future!
Congratulations!”  There was some back slapping and happy faces, but Van Dyne
kept working, ignoring the others. “Come now, Vernon. This is good news.”
“We can begin on the next subject right away,” the female scientist said with a
smile. “The Leader will be so pleased at our progress!”
“And my daughter? You’ll release her now. I promise to stay and see this
through,” Van Dyne asked. Bruce noticed he didn’t mention his own freedom; he
had to know once his usefulness was over, his life would be forfeit.
Fiske walked over to Vernon and put a companionable hand on his shoulder. “Of
course we won’t let her go. Have you seen the early data from the nannites we
injected her with? Off the charts in potential genomic mutations. She’ll be
next in line once we’ve gotten all we can from Banner and Barton.”
“No!” He tried to pull away, but Fiske held him tight, and the fight went out
of Van Dyne in an instant. “You promised.”
“I lied. I do that.” Fiske shrugged; silver glinted in his hand and the knife
plunged into the scientist, sliding in and out easily. A red stain began to
grow on the white coat, and he sagged down to the floor as Fiske let go. Wild
eyes turned towards Bruce for an instant – Vernon’s last will and testament,
leaving Janet’s fate in Bruce’s hands – and he began to laugh, a sound threaded
with a touch of insanity.
“Good luck figuring it out,” Van Dyne gasped out, voice liquid and bubbly as
blood dribbled down his chin.
“What?” Fiske asked. Van Dyne’s last act was to smile at the man who killed
him.
“Take Betty next. She’s a better candidate than her father,” he said just
before his eyes closed for the last time.
“What is he talking about?” Fiske demanded, spinning towards the other two.
“What do we need to figure out?”
“Betty?” Ross asked at the same time, rising from the table. “Why is he talking
about Betty? What have you done? And Janet’s here?”
 “Honestly, Thaddeus, did you think this was going to have a happy ending? How
else were we to get Van Dyne to agree to work with us? Or find where Banner and
Barton were hiding?” Fiske motioned with his hand to the woman scientist as he
spoke; she stepped over to a monitor. “Your cancer was always a problem, but
now that we know the procedure works on you, imagine how much easier it will be
with your daughter?”
“You rat bastard!” Ross slammed his fists into the glass as the shift began.
“I’ll kill you if you touch her or Janet, you hear? Rip your fucking heart out
and let you see it before you die!”
Probably because it was new to him, the change took longer and was more
painful; even though he hated the man, Bruce could feel sympathy for the body
being torn apart and reassembled. Ross’s Red Hulk was forced upon him, not
organic like it was for Bruce; for the entire world, the scene reminded him of
one of those horror movies where a human changes into a wolf. And through it
all, Ross screamed threats and obscenities, pounding on the wall, shaking it
with his rage.
“Enough,” Fiske said and a mist fell inside the enclosure, dosing Ross,
knocking him out quickly. He shrank back to normal size once the medication
took effect. “Well, first attempts rarely end well. But we have what we need
from him. Britta,” Fiske addressed the woman, “prep Dr. Ross-Talbot. Kephart?”
The tall scientist turned. “Ready Barton for acceleration testing.”
“Sir?” Britta paused, uncertain. “The Leader gave priority to the Red program.”
“Ah, ah, do not put words into the Red Skull’s mouth, my dear. He told me to
work on building him a super army. I intend to do just that. Soldiers need
leaders; imagine mutant warriors with abilities at the head of that army?
Farsight, plasma bolts, super healing … We must think long term, Britta.”
“Of course, sir. I didn’t mean to question.” She dropped her head, a sign of
obedience, and went to Betty’s side, tapping in commands that lowered the unit
and disconnected Betty from the monitors as Kephart did the same with Clint.
*Hulk smash.* Bruce didn’t need to hear the words to know exactly what the
other guy was thinking. Still sluggish, they were both ready to put an end to
this.  But he waited until the others were untethered, letting the scientists
do the delicate work of freeing them. *Now, smash,* he thought. In one smooth
transition off the table he went from Bruce to the Hulk, throwing off
restraints, needles popping out as his veins grew. Eyes narrowed on Fiske, he
charged, intent on scooping up the man and pounding him to a pulp. Kephart
froze, fear on his face; Britta jumped, then grabbed Betty’s table and pushed
it quickly towards the glass enclosure.
“Ah, yes. You may kill me, but she will have your Betty locked away by then. Or
you can save her and I get away.” Fiske held a small gun in his hand. “Either
way, I have time to kill your Cupid.”
“Stupid butler,” Hulk growled. With one meaty fist, he slammed into a mobile
monitor cart, sending it skittering towards Britta who had to dodge to get out
of the way. Then he swung at Fiske, blocking the shot he’d aimed at Clint. 
“Hulk do two things at once.”
“Stop!” Fiske shouted, stumbling back before the Hulk’s headlong rush; keeping
the gun in one hand, he drew out a trigger control and pressed the button. Pain
dove down into the Hulk’s belly, ripping its way through his intestines and up
into his chest cavity; slowing, he tried to fight through it, focused on Fiske,
keeping him trapped.  As he blocked the doorway, he could see Clint, his body
being attacked by a swarm of purple, and he heard Betty cry out nearby.
*Let me*  the Little Guy said, and then hands were taking the pain and feeding
it down through the connection with Clint, using emotions to find the tether
between them and yank, dragging Clint back from the dormant darkness.
“Fuck,” Clint tried to sit up, his eyes wide open, his body still racked with
pain. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Awareness flowed into the Hulk, his Cupid back in the
land of the living. Clint tried to get loose, pulling against the restraints.
“What is this? Kinky assed fucker.” The Hulk barked in laughter, Clint’s words
alleviating some of his fear, allowing him to shove more of the pain down to
Bruce to let him deal with it.
“Hulk!” Betty called, struggling to get free as the red sparks danced around
her; the female scientist was back up and shoving Betty into the glass
enclosure with her father. “Kick his ass!”
“What a lovely set of friends you have,” Fiske snarled, aiming the gun again.
Hulk dove between Fiske and Clint, bullets slamming into his back as he ripped
Clint’s restraints off and flung them at Fiske, hitting his arm and making him
drop the trigger. The pain abruptly stopped.
“Cupid get butler. Hulk get Betty,” he ordered.
Clint nodded in agreement, rolling off the table. “You got it, Big Guy.”
Fiske ran for the exit, and Clint sprinted after him, dodging the wild shots
Fiske aimed at him, wincing as his bare feet slapped on the concrete floor.
Launching himself, Clint tackled the H.Y.D.R.A. boss, taking him down; the man
fought hard, and they traded punches, Clint holding nothing back as he slammed
Fiske’s head into floor and shoved his knee into his groin. Rolling on top of
Fiske, Clint trapped him and smashed his fists into the man’s face, doing a
damn good job of smearing his face into the concrete.
The Hulk barreled after Betty, watching the door close and seal; he pummeled
the glass, screaming in rage when it didn’t give way. Wide-eyed, Betty began to
convulse as the radiation enveloped her, her body reforming, skin going red.
Wrenching around, he saw the woman at the controls and lashed out, squashing
the computer and sending her spinning across the room, but the deadly mixture
still blasted into the smaller room. He grabbed the edge of the door, splayed
his hands and began to pull.
“No!”  Clint yanked at his arm, pulling him back. “If you open that before we
shut it off, the whole room gets flooded.” He ran to Britta, hauled her up and
pressed Fiske’s gun to her temple. “Stop it. Now.”
“Hail H.Y.D.R.A!” White foam bubbled out of her mouth, and she shook, eyes
rolling back in her head before they went glassy.
“Damn it,” Clint spat out, letting her fall to the ground, already dead. Then
he spied the last scientist, Kephart, cowering under one of the restraining
units. “You. I am pissed off, cold, and missed my morning coffee. Now get your
ass over there and hit the kill switch or I’m going to consider you my just
desserts.”
Kephart crawled out and went to another station, entering a sequence of
keystrokes before sinking back down to the floor, hands over his head. The
bombardment stopped and the door slid open. Inside, a woman stood, restraints
in shreds, her black hair long and flowing free, red streaks from her temples
matching the color of her skin. Muscular body was barely contained in the
remains of Betty’s tank top and shorts.
“What … what am I?” She dropped to her knees and the concrete floor cracked
under the pressure. “Oh, god, oh, god,” she sobbed, beating circles with her
hands as fissures opened beneath them.
“Betty?” a wrecked voice came from Ross’s form, still crumpled in the corner.
“Good God, Betty!”
“Dad?” She threw herself at her father, gathering him in her arms, his body
shaking from the overdose.
“He sold his soul to the devil and yours too,” Clint said; he stood next to the
Hulk, his hand on the massive forearm. “Son of a bitch volunteered for this.
Fucking H.Y.D.R.A., Ross. Goose stepping and cyanide capsules. And you thought
they were just going to let you walk away?”
Betty pushed back from her father, eyes flashing with emotion. “What have you
done? How could you? Fuck you and your damn obsession.” She stood and swung her
fist; the metal strut bent double and glass shattered, raining down on her,
bouncing off her skin without notice. “I hate you. I hate you all!” She
repeated as she systematically destroyed the enclosure.
“Cupid find Janet,” he said to Clint as they stepped out of the way of the
flying shrapnel; Hulk understood Betty’s anger completely so he let her rage.
“Promised.”
“Who the fuck is Janet?” Clint asked, confused. The Hulk huffed, stomped over
to Kephart and nudged him with the side of his fist; the man toppled over and
began to babble, pleading for his life.
“Hey, dude.” Clint asked. “Janet. Who is she? Where is she?”
“Vernon’s daughter. Van Dyne. She’s in a recovery room. Nannites. We injected
her. Very high mutation rating. Please don’t kill me. I’ll tell you everything
I know.”
“Janet? Janet!” Betty’s question turned into a roar; she spun and her eyes fell
on the dead body of Vernon Van Dyne. “NO!” She whirled on her father. “See what
you’ve done?” She grabbed him up and shook him, his head flopping back and
forth. The pressure would have killed a normal man but Ross was much more now.
“Betty. Put Ross down. He needs help; let us get it for him,” Clint spoke in a
soothing voice.
“He did this. He turned me into a monster. Janet’s lost her father.” Betty was
lost, unable to handle what had happened to her, and her reaction was out of
pain and betrayal.
“Hulk, we have to stop her. She’s going to kill him,” Clint turned and said.
“Trust me on this, she’ll regret it later if she does.”
“Betty not kill. He is Red Hulk now.”
“What the ..?”
Bullets bounced off the machines and whizzed by as H.Y.D.R.A. soldiers crowded
in the door. The Hulk growled, more annoyed than anything. Betty’s head jerked
up, her attention now focused on a new outlet; she let her father slide to the
floor and rushed the men.  She reveled in it, ripping the arm off the first
man, unaware of her own strength, and moved on to the next, bullets no more
than bug bites to her.  Together, the two of them waded into the flood of
soldiers, parting the tide as easily as slicing through warm butter. Ferocious
and unrestrained, the brutality fed the Hulk’s hunger for retribution, made him
smile as he batted a man aside and grabbed another to use as an impromptu bat.
A third roar … Ross charged in and the soldiers didn’t have a chance. In mere
minutes, there was no one left standing but the three of them, shoulders rising
and falling, huffing out breaths, still high on the fight.  Betty didn’t wait
long, launching herself at her father with a savage scream.
“I hate you!” she cried out as she wrapped her sinewy arms around him, lifting
him off the ground and casually tossing him into a bank of monitors on the far
wall. Charging forward, she went to grab him, but he sprang out of her path,
skidding to a halt.
“Betty. Stop this instant,” Ross growled.
She didn’t listen, pivoting on a dime and attacking again; they rolled
together, a tangle of massive red limbs. Hulk watched them, and part of him
wanted more, to join the fight, to watch the bad man’s face as the Hulk smashed
it in. Hate was powerful; the desire to finally be rid of the man who had
hunted him for so long was overwhelming him. That darker side urged him to sink
his hands into the Red Hulk and feel the life drain out; green filled his
vision, his fingers curled into a fist, and he snarled at the other two as they
spun into more equipment, unhooking hoses and shooting sparks as conduits
dangled, wires exposed, and machines flashed to life.
*Clint. Where’s Clint? Clint!*The Little Guy, shouting inside his head, yanking
at the Hulk, battering at the walls to get his attention. *They’re destroying
the lab. We have to get Clint out of here before the radiation levels rise any
more.*
Where was Cupid? He’d lost track of him in the fighting; Hulk pulled his eyes
off of the others and searched the wasted room.
“Hulk!” Clint called, voice hoarse; he was holding the last scientist up, a
bullet in the man’s leg.  Blood ran down from Clint’s shoulder, and purple was
beginning to dance along his skin. “Come on, Big Guy, snap out of it.  I need
you.” The connection flooded back; Clint’s presence wrapped around the Little
Guy, and he cocooned the Hulk, calming him. 
“Cupid hurting. Need safety. No purple lights.” The Hulk ignored the table that
flew past his head and crossed the room to where Clint had used one of the
upright units for cover. “Mad scientist?”
“He’s decided he’s working for us now,” Clint huffed out, cursing under his
breath as he stepped on some debris on the floor.  
“Clint? Carry you?” Hulk asked.
“I can walk; you keep the others out of our path, okay? Let’s get to the door
and then get Janet. Remember? You promised.” Clint’s eyes were glassy with
pain, but he kept himself and Kephart moving.
*Computer! Computer! Get the computer!* The Little Guy was screaming at him.
*Remember to get the computer! Don’t make me come out there. Clint needs you.*
“Promise White Coat. Stay.” Hulk moved a large computer tower to shield the two
men and went back to grab the whole CPU of Van Dyne’s computer. “We go now.
Come back for Betty and get the other one.”
Klaxons blared their warning in the hallway; a trail of bloody footprints
marked Clint’s passage as Kephart pointed out the right direction to Janet’s
cell. The scientist’s swipe card opened it and inside the tiny windowless cell
sat a very petite but curvy woman with short black hair that flipped out and
big blue eyes that were filled with contempt.
“About time! This food is unacceptable and I want to see my father right …” She
barreled towards the door, hands on her hips, the green medical scrubs somehow
looking good on her. “Hulk? Bruce? Oh my God, I am so happy to see you!” Her
look changed to one of joy and, without hesitation, she threw her arms around
the Hulk … well, around his thigh, sort of, or as close as she could get.
“When I saw Heckle over here, I thought they were coming for me again!” She
hauled off and slugged the scientist in the arm. “They’ve got my dad somewhere,
Bruce. Oh, and General Ross is here. I saw him all unconscious in the lab. I
need to tell Betty.”
“Bruce!” Betty’s altered voice rang down the hallway; she stood at the turn,
dragging her unconscious, now human sized father behind her. “I couldn’t find
you; I thought you’d left me. I can’t … I just can’t.”  She began to weep, sobs
wracking her body.
“Betty?” Janet stepped out of the room, saw her friend and gasped.
“No!” Betty cried. “I don’t want you to know. Oh, God, Janet, I’m a monster.”
“You listen to me Elizabeth Ross-Talbot!” Janet marched down the hallway and
immediately put her arms around her friend’s waist, and the Hulk realized Betty
wasn’t nearly as tall as he was. Well, she was a small human. “You are the same
bossy girl who made me stick out my first semester. A little red, but, hey,
you’ll look great in green now. That sexy little number you bought for Glenn’s
promotion party, remember?”
“Glenn? Oh, Janet.” Betty sank to the floor, holding onto her friend for dear
life, her body dwarfing Janet’s.
“Don’t you start! That man is crazy in love with you and will move the heavens
and the earth if you ask him,” Janet lectured. “So you’re a little buff? Who
cares! The Twiggy look is passé anyway.”
The Hulk watched the two women and shook his head at their conversation. “Hulk
ready to go home now. Take Betty and the other guy; Hulk smash him later?”
“Yeah, Jade Jaws. We’ll take care of Ross later.” Clint nudged Kephart. “So,
where’s the nearest phone?”
 
 
 
***** The Council of Elrond *****
Chapter Summary
     Bruce struggles with the aftermath of Fisk's experiments and coming
     face-to-face with General Ross. And Janet Van Dyne meets the Avengers
     ... and for some it's love at first sight.
Chapter Notes
     So many different origin stories for these characters. Betty's Red
     She-Hulk is generally written as very moody and savage when in Hulk
     form, so I kept that. In only a couple of the Marvel universes are
     Janet and Betty friends, but I like the idea of a female friendship
     between them. And Hank? Well, I've never liked the abuse storyline
     for Hank & Janet, so I'm asserting author's privilege and just
     ignoring it. Instead I've taken the back story of Hank's first wife
     being killed and the loss of Jane'ts father to bring the two
     together.
THEN
The jet came to rest in the field, next to the broken down car and by the
railroad tracks, back draft blowing garbage as far as the first turn in the
winding dirt access road. For at least the fortieth time, he thought about
cutting and running yet again.  Despite the woman’s promises, Natasha - that
was her name, truth didn’t exist in the world of S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Army or
any government. He now believed that Truth, morally unambiguous and
unassailable, was a myth, a story told to children to hide the chaotic reality
of life. Too many years spent hiding, not only from the world but from of
himself, living in a state of denial that was, truth be told, exhausting.
That’s why he’d agreed to their request, not because he wanted to save the
world or had any delusions of coming in from the cold and living a ‘normal’
life, whatever the hell that was, but because he had finally realized a few
years ago that this quest for a cure was probably endless. He was getting older
and wiser; what mattered wasn’t driving himself so hard, chasing every new lead
and grasping at obscure possibilities, but also helping others, using the
knowledge he’d gained from all the failed experiments for others’ benefit. That
flower he’d found in Brazil turned out to be a cure for a virulent strain of
the flu that was ravaging Sri Lanka. The formula he’d made for a sedative for
the Other Guy was a damn fine and inexpensive alternative for anesthesia; he’d
passed it along to a friend he’d made in Russia and Doctors without Borders
routinely carried it with them into every country. Oh, he still intended to
keep searching, but without the relentless drive that left him exhausted and so
very tired.
“Dr. Banner?”  The first man down the ramp was wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. jumpsuit,
his hand offered in a friendly manner. Bruce couldn’t help but hunch his
shoulders and drop his gaze, the flight panic so ingrained in him that he was
turning away from the uniform automatically without thinking. “Are you ready,
sir? May I take your luggage?”
“No, um, thanks. Just the backpack.” He shrugged it on and followed the agent;
the first step on the corrugated metal was the worst, like signing away his
freedom. The Other Guy grew more and more unhappy, growling his displeasure,
but he made it to a jump seat and tried to buckle in; the agent had to help him
navigate the crisscrossing straps. He stowed Bruce’s pack and strapped it down.
“Director Fury wanted you to have this.” He handed Bruce a brand new Stark
Tablet. “Said you might want to do some reading on the flight.”
He shouldn’t get any more involved; just locate this glowing cube and get the
hell out. Don’t get sucked in, don’t look … the screen held small windows
playing videos: a grainy newsreel from the 40s with Captain America, Iron Man –
even in India he’d heard of Tony Stark, a blonde guy with a big hammer, and a
distorted street cam of two people fighting on the street, one the red head spy
he’d just met and the other …
“Shit,” he cursed under his breath, the picture hitting right in the Other
Guy’s gut. He tapped on the image and more information filled the screen
including a small head shot, something you’d use for a badge or personnel file.
Clinton Francis Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye - Bruce looked at the name and back to
the face as another video began playing; a dusty street, a small line of sight
camera trained on two black Suburbans barreling around a corner. The camera
flicked back to catch a younger Bruce standing on the stairs of the hospital,
looking up, then hands entered the picture, aiming the arrow before releasing.
“Damn you,” Bruce muttered. Whoever this Director Fury was, he played dirty,
queuing up the exact thing that would make Bruce want to cooperate. The jet
jerked and lifted off, easing up into the sky, but Bruce didn’t notice as he
started reading.
NOW
Leave it to Tony to make even the decontamination room a luxurious two room
suite with a huge bathroom, satellite television, computers, a full kitchen,
and a big king size bed. Granted, one or more of them ended up in here after
far too many missions and there was the one very uncomfortable time when all
six of them had been forced to use the big bed, the fold out queen sleeper sofa
and the recliner (they’d all fought for the chair because they didn’t have to
share). After that, Tony had installed a TV in the bedroom and the bathroom so
there would be fewer arguments about who watched what, and he was talking about
expanding to add a workout room to alleviate boredom. Soft fluffy robes,
Egyptian cotton towels, stocked food in the fridge (how did he do that? Did
fairies rush in just before they entered?), and what seemed like a million
channels should be plenty to distract Bruce, but he could feel the drop coming,
that sinking feeling in his chest as his emotions funneled down, like sands
through the small hole in an hourglass that had been overturned.
The drop happened sometimes after he’d shifted back, the darkness of his memory
while the Other Guy was  in control became a shimmering black loss that clouded
his mood.  Since the Battle of New York, the lows were less and less frequent
as he came to terms with the Other Guy and began remembering more of what
happened during those hours. But this time was different; the Other Guy had
tumbled back into the savagery of the past, more an unthinking killing machine
than the friend of Cupid he’d become lately. Bruce could understand why: the
danger to Clint, getting Betty captured, facing General Ross, the man who had
tortured and tormented him for years. Add in the violence of the other two –
and wasn’t it surprising that Betty was the most out-of-control of the Red
Hulks -- and the carnage had appealed to the id of the Other Guy, calling to
him in a primal way. The energy Bruce had expended trying to bring both of them
back from the edge before they dragged Clint over with them drained not just
his body but his very emotional core as well. He was skidding into the oncoming
crash; he leaned his forehead against one of the walls, finding a cool spot in
the bedroom, and closed his eyes.
His fault. This was all his fault. It came back to that moment, the one he
couldn’t keep from replaying in his psychic VCR, the wrong numbers on a screen,
a needle in his hand. If he hadn’t made that one mistake – well, two actually,
the calculations and the decision to test the formula on himself – Betty
wouldn’t be one floor down in Stark Tower, locked in a psych ward and under
heavy sedation. Her father wouldn’t have become obsessed with chasing a big
green monster around the world, wouldn’t have made that deal with H.Y.D.R.A.,
wouldn’t be at death’s door, waiting to see if the Red Hulk would have the same
healing properties as the Other Guy.  Vernon Van Dyne would be alive and in a
lab somewhere; who knows what he would have discovered, what scientific wonders
his name might have been attached to? Janet wouldn’t be sitting with Betty,
sobbing quietly at the loss of her father and the tragedy that had befallen her
friend. And Clint wouldn’t be changing, infected by Bruce’s gamma radiation and
H.Y.D.R.A.’s experimentation.
Damn it, but he had entirely too much time to think in here. Sure, it was
necessary - when the others had arrived at the H.Y.D.R.A. base, or what was
left of it, all of them but Janet had been exposed to higher than normal levels
of radiation. Decontamination was the highest priority, beyond debriefings and
updates, they needed to be tested and separated so they didn’t infect anyone
else. He wasn’t looking forward to the meetings that were to come, the
explanations that S.H.I.E.L.D. and the military would demand. Their ragged
state of health had only served to delay that inevitable confrontation, but
Bruce might actually welcome an angry Nick Fury to these long hours waiting for
their readings to drop.
“Bruce?” He stopped at the doorway, not turning on the light, leaving the room
in shadows, still wearing nothing but his dirty shorts from earlier; living
together had taught Clint how to handle Bruce’s moods. “Come in and sit with
me. We’ll turn off the lights and watch one of the Big Guy’s favorite movies.”
Yes, Clint understood the normal ups and downs, but this one was far from
normal.  Bruce hadn’t felt this way since early on, right after the accident or
one of Ross’s ‘testing’ sessions. He was regressing, back to where he started.
The chasm yawned beneath his feet; all he needed to do was step off into it and
disappear into the darkness, and that way lay madness, so he held on as tight
as he could.
“Do you want to …” Clint took another few steps, reached out his hand to touch
Bruce.
“Don’t. Just don’t.” Bruce’s voice was hard and brittle.  He was caught between
dark despair and red hot anger. Clint instantly dropped his arm, but he didn’t
move away. “You saw him today, the blood and the bone and the bodies - I felt
the joy when he ripped those men apart without a second thought. He was one
second away from joining Betty and tearing into Ross; his thoughts were filled
with how good it would feel to sink his fingers into Ross’ sinews until his
hands ran red and there were nothing but pieces of the man. Good God, I’ve been
fooling myself to think he was anything but what he is.”
“Bruce,” Clint was calm, unflinching.
“He forgot you were even there. You could have died or, worse, been changed
too, and he didn’t care.” Bruce butted his head against the wall, the well
inside him pouring over with an irate tide of self-hatred. “Betty didn’t
deserve this, nor Janet. All my fault, Clint. It’s all my fault.”
“Just like the Helicarrier was mine?” Clint said. He didn’t accuse, just state
the question carefully.
“No. Damn it, you know that’s not fair. Loki was controlling you; I did this
all on my own. I made the math error.” He pounded a fist by his head. “I
decided to inject myself.” Another fist. “I went back to Betty for help time
and time again.” Slam. “I let myself believe Tony was right.” Slam. “I was the
one who started this with you knowing what I am.” Slam. “I infected you.” Slam.
“I called Betty. It was my DNA they used to change her.” Slam. Slam. “I may as
well have stuck that knife in Vernon Van Dyne myself.” He was spinning out of
control, his hold loosening; he thought the Other Guy might save him, drag him
back, but he didn’t, sitting silently instead and watching.
“Are you done?” Clint still didn’t move. “Sure you don’t want to add Loki or
Von Doom or Monica Rappaccini or A.I.M. or H.Y.D.R.A.? You can’t blame yourself
for all of it. You made Richard Fisk hate his father, made Betty’s father be a
crazy bastard, made me climb into bed with you. Yeah, right.”
“Fuck you.” Bruce didn’t know if he was angry with Clint or just completely
pissed off at the world in general. This was his to claim, not the Other Guy’s,
years of denied emotion bubbling over and swamping him. He didn’t know what to
do, how to stop from giving in to it. All of the meditation and training and
hard won control was gone. “I can damn well take the blame for things I’ve
done. There’s no denying it, what’s happened to Betty and Ross. I’m the one who
released the first monster.”
Clint grabbed his wrist and spun him so fast he was barely able to understand
what was happening before a muscular forearm was pressing across his collarbone
as Clint leaned his whole weight in, forcing Bruce’s back flat against the
wall.  Bruce had to focus to expand his chest to get enough air; a shiver ran
down his spine as he looked into Clint’s eyes. Hard like diamonds, they
glittered with frustration as he held Bruce’s gaze and his body hostage.
“No one,” Clint said in an even, measured voice, “calls him a monster, do you
understand? Not even you.” The command in Clint’s voice made Bruce exhale and
relax into the hold instead of fighting it; seductive and easy, that tone
worked its way down to Bruce’s cock, stirring up interest, feeding the red hot
anger that was burning in his gut.
“He’s a killer. That’s what he is.” Why couldn’t Clint see that, see past the
cartoons and the pretzels and the games?
 “So am I, Bruce. I’ve probably killed more than the Big Guy has.”
“I’m not talking about you,” Bruce objected. “Damn it, there’s no comparison.
It’s not the same.” Clint pressed harder, and Bruce became light-headed, the
feeling adding to his growing arousal.
“You’re right. It’s not the same. The Big Guy kills because people don’t
understand him and taunt him, driving him to lash out, and there are those who
come after him, who want to hurt him, who scare him.” Clint was deadly serious,
all emotion drained from his face. “Me? I sit and watch a person, learn about
their lives, what they like to eat, if they sleep in pajamas, do they kiss
their kids good night, and then, when a little voice in my ear tells me to, I
pull the trigger and put a bullet between their eyes. The Big Guy kills people,
Bruce. I murder them.” He bent his head closer so his lips were near Bruce’s
ear. “And you’re fucking me, so what does that tell you?”
“Stop it,” Bruce put his hands on Clint’s chest and shoved, but he couldn’t
budge the other man. The Other Guy refused to help, rumbling his agreement with
Clint, and Bruce’s fingers curled into Clint’s warm skin of their own accord,
his steady and strong heartbeat just beneath Bruce’s hands. It was all so
confusing, this storm that was swamping his logical part with emotion, leaving
him rudderless and alone. He wanted to lash out at something, anything. He
slammed his forehead into Clint’s, knocking him back with the unexpected move.
“Fuck.” Clint muttered; blood dribbled out of his nose and he wiped it with the
back of his hand.  “You’re so pissed off at yourself that you want me to fight
back, to hurt you so you’ll feel better? Fine. Here I am. Go for it. Do what
you need to. I can handle it.”
“Yeah, until the Other Guy gets involved,” Bruce brushed the offer off because,
honestly, he was aghast at the spike of lust Clint’s words sent through him. He
didn’t normally like it rough, not like Clint did sometimes, but now? He wanted
to goad Clint into hitting him so he could feel the pain.
“He’s sitting this one out, as you well know. This is all you, Doc. I don’t
think the Big Guy was the only one affected by what happened today.” Clint
waited patiently for Bruce to decide the next move, to telegraph what he
wanted. Problem was, Bruce wasn’t sure about that himself.
“I don’t want … I don’t know …” he tried to explain, starting and stopping.
“I’m close to breaking, to losing control. Clint, I ..” he clenched his fists
as rage spun up inside of him again, a whirlwind sucking him towards to the
black hole waiting to consume him. Clint was right; his whole equilibrium was
thrown off, had been since the first time Ross had appeared. A role reversal –
the Other Guy was calmly waiting while he was caught in an emotional fervor of
hate, anger, and lust. 
“Control is vastly overrated,” Clint said. “Everyone should lose it once in a
while.”
“Really?” The statement pissed Bruce off even more; here he was struggling to
not drop into a depressive state or turn into a stark raving lunatic and Clint
was quoting platitudes at him? “You want me to go ballistic?”
“I want you to trust me.”
Bruce launched himself from the wall; his fist hit squarely on Clint’s jaw, and
a little surge of satisfaction rolled through him at actually landing the punch
at all. He was far from Clint’s caliber when it came to fighting. But then he
realized that Clint had let it happen to use Bruce’s momentum; a hand clamped
around his other wrist and propelled him into the edge of the bed. A sharp pain
across his shins where he connected with the metal rail and then he was falling
face first, both arms now wrenched behind his back, his shoulders protesting
the angle. He resisted, bucking his body to avoid Clint’s hold, rolling to
throw him off, but Clint was having none of that, and all Bruce succeeded in
doing was to scrunch up his shirt and get one knee on the bed for leverage
before Clint was sliding his belt out of the loops of his khaki pants and
winding it around Bruce’s wrists, anchoring them together behind his back.
“Fuck!” Bound hands should piss him off, especially how easily Clint subdued
him. He’d been practicing with Natasha, damn it, and Clint had taken him down
as if, well, as if he knew exactly what to do. Instead, he felt safer, as if
the band of leather funneled away some of the tension in his muscles; with his
head and chest pressed into the bed, warmth from Clint’s knees on either side
of him, Bruce’s ire drained away, and he wiggled,  shifting under Clint’s
hands.
“Watch that.” Clint slapping him lightly on the ass, and Bruce moaned and
bucked up his hips. “Ah, that’s interesting, something to explore at a later
time. For now, let’s see what Tony has stocked the room with.” The hands and
warmth left, and Bruce teetered again; his heart rate sped up, the blood
pounding in his throat, and the whimper that escaped surprised him.
“It’s okay.” A soothing hand ran down his arm. “I’ve got you.” 
Bruce shivered and held on, Clint’s touch pushing the darkness away. “Please,”
he begged, knowing Clint would understand what he was asking for.
“As you wish.” Those calloused fingers ran along his spine and down to the
waist band of his pants, and around to the button. Clint stripped both pants
and briefs down and off the bed, slipping them off; he kept a hand or his leg
in contact the whole time, never leaving Bruce alone. Then Clint was covering
him, constraining him with an arm across his back and a hand lightly pressing
down on his neck; he could move if he wanted to, but the enclosed feeling was a
lifeline, and he relaxed into it.
“Clint,” he sighed; hands bound, he could still flatten them out against
Clint’s abs, feel the flex of his muscles as he moved.  Time didn’t matter,
just the safety of Clint’s grip, the knowledge that he belonged there, belonged
to Clint. He jolted when a slick finger breeched him with a steady push,
followed quickly by a second. The burn made him gasp and it rocketed right into
his brain, overriding any remaining fear. “Yes,” he hissed, pressing back into
Clint’s hand. “More.”
“That’s it, just let it go,” Clint’s lips brushed his shoulder as he murmured
encouragement.
“Want to not think …” he whimpered as Clint stretched him, too fast to be
comfortable, but just what he wanted. “Think too much.”  Clint took a second to
push Bruce up to his knees and rearrange them and then he was pushing in,
driving Bruce out of his mind and filling him up until there were only a few
shadows left.
“It’s okay to lose control,” Clint told him, pulling out and sliding back in.
“You’ve held on so tightly for so long.”
“I’ll shatter if I fall, be nothing but pieces.” He buried his face in the
bedspread, let the rhythm of Clint’s thrusts lull him, slowly starting to
release his death grip on his self-control. That was his fear; his carefully
won sense of normality would sink into the darkness, and he’d be lost, nothing
but primal urges and savagery like the Red Hulks.
“You know I’ve always got you.”
Riding the increasing waves of pleasure, Bruce could almost stare over the
edge; in his mind, he pictured himself standing by a great chasm, deep drop
just half-a-step away, his toes already hanging off. Clint was behind him, a
comforting presence as the wind buffeted him.
“Let go, Bruce. Let’s fly together. We’ll catch you.”
He still couldn’t do it, the last little bit of anger and doubt wrapping around
his heart and squeezing. Then Clint pushed Bruce down, a hand flattened on the
small of his back and the other grabbing the short hairs on Bruce’s head,
yanking his head off the bed and bending him upwards like a bow.  Clint’s
thrusts grew harder, more insistent, and his mouth traced the taut line of
muscles beneath Bruce’s ear.
“We’re all shattered and broken, Doc. Accepting that is the answer.”
Bruce cried out as Clint bit him, teeth in the exact spot Bruce had bitten
Clint in the vampire dream. Rocking back, Bruce felt their heads collide as he
jerked, and he rode the wave of his climax as he came with a cry. Like a rubber
band that snapped, all the tension fled, his whole body softened and sagged
back down as he closed his eyes and let himself topple over into the thing he
dreaded the most, the gaping hole at his feet. He expected terror and panic,
the rush of air as he fell, the dread of the coming collision with the truth of
himself, but big green hands caught him, and he fell into the Other Guy, their
bodies becoming one, both sharing the same skin, aware and in sync, equal. He
floated, weightless and buoyant, all those emotions that buffeted him gone;
Clint was all around him, inside of him, and Bruce knew when Clint finished,
calling out his name as he did. An echo of Clint’s bliss washed through the
connection and, for just a few seconds, they were all three there, together,
one in a way that defied explanation.  Then he grew colder and Clint was gone;
he whimpered.
“It’s okay. I’m right here.” A stroking hand, a wet cloth, and then he moved
when Clint tugged him, felt the coolness of the sheet, and the hard line of
Clint’s body holding him again. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? Let us take care of
you. We’re right here. Not going anywhere. Promise.”
Every word that dropped surrounded him in a cocoon of languor; he had no
concerns, no worries. They were there, Clint’s arms around his chest, the Other
Guy rocking him and wordlessly humming in his head.
“Didn’t break,” he whispered.
“Nope. You did good, Doc. Things are good.”
………………
“I’ve got the goddamn World Security Council breathing down my goddamn
motherfucking neck, the  US Army screaming bloody murder, freakin’ Senator
Kelly being a general pain-in-the-ass and stirring up anti-mutant sentiment,
the Head of Homeland Security wanting to know why I didn’t tell him about a
terrorist attack, and two, count them, TWO fucking Santa Claus red hulks locked
up downstairs, one of whom happens to be a decorated general and the other a
distinguished leading scientist. Someone had better start giving me some
goddamn answers or I’m going to shut this whole train wreck down right now!”
When he was really angry, Fury had a little vein that throbbed right over his
eye patch; Bruce was seriously starting to get concerned about the man’s
health. His blood pressure had to be through the roof.
“Sir, I can explain …” Clint started, but Fury rounded on him and gave him a
gimlet stare that shut him down.
“Not you. You’ll spin me a fairytale so full of shit that my boots will be
brown right up to the top. You are still on probation, you do remember that,
Barton? So sit down and shut up before I regret that decision.”
Ever since last night – time was a little screwy what with sedation and
decontamination and all – Bruce had felt a complete and utter sense of Zen.
He’d tried so long to find this place, this center where everything was calm
and nothing disrupted him, training in various disciplines, using different
drugs and other techniques. Now, as he sat and listened, he heard everything,
saw it all, but it floated into his mind and was filed into the proper area of
his brain – interesting science problems, important bits of data, tells and
body language, Clint’s fingers drumming on the table (yeah, he had a file just
for Clint’s hands. And one for his arms. And his ass. And his smile, and his
hair, and his laugh, plus others) – and then it was gone, nothing lingering for
him to worry about. The Other Guy chuckled at Clint’s resting face, knowing
Cupid wasn’t happy; Bruce glanced down at his own hand and could see the Other
Guy’s larger one just beneath the surface of the skin, both of them awake and
present, listening, formulating plans. Okay, the Other Guy’s plan consisted of
‘listen to the stupid Pirate man then go smash Ross until he told Pirate man
everything’, but it was a plan.
“If I may,” Phil Coulson said from his spot just inside the doorway of the
conference room. “Sir.”
Fury gave a nod of assent, obviously relieved to have Coulson step in. “Make it
good, Agent.”
“Because of Dr. Banner’s prior antagonistic relationship with General Thaddeus
Ross, the Avengers felt it best to have contingency plans in place in case Ross
made a move. He did so approximately nine days ago during the battle with the
Vengeful Veterinarian, aka Dr. Robert Gentry. Dr. Banner then chose to initiate
the plan he felt best suited the situation, and he contacted Agent Barton and
myself; as you know, Sir, the tip that sent us to New Orleans was deemed to be
a distraction. Following the plan, Barton and Banner sought help in reference
to the device that the General used to disrupt the Hulk. I authorized them to
contact Dr. Charles Xavier, who was currently in Charleston, S.C.”
“You authorized that, Cheese?” Fury asked.
“Yes, Sir. There was a constant flow of information between not only myself,
but the Avengers as well.”
“Damn right, Skippy. We were all part of the plan,” Tony added. Hank and Carol
and Steve all nodded in agreement.
“Shut up, Stark.” Fury raised his eyebrow, his sign for Coulson to continue.
“While in Charleston, they were attacked by non-affiliated mutants and
H.Y.D.R.A. agents in an effort to capture Dr. Banner; both Dr. Xavier and Logan
aided them in escaping. They next enlisted the aid of Dr. Elizabeth Ross-
Talbot, a leading scientist in the field, and were able to determine not only
what the device did but also the larger game plan of Ross and H.Y.D.R.A.
Unfortunately, they were captured before they were able to relay that
information, yet still managed to free not only themselves, but also Dr. Ross-
Talbot, General Ross, and a Ms. Janet Van Dyne.” Coulson’s deadpan delivery
made the whole thing sound like a well-planned military assault. “We now have
Richard Fisk, Las Vegas head of H.Y.D.R.A., in custody and all the data from
their super soldier program utilizing genetic mutant enhancements.”
“You left out the part where Dr. Ross and the General became big and red,” Fury
said, his lip twitching at the corner.
“It appears, sir, that General Ross volunteered himself for the transformation.
The medical data we have suggests he had stage two lymphoma and was in the
process of being forcibly retired from his position due to his past
activities.”
“I can confirm that, Director,” Rhodey said, nodding. “The Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs of Staff has been aware of the situation with General Ross and
appreciates the Avenger’s help in the matter. He is willing to discuss the
General’s future with you since S.H.I.E.L.D. seems to have more advanced
medical facilities and holding units.”
“More advanced, my ass. He just wants us to make his problem child go away,”
Fury muttered.
 Coulson continued. “Fisk determined that Dr. Ross-Talbot would be a good
candidate and had her infected with nannites months ago. H.Y.D.R.A. being
H.Y.D.R.A, he double-crossed Ross and transformed his daughter as well. Ms. Van
Dyne was also on the list of test subjects; she too has been infected.”
“And her father? Was he working for H.Y.D.R.A.?” Fury asked.
“No.” Bruce had to speak up; the man had saved their lives. “He woke me up,
turned down the sedative until I was able to break free. Without him, Clint and
I … and Betty and Janet … wouldn’t be here. Fisk decided he didn’t need him
anymore and killed him before I could cycle off the medication.” The Other Guy
rumbled agreement, a sadness washing over Bruce that settled into acceptance.
“And in all of this, no one saw fit to tell me about it?” Fury demanded.
“Your direct order was, and I quote, ‘don’t bother me unless the goddamn zombie
apocalypse is happening while I do this stupid ass budget shit’,” Maria Hill
said from the doorway. “No zombies, just every day Nazis.”
“Don’t throw my own fucking words back at me! Alright, let’s see if I’ve got
this straight. Ross zapped the Hulk who became Bruce who then called Clint and
instigated an emergency plan …” Fury began.
“ETA 4 Ross Contingency. Filed and dated as part of the crisis protocol,”
Coulson supplied.
Fury rolled his eyes. “ETA 4 Ross Contingency, contacted Xavier under direct
S.H.I.E.L.D. orders, saved Charleston from a H.Y.D.R.A. attack and then
uncovered a secret H.Y.D.R.A. base, capturing a top leader and scientist and
foiling a plan to create more super soldier Hulks.” He dared anyone to
disagree. “There were unfortunately casualties at the hands of H.Y.D.R.A., but
the information we received from the computer drive is invaluable. Does that
cover it?”
“Indeed,” Coulson nodded, the barest glimmer of a smile on his face.
“You folks better hope Fisk wakes up; last time I checked he was still in
I.C.U. Looks like someone smeared the floor with him.” Fury stared at Bruce.
“Hey, the Hulk doesn’t get credit - that was all me,” Clint said. “Do it again
in a heartbeat. The bastard was playing God with us all.”
“Barton, never ever admit that again. In fact, Stark, have your computer erase
that statement from the records.” He glared one last time at them all. “Every
piece of paperwork better be in perfect fucking order. Rhodes, contact the
Chairman and tell him to get the Army to stand down on this. I’ve got a fucking
mop up job to do.” He left the room; Hill cast one backwards glance before she
followed him out.
“That was one mighty story, Son of Coul,” Thor said with a laugh. Sometimes he
liked to tease Coulson; he usually called him Phil now unless they were in a
combat situation. “Worthy of the greatest storytellers of old.”
“If you mean it was a crock of shit, yeah, good job, Phil,” Tony stood and
wandered around the table. “Way to cover our asses, Agent.”
“I didn’t lie, Tony. That protocol exists and has been on file for months. The
real trick is to tell the truth; that always works better.” Phil walked over to
the screen and activated it. “We’ve gained a lot of data from the scientist,
Kephart, and Van Dyne’s files, but there are some troubling gaps.”
“Gaps?” Carol huffed. She’d been working non-stop, getting a crash course in
advanced genetics, reading everything she could get her hands on. The explosion
that had fused her own DNA with an alien’s had accelerated her already high to
begin with intelligence as well. “That’s putting it mildly. There are missing
parts of equations and other sections that read like Greek. It’s a mess.”
“He warned Fisk.” Bruce was remembering the conversations he’d overheard.
“Something about copying my DNA and instabilities. Told him good luck on
figuring it out.”
“Basically, he took the data from you and grafted it on top of the Ross’s own
genetic sequence. He and Betty didn’t have the mutation to build upon, so no
coping mechanisms to deal with the change. Say you could fly, for example –
like Storm – she also has enhanced direction sense and equilibrium that allows
her body to deal with the gravitational forces. Now, if you overlay someone
else’s DNA with the genome for flight, they wouldn’t have those abilities,”
Carol explained. “Major airsickness, crashing … it wouldn’t be pretty.”
“That’s why Fisk wanted to keep working on enhancing unique mutations,” Bruce
realized. “He gave orders to work on Betty AND Clint; the other scientist
objected, said that H.Y.D.R.A. leader only wanted more red hulks, but Fisk had
his own agenda. He injected Janet, said her readings were high.”
“Because I carry a latent gene mutation.” Janet strode into the room; the
smallest woman there, she still exuded more energy than any of the others, her
grief turning quickly to anger. “Dad knew; he was in the loop on the
development of genome testing and was worried that they would be used by the
anti-mutant crowd.  That man … Fisk … found out and used the information to
black mail him into working for H.Y.D.R.A.”
“Ms. Van Dyne.” Steve stood as she entered. “Please accept my sincerest
condolences.”
“Janet,” Bruce stood as well. She stepped into his arms and let him envelope
her in a hug. “I’m …”
“Don’t start that with me.” She drew back and stared up at him. “You carry the
world on your shoulders; this is not your doing.”
“I like her!” Tony laughed. “Tiny but powerful.”
“Tony Stark. Good. Someone who can help kick some ass. Now, when are we
starting the testing phase? I damn well want to know what I’m getting in to,
running around with these bugs inside of me, because I know there’s more of
those devices out there.” Janet put her hands on her hips and waited for an
answer.
“Oh, hell no.” Hank jumped up. Everyone turned towards him, and he blushed as
attention focused on his outburst. “I’ve already lodged my protest about
subjecting anyone to more experimentation, but there’s no way I’ll let her be
part of it.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?” Janet demanded as she stormed over to Hank. The
height difference was almost comical, Bruce thought, as Hank was the one to
blink and step away. Yeah, people had that reaction to Janet.
“What? No. The dangers are immense for Bruce or Clint, but the process has
already started for them. The nannites in you are still in their dormant phase;
I wouldn’t want change that,” Hank argued.
“You just assumed that I wanted you to zap me into some sort of X-man or
something?” Janet was undaunted. “I happen to be a damn fine lab assistant and,
despite the fact that I have boobs, very nice ones I might add, I also have a
college degree. I was offering to help.”
“I meant … I mean … ah,” Hank sent a pleading look to Bruce for help.
“You’re on your own. I agree with Janet on this one.” He shrugged, but didn’t
bother to hide his grin. The laughter that was bubbling up felt good.
“If you want to figure out what Dad …” her voice broke and she sucked in a
breath before continuing “… what my father was doing, I’m your best bet. He
always invented new codes for every project. It was a game for me when I was
younger to break them. I like languages.”
“We’ll appreciate any and all help you can give us.” Carol said, trying to
soothe the situation. “You’ll have to forgive Hank - he’s got foot-in-mouth
disease.”
“Hey! I just meant that I didn’t want to presume or anything. She’s been
through enough, don’t you think?” Hank protested.
Janet patted him on his arm. “That’s okay. I think it’s cute.” Hank blushed and
opened his mouth a few more times, but nothing came out.
“Quit while you’re ahead, Pym,” Tony advised. “She’s won this round.”
“Thank you, Tony.” She nodded regally at him. “Now, what’s our first move?
Obviously, stabilizing Betty and continuing work on the nannite enhancements.
But what about General Ross? I’m thinking flinging him into outer space isn’t
cruel and unusual enough. Got any active volcanoes? Or, hey! I bet Thor here
knows some really terrible worlds to strand him on!”
Bruce glanced over at Clint who was clearly amused by Janet. The Other Guy was
flat out chortling at her ideas, agreeing with all of them. Clint caught his
gaze and raised an eyebrow, wiggling it. That look put other thoughts in his
mind and he got a very enthusiastic thumbs up from the Other Guy. A sense of
contentment settled over both of them as they watched their friends banter and
argue and generally arrive at a consensus of what to do next. They were home,
safe, and everything seemed under control for now.
 
***** A Journey in the Dark *****
Chapter Summary
     Bruce faces General Ross, Clint sees things clearly, and Hank's
     worried about Janet.
Chapter Notes
     I keep reworking origin stories. I don't know why. And Phil is so
     cool here. :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
THEN
He’d smashed, enjoying himself for the first time in, well, forever. Star Man
had given him permission, had included him as one of the team, and that had
never happened before. People were always afraid, shot at him, screamed and ran
away; no one ever welcomed him, wanted him and invited him do what he did best.
Metal Head had argued with the little guy to let the Hulk out and won.  Red
hadn’t been afraid of him, had said he was needed, and Pretty Blondie had taken
every punch and gotten right back up to fight beside him again.  And HE was
there, the guy with the hands and the sense of humor, his arrows flying fast
enough to keep up with even the Hulk.  There’d been no time to do more than
notice and then he was gone, up on a roof and lost from sight.  Now the Hulk
crouched by Metal Head who was babbling about food – which would be good
because Hulk was hungry – when his head swung around. Red was up on a roof
somewhere, he’d heard her talking to the others. But his guy, arrow guy, was
nowhere to be seen.
“Where Cupid?” He asked with a growl. Pretty Blondie was confused, Metal Head
just stared, and Star Man looked tired.
“Cupid?” Star Man repeated. Dumb. That was what Hulk just said.
“Legolas. Barton.” Metal Head managed to say as he struggled to sit up. “Where
is Barton, anyway? Romanov? You know?”
“Negative,” came her reply, loud enough for the Hulk to hear.
“Barton. Report.” Star Man touched his ear and called out. Static answered him.
“Barton?”
“Hawkeye.” That was Red adding her voice. “Clint? Answer me!”
“His last position was the roof top over on …”
Hulk was bounding away even before Star Man stopped talking; during the fight,
he’d caught a glimpse of Cupid and he remembered where. Dodging debris and
fallen bodies of alien warriors including one of the big dragon slugs, he
jumped quickly from building to building until he saw the mangled terrace.
Scanning, he saw the man-sized hole in the window, and he launched himself
again, smashing into the office building and rolling to a stop. Cupid lay on
his back on the floor, dazed and gasping for air.
“Hey, Big Guy.” He forced the words out. “Just taking a quick breather.”
“Cupid hurt. Not answer.” The Hulk huffed and bent over the other man,
sniffing. He smelled of battle and sweat and loss and something so familiar
that made the Hulk’s stomach feel funny.
“Lost my earpiece.” Cupid’s voice faded, and his eyelids sagged downward.
“Doesn’t matter. Battle’s over, right? We won?”
“Metal Head blow up bad guys, fall through hole, Hulk catch. Door closed.” He
sat down, glass crunching beneath him. “Cupid stay awake, others come.”
“Holy hell that was a whole sentence.” Blue-grey eyes opened and stared at him.
Cupid started to laugh and drew up short with a grimace of pain and a series of
coughs that rattled his chest. Hands curled into fists, and Cupid squeezed his
eyes shut. Silence fell except for the distant wail of sirens and the sounds of
their breathing, Cupid’s growing more and more labored. Somehow, the Hulk knew
that wasn’t good, that Cupid shouldn’t be so still. Healing was the little
guy’s area and, as much as the Hulk didn’t want to go, he wanted Cupid to be
okay more. The change was slow and exhausting, the energy the Hulk had used
draining their reserves. When Bruce looked blearily around, he was disoriented
and confused, at least until he saw Clint.
“Agent Barton?” He ignored the glass cutting into his bare skin as he knelt by
the body on the floor. “Can you talk to me? Tell me where you’re hurt?” A soft
moan was his only response. “Clint? Please.”
“Dr. Banner?” Those eyes, glazed and unfocused, opened a crack. “The Hulk can
talk.”
“Yeah, he can.” His fingers traced the line of Clint’s ribs, feeling for tender
spots. The gasp of pain he got as he pressed told him everything he needed to
know. “Ribs are at least bruised, might be broken, probably from slamming
against your quiver and the floor. There’s a real danger of internal bleeding.
Stay still. They’re looking for us.”
“Might be for the best,” Clint murmured, eyes sliding shut again, “if they
didn’t find me.”
Bruce remembered then that the bastard Loki had taken Clint. There’d been an
attack on the Helicarrier, just after the big argument. He’d no clue how Barton
had gotten free or even arrived in New York, but he knew about losing control
and how he felt afterwards.
“Well, a certain big green guy would be very pissed if he lost you again. He
likes you.” Bruce brushed more glass off of Clint, and his eye caught the glint
of the lost comm piece where it had landed – been thrown? – under a desk.
“That would make one person.” Clint fell into another coughing fit and Bruce
rose quickly, grabbing the earpiece.
“I think he counts as more than one. Besides I owe you a beer, remember, so you
need to stay alive to collect.”  Bruce thumbed the comm on. “Cap? Thor? Widow?
I’ve found Barton. We need immediate medical attention here.”
“Bruce! Glad to have you back!” Tony’s voice boomed. “Thor and Widow are
already in transit to Barton’s last known location. Tell Cupid we’re on the
way.”
“Cupid?” Bruce asked then he started laughing at the irony of it all. Here he
was exhausted, dirty, half-naked, and sitting next to the guy he’d been having
fantasies about for years. Fate could certainly take strange twists and turns.
Wishing he was brave enough to cover one of Clint’s hands in his own, Bruce
settled in to wait for reinforcements to arrive.
NOW
“Finally. Did they have to drag you out of your lab to face me? Too busy to
talk to one of your creations?”  General Thaddeus Ross sat in the specially
retrofitted chair, arms and legs clamped securely, i.v. ready to pump neural
inhibitors at the least tremor. Green eyes narrowed in hatred as Bruce entered
the interrogation room, laser focus reserved just for him. For two days, Ross
had refused to speak to anyone but Bruce; neither Fury nor Hill in all of their
angry glory could get anything more out of the man than his name and rank. Even
the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff got nothing, just a dogged insistence
to speak to Dr. Banner.  Bruce had offered from the beginning, before Ross had
regained consciousness, arguing that he’d be the best person to get as much
information as possible, but the powers that be had denied that request.
“You expect them to give you what you want? You know you’re on the terrorist
watch list now, right? All those same lists you put me on. Your name’s jumped
to the top.” Bruce drew out a plastic chair, pulled it away from the table and
sat down in front of Ross.  “Cancer is gone, by the way. Eyesight 20/20,
arthritis in your knees completely healed.”
Ross hesitated; he hadn’t expected freely offered information. “Betty?” His
voice was less strident, worry woven into the usual commanding tone.
“Not good. She’s fighting it; we have little-to-no data to understand the
impact of gamma on female physiology. Her brain chemistry is rising and falling
in unexpected ways, and she has virtually no control in her other form. So far,
only Janet can calm her down.” No matter how much Bruce hated this man … and he
rarely used the word hate, reserving it only for those special cases like his
father and Loki and Ross – Betty was his daughter and Ross loved her in his own
way. Plus, as Clint had pointed out, telling Ross about Betty’s condition was
another turn of the screw; he’d been the cause of it, after all. Live and let
live aside, Bruce wanted to see Ross comprehend exactly what his obsession had
cost him.
“She’s a survivor. She’ll make it.” Ross didn’t sound sure of that, but it was
the lie he told himself all these years, so he fell back into it. “Where’s
Fisk? Tell me that bastard’s dead.”
“In a coma. You have Hawkeye to thank for the fact he didn’t get away.” Just
mentioning Clint’s name made a hardness settle back onto Ross’ features. He and
Clint had argued about this, his coming into the room alone, but, in the end,
Clint had accepted that his presence would be a sign of weakness for Ross. The
General would assume that Bruce couldn’t handle facing him without support, and
Bruce didn’t want to hand him that advantage. So Clint had agreed with the
caveat that he be in the closest room with a JARVIS live feed, within five
seconds of busting through the doorway.
“Oh, yes. Your … what are they calling it nowadays? Significant other?
Boyfriend? So-called superhero whose ass you’re fucking?” Ross’s crocodile
smile spread across his face as he lobbed the emotional warfare Bruce’s way.
“All those years of worrying you were after Betty and here you were a cock
lover the whole time.”
“Wasn’t a big secret,” he shrugged, tamping down on the anger the words stirred
up. Ross wanted him to get mad. Obviously, the General still believe the Hulk
was as savage and violent as he’d appeared in the lab. Well, the man had a big
surprise coming. Whatever this strange Zen arrangement between Bruce and the
Hulk, the symbiotic calm had lasted. Right now, the Other Guy was cracking his
knuckles and sending very vivid images of creative ways to get Ross to talk
flashing past Bruce. Some of them were quite, um, unique, but he let Bruce keep
control.  “Sorry if you’re late to the ‘Bruce is gay’ party.”
“Very nice photo spread in the papers,” Ross dug in deeper. “Role models of the
faggot lifestyle. Daddy would be proud.”
Bruce didn’t have to try hard to imagine Clint’s reaction to this conversation;
he hoped Tony or Steve was holding him back from barging in and taking a swing
at that smug face. “You wanted to talk to me, and here I am. If all you’re
going to do is spew anti-gay hatred, I’ve got tests running that might help
Betty and Janet; that’s much more important than your Westboro rants.”
Ross sputtered a little, glared, but backed down in the face of Bruce’s
composure. He tested the bonds that held him then settled. “This is all your
fault, you know. If you’d just come in and let us develop the serum for the
Army, we’d have soldiers to counter H.Y.D.R.A. and A.I.M. Betty would be happy
and the U.S. would be protected.”
“Again, better things to do than hear the same old line of bullshit from you.”
Bruce stood up, shoving the chair as he did. He really meant to leave if Ross
didn’t get down to business soon. “Last chance, Thad. Whatever you have to say,
say it now or I’ll leave you to Agent Coulson’s less than tender mercies. Man
took on Loki by himself. You’re small potatoes to him.” The Hulk growled his
approval at that, and a pulse of humor came through from Clint.
“I get immunity from prosecution for Fisk’s actions,” Ross argued, tossing out
his opening bid. “And I want to work with the Army on the super solider
program.”
“I have no authority to grant you a damn thing,” Bruce countered, expecting
this part of the conversation. “You want that, I’ll call Fury or Hill or
Coulson. That’s their area.”
“Fine, send them in when we’re done,” Ross huffed. “I’m only doing this for
Betty and Janet, just so you understand. You and your boy toy can roast in hell
for all I care.”
“So noted.” He crossed his arms and waited for whatever nugget of information;
for Ross to share it, the news had to be important.
“Fisk thought I was too doped up to know what was going on and he was right,
most of the time. But I did overhear some conversations between him and someone
else about genetic manipulations and mutations.”
“Right. The Leader of H.Y.D.R.A. Red Skull. We know that.”
“No, not ‘hail, H.Y.D.R.A’ shit. Get your head out of Hawkeye’s ass. All of
you. S.H.I.E.L.D., the Avengers, the Military … Fisk was double crossing
everyone. Got his dad caught, set up that ding dong woman out in Vegas, lured
me in. There’s another player in the game, and, let me tell you, that little
shit Fisk was terrified. Oh, he didn’t let on, but he bent over and licked ass
whenever they said boo.” Ross was working himself up, control slipping. The Red
Hulk inside of him was too new, too powerful; he’d been changing off and on,
not even trying to fight it when it happened, as if Ross preferred to be the
other.
“All well and good.” Bruce didn’t move, didn’t show any sign of fear. The Hulk
was sure he could take the Red Hulk, but Bruce had confidence that the
restraints and meds would work before it came to that. “But that’s just
conjecture. You know something, Ross. For Betty’s sake, spit it out and let me
get back to helping her.”
Ross grimaced as if the mere thought of giving information to Bruce was
physically painful. Years of paranoia and fixation warred with the out-of-whack
moral compass of the military man.  For a few long moments, Bruce was sure the
fury was winning and they’d get nothing from Ross. Then he calmed, holding out
for a few seconds against the shift, and he looked younger, like the man who
used to love his daughter and want the best for her.
“He said he was readying the wall to be breached, so what was outside could
come in.  And that neither H.Y.D.R.A nor S.H.I.E.L.D. could stand against it”
“What was outside? What does that mean?” Bruce asked.
“How the hell do I know? Get one of your new friends to figure it out. That
slut Stark or pretty blonde boy with the hammer. One big perverted family.”
Ross’s face shifted, a garish cross between man and Red Hulk, the look pure
loathing.
“That’s it? That’s all? Still not worth it, Ross.” Vague statements didn’t
help. They already knew Fisk had his own agenda. Ross’s skin changed, muscles
extending, and the drug pump kicked in, flooding the i.v. with the inhibitor.
“Mab. He called her Mab, you son-of-a-bitch.” Ross’s voice deepened, turning to
a growl. “All this is for her, and you’re the key. Always knew you’d kill us
all, you monster.”
“And we’re done here,” Bruce turned to the door, pausing with his hand on the
knob. “Just for the record, Clint’s ass is very fine and yes, I enjoy fucking
him very much. Freud would have a field day with your homophobia, you know.
Protesting a little much?”
He shouldn’t have added that parting shot as he exited the room. Ross lashed
out behind him with all sorts of colorful terms, some of which Bruce had never
heard before. But he didn’t care.  It felt good and the Hulk was quite pleased
with the violent flow of words that morphed into howls.
“Well, that’s one twisted little shit,” Tony drawled, going with his usual
strategy of ignoring emotional issues in favor of sarcasm. The door to the room
was open and they were all waiting for Bruce, the screen showing an unconscious
Ross and the med techs working on moving him safely back to his cell. Clapping
Bruce on the back and ushering him inside, Tony grinned. “Couldn’t he have come
up with better insults? You were great, though. Westboro and Freud, indeed.” 
“You okay?” Steve asked, concern writ large on his face.
“I’m fine. Nothing I didn’t expect. He always plays the same game; he wanted to
tell us about Mab but had to save face with the threats.” Bruce refrained from
mentioning that Ross had left Steve out of his little rampage; the man
respected Steve in his own strange way. 
Clint stepped in front of Bruce and crowded him back without saying a word
until Bruce’s back hit the wall. The kiss was down and dirty, lots of tongue to
match the hands that held his hips still as bodies pressed together. Catcalls
and clapping ensued, Tony’s the loudest. Clint broke the kiss and leaned in
further, his lips to Bruce’s ear. “For the record, you’ve a nice ass yourself,
Doc. And you are so damn hot right now, so bad ass, it turns me on.”
Bruce blushed, the red warming his cheeks as he looked at the eyes of his
friends, all of them enjoying the show. “Clint. We’ve talked about this.
People. Public. Later.”
“Right, Doc. Later.” With a wink and smirk, he stepped away, leaving Bruce half
aroused and embarrassed and a little bit more in love with him.
“If you’re done, Agent Barton?” Fury said from the monitor; he was currently at
headquarters, following it all on the live feed.
“Yes, sir. Done for the moment. Not sorry, sir.” With a wink for Bruce, Clint
sauntered back to his seat.
 “Anyone know anything about this Mab? Ideas?” Fury called out.
“Shakespeare.”  Steve offered.
“Romeo and Juliet,” Coulson agreed. “Mercutio’s speech. JARVIS? Can you pull
that up for us? And cross-reference the name Mab with other databases?”
A recording began playing, the ‘68 version of Franco_Zeffirelle’s_Romeo_and
Juliet, a very young John McEvory playing Mercutio, taunting Romeo about his
love for Juliet.
“Um, yeah, so let’s pretend I never really understood all that iambic
pentameter to start with, okay?” Tony spoke up. “Someone want to explain to the
non-BBC types in the room?”
“Mab is a fairy queen and she makes people dream of the things they want most.
Warriors dream of battles won, lawyers of money, a courtier of new clothes,
maidens of kisses, and lovers dream of love. But she’s capricious and mean,
enjoys dangling things you can’t have in front of your nose. Makes people
miserable,” Hank said.
“Wow. A secret follower of the bard, are we?” Tony shot back.
“I’ve hit the reconstructed Globe a few times, yeah. Once you’ve seen a good
production, you can’t go back.” Hank shrugged, a shadow passing over his face.
Sometimes Bruce forgot that Hank had been married, and his wife murdered. Even
now, years later, he didn’t talk about her much, but Bruce knew grief when he
saw it.
“Fairies? How does that help us?” Fury asked, wrinkling his face in distaste at
the very word.
“If I may, the name Mab is a very old and associated with any number of
powerful female figures. All of them have in common a sense of otherworldliness
and non-human characteristics. Quite a few involve the use of magic and
references to dreams,” JARVIS offered. “The first reference I can find is
Beaufort’s Ancient Topography of Ireland; there are oblique mentions of her in
other Celtic traditions dating back to the early 500s, but probably older as
part of the oral tradition of the culture.”
“Maybe she’s like Thor, from another world?” Steve asked. “We should ask him.”
“What about Mar-Vel?” Carol suggested. “If she’s an alien, his people might
have heard of her.”
“Ah, the course of true love never did run smooth,” Tony said. Steve elbowed
him in the ribs. “Ow. That hurt.”
“Stop it. And you just blew your cover. Can’t quote Shakespeare if you don’t
know it,” Steve teased. While Carol’s feelings for Mar-Vel might be star-
crossed, Tony and Steve were more the Beatrice and Benedict type of couple.
Snark and sass and combustible chemistry.
“Better part of valor there, Cap.” Tony waggled his eyebrows back at Steve.
“Irish fairies are complex. Titania, Oberon, like Midsummer’s Night Dream,”
Hank explained. “There’s two different courts, the good ones and bad ones.
Tolkien used them as the model for his elves.”
“Are we honestly talking about fairies?” Tony asked. “Haven’t we had enough gay
bashing for the evening?”
“Mab is supposed to be the Queen of the Winter Court, all ice and snow and
complete nastiness wrapped in a gorgeous package,” Clint threw out. At Tony’s
look, he shrugged. “Jim Butcher. You should read ‘em. Good books.”
“Okay, people, I want answers by 0800 tomorrow morning. I need data to soothe
the ruffled feathers worried we have Avengers about to transform into mutants
and the two new hulks going on rampages soon,” Fury ordered. He cut the
transmission.
“Damn, now I want to transform into a Chevy Impala. A black ’67. There’s so
much more to me than meets the eye.” Clint said. Bruce laughed, an echo of the
Hulk’s response. “So what’s the plan? Carol gets Mar-Vel, someone calls Thor,
and we split up the others? Xavier for mutants, Richards for sciencey shit,
Strange for magic … who else might have intel?”
“I’ll take Richards,” Steve offered and everyone in the room knew why. Putting
Reed and Tony in the same room was inviting disaster. Saying the two geniuses
didn’t get along was like saying the Hatfields and McCoys annoyed one another.
Last time Tony had visited the Baxter Building, New York City had been treated
to an impromptu firework show. “Everyone says I should meet Johnny Storm that
he looks like me. Be nice to finally check it out myself.”
“That’s bullshit,” Tony complained and Bruce held his breath. If Tony argued,
he’d end up going anyway. “Storm is nothing like you. He’s a hot head,
completely impulsive, a real jackass; besides, you’re much better looking than
him. Smarter too.”
“I’ll take Xavier,” Coulson said. “I have a scheduled debrief with him tomorrow
already. Stephen Strange will require some work; I’ll leave a message and see
if he’s even on this plane.”
“Well, that leaves me to head back to the lab,” Bruce said. “This idea of
opening doors makes me think of those spheres. I want to go back and look at
that data again.”
“Bruce,” Steve said. “A break might be a good idea. Have something to eat,
process. That can’t have been easy for you.” He nodded in the direction of the
interrogation room.
“Look, I’m fine.” Maybe a little tired and hungry, but he was handling it. Then
he saw Tony’s look, the gimlet stare of a man who knew bullshit when he heard
it, and Coulson’s unwavering gaze of agreement.  Clint saved him by speaking
up.
“Food sounds like a great idea. Can’t remember the last time I ate. Carol’s had
me running ragged helping, and Janet is a damn energizer bunny. Let’s order
from that Peruvian place; I could use a shower and change of clothes too before
we hit the ground running again.”  An invitation, Bruce knew. The way Clint
quirked his head, tiny smile lines at the corners of his eyes, his irises
getting darker blue. He definitely had sex in mind.
“Okay, okay, I give. Food, a shower, and then back to the lab,” Bruce agreed.
Steve relaxed, obviously glad he didn’t have to argue.
“Actually, I need a quick word with Bruce, if you don’t mind.” Coulson spoke
from his side of room. “No more than five minutes. Nothing major, just some
paperwork issues I need to get started on.”
That was interesting. Bruce had no idea what it was about. “I’ll follow you in
a few.” A light brush of hand down Clint’s arm was Bruce’s equivalent of a kiss
in front of the others.  Clint left the room, Tony and Steve in tow, the amount
of food doubling and tripling as they talked and planned.  There’d be a table
full soon with everyone invited, knowing Tony, and some Shakespeare on the TV.
“Phil?” Bruce asked as soon as Carol had shut the door.
“Two quick things. First, Dr. Ross-Talbot has you listed as a legal advocate on
her health care directive, specifically in case of gamma radiation or other
unexpected medical scenarios. Of course, her husband is her primary power of
attorney, but the directive requests you to be consulted on her care.” Phil
handed him a legal document. “You should read through the highlighted sections.
She’s very thorough. What with her work in the area, she prepared from almost
all contingencies.”
“When is Talbot arriving?” They’d had a difficult time tracking down Glenn
Talbot; after leaving the military, he’d not gone to work for the consulting
firm like he told everyone, but the C.I.A. He was currently on a mission and it
had taken Fury’s intervention to get word to him. Bruce didn’t envy Glenn when
Betty found out about his real job.
“Tomorrow. He was in Jakarta.”  Phil winced in sympathy.  “Our problem is that,
according to her legal documents, you are in charge of her care. But Dr. Ross-
Talbot doesn’t see things that way. She wants to direct her own treatment.”
What Phil wasn’t saying was that Betty was refusing to even speak to Bruce
right now. Janet said she just needed time to calm down, but Bruce wasn’t so
sure. While she blamed her father, when she morphed into the Red She Hulk, she
hated Bruce with as much passion as she did the General.  “I’ll talk to her
doctor, read through her records.”
“Thank you,” Phil said, pulling out another set of papers. “These just need
your signature. S.H.I.E.L.D. does love to do everything in triplicate.”
“What are they?” The top form had a long number and more legalese, many blanks
filled in with painstakingly accuracy. He saw Clint’s name and his own.
“Power of attorney, right of access, next of kin, living will, DNR … he said
you had talked about this.” Phil suddenly seemed unsure, as if he’d let a
secret slip.  “Pepper’s got legal working on yours.”
“Yes, we talked about it, but I didn’t think he’d gotten around to it yet.”
Their lives were laid out in the papers, something more permanent than they’d
had before. After Clint had trouble getting entrance to the helicarrier when
Bruce was ill, he’d been adamant about getting this done.
“He finished them in New Orleans. I told him I’d take care of getting them
filed properly. All they need is your signature.” Phil handed him a pen and
Bruce leaned against the table, signing his name again and again, initialing
lines and working through every page. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you how
glad I am he has you. You’ve filled a place that neither Natasha nor I could.”
Bruce looked at Phil and his earnest face.
“Funny, but I’d say I got the best end of the deal. Now I have him and all of
you.” Bruce smiled. “I got a family in the bargain.”
Phil gathered up the forms and tucked them in his folder. “That’s how the best
relationships work; both of you are better off. For what’s it worth, Clint’s
not big on public displays; only seen him kiss someone three times. Once, to
plant a tracking device on a mark, and then once to pass an antidote to
Natasha, who’d been poisoned. You’re the third.”
“Really? Clint’s so …” Bruce searched for the right word, “… demonstrative.”
“I’d have gone with brash or cocky,” Phil offered. “Still, he’s always kept
relationships separate from work.  Hell, I assumed he and Natasha were sleeping
together, and he never told me I was wrong; I had to hear it from her.”
Bruce wasn’t sure what to make of that statement so he handed back the stack of
papers, weighing them in his hand. “Lots of red tape just to be able to sit by
his bedside when he jumps off a roof again.”
“Well, gay marriage is legal in New York now, you know. Make things a lot
easier.” Phil winked and gathered everything back up to put in his briefcase
leaving Bruce to stand speechless as he departed. Truth was, Bruce had long
since given up any thought of that possibility. When you were capable of
destroying major cities in a fit of anger, marriage and family were the last
things on your mind. It would have been hard enough to find someone willing to
deal with his shit and the long absences. But when marriage between men was
illegal and unaccepted and, hell, any form of attachment was a weakness for
Ross to exploit? No, a long-term relationship had never been an option. Now,
however, he had a home, people who cared about him, friends, and a sense of
permanence that opened all sorts of possibilities.  For the first time in his
life, Bruce Banner actually let himself contemplate exactly what that future
could be – a home and someone to share it with for the rest of his life. He
thought about it all the way down the hall and into the elevator, up to their
floor and into their room – theirs, not his – as he unbuttoned his shirt,
kicked off his shoes and entered the dark bedroom. He could hear the shower
running in that big bathroom, but all the lights were off, the windows
darkened. Barely able to see, he banged his shin on the edge of the chair and
cursed at the sharp pain.
“You okay out there?” Clint called. There was only the faintest glimmer of
light, the bathroom door a rectangle of even deeper darkness. Bruce left his
glasses in their usual spot on top of the dresser and used his hand on the wall
to feel his way onto the tile floor.
“Why are you taking a shower in the dark?” He waited for his eyes to catch the
ambient light but most of the room remained puddles of black; he couldn’t even
see into the shower stall at all.
“It’s not dark in here,” Clint replied. “Take your pants off and come in.”
“Clint, it’s pitch black. I can’t see you,” Bruce squinted and took another
step into the room; his elbow connected with the granite countertop, and he
grunted in pain.
“What are you talking about?” The water stopped, and Bruce could hear the glass
door open.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Bruce asked, a spike of worry traveling up
his spine.
“Oooohh, fingers.” Clint’s voice was laced with humor, and Bruce could hear the
drops of water hitting the floor.
“Clint.” Bruce used his serious voice; Clint paused before answering.
“Three. Two on your right, one on your left. Do I get my reward now?”
“JARVIS, what’s the current lux level in the room?” Bruce was getting worried.
“0.00001, sir. Agent Barton engaged complete blackout shades earlier today, and
they remain in use. Would you like me bring up the lights?” the A.I. replied.
“That’s less than a moonless night, Clint. We need to get you down to the lab
immediately and figure out what’s going on.”  He reached his hands in the right
direction; wet fingers grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward.
“Are you saying I can see in the dark?” Closer now, Clint was reeling him in,
guiding Bruce towards him. “That is seriously cool, Doc.”  Skin brushed against
skin, Clint’s lips kissed the center of his palm. “We’ll head right down there
after I get you in the shower and then eat some dinner. Oh, and sex. We are so
having sex.”
“We should …” Bruce started, but Clint sucked on his thumb, and the lab didn’t
seem quite so important anymore.
“Off,” Clint unhooked Bruce’s pants. “This so-called superhero wants you and
the rest can wait.”  He was good with one hand, unzipping and pushing down both
pants and boxers.
“I still can’t see anything,” Bruce complained; he’d lost the battle already,
and the Other Guy was happy about it.
“I’ve got you. Now, out of the clothes and take two steps towards me. Up and
over the edge.” Clint’s hands circled both wrists, helping Bruce into the
shower and leaning him against the still warm marble wall while he shut the
door.  The faucet creaked and Bruce jumped as water hit his skin. Not being
able to see more than the barest outlines of Clint’s motions was strangely
erotic; he could hear Clint’s ragged breath, the patter of the water, and the
scuff of Clint’s foot on the drain as he moved towards him. The drag of Clint’s
fingers as he ran his hands up Bruce’s flanks made him shiver despite the heat
building in the small enclosure. He let his head fall back but kept his eyes
open, not having to focus, just reveling in the feel of Clint’s lips along his
collarbone, moving slowly.
“You’re not so-called, you are a hero,” Bruce told him. “Plus, you are sexy as
hell.”  Clint sucked on a divot of skin just on the curve of Bruce’s neck and
tendrils of desire coiled around Bruce’s cock, stirring it to attention.
“And you are so hot when you face your demons.” Clint’s fingers stroked along
Bruce’s hip bone and dipped down to his inner thigh. “Fearless, smart and so
confident.” Bruce didn’t have to see Clint’s face to imagine the sensual curl
of his lips, the smile that had drawn him from the very beginning. Those lips
trailed along Bruce’s shoulder, an achingly slow process of covering his skin
with kisses while Clint’s hands teased, tangling in the dark hair around his
cock. Bruce enjoyed the ride, burn building with each touch that dropped lower
and lower until Clint was on his knees, heated air blowing across the engorged
head of Bruce’s aching cock. With a groan, Bruce ran his fingers into Clint’s
wet hair and held on as Clint stroked with his tongue, along the length and
around the head, sliding across the leaking slit. Again and again, and Bruce
looked down, catching the motion, turned on by the sounds Clint made in his
throat, little hums of pleasure, and the calloused fingers that cupped his
balls and squeezed.
“God, yes,” he groaned when Clint sucked the tip into his mouth. Clint’s
chuckle vibrated along Bruce’s cock and settled deep in his stomach where
tension coiled, then Clint slid all the way down to the root, nuzzling his nose
into the wiry hair. Damn, but Clint was good, and Bruce didn’t care what anyone
else thought, this man was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and
not just because of the amazing blow jobs.  He’d never felt so much a part of
someone else, so connected, so … damn it, he loved Clint so much and the dark
gave him nowhere to hide from the depth of his feelings. Each pull of Clint’s
mouth dragged little moans and sounds from Bruce that echoed off the marble and
disappeared into the water. His muscles tightened, he dug his fingers into
Clint’s head and jerked, thrusting into the moist heat, bumping the back of
Clint’s throat. He tried to call out, but mangled the name, the word laden with
so much emotion, and he tipped over the edge. White sparking at the edges of
his vision as he came; Clint swallowed and took it all, licking him clean and
sliding back up Bruce’s body to press a kiss to the edge of his mouth.
“I adore watching you fly apart,” Clint murmured. Bruce let his hands curve
around Clint’s waist, drawing him close, nudging his knee against Clint’s rock
hard cock.
“Have I told you how much I love you?” He asked, rubbing hard; Clint thrust
back in return, riding Bruce’s thigh. “How much we both love you?”
“I heard … a rumor … to that effect.” Dropping in head on Bruce’s shoulder,
Clint bucked his hips and moaned. Bruce cupped that perfect ass and clenched,
urging him on.
“I want to see you,” Bruce said. “JARVIS, lights to 20 percent please.” In the
soft glow, Bruce could make out Clint’s eyes as he turned his head, unfocused
and glazed with the orgasm that was poised to crash over him. “Come for me.”
Clint arched and did; they stood in the water for a good minute or two before
either one moved.
“Love you too, you know,” Clint spoke as he finally pushed up and reached for
the shampoo. “Don’t give a rat’s ass what the world thinks.” He worked up a
lather and started washing Bruce’s hair; it was still short, but Clint still
liked to run his hands through it.
“Did your eyes hurt when I turned the light up?” Bruce asked, relaxing into
Clint’s care. The Other Guy really liked this part as well; he was a cuddler at
heart. More than just efficient, Clint’s hands roamed, tickling a little to get
a chuckle, caressing the spots that made Bruce jump, and massaging tense
muscles when he found them.
“No. Didn’t even notice. Want to try brighter? JARVIS, up the lights to 80
percent.” 
Bruce blinked as light flooded the room; the bulbs weren’t that strong, but it
took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. “Clint?” he asked. He had to swipe
soap off his forehead to get a good look at Clint.
“Fine. No problem. Actually, I can tell the lights are on now, but they don’t
seem all that different than before.” He was rinsing them both off. “Let’s go
eat and then you can run tests to your heart’s content.”
“Why aren’t you worried about this? You know you don’t have to hide it from
me.” Bruce had been wondering that for days. Throughout the whole ordeal, Clint
had maintained an upbeat attitude and that bothered Bruce. He knew all too well
the depths of Clint’s insecurities when it came to his own place on the team
and his abilities compared to the others.
Clint turned off the water and opened the door, handing Bruce a towel as they
both stepped out. “I’m all done with the lie-by-omission-to-protect-people
thing, Doc. Fool me once and all. Boiled down to the basics, this is just
pressing the pedal to the floor of what was already in progress. Hell, I’ve
always had good vision – 20/-10 when I was a kid and didn’t that freak out the
doctors. People think it’s a joke that I like to go up high and look at the big
picture, but I really do understand things better from a distant perspective.
So the vision thing? Yeah, not a big surprise.”  He dried himself off as he
spoke. “As to the other stuff, Ross and Betty and all that, we made a plan and
we got through it together. Less worry when I’m with you rather than trying to
find you.”
Bruce stared at the calm man beside him. “Who are you and what have you done
with Clint Barton?” he asked with a laugh.
“Hey! I’m being all mature here. I should get some credit for it.” Fingers
caught the edge of Bruce’s towel he’d wrapped around his waist and then Clint
kissed him, slow and easy and so damn sensual a slide of lips that Bruce’s
brain shut down.  Not the kind of kiss that was a prelude to more, where bodies
were primed and took the controls, but a kiss with all the time in the world to
do nothing but explore. Sinking into it, Bruce traced the lines of muscles that
bunched around Clint’s shoulder blades with feather light strokes.
“Fisk, damn it. We’ve got to get down there.” Clint abruptly pulled back; gone
was the lover and in his place was the warrior. He moved with ruthless
efficiency, tossing the towel without looking to see where it fell, striding
over to the closet for his uniform, pulling it on fast. Pants came flying at
Bruce when he followed, a little slower. “Hulk pants. We’ll need him. JARVIS
call the others, tell them to meet us in the I.C.U.  What is Richard Fisk’s
current condition?”
“According to my readings, he is still in a comatose state. What shall I tell
Master Stark, sir?” If there was any hint of censure in the computer’s voice,
Bruce couldn’t hear it.
“Just tell him to get his ass down there. Code red, emergency, whatever you
need to get him moving.” Clint was fully dressed, and he grabbed his quiver and
bow from the cabinet in the living room as he headed for the door. Bruce had a
million questions, but he didn’t voice them. Whatever Clint had figured out, he
was going to support him. With his shoes in hand, he followed, bending to put
them on in the elevator. Not that it mattered once the Other Guy took over, but
Bruce didn’t like walking around barefoot if he could help it. The door slid
open just as he got his foot in the last one and he hopped after Clint, leaving
it untied.
“What’s this all about?” Steve stood in the hallway outside the doors to the
isolated ward; Tony was behind him, scrolling through data on his tablet at
high speed. “JARVIS says Fisk is the same.”
“Opening a doorway for what’s outside,” Clint said, pushing the doors open and
blowing by the nurse’s station. “Was Fisk checked for nannites?”
Hank looked lost as he came out another doorway, putting his glasses. “No. Why
would he infect himself …”
“Oh, fuck me.” Tony’s fingers flew, calling up files. “JARVIS, tests, any and
all tests on Fisk. Look for any mutant markers … did anyone do a DNA work up
for him?”
“I ran a scan, but we haven’t gotten to really look at it yet. Betty and her
father were our top priorities,” Carol said from behind them; even with her
long legs, she was scurrying to catch up to Clint and Tony who led the pack.
“Are you suggesting he infected himself?”
“She needs a way in,” Clint paused at the bank of monitors outside Fisk’s room.
The nurse looked at them all and shrank in her seat. “What’s his status?” Clint
asked her. She cleared her throat, pulled herself together and tapped on the
screen.
“He’s showing signs of brain activity and the swelling is going down. Doctors
think he might wake up at any time now,” the nurse answered. “But we don’t know
how much damage has been done internally.”
 “Someone want to fill the non-scientists in here?” Natasha asked from her
place by Clint’s side; Bruce hadn’t seen her come in.
“Legolas here thinks Fisk enhanced himself,” Tony explained. “Part of his big
red rover game to bring Mab over.”
“But how would that help when he’s in a coma …” Steve stopped. “Wait. He wanted
to be brought here? How could he make sure he didn’t get killed in the
process?”
“We’re Avengers. We catch ‘em, not kill ‘em. He’d know that,” Tony said.
Clint suddenly was in motion, through the door and into the room where the man
lay stretched out on a gurney, seconds before the alarms blared, monitors
spiking into the red. Bruce watched it all unfold on the screen as Steve burst
into the room. Fisk sat up, ripped off the electrodes and various leads, yanked
out his i.v. and swung his feet over the edge of the bed; Clint grabbed him,
wrapping his arms around Fisk’s waist. A pulse wave rolled off Fisk, Steve
slammed backwards into the wall, scrabbling to stay on his feet, but Clint held
on. Eyes glowing gold, Fisk rose, no, levitated up, extended his arms and
disappeared in a wash of bright light, taking Clint with him.
“Fuck! JARVIS, where are they?” Tony was in the room, offering Steve a hand up.
“What the hell was that?”
A roar and the squeal of rending metal floated down the hallway. Bruce knew
that sound; either Betty or Ross was loose. He ran towards the chaos, rounding
the corner to find the Red She Hulk standing in the hallway, an unconscious
Janet over one shoulder. Clint stumbled out of the room behind her, rivulets of
blood running from his nose. She swung the back of her other hand at Clint; he
managed to dodge most of the blow, but her fingers grazed his bicep and he was
knocked away, falling to his knees. Bruce had no choice; the Hulk screamed as
he took charge, issuing a challenge that snapped Betty’s head around. Her stare
was filled with hatred as she saw him.
“Wait, she’s got Janet. We’ve got to get Janet!” Hank was shouting. Cap was
talking too, issuing orders, but Hulk’s focus was on the red hued woman in
front of him. She’d hurt Cupid. No one hurt Cupid. The anger rose up in him,
and he knew the savage joy ripping her apart would give him. But there was a
voice in his head, the Little Guy. Betty, he was telling the Hulk. It’s Betty.
And we have to save Janet. Fisk? Glowy guy who was hovering just on the other
side of Betty? The Hulk could smash him to his heart’s content. Deciding, the
Hulk rushed Betty, slamming fists on the floor and dancing sideways to get past
her, brushing Janet’s unconscious body. Betty cradled the other woman, pulling
her out of the way (She’s protecting her, the Little Guy said, she doesn’t want
to hurt her).
“Suit, suit, suit, get my suit!” Metal Head’s voice was behind him.
Glowy Guy, the bad man with the bugs that hurt Hulk, threw his head back and
laughed, his body consumed by the golden light as he disappeared again.
“ … it’s in the lab …” Hank was saying.
With a growl, Betty turned down the hall, running towards the windows; she
launched herself at them, hunching over to cover Janet’s body with her own as
they broke through the glass and jumped.
 “ … going after them …” Carol zoomed by him, her white lab coat flapping
behind her.
Hulk took a step then stopped. Going down on one knee, he reached a hand out to
Cupid. “Cupid take breather?”
“Nah, I’m good to go, Big Guy.” Clint was holding his right arm tight to his
body, but he stood. “I’ve got the arrow if you get me line of sight.”
“Cupid see best.” Hulk snorted a half laugh as he hoisted him up. “Glass hurt.
Hang on.”
Chapter End Notes
     For those of you interested, here’s the complete Queen Mab speech
     from Romeo and Juliet. I highly recommend clicking the link above to
     get the full flavor of the scene.
     O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
     She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes
     In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
     On the fore-finger of an alderman,
     Drawn with a team of little atomies
     Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep;
     Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs,
     The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
     The traces of the smallest spider’s web,
     The collars of the moonshine’s watery beams,
     Her whip of cricket’s bone, the lash of film,
     Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
     Not so big as a round little worm
     Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid;
     Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
     Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
     Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.
     And in this state she gallops night by night
     Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;
     O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on court’sies straight,
     O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees,
     O’er ladies o’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,
     Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
     Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
     Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier's nose,
     And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
     And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail
     Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep,
     Then dreams, he of another benefice:
     Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,
     And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
     Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
     Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
     Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
     And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
     And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
     That plats the manes of horses in the night,
     And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
     Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
     This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
     That presses them and learns them first to bear,
     Making them women of good carriage:
     This is she—
***** The Bridge at Khazad Dum *****
Chapter Summary
     The door is open, the Trojan Horse is revealed, and Bruce & Clint let
     the change happen.
Chapter Notes
     Those of you who know me, know I struggle with writing fight scenes.
     I ask your patience because important things are happening here.
 "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot
 pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow!
                               You cannot pass."
 
“There!” Cupid pointed and Hulk saw a rooftop deck with a pool and outdoor
area. “Set us down.”
He landed with a thump, looking around, sniffing the air. People scattered,
some running toward the glass doors that led into a restaurant, others stepping
away to give them space. Cell phones went up, and they snapped pictures or
started a video; even the man in the virtually non-existent speedo, all of his
hairy chest on proud display, whipped an iPhone out of somewhere and was
clicking away. The bartender, a middle-aged man in a red vest and white shirt,
kept mixing the fruity drink he was making, not blinking at the intrusion. One
bold woman in a white one-piece took a few steps towards them, a sharpie in her
hand.
“We need everyone to vacate this area. Get inside, and go downstairs.” Cupid
issued the orders in a rapid flow; some of the people obeyed instantly, others
hesitated then slowly moved away. A handful stopped to pack up their things.
“Now, people. And don’t stand by the glass either. Call management,” he told
the bartender. “Get them to clear this floor.”
A 40-something woman in a red sundress hustled away from the cabana bar, and
she held out the frozen red drink she’d just picked up. “Here,” she said as she
passed. “Sounds like you might need this.”
“Thanks,” Cupid laughed and took a sip before he handed it over; the Hulk
downed it in one swallow and very carefully put the glass down on a table. 
“Daiquiris are his favorite.”
“Betty not here,” he rumbled. The sweet drink had helped his mood, but he was
close to pouting. They’d been following Betty, always a jump behind, and then
Cupid had suggested a different direction. Hulk didn’t like losing sight of
her, but both he and the Little Guy trusted Cupid, so he’d stopped.
“Give it a minute, Big Guy.” Clint took a position, climbing on top of the
cabana bar, prepping a neural inhibitor arrowhead. “She’s keyed on you; she’ll
come to us.”
“Hulk not hurt Betty.” The Hulk didn’t like that Betty was mad at him. She’d
been one of his first real friends, but now she was red and big and unhappy. He
did remember what it was like right after the first time the Hulk came out, how
confused and angry he was at everyone. Betty didn’t hate him, she was just
scared, but she wouldn’t let Hulk help her.
“You won’t have to. I’ll get her to change back and then we’ll get her and
Janet back to the tower.” Cupid could do that, Hulk knew, he just hoped that
Betty didn’t hurt Cupid again. He didn’t want to pick between his friends …
even if he knew Cupid would win. Tilting his head back, he smelled her before
he saw her coming in for a landing.  The other woman was awake and as soon as
Betty’s feet were on the wooden flooring, Betty gently sat her down on one of
the wooden chaise lounges. Then she turned to the Hulk.
“Don’t want this,” Betty said an angry rumble in her voice. “Don’t like it.
Make it stop.”
“Hulk can help.” He stayed very still, just like Cupid did when he was watching
people through the little lens on his gun. “Let Little Guy fix Betty.”
“No!” Her voice gained volume, and she flexed her muscles, the miracle fabric
gown straining across her biceps. “No Bruce.”
“Then Tiny Guy or Metal Head can do it. Back at Tower.” Hulk reached for her;
she smacked his hand away.
“NO! Want to go home.” Betty was shouting now, the tendons in her neck taut and
stressed. People in the restaurant backed away from the windows, staring at the
two larger figures outside.
“Betty, we can help you there. Hank or Carol or Tony. Please,” Janet begged.
“It doesn’t have to be Bruce.”
“NO BRUCE!” In her anger, she swung her fist and smashed a table, shattering
the Plexiglas umbrella pole, sending shards flying. That seemed to open the
flood gates, and Betty began destroying furniture, losing control.  An arrow
whizzed, hitting Betty in the thigh, releasing the medicine into her system.
She howled and whirled, but the new fast acting formula had her slumping down,
changing back into her petite form, her too large gown flapping around her.
Hulk caught her before she hit the ground and laid her on the seat next to
Janet.
“Is she okay?” Janet asked, moving to the edge of Betty’s seat to take her
pulse.
“Sleeping. Take you both back now,” the Hulk said; Janet stroked Betty’s face.
“Hank was making progress. We should be able to balance her brain chemistry to
help her gain a measure of control.” Janet smiled at that, more worried for her
friend than herself, and patted the Hulk on his hand. “You did well, Hulk.”
“You take care of her although she cares not for you?”
The Hulk’s head craned, pinpointing the new presence. The voice was still
Richard Fisk, but his body had become luminous, opaque in the chest and fading
to transparent outlines at his hands and feet. Facial features were gone,
nothing but glowing golden light, yet his head cocked to the side as he asked
the question.
“Betty Hulk’s friend.”  He stepped in front of the women, using his massive
body as a shield. “Don’t hurt friends.”
“Interesting,” Glowy Guy said. “You are unexpected, different than the newer
creations. We thought you would all be alike, but you are … more human than the
others.”
“Hulk is Hulk,” he stated. People were so stupid sometimes, always naming
things and making such a big deal out of the words they used. He was what he
was.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes you are. This changes our plans, of course, but for the
better, I think.”
“Plans?” Hulk asked, following the Little Guy’s prompting to give Cupid more
time.
“Why, to create openings to your world, of course. All those long years of
waiting for the seeds to take root and now, finally, to see the fruition of the
long vision.” Glowy Guy settled down onto the deck and stepped closer.
Hulk snorted and kept himself firmly in front of the women. “Yada, yada, Glowy
Guy use big words, not say anything.”
“Ah, yes, I shall use simple terms for you. Humans are the doorway; all you
needed was a little help to be open to us.” He disappeared and the Hulk swung
around, searching for him. Betty’s eyes flicked open and she screamed as one of
the glowing hands sank into her chest. Red bled out from the place they
touched, not blood, but skin dyed with gamma radiation.  His other hand caught
Janet’s wrist, and she cried out, wrenching away from his touch that left
scorch marks on her skin.
“NO!” Hulk roared and jumped, arms ready to grab and crush at the same instant
that arrows flew towards Glowy Guy, but nothing was there as he sailed over the
chair.  Betty lapsed back into unconsciousness, and Janet sat on the ground
staring at the vibrating shafts embedded in the wooden frame.
Reappearing on the opposite side of the pool, he laughed. “This is a great
honor,” he said. “You should thank me.”
 The blur of red and blue swung over the pool and flipped in midair, landing
near Betty; Spider Guy bounced over a chair and swung up on top of a towel
cabinet. “Aw, if I’d had known we were having a party, I’d have brought my
trunks. I see you brought the tiki torch.” 
“We have business to attend to, and you must await your own time. Go.” A beam
of golden light shot out of Fisk’s hand; Peter danced away from it, pushing off
the cabana and somersaulting over the pool. 
“Whoa, don’t let Iron Man see you use that. I think he’s trademarked the
repulsor blast.” Hulk always did like Spider Guy’s sense of humor. And his
taste in pizza.
“I will admit you have potential as a vessel, but you are wasting it.” This
time the beam went wide, splitting into two paths before coming back together
in the place Spider Guy just barely vacated in time.
“Watch the suit, dude. Just got it fixed. Not all of us are Mr. Money Bags,” he
complained. “And my potential? What are you, a guidance counselor?”
 “I am what you could be.” The laugh was low, deep from his throat. All the
dancing around left Fisk with his side turned towards Cupid, a perfect target
for an arrow, but he avoided that missile too, teleporting yet again. “This
grows old. Enough. It is time.”
The beam slammed into Janet, scattering lounges as it engulfed her. With a
scream that was cut short, she thrashed on the cushions, breaths falling into
short gasps. The chair with Betty flew towards the terrace’s wall; the back
wheels hit the concrete header and tipped over, the unconscious woman sliding
off the end without a sound. 
“I’ve got her!” Web shot out, attaching to a cell tower on the opposite
building, and Spider Guy swung, dropping after her.
Glowy Guy was right; The Hulk had had enough. He roared and charged only to
plunge into the pool when the guy disappeared again. Feet on the bottom, he
pushed back up, bursting out of the water and landing on the deck just in time
to see Cupid barrel across the space and shove Janet out of another beam’s
radius, trapping himself inside of it instead.  Turning on his heel, the Hulk
stepped between the beam and Cupid, trying to shield him with his body, but the
beam widened, catching them both.
“Yes. Now we shall finish this,” Fisk crowed.
The energy washed over them, sinking into the Hulk’s flesh, soaking through his
muscles and coating his bones. Down into his veins, flowing through them, into
his head and whiting out his vision, the power rattling his darkest places.  He
was drowning in it, pulled away by the golden riptide, losing himself. At the
base level of molecules, change was being forced upon him, and he struggled,
fighting it, afraid of it.
*Don’t be scared,* Little Guy said.
Massive arms curled around Cupid, Hulk could feel the other man shaking. His
muscles didn’t respond and his legs stayed planted, so he couldn’t get them out
of the beam, couldn’t protect Cupid.
*Stop fighting*
Hulk tried to shout his frustration, but he made no sound as his body twisted
and contorted. He was shrinking and growing at the same time, caught in an
endless loop of change, sometimes Bruce, sometimes Hulk, sometimes both,
sometimes nothing at all.  Bruce forced his eyes open; in the brightness, he
could make out Clint’s face, his eyes gone completely white.
“Clint!” he called, but his mouth didn’t open, his vocal cords frozen. *Clint,*
he thought. *Trust me. Remember what Xavier said. Let the change happen*
*Cupid,* Hulk thought. *We’ve got you*
They hugged Clint tighter, closer into his chest, bringing as much of their
bodies into contact as they could. With a deep breath, then another, Bruce
pictured himself standing on the edge of the cliff. He lifted his foot and
stepped off the edge, gave up all control.
The Hulk remembered. The closet was square, not wide enough to lie down in
without bending his knees, even at eight years old. The floor was crowded with
old rain boots, his bright blue rubber ones with mud caked between the ridges
on the sole, a black men’s set, polished and set neatly together in their
place, and a yellow pair his mom would wear when she took him to the park. The
belt of his father’s trench coat hung down almost to the top of his boots on
one side, the hem of the coat low enough for them to hide behind. If they were
covered by the coat, they couldn’t see the band of light that came through the
crack at the bottom, and if they couldn’t see, maybe Daddy wouldn’t walk over
and block the comforting glow. Maybe he’d forgotten they were there, would go
to bed like he did sometimes and Momma would come and let them out. Let him
out. Bruce. Not me. I never get out. I’m always locked away.
Bruce hung on to Clint. He ran. He ran a lot; wiry and thin, Converse All-Stars
slapping the concrete of the sidewalk as he barreled down Maple Street and cut
through Dr. Randolph’s yard towards Elm. His lungs were burning as he wheezed
in and out, inhaler left behind with his backpack and books and his report for
Mr. Adams’ Chemistry class. That shit weighed him down, he’d learned; nothing
was worth getting caught, so he threw the heavy canvas tote at them to gain a
head start, get enough time to make the shortcut to Holliday’s Barber Shop
where nice Mr. Holliday would let him come in and stay until his mom came and
got him. Just a few more steps, just a few, and he’d be at the alley with the
dumpster, the one  he’d taken the time to pile boxes up to climb for the fire
escape, boxes he could knock over when he was up. He saw the phone booth,
zigzagged and then cut right, aiming for the first box, clambering up on it,
and then the hand closed around the rubber of his heel, Paul’s laughter close.
Kicking back, he was free for a second, but he knew others were there. *Jump*
the voice in his head said. With one leap, he jumped, clearing the second box
and barely landing on the third before the bottom rung was in their hands and
they lashed out with their foot, tumbling the boxes back down onto the other
boys. Together, the two of them climbed up the ladder, fast like the monkeys in
the zoo, escaping.
… the string was like silk in his fingers, the fletching tickling his face …
sight narrowed, time slowed, the ticks between breaths lengthened … and he saw
where the target would be seconds before it descended … the crowd roared in
approval … but trickshot frowned …
The Hulk’s first act was to roar himself into being, pushing back the poison by
pure volume of sound and strength of will. He tucked the little guy inside,
panic fading into unconsciousness, and shoved out of the too tight, too tiny
body that had contained him. Fire raged in the lab, and he crashed through the
tables and smashed through the wall, running in increasingly longer strides
until he was jumping, covering greater distances. He was out and he wasn’t
going back …
*Hulk … we have to help Clint.* Bruce felt Clint’s pulse; it was wild and
erratic. They were asleep, Clint in the middle; the other guy’s big body
sprawled with arms out, one hand on Clint’s stomach. Bruce was curled up on the
other side, his leg tucked between Clint’s, hand on his warm chest. Clint
shifted. Bruce’s hand slipped, and then he was touching the green skin, his
fingers along the Hulk’s. Something shifted and aligned in a new way. He didn’t
move as he drifted back to sleep.
… Take the shot … Take the goddamn shot … I need proof, not gut instincts … How
do you know, damn it? … No more of your creepy vibes and shit. This is it,
Barton, last damn straw …
The silence hit him first, the incessant buzzing that signaled the triggered
nannites absent. Carefully, Bruce opened his eyes and looked around,
recognizing this place, their bedroom, the one Xavier had taken them to, the
safe place in his head. Exactly as they had left it earlier, Bruce’s clothes
were still where he dropped them, a wet towel on the tile floor of the
bathroom.
“Pull Cupid?” Hulk asked; he was smaller, almost human sized like before. Wound
around his wrist was a shadowy cord that disappeared through the wall, walls
that flexed and moved under the onslaught of Fisk’s power as he tried to break
through.
“Yes,” Bruce nodded, and he caught Clint when he fell into the room with them.
“Oh, God. That fucking sucks.” The fact that he let Bruce hold him so easily
spoke volumes about how Clint was feeling. Eyes squeezed shut, he took a couple
of shuddering gasps of air, then he was back, surveying the room. “You two
okay?”
“Yeah,” Bruce looked over at the Hulk; their eyes met, the same brown color
filled with worry and anger. “I think we’re protected here for a bit, but he’s
powerful and will eventually break through.”
“Okay,” Clint said.  He took Hulk’s hand, drawing him in closer. “Look,
whatever Gabriel did, this connection we have? I don’t think he knows about it.
We use that against him and turn his own power to our own ends.”
Bruce understood; he wound his arm around Clint’s waist, tangling his fingers
with Clint’s free hand and resting their hands on Clint’s chest. Stretching out
his other hand, Bruce offered it, palm up. The Hulk hesitated; this was, after
all, the closing of the circle. Green fingers brushed Bruce’s then covered the
whole hand. Warmth washed up his arm from the Hulk, sank into his chest from
where Clint leaned against him, and, like a rubber band snapping back into
shape, they synced, heartbeats meshing, breathing evening out. A calm settled
over them, tension bleeding away.
“Okay. What’s next?” Bruce asked.
“We let it happen,” Clint replied.
“Then smash Glowy Guy,” Hulk added.
They took a breath together and let the walls fall. Light broke through and
pain returned, but they held on and it receded in the face of their
determination. Something pulsed through them, running along the complicated
Celtic knot of their bodies, taking the energy and morphing it through their
own will. Circling and growing, the power broke down the boundaries between
them, flashing over skin, transmitting through the ties that connected them.
Bruce stared where the Hulk’s hand met his own; green bled over his fingers, up
his arm, anger rising only to pass through him and into Clint. Back came
emotions, spilling into Bruce – deep worry, sheer cussedness, love, and a
fierce pleasure – and the Hulk took them all, echoing the adrenaline rush.
When the melting started, Bruce didn’t pull away, just let it happen; the Hulk
shrank in size, Bruce grew, and then they had one hand, one arm, one body until
he could feel both of Clint’s hands in his, could see through two sets of eyes.
The memories came, a flow of images, one after the other, like a curtain pulled
aside. Running through the slums of Calcutta with Ross’s men on his trail. The
recognition in Betty’s eyes that first time she truly looked at him. A small
child tumbling into a lake, mother screaming for help. Catching Tony as he
fell, sliding down a building. Playing Halo with Thor. Cradling Clint in the
desert, rain falling outside the rock ledge that protected them.
“Hulk? Hawkeye?” The light stuttered, then broke completely, and they could see
Tony hovering beside them. Steve caught his shield on the rebound; it had
deflected Fisk’s energy long enough to free them.
“We’re here,” Bruce answered; they may have let their hands drop and stepped
away, but the connection was as strong as if they were still touching.
 “You will be our greatest accomplishment.” Fisk demanded their attention,
reminding them the danger was still very real. “Look at all of you; the human
race has far exceeded our wildest dreams for you.”
 “Question is,” Clint drawled; he had drawn his bow, another arrow notched and
ready to fly. “What did you do to piss off Mab and draw the short straw?”
“Wait, that’s not Mab?” Carol asked, touching down on the Hulk’s left.
“Then who the hell is he … she … it?” Steve threw in.
“Do you dare doubt my power? After all you’ve seen?” Fisk directed his
malevolent question towards Clint.
“Okay, look, I’ll explain it to you … let me know if I need to use small words
for you to follow. First, you are not Mab because she’s like the big badass
Queen of the Winter Court. Popping in and out and tossing a few beams of energy
around doesn’t rise to the level of competent much less frostiest bitch of all
time. Second, the whole Trojan Horse thing? Sorry dude but something tells me
Mab isn’t that stupid and she’d know that’s been done to death. Ergo, you’re
more like a sacrificial lamb sent to test our responses. Poor Fisk; he probably
expected to be the queen and got a page boy instead.”
“I am the harbinger, the one who will prepare the way. I am one of the four
Princes of Darkness, royalty of a thousand generations.” That accusation had
definitely hit home; he was getting pissed off.
“Yeah, okay maybe you’re Justin Beiber, but you’re no Elvis. She wants to know
how formidable we are, so she sent you, Mr. Expendable, to find out. You defeat
us, fulfill your mission, she gains knowledge about our world and makes it a
little easier to invade, takeover, whatever the bee in her bonnet is. You lose,
she still gains knowledge and she loses a low-level asset that’s a thorn in her
side. That’s what we call a win-win situation.” Clint’s tone was
conversational, light even, but he was slowly moving to the right as Steve
flanked Fisk on the left.
“I am M’ordin, the keeper of night, and I am no one’s fool,” he spat out. “Your
petty enhancements are no match for me!”
Pulse beams flew from his hands; Steve rolled out of the way of one as Carol
deflected another with her own bolt. The rooftop became a warzone as Fisk …
M’ordin … blasted away at them all while nothing they threw affected him.
Tony’s repulsors, Carol’s bolts, even Cap’s shield (were all ineffective) all
met no resistance as he rapidly blinked in and out, appearing in a new,
unexpected location. Windows shattered from stray shots, and people screamed,
fleeing from the wreckage.
In the middle of it all, the Hulk stopped to toss Clint on to the restaurant
roof, then went back to trying to catch the glowing figure, the time between
his lunges and M’ordin’s disappearance getting less and less with each attempt.
Brown eyes watched the movement, tracked it, calculated possibilities, and
noticed the slower reaction times when more people attacked, passing it along
through the connection to Cupid. Then M’ordin got the drop on Steve, a beam
catching him in the side and sending him crashing into the cabana bar; in
seconds, Steve was right back up fighting. Carol fired off a couple of close
shots; he reappeared hovering above the pool, slamming two pulses into Tony who
swooped right into his path. Red armor jerked, electricity arcing between
joints, and fell into the water, sinking fast.
“JARVIS!” Steve shouted. With explosive force, the suit shot out of the pool
and landed, settling down on its back. Tony’s faceplate opened; Hank was the
closest where he was stationed between Janet and Betty, keeping an eye on their
conditions. Feeling for a pulse, Hank bent low to talk to Tony.
“See? You cannot stand against me.” M’ordin touched down in front of the
restaurant. “Admit it and we can stop this senseless fighting.”
“Hulk like fighting. Having fun.” All teeth, the Hulk’s grin was pretty damn
scary. “Blondie more fun than this, though.”
“And here I thought you more than a mindless brute,” M’ordin said, teleporting
as Steve’s shield whizzed towards him. With an audible twang, the arrow cut
across the roof; M’ordin reappeared right in front of it, just in time for the
head to slice into the fleshy part of his side. He staggered back two steps,
banged into a bar stool, and flickered, light draining. For a couple of
seconds, he was human again, blood oozing from the wound.
“Nobody calls the Hulk names,” Clint said as he jumped down. “Last chance. Get
the hell out of our world and tell the bitch Mab she’s not welcome.”
Light flared, and the arrow disintegrated.  “For that, I will kill you, orders
or not.”  The beam was too bright to look at and aimed right at Clint; the red,
white, and blue of Steve’s shield bounced the energy away. Clint spun and shot
to the left as Carol sent pulses where M’ordin had been. Two more arrows
pierced his chest as he blinked back into existence; this time, he screamed and
the glow died down to embers. Richard Fisk crumpled to the ground, groaning in
pain. His hands closed around the hilt of an arrow and tried to pull it out,
but he couldn’t. “Doesn’t … matter …” he was panting, gritting his teeth in
agony. “I am here and you cannot separate me from this body.”
“Actually,” Tony drawled. “I think I know someone who can help with that.”
A swarm of insects came from the roofline of the restaurant; they buzzed around
Janet briefly before descending upon Fisk’s body, landing on his chest, neck
and shoulders. He swatted at them, motion hampered by the pain of the arrows.
“This passage is open and cannot be …” he coughed “… closed again. Human
physiology does not …” a series of three coughs, “… allow for the reversal …”
his arms began twitching, the moves wrenching sobs of pure pain “… of
evolution.”
“See, the problem with the nannites was how to reprogram them without damaging
the body and the brain of the person once the process had started since we
couldn’t remove them,” Tony said. He was sitting up now, face flushed, but
breathing normally. “The program is simple but the side effects were
unacceptable. That’s what we learned from the Chaoue.”
“The program.” Fisk’s voice dropped to a whisper; tremors wracked his body.
“Once begun… cannot be changed.”
“But it can be stopped,” Hank said after he grew back to full size; he knelt
next to M’ordin and the bugs fled back to their hives. “Just a few infected
nannites with alternate programming can throw the whole system into chaos.”
“Time to shut the door, fairy boy,” Tony said.
“No.” Fisk groaned, convulsed once, twice then fell silent, his eyes rolling
back into his head.
“He’s not …” Janet started to ask, eyes wide.
“Just unconscious. We have about twenty minutes or so before the primary code
reasserts itself,” Hank assured her. “Tony’s just grandstanding.”
“I prefer dramatic license, thank you very much.” Tony tried to rise on his
own, but Steve was there, arm under his shoulders, guiding him. “JARVIS, tell
Fury to get a room ready for our guest. He’s got cells that can block
teleportation. Seems our prince here is about to get a taste of SHIELD
hospitality.”
“Tony, you need to take it easy,” Steve said. “You could have died.”
“Indeed, I could have.” Tony waggled his eyebrows. “In fact, I’m feeling the
need for a nice long evening on the couch with a marathon of … hmmm … Lord of
the Rings? Close Encounters of the Third Kind and other alien invasion movies?”
“Wait, wait,” Janet sank down onto one of the surviving chairs, cheeks pale.
“Let’s see, Carol shoots bolts out of her fingers? How did Clint know where
Fisk was going to be to hit him? Was Hank riding a bee?”
“Actually, they were yellow jackets. They had a nest up under the eaves,” Hank
sheepishly admitted.
“Oh, okay, yellow jackets. And you were tiny.” Janet shook her head. “And I’m,
what, a mutant now too? Going to sprout wings and fly?”
“Technically, we don’t know for sure. We’ll have to run tests, check it out.”
Hank sat down next to her and awkwardly laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not
that bad, honestly, I mean if you do become … I mean, look at Bruce. He’s got
this figured out, right?”
“Speaking of Bruce,” Tony asked, tossing attention his way. “What’s up with you
and Big Green?”
“Me?” Hulk asked, confused, then he caught sight of himself in the remaining
window. A Bruce Banner sized Hulk stared back at him with humor and
intelligence in his eyes. As he watched, he shifted completely back to Bruce,
then into the Hulk again, before stopping somewhere in the middle. “Well,
damn.”
***** Lothlorien *****
Chapter Summary
     Life intervenes and the whole team seems to be running different
     directions, but Tony manages to find a way to lighten the load (hint:
     it involves sand and waves and outdoor cooking). The Hulk opens a can
     of worms and there's a question that's not a question but is. Some
     unrepentant romantic fluff here as part one of The Broken Blade winds
     down and we get ready for Clint's story. Even superheroes deserve a
     little happiness before the shit hits the fan.
Chapter Notes
     I'm a big fan of Pride and Prejudice and I think that style of
     writing ... not coming right out and saying things but dancing around
     it ... is very romantic. You'll see what I mean here.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The Quinjet landed on the roof of the tower where a detachment of SHIELD guards
were waiting to take Fisk into custody; when it came to high tech prisons,
SHIELD’s couldn’t be beat. They had rooms designed for all kinds of mutants and
super villains – and a couple made just for the Hulk which was why Bruce made
sure there was no green showing while he dashed from the landing pad into the
elevator. They’d gotten the move down, choreographed without conscious thought,
Bruce in the middle of the team, the others ranged around him in a protective
formation. Anytime there were guards or soldiers, they flanked out without any
conversation; it was a habit by now.
At least he had pants on, he thought to himself, remembering all the times when
he’d been completely naked in all senses of the word, both as the Hulk and as
Bruce waking later. Seeing it now, through the Hulk’s eyes, he began to
understand the way clothes didn’t matter to the Other Guy, how he’d always been
laid bare to the world like a raw nerve. It was almost too much to comprehend,
this influx of data, knowledge of another part of himself … at least most of
the missing time was floating in his brain, open for examination. There was
still missing time, though, and Bruce didn’t prod, leaving them alone. He had
time to figure it all out. Right now, he told the Hulk, they needed to focus on
Betty and Janet, work on helping them. Janet was walking, using Hank’s arm to
lean on. Betty was on a gurney, still unconscious, and they wheeled her down to
medical; doctors and nurses swarmed around her, taking her vitals. Bruce
stopped in the observation room, worried about Betty’s reaction if she came to
and he was present.
“Where is she?” The man came down the hall, Phil Coulson at his elbow, and
Bruce knew immediately this was Glen Talbot.  Shorter than Bruce, Glen was a
slim man with brown hair and dark brown eyes that were filled with concern. He
ran a hand through his disheveled hair; his t-shirt was rumpled, and his pants
obviously had been slept in. Flicking around the room, his eyes landed on
Bruce. “You’re Banner. Son-of-a-bitch.” In two steps he crossed the space
between them and swung; his fist landed on Bruce’s jaw, snapping his head to
the side.
 “Save that for General Ross. He’s the one who caused this,” Clint growled,
jumping between them; Bruce stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay. I deserved that.” God, he thought. What do I say to this man?
“Betty’s unconscious right now, but you can go in as soon as they give the
okay.”
Talbot deflated, anguish written on his face. “God, I knew, I always knew it
would end like this. Woman is too damn stubborn for her own good.”
“On that we can agree.” Bruce pulled a chair over for Talbot to sink down into.
“She told me, you know. From the very beginning. First time I ever flirted with
her, she turned me down flat, said she could never date anyone who worked for
her father.” He dropped his head in hands. “When I asked her to marry me, she
told me that if you called, she’d go. No questions asked. It was one of her
rules.”
“That sounds just like her.” It did, Betty would lay the law down and you
accepted it or didn’t. Of course, she’d also go to the ends of the earth for
those she cared about, damn the rules.
“The General had been quiet lately. I thought, with the cancer and chemo, that
he was done with this obsession. I should have known better.” Looking up, he
fixed his gaze on Betty through the glass, her face pale and eyes closed. “He
couldn’t have been working alone. The Army’s cut him off. Hell, they’ve been
done with him for years. Who was it?”
“H.Y.D.R.A. Trying to make more Hulks for super soldiers.” Phil supplied that
answer and Bruce was glad he did. The Hulk was agitated enough already. “Ross
volunteered as a test subject. Of course, H.Y.D.R.A. changed the agreement and
decided to use Betty and Janet as well.”
“Janet?” That brought Talbot up short. “Janet Van Dyne? She’s involved too?”
“They captured her father and forced him to work for them by threatening
Janet.” Phil’s voice was calm and even, but Talbot groaned at the news.
“He’s dead, isn’t he? H.Y.D.R.A. wouldn’t leave him alive after they got what
they wanted. If Ross and Betty were … changed … then they’d … oh, God.” His
voice cracked and he stopped talking to just breathe, all the information too
much to handle. Clenching his fists, he fell back on his anger to see him
through. “The General is here? I want to see the son-of-a-bitch. God damn idiot
brought this on. I told him, so many times. Warned him. Fucker wouldn’t listen
to anyone.”
“He’s in custody and heading for a special cell. I’m sure we can arrange for
you to see him,” Phil said.
“Mr. Talbot?” The doctor came through the door. “Dr. Ross-Talbot is starting to
wake up. I think it would be best if you were there while we talk. The good
news is that her neural chemistry appears to be equalizing and her hormone
levels are returning to normal. This last incident actually helped her, but we
want to keep her as calm as possible.”
“Of course.” Talbot jumped up then turned back to Bruce. “Look, I’m sorry about
the face. It’s just …” he shrugged, unable to find the words. “Strange thing,
though. I was in Jakarta, chasing down a lead on an A.I.M. base there. They
were selling a new drug, one that would ‘open the doors of the mind,’ marketing
it as a way to make better soldiers. Seems they were in cahoots with this guy
in Vegas, Richard Fisk, a H.Y.D.R.A. guy. Think it might be connected?”
“She’s waking,” the doctor said, and Talbot quickly went to his wife’s bedside.
“Fuck,” Clint breathed.
“Agreed. Where one door closes …” Phil started.
“A window opens,” Clint finished.
Bruce watched as Betty’s eyes fluttered open, confusion and fear in their green
depths. Then she saw her husband and the corners filled with tears as a smile
spread across her face. She reached for him and he bent down to whisper in her
ear, hands cradling her face as she cried. Turning away, Bruce didn’t need to
see the sweet kiss that followed.
“She’s going to be okay,” Clint told him.
“He’s good for her,” Bruce agreed, and he wrapped his fingers around Clint’s
wrist. “That, I can understand.”
……………………………..
Numbers don’t lie. The lines of data spun across his screen, the answer dancing
somewhere just behind the stream, escaping Bruce every time he got near. These
were Clint’s results, the test after test he’d undergone in the last few days.
Clint’s vision was 20/-5, a virtually impossible number for a human. Granted,
he already had 20/10 before, but a hawk’s vision was 20/2, considered the best
possible acuity. Add to that not just night vision, but infrared as well, and
Clint was better than his namesake now.  Switching tabs, Bruce brought up the
video of Clint at the range, blindfolded, in the dark, hitting eighteen targets
in a row; throwing in a two-for-one shot and a back flip just to show off. The
efficiency of movement –the targets seemed to appear in front of the arrow –
increased his firing rate by almost 50%. Overall, reaction times were off the
chart. Clint had freaked a little when Tony called him psychic – too many
memories associated with con artists and carnivals – but it wasn’t
foreknowledge that allowed him to lead a target, it was the enhancement of his
ability to read people and calculate angles.  Logic, Clint had argued when Tony
called it “whoo-whoo crap;” watch, learn, see patterns, and predict action,
that’s what he was doing.
Bruce had already poured through Janet’s file. After the initial blast and the
allergic reaction, she’d been exposed for a short period; the nannites had
activated and were accelerating her natural genetic mutation. So far, the only
noticeable change was an increase in healing speed, although Betty argued that
Janet was even more outspoken,  more reckless than before, but that could be
the grief talking. The insane heroic gene, Janet was calling it; she’d always
been sure of herself, Bruce remembered, but she was not only accepting the
situation now, she seemed to be dealing with it in constructive ways. She’d
taken to hanging out in the lab with Hank, fascinated by his work with Pym
particles, and joining Carol in the gym, working on the trapeze, laughing about
wanting to fly. When Clint had joked that Janet needed a superhero name, Hank
had objected strenuously. Janet, however, immediately started arguing with Tony
about possibilities. The current front runner was Lady Dynamo.  Bruce’s biggest
worry was when she crashed and had to deal with her father’s death; her current
attitude, he suspected, was bravado.
Tony and Steve had been hit by the beams and, much to Tony’s dismay, they both
had to undergo a battery of tests as well. Steve’s metabolism and healing
factor seemed to have negated the initial blast, as soon as the reaction began,
his body shut it down. Tony spent two days hyped up on Benadryl and caffeine –
his effort to not drink while on the medication – and invented a faster quiver
to keep up with Clint, a dampener field to shut down teleportation, and comm
unit that could be grafted on the skin behind the ear. Plus, an automatic
doughnut machine that produced excellent yeast glazed confections.  Both of
their basic DNA structure seemed unchanged, so the theory that it took a second
exposure to start the process held sound.
Clicking another tab, Bruce’s screen filled with the image of General Thaddeus
Ross’s current cell in a SHIELD prison. Within hours of the General’s departure
on a secure jet, Tony had sent the link to the live feed. Through the tiny
corner camera, Bruce could see the various comings and goings; watch Ross pace
the cell from side-to-side, spending increasingly longer amounts of time as the
Red Hulk. The strange part was that Ross seemed better adjusted and in control
while in his hulk state; he held conversations with a psychiatrist, big body
hunched down into a chair as he spoke. Although Bruce didn’t have sound, he
could see the change in body language, the way the Red Hulk was more
comfortable in his skin than Ross ever was.
He’d stopped checking on Betty after Talbot – Glen, he’d said to call him Glen
– had invited Bruce down yesterday to talk to them both. She had laughed at one
point, when Glen was telling some crazy story about their wedding day, and had
given her husband grief about the fact he thought she didn’t know exactly what
he did for a living. Flashes of the old Betty that gave Bruce hope, and then
she’d gotten angry when the story led to her father walking her down the aisle.
Bruce had slipped out while Glen helped her through a breathing exercise to
calm down. They’d both asked him back, and Bruce had decided to go. Maybe, just
maybe, this time things wouldn’t end in tragedy.
With a sigh, he went back to the data. Too many strings, he thought, too many
things they still didn’t have answers to. Who was on the inside, helping Ross
and Fisk? If A.I.M. was involved, how many others were working on the same
goal? If M’ordin was just a herald, what the hell was coming down the pike? And
who was Mab?
“Hard at work I see,” Clint said, stopping to lean against the counter next to
Bruce’s stool.
“This is where you ask me if I know how long I’ve been down here.” Bruce knew
the drill. If he stayed too long in the lab, one of the team eventually showed
up to talk about food or sleep or, in Tony’s case, another project. “In my
defense, I did eat and I slept six hours on that couch over there.”
“Un-huh,” Clint nodded but he didn’t look convinced. “How long?”
“Depends …. Is that a.m. or p.m.?” Bruce was startled to see the clock read 10:
07 p.m. That meant he hadn’t left this room in … oh wow.
“And sleeping on the couch? Not big enough for the both of us, Doc.” Clint
smiled, and Bruce could feel the warmth from his body he brushed against his
shirt. “Almost four days, Doc. My ass is lonely in that big bed by myself.
Needs someone to come fill it. You up for the task?”
“Yeah, I can do that.” Heat flushed his cheeks and the Hulk rumbled an emphatic
yes, his stance on the issue very clear. “Let me save this data and lock it
down; I’ll be right there.”
“I’ve had a long day myself, so don’t be too slow.” Clint kissed him, sweet and
tender, and suddenly Bruce couldn’t think straight. All he could see was that
sexy smirk and all he could feel was his cock’s insistence he do something
about it right now. “I’ll sic Jarvis on you … and then I’ll pull out the big
guns and get the Hulk on my side. As extra added incentive, tell the Big Guy
there’ll be cuddling afterwards.”
“He’s on your side already,” Bruce laughed; the Hulk was doing a little happy
dance in his head. “And, for the record, that’s a damn effective way to get me
out of the lab.”
“Been saving it, haven’t I?” Clint winked and strolled back out. Bruce watched
his jean-clad ass the whole way and even sighed when the door slid shut behind
him. He started the security protocol and clicked save, watching as the files
flitted across the screen one-by-one, closing down.  Not really focusing on the
data, he just let the numbers float by and that’s when he saw it. In the same
sequence of the strand, the difference looked random if he read from beginning
to end, but page after page he could see it. He typed in the search parameters
and waited as the data collected, excitement building with each new point that
appeared. This was it, the key. All he had to do was go back and compare, plug
this into the various formulas, recalculate … he got to work, pulling up all
the necessary information.
*Cupid*
Bruce paused in the middle of a page long equation. Blinked. Looked up at the
clock. 11:24 p.m.
“Damn.” He clicked on security and started the shutdown. “Jarvis, be sure and
secure this data on Tony’s personal server.” Knowing Jarvis would, he hustled
and finished up, leaving the string of numbers unfinished. He made the elevator
in three minutes flat and their door in just under five, beating himself up the
whole way, hoping Clint wasn’t too upset. Crossing into the bedroom, he saw
Clint, sprawled on his stomach, fast asleep in the middle of the bed, towel
underneath him, face squished into the pillow … and he was buckassed naked.
Bruce let himself admire the view for a moment, okay more like five minutes,
quite enough to get hot and bothered thinking about running his hands over that
expanse of skin.
“That you?” Clint mumbled, eyes cracking open. He shifted, sliding his knee
out.
“Sorry, I got caught up.”
“Ummm.” He drifted back to sleep.
It was too tempting; the Hulk wasn’t big on resisting and neither was Bruce
when it came to Clint. So he undressed, dropping his clothes on the chair,
opened the drawer then crawled slowly onto his knees on the bed. Slicking up
his hands with massage oil, he rubbed them together to warm them before he laid
them flat in the dip of Clint’s back. Sliding them up to Clint’s shoulders,
back down to the start of the curve of his ass, Bruce repeated the action, a
motion that soothed him as it excited him. With long strokes, thumbs on either
side of Clint’s spine, fingers dragging over his sides, he massaged the oil
into Clint’s skin as he slept. Each time, his hands slipped lower, then up to
the neck where he pressed the sensitive spots at the base of Clint’s skull,
earning a sleepy groan and a little wiggle. Across Clint’s shoulders, down his
arms, lingering on the biceps and capturing his hands, Bruce caressed with
gentle touches before he trailed back down to Clint’s ass, curving over it,
around it, and down his legs. Shifting, he reached for and then traced the
contours of the bottom of Clint’s feet, curled his hands around his ankles and
worked his way back up to the place where leg met ass, letting his thumbs slide
between the cheeks for a quick brush before he made the whole circuit again.
Clint let out little sighs, huffs of air, so relaxed and only half-aware.  This
time, his thumbs brushed between and he discovered Clint was already slick and
loose; one finger easily sank in up to his knuckle, a second no problem at all.
“Well, damn,” Bruce murmured. “You were a busy boy.”
“Thinkin’ ahead,” Clint said, voice clouded with sleep. “’sides, you like it
this way.”
“I love you every way.” Bruce dropped a series of light kisses in the line of
Clint’s hair and along the nape of his neck. Clint shivered and pushed back
into Bruce’s fingers.  Bruce straddled Clint, keeping his fingers buried
inside, pushing them in further and sliding them back out. The third finger got
Clint to open his eyes, at least halfway, and he exhaled a moan, canting his
hips up a little to meet the thrust. Bruce was hard now, tension pooling in his
gut, a slow burn; after only a few slick movements with his fingers, he drew
them out, wiped them on the towel, and stroked himself with his other hand,
sticky with lube. He pushed in slowly, the hot passage opening for him as he
filled Clint in slow increments, all the way until he had to lift Clint’s hips
up for that last little thrust.
“Feels good,” Clint groaned, trying to rise up on his elbows, but a hand
between his shoulder blades settled him back down, right where Brue wanted him.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Bruce instructed. Turning his head, Clint looked
back, his eyes groggy but comprehending, and he nodded agreement. Bruce started
to change, just a little, the Hulk rising to the surface and sharing his body.
He grew, skin patchy with green, Bruce still in control. The fierce pleasure of
the Other Guy filled his chest and his brain, driving numbers and logic and
science back; what made Cupid happy made the Hulk happy, and if Clint’s moans
were any indication, he was enjoying the easy strokes Bruce started with.
“God, that’s good, yes, fuck.” Clint was definitely awake now, if still
relaxed. “I can take more.”
“You want it?” Bruce growled in his ear. Or maybe that was the Hulk. He wasn’t
sure what the difference was right now when they both had the exact same goal;
making Clint fly apart.
“Yes.” Clint arched his back and raised his hips even more, changing the angle
so that he shivered and clutched the bedspread with the next slide in.
“As you wish.” Bruce planted his hands on either side of Clint and pressed down
into the bed, keeping his weight off of Clint as much as possible as green
washed up his arms.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clint chanted under his breath.
“Cupid okay?” The Hulk paused, worried about hurting him. 
“More than okay. Great. Wonderful. Fucking amazing. Even better if you move
faster,” Clint opened his eyes long enough to say, then closed them as Bruce
pulled back and snapped his hips in again. “Fuck, yes. That’s it.”
Clint was bucking under him every time he thrust and Bruce couldn’t last very
long with the clench of tight muscle around him no matter how much he wanted to
draw this out. The Other Guy’s simple joy was a wash of emotions and
sensations, Bruce’s own coiling tension and the love he felt as he held onto
Clint’s hips and set a punishing pace – it was a heady mixture that threatened
to swamp him, and yet he never felt out of control, never worried about
transforming too much, not with the Hulk right here with him, working on making
Clint writhe and beg. And, if he reached out in his mind, he could feel Clint’s
pleasure spiraling up, know when he brushed the right spot, and tell just how
much Clint wanted him. That pushed him over and he strained forward, pressing
inside, closing his eyes as he came, holding tightly, hands on Clint’s slick
skin. He floated, the release doubly good for both of them.
“Roll over.” He slipped out and smacked Clint lightly on the ass. With a moan
that was half complaint/ half unresolved tension, Clint turned over, scooting
the towel back under him as he did. Blue-grey eyes, hooded and hazy, followed
Bruce’s hands as he settled between Clint’s legs, pushing them apart. With a
smile that promised more, he let the Other Guy take the lead and bent his head,
licking a strip up the underside of Clint’s hard cock.
“Not going to be long,” Clint said as he arched up his hips, chasing after the
moist friction as the Hulk curled his tongue around and sucked him in. Clint
was heavy in his mouth and groaning with each pull then Clint thrust upwards
and came with a long sigh, collapsing, boneless and sated. Rolling over, Bruce
became Hulk size, flopping over on his back with a satisfied grunt. For a
moment, they both lay there then Clint rolled off the side of the bed and stood
up.
“Cupid?” Hulk grumbled at the move.
“Don’t worry, just heading to the bathroom. I promised cuddles, I know.” Not
bothering with the light, Clint cleaned up. “There’s stuff in the drawer,
remember?”  He hadn’t, but now he did; he used the little bottle of soap stuff
that smelled like cotton candy – he’d picked that one out – and the towel
already on the bed. Clint grinned when he saw the Bruce-sized Hulk already
under the covers; crawling in on his side, he held his arms out and the Hulk
snuggled into them, half on top of his Cupid, his head nuzzled down into the
crook of his neck, smelling the unique scent that made him feel like he was
home.  One arm wrapped tightly around Clint’s waist, and he hooked a leg over,
pulling them close and wiggling as Clint tightened his hold as well.
“Little Guy happy. Hulk happy. Cupid happy,” he mumbled. For the first time,
someone was embracing him, not the other way around. The lazy circles Cupid was
drawing with his fingers were better than a lullaby, the soft press of lips in
his hair soothing. “Love Cupid.”
“Love you too, Jade Jaws.” Tugging up the covers with a hand, Clint settled
more comfortably under him. “You’re not going to go big on me in the middle of
the night are you?”
“Little Guy says no. Hulk stay where Hulk wants.” And he did want to stay in
Cupid’s arms, all warm and relaxed. Safe and protected. He closed his eyes and
started to drift off. “Agent man right.”
“Phil? Yeah, he usually is.” Clint rubbed his cheek in the Hulk’s hair; his
exhale made the short strands move. “What words of wisdom did he impart?”
“Get married.”
Clint tensed and drew his head back. “What?”
“Cupid and Little Guy. Get married and stay with Hulk.” He wondered if he’d
said something wrong so he looked up to see the confusion in Clint’s eyes.
“Cupid mad?”
“No. Just surprised.  Bruce and Phil talked about this?” He sounded like he
didn’t believe it.
“Signed name on papers. Agent Man said marriage easy. Little Guy like it.” 
Hulk snuggled further into Clint, burying his face on his shoulder. “Cupid not
want to marry Hulk?”
“You? In a heartbeat. But you know how Bruce is; he’ll have to figure out all
the possibilities, make a spreadsheet. And me? Well, I’m not very good at the
whole lifetime commitment thing. It’s not that simple for us.”
“Little Guy love Cupid. Hulk love Cupid. Cupid love Little Guy and Hulk.
Simple,” Hulk declared. “Talk to Little Guy. Promise.”
“Okay, I promise. We’ll talk.” Clint kissed his head again and hugged him
tight. Hulk felt him relax again, and the Little Guy sighed inside his head,
trying to say something, but the Hulk ignored him and went to sleep.
……………………………………
Six hours. That was as much sleep as they got before the next crisis hit and
they were off in different directions as a series of events demanded their
attention. Clint left first, on the way to Latveria of all places with Steve
and Natasha; all doubts about his new abilities were put aside when the intel
showed Victor Von Doom was working on his own variation of the neural
inhibitor, one designed to push even the most mild-mannered of person into a
berserker rage. The dungeons under Doom’s castle were a warren of deadly traps
and dark places. Clint’s new vision and reaction time let him make it through
in time to rescue a number of patients and shut down the whole program. He was
gone for two weeks; by the time he got back, Bruce was in New York at the
Xavier Institute for Gifted Children, along with Hank and Janet, working with
Dr. Henry McCoy on Operation Fast-Track. The recurring abnormality Bruce had
noticed turned out to be the crucial piece of information in cracking Dr. Van
Dyne’s work. Janet decoded her father’s notes, Hank solved the question of
shutting down the nannites, and Bruce created the logarithm for predicting the
effects of the triggering energy. Somewhere in the middle of months of work,
Janet managed to plan her father’s funeral and move into an apartment in New
York City. If she harbored anger and other emotions about her father, she kept
them in check, pouring herself into the work; she was turning out to be the
best damn lab assistant Bruce had ever had. Even with the constant bickering
between her and Hank … or maybe it was flirting, Bruce had never been good at
telling the difference between the two … Bruce worked with a sense of calm and
control the whole time.
Clint was constantly on the move. He and Tony hit the A.I.M. cell in Jakarta,
gathering some important intel, and then he and Natasha went after a terrorist
group in Helsinki that had nannite technology. Canada, Brazil, the Seychelles,
Uzbekistan … as the months passed, Bruce saw Clint a grand total of maybe
seventy-two hours, and half of those were spent falling into bed and just
sleeping. Hell, Bruce saw more of Betty than he did of Clint, helping her make
the move when she accepted a position at a SHIELD facility in Virginia. Her job
was to develop safer methods of balancing brain chemistry after radiation
exposure in an effort to limit the effects on test subjects, and she took to
the project with a vengeance. Glen was closer to Langley, and he requested a
six month leave of absence despite Betty’s objections.
It was, of course, Tony who called a time out. He’d simply shown up with a
couple jets at Xavier’s and had not taken no for an answer. When they landed
and the cars ferried them across the bridge to the island, he knew Steve had a
hand in the planning; Tony was more of a Monaco type of guy, not Holden Beach,
North Carolina. The house Tony rented was on the West end in a gated community
with views of the ocean and the inland waterway and a big pool just steps away
from the sand. Pepper had thought to call ahead and talk to the city council –
the island had its own little municipal building right between the ice cream
shop and the tiny beach rental store with kayaks and surfboards piled along the
colorful walls. They’d been thrilled to have the Avengers vacation there,
especially since mid-September was the beginning of low season for tourists.
The houses around theirs were either empty or homes of permanent residents; the
only interest they raised was when one of the neighbors brought over a
delicious batch of lasagna, two big pans, and a German chocolate cake that
disappeared quickly. Everyone else pretty much ignored them, although a few
kids ventured up when Tony and Thor decided to build the biggest
architecturally correct Asgardian castle they could. It was large enough for
the smaller kids to run through the arches and even Tony admitted that hearing
the ringing laughter as the Hulk played hide and seek with them made the
seemingly endless search for the insider more bearable. Knowing they were
coming back here took some of the sting out of leaving for small trips to NYC
and DC and longer ones off on missions.
Bruce found two rooms in the house turned into a lab for him; Tony had his own
area to work, converting the garage downstairs, and the whole place was wired
in just a day and a half with video feeds back to Hank McCoy and the Tower,
Jarvis’ comforting voice answering inquiries. Janet and Carol bunked together
in one room, leaving the room on the other side of the jack-and-jill bathroom
for the elusive Natasha who liked her privacy. Tony and Steve took one of the
master suites on the top floor, Thor and Jane took the other one, and Bruce
chose the bedroom down by the lab with the balcony and bathroom that overlooked
the ocean. That left Hank in the smallest room with bunk beds, and Phil snagged
the office with a daybed so he could catch some sleep whenever he had a break
from his workload.
It took almost a week before Clint was able to make it back; Tony sent GPS
coordinates to Clint and Natasha as they returned from their latest mission.
Sitting on the side balcony, working on the latest in a series of possible ways
to use gamma as a genetic stabilizer, Bruce saw the car arrive, a black
convertible BMW, and he recognized Clint’s sunglasses and Natasha’s red hair.
They were tanned but weary, both moving slowly as they got out and slung their
ready packs over their shoulders. Sensing Bruce, Clint flicked his gaze up and
broke into a smile.
“Good timing,” Bruce called down. “Steaks are marinating and Janet made some
sort of peanut butter chocolate concoction for desert. Tony’s going to mix Mai
Tais; as soon as Steve gets back from his run, he’ll start grilling.”
“Steak.” Natasha took the stairs to the front door two at a time, Clint right
behind her. “Chocolate and alcohol. That’s a welcome home party.”
Closing down his tablet and cutting the feed, Bruce slipped on his flip-flops
and went back into the bedroom. Clint came in seconds later, dropping the pack
on the floor and toeing the door shut behind him. Then he was all hands,
grabbing Bruce and planting a desperate kiss on his lips.
“Missed you.” His hands roved and he yanked up Bruce’s polo, searching for skin
to skin contact. “God, it’s been too long.”
“28 days.” Bruce was just as frantic; he’d had hours of waiting, thinking about
touching Clint again. Even the lure of the answers that were now within his
grasp couldn’t hold his attention; he’d been distracted all day, so much so
that Carol had kicked him out of the lab and sent the Hulk down to the beach to
do some body surfing with Thor.  Now, the kisses were fast, tongues dipping in
quick; Bruce’s hands gripped Clint’s hips and yanked their bodies together,
grinding down hard.
“I’m dirty and smell bad,” Clint moaned against Bruce’s neck just before he
nipped the skin with his teeth; Bruce retaliated by sliding his hands around
and squeezing Clint’s ass. “Jesus, Bruce, you feel good. Don’t stop.”
“Don’t plan to.” Damn, he was going to come quick if they kept up this pace.
“Maybe lose those pants and …” Clint canted his hips and got a hand between
them, working inside the elastic band of Bruce’s swim trunks. The first brush
of his fingertips made Bruce’s cock jerk; Clint circled the head then trailed
down the thick shaft until he touched wiry hair before sliding back up to push
material down and out of the way.
“No time,” Clint responded, sucking in a breath as Bruce managed to get his
buckle undone and unzipped his pants; in seconds, aroused cocks were rubbing
against each other, two hands circling them, fingers twining together. “Need
you.”
“Fuck,” Bruce moaned the word then grabbed Clint’s neck with his other hand and
dragged his mouth back within reach so he could plunder it. The aching throb
was escalating, and he understood exactly what Clint was saying. There’d be
time later, he hoped, for a lengthy session of cataloguing every inch of
Clint’s body, taking his time taking him apart. But right now, an immediate
release was what they needed. Thrusting up, the kiss deeper and more intense,
they worked their way through the tightening coil of desire. He was burning
now, needing air; he broke the kiss, inhaled and dropped his head back as he
came. Clint’s forehead came to rest on Bruce’s shoulder as he followed with a
long contented sigh.
“Just call me Jackrabbit,” Bruce joked. When he saw Clint’s confusion, he
explained. “Quick start.”
“Later,” Clint said, blue-grey eyes glinting with humor, “we may even manage to
get undressed.” Sticky hands separated and Clint wandered into the en suite
bathroom, big and extravagant and very Stark-like.
“Assuming there’s a later.” Bruce followed him and staked out the second of the
double sinks to wash his hands. “And you don’t hie off again to parts unknown.
Or the Big Guy gets called up to smash something.”
“You might not believe this, but I’ve got five whole days off. Seems my new
status at SHIELD entitles me to days off – I’m a probationary contractor or
some such shit that Phil worked out once the Avengers Initiative became a
subsidiary of Stark Industries –and puts me under a different set of OSHA
rules. They owe me about two months’ worth of downtime as it stands right now,
if Phil’s calculations are correct.” Clint dried his hands on a towel and went
to paw through his ready bag for something to change into.
“Check the second drawer of the bureau. I packed you some things.” Bruce leaned
against the door jamb and just enjoyed watching Clint strip out of his black
shirt and pants to switch them for a pair of purple board shorts and a white t-
shirt with a purple target on it. “Five days? Maybe we just won’t leave the
room for the first couple of them.” He had to touch Clint again, so he wrapped
his arms around his waist so Clint could rest his weight backwards. “Remind me
to thank Phil; he has the best ideas.”
“Yes, he does,” Clint said, looking at Bruce in the mirror about the bureau.
“Man’s pretty smart about a lot of things.”
Ah, the conversation. They’d hardly had time to start an in-depth exploration
about their future, not when they were basically passing in the night. Bruce
was worried about changing the status quo and, with precious few hours
together, he didn’t want to them to have to run off to points unknown in the
middle of an argument or a tense discussion. So he’d taken the chicken route
and ignored it.
“It’s not that I don’t love you,” he started then decided that was the wrong
tack to take. Sounded far too negative. “No, wipe that. I love you and the idea
of spending the rest of my life with you makes both me and the Other Guy happy.
It’s just … damn it; there are things I can’t have. No white picket fence in my
future, not since I injected myself with that formula. I might have to run
again; if it’s not Ross, it’s Fisk or A.I.M. or Mab or someone we don’t know
yet. Anyone connected to me will be at risk … and no I’m not saying you
couldn’t handle anything that came your way. But they’d target you, use our
connection against me, and I can’t promise I won’t give in to their demands to
protect you.”
“It’s too late to dodge that bullet, Doc. You stood right there in that other
house and let Fisk take you because of me. It works both ways you know; we’re
already compromised. And we’ve had the discussion about ‘where you go, I go’
before.” Clint turned in Bruce’s arms and placed his hands on Bruce’s
shoulders. “Plus, I’ve got my own set of enemies coming after me, so I think we
cancel each other out on that point. I’ve certainly not been a saint; there are
things in my past that I prefer not to remember much less talk about.”
“So … you want to …” Bruce tried to get a read on Clint’s emotions; he wasn’t
upset but he was playing his cards close to his vest, and Bruce knew that meant
he was afraid of getting hurt. “Because, well, I wouldn’t be adverse to the
idea. Assuming you aren’t. Against it, I mean.”
“There’s one problem for me.” Clint fell into his resting face. “You and the
Hulk, you’re going to be around a long time, if you keep aging at the current
rate. Me? I’ve got a limited shelf life, Doc. One day, not all that far off,
I’m going to take a hit and that will be the end of me in the field. If I’m
lucky, I’ll get to retire to a desk job or become a coach or trainer or end up
a crotchety old retired guy who slowly fades away while the rest of you stay
young and viable and go on. You really want to saddle yourself with someone
who’s going to be old and infirm a lot faster than you? Are you ready to be a
widower long before your time?”
“God, Clint.” Bruce couldn’t help it; the Hulk was demanding that he pull Clint
in and wrap him up tightly, holding on as if their lives depended upon it. For
a few breaths, Bruce couldn’t think of any words, any way to confront what was
a stark truth that couldn’t be denied. He could feel Clint’s heart beating;
feel the soft exhale of warm air on his neck where Clint’s nose rested.
Gathering the Hulk’s courage, he opened his mouth to explain. “I don’t care if
it’s forty years, forty months, forty days, or forty minutes, I’ll take it and
be glad for it. And I really don’t want to waste whatever we have left talking
about what might be.”
Clint huffed a little laugh and then lifted his head so their eyes could meet.
“That was a good answer.”
“Sometimes even miracles happen.” Bruce couldn’t contain the smile that spread
across his face. “Besides, the Big Guy wouldn’t mind pushing your ass around if
need be. I hear they have accessible beach houses; we buy one of those to
retire in and you can toddle down to the sand in the morning for your exercise
while the dog and I go for a run.”
“Whoa, whoa, you decided on a dog? What if I want cats?” Neither of them let
go, so they stayed entwined together, just standing in the middle of the room.
“Two to one, sorry, we win. A nice lab mix or retriever. Always wanted a dog.”
He’d adopted a couple on his sojourns around the world, but inevitably had to
leave them behind.
“Oh, I see how it’s going to be. You and the Hulk double teaming me. A beach
house is well and good, but I’m thinking a condo in New York so you can be near
the Tower and your lab. As long as it has an elevator, I’ll be okay. And a
shooting range. And a media room with a big screen TV so I can become a couch
potato.” Clint paused, cocked his head and got serious again. “So, did we just
decide to do this thing?”
“Yeah, I think we did,” Bruce replied and was rewarded with a feather light
kiss, the barest brush of lips. He kept his eyes open so he could see the blue-
green-grey changing colors of Clint’s eyes as they lightened, something that
looked suspiciously like happiness creeping up in them.
“Hey, you two!” Carol shouted through the door. “Finish up quick before these
vultures descend and there’s nothing left. We’re eating outside at the bar and
the hot tub’s warmed up.”
“Hot tub?” Clint asked. “I could use a drink and a soak. I think I pulled
something in my shoulder getting out of a building before it came down.”
Bruce didn’t comment on the nonchalant way Clint talked about near misses; that
was how their life went. “Hot tub. Pool. Outdoor kitchen with granite
countertops. All the bells and whistles.”
“Plus steaks and chocolate and alcohol. Nat almost got it right.” Clint brushed
another kiss along Bruce’s jaw. “Wherever you are is home, Doc.” He pulled away
and took Bruce’s hand, coaxing him to the door. “Come on, I know the Big Guy’s
hungry.”
Fluid and smooth, Bruce’s skin turned green and the Hulk grew a little bigger,
staying compact to avoid damaging the house. “Hulk always hungry. Star Man make
good steak. Wasp make whole pan of dessert just for Hulk.” Now he was the one
pulling Cupid along down the hallway as they changed places.
“Wasp?” Clint asked.
“That what Tiny man calls her. Always busy, always fast, lots of energy.” He
nodded his head towards Janet who was arranging platters of food along the bar
on the deck and wiggled his eyebrows. “Tiny Man like Wasp,” he added in his
overly loud whisper, but they were still inside so no one heard.
“Really? Interesting.” Cupid eyed the two.  “Huh, that just might work.”
“Cupid and Hulk help them?” The Hulk was happy; why shouldn’t everyone be the
same?
“You bet, Big Guy. Let’s go get started.” 
Chapter End Notes
     I know there are loose ends ... but now that Ross and Fisk are in
     their respective cells, we're shifting gears to Clint's story, the
     next part of this planned trilogy. Hang on for the epilogue ... bad
     things are on the horizon ...
***** Epilogue & Interlude *****
Chapter Summary
     A new danger is lurking south of the border, one from Clint's past.
     We'll let them have this moment before their lives change forever.
     TRIGGER WARNINGS: Look below for trigger warnings. Things are getting
     dark, really dark, as we move to Clint's part of the story.
Chapter Notes
     TRIGGER WARNINGS: This chapter includes references to past and
     current rape, overt torture of a pregnant woman, and discussions of
     planned torture. If any of these are a trigger for you, skip the
     third part of this interlude (parts 1 & 2 are okay).
See the end of the chapter for more notes
THEN – Bogota, Columbia, 15 Years Ago
She looked at the body lying next to her, just enough pale moonlight to see the
old scar that slithered down his side and over to his spine. He was so
handsome, her American lover, and she smiled in secret, here in the dark with
his piercing eyes turned away from her, blonde hair spiky and the thinnest
sheen of sweat on his skin. Even now, just an hour gone by, and she could sense
the changes coming, the danger ahead for him, the pain waiting for her. Her
gift, her Abuelo called it, was warning her; he would break her heart but he
would do what needed to be done.
“There is a door,” she whispered; he was not sleeping, she knew. “I will unlock
it tomorrow before siesta. He has new ninas …” she shivered at the thought.
“They are drugged and he uses as well when he is with them. Downstairs, not in
his room.”  Blue-grey eyes turned her way and he looked at her, a hardness in
his features she saw on men who visited the hacienda and did business with
Rogero. “He is maligno, a demon. He hurts the girls because he likes it.” Her
dark brown eyes met his, sure and calm. “Kill him before he becomes an even
bigger monster.”
“His father will know someone helped me,” he said. “I cannot protect you.”
“I want to leave; I will leave.” She already had plans, a place she could go.
“Make no mistake; I’m no hero. You’re on your own.”
She saw then, clearly, the next day, next week, next year, next fifteen years.
“You will change. What you do here, it is important. Something good will come
of it, I know.”
 “Only thing coming tonight will be you and me. And tomorrow? Death comes.” He
leaned down and kissed her. “But I will never change.” As the moon slipped
across the sky, she let him back into her body, one last time, as the future
settled and was decided.
NOW – Holden Beach, North Carolina
“Drink?” Natasha offered Clint a fresh beer and he took it, taking a sip and
putting it in the cup holder of the beach chair he was ensconced in.  Feet dug
down into the cool sand, he tucked his hand back into the pocket of his Hulk
hoodie, a gag gift from Tony last Christmas. Bruce didn’t think he’d wear it,
but Clint actually enjoyed it. It was warm, for one thing, and it made Bruce
laugh. “You lost your better half?”
“The lure of s’mores. He and Tony are competing in the blackest marshmallow
contest, I think. Bruce knows I like them burnt.” Clint nodded towards the
bonfire that was down to mostly coals on one side. Four marshmallows were lined
up on Bruce’s coat hanger, and two of them were currently on fire. Tony had a
special roasting stick with a grand total of six and it was turning itself  -
- not that it helped. Flames engulfed all the white rounds and black spots
appeared.
“As always, I question your taste.” Natasha settled down into the empty chair,
gracefully folding one leg under her as she sipped from her own bottle. They
sat in silence for a time, just the wind from the ocean ruffling her hair and
beads of condensation running down the brown glass, content to watch the others
joke and jostle around the fire.
“So, how’s the lawyer?” He couldn’t help it; needling Natasha was one of his
favorite past times. It helped she gave as good as she got in return. He’d been
far too busy lately; spending some time with his best friend was definitely on
his agenda the next few days. Assuming he actually got five days. He sort of
doubted that.
Just the arch of her eyebrow was deadly and Clint fully expected to be ignored
or to get a return shot across the bow. “Good, at the moment, although we’re
both too busy to really see much of each other.”
His mouth fell open and she quirked up the corner of her lip, the Natasha
equivalent of a big grin.  “Okay … I, uh …” He was completely unprepared for
her to answer. Great, now he looked like the idiot. How the hell did she always
manage that?
“I’m put out with you, you know,” she said smoothly, as if she didn’t notice
his floundering. “You’ll never believe who had the week of September 15th in
the betting pool … and it wasn’t me.”
They bet on everything, Phil serving as the unofficial bookie now that he was
back. Clint currently had money in the ‘when will Steve and Tony have their
first screaming, fly half-way across the country to get away from him, fight’
would happen and the wedding date for Thor and Jane sweepstakes. Which reminded
him to start a ‘when Hank and Janet officially started dating’ pool. “Going to
have to give me more than that, Nat. Lots to choose from. I know Steve and Tony
aren’t fighting. Their bedroom is just above ours, so trust me on that front. I
slipped in yesterday with some WD-40 for the bed frame.”
Natasha just gave him one of her patented ‘stop being clueless’ smiles. “You
are such an idiot, Barton.  What’s it going to be, rings on chains or a tattoo?
Since I’m out a hundred dollars, I better get to be the best man.” Over the
years, Clint had developed a damn good poker face. He dropped it into place.
“Did Thor propose and I missed it? I have been a little distracted.” How the
hell did she know? He and Bruce had been completely tight lipped since
yesterday because if anyone knew, then Tony would know and there’d be parties
and jokes and probably goddamn fireworks and strippers or something.
“I misjudged you. I had you down for three months ago. Thought you’d go all
sappy romantic a lot faster than this. I’m proud of you for holding out this
long,” she said; damn it, was their room bugged? No, even if it was, they’d
never mentioned the word marriage. “Oh, stop it. You have a tell. Seen it three
times and I know what it means. First time was after you and Bruce were in
Singapore. Then the day we walked in and found Phil in that hospital bed. Your
eyes sparkle. You, Clint Barton, are happy.”
“I do not have a tell … and wow, only three times? I’ve been happy a lot more
than that.” He was a little miffed at the low number.
“Not the same, dear heart. This is absurdly happy like when you have sex with
the man of your dreams, your friend comes back to life, or you get engaged to
said MOYD.”
Clint glanced around; everyone else was safely at the fire or near the bar, out
of earshot. He hoped. “Keep it down, will you? If Tony even gets a whiff of
anything …”
“Trust me, the last thing I want is Stark doing his overkill routine. But you
could have gotten a move on. I hate owning Phil money.”
“Phil won the pool? That sly dog.” Clint glanced over to where Phil was in
khaki shorts and a loose t-shirt, feet bare, looking the most relaxed Clint had
ever seen. “He’s the one who started the whole topic of conversation with
Bruce.”
“Oh, really? Now, legally, that should be considered interference.” She glared
daggers until Phil looked up and caught her attention. “I think I’ll have a
word with Agent Coulson about that.” Unfolding herself, she stalked away, and
Phil winked at Clint as if he knew exactly what they were talking about … which
he probably did. Man was psychic that way.
Bruce peeled off from the crowd, a paper plate filled with graham cracker
sandwiches layered with marshmallows, peanut butter, and chocolate bars. “Burnt
as ordered,” he offered Clint two with crispy black hanging out the sides and
took the browned ones for himself, all six of them. He sat down in the chair
just vacated by Natasha.
“Phil had this week in the betting pool.” Clint bit into one of the sticky,
gooey concoctions. He actually had never had a real s’more; his grand total
experience with campfires was one measly attempt at one of the homes he was
parked in briefly. He’d eaten blackened marshmallows until he literally got
sick. This was not the same; it was crunchy, sickeningly sweet, and oh so very
good.
“Phil?” Bruce asked then laughed, a hearty sound that carried down to the water
and out over the waves. Phil looked up, Natasha standing next to him, and they
both raised their bottles in a mock salute. “That’s priceless. And it explains
why Natasha gave me the name of a good tattoo artist earlier today.”
“Well, technically, SHIELD regs state no identifying marks on the body; they’ve
actually developed removal creams that work pretty good at fading tats and
scars. But, hey, I’m just a contractor now, right, so that might work. It would
have to be somewhere you wouldn’t see in uniform or regular clothes.  I don’t’
think I’d want pictures of it floating around.” Clint finished the first treat
and picked up the second. Bruce was working at twice his speed, already done
with three of his.
“I have an idea about that. There’s a vein that runs right down the inside of
your thigh. Put it high up.”
Clint’s heart sped up and a flush of heat drained down to his crotch as the
memory assailed him of Bruce’s teeth sinking into that very spot. “Oh, hell,
that would probably hurt, but yeah, maybe. Not rings or initials or Chinese
letters.”
“I’ve got some ideas. But first we have to figure out the logistics.” Bruce
looked over at the others; Tony was waving his hands, gesturing as he talked to
Hank, but his eyes were on Steve who was laughing at something Carol was
saying. “How would you feel about hitting the courthouse, then telling the
others?”
“I was thinking about Father Muncie. Remember Stephen the softball coach from
the orphanage out in Queens? He’s an Episcopal priest at a Grace Church in
Brooklyn. He’d do it, nice and quiet. Just a couple witnesses needed.” Clint
nodded Phil and Natasha’s way. “Maybe a few friends if we trick them into
showing up.”
“That’s asking for trouble.” Bruce shook his head. “Too many things could go
wrong.”
“Yeah, well, trouble is my middle name.” Clint snagged the last s’more on the
plate.
“I am quite aware of that,” Bruce said with that certain gleam in his eye.
“I’ve got this thing for bad boys.”
“Then you’re in luck,” Clint said, reaching across to stroke his fingers over
Bruce’s arm. “You just might have to take me in hand and deal with me.”
“I think Janet might be scandalized if I did that right here.” Bruce leaned
towards Clint.
“Don’t really care, Doc.” Clint closed the distance and kissed him, in the moon
and fire-cast shadows of a perfect evening.
NOW – 25 Southwest of Bogota, Columbia
“Madre de Dios, por favor,” she was sobbing, eyes rimmed with red, pretty face
ugly with pain. “Mi bebe. Mi bebe.”
He slid a hand over the swell of her stomach, diving between her legs to clench
tight fingers into the folds there. Her gasp of pain made him harden; he
couldn’t wait to sink himself in her, feel her clench around him as she
screamed her agony to the room. But first, business.
“English. Speak English.” She was so dry, so tight, just like he liked it. Oh,
yes, his father thought it was his brother who had been the monster, but Julio
delighted in the fact everyone saw him as the good boy. He was better than
Rogero, at hiding what he was, at everything.
“P…P ... Please.” She begged so well, the mix of innocence, her religious
upbringing imbuing her with just the right mixture of naiveté and silly
romanticism. First time he’d taken her, she’d prayed the whole time, eyes
closed as she recited the words that meant nothing to him. “Please stop.”
“I am gifting you with the greatest of purpose.” He made himself step away, out
of range, even though a part of him was curious. Shoving that learned response
down, he pressed the button, watched the beam engulf her, saw the way her body
shook, how her mouth fell open and her scream faded into silence as eyes rolled
back. She was strong, lasting much longer than he’d expected. That was part of
the beauty of it all, how special she was, the sins of the father and all. As
he watched her, jerking and moving, trying to speak, he palmed himself, his
cock aching with need.
The call came through, beeping softly, and he turned off the machine; she’d
passed out and wasn’t that much fun anymore. Schooling his face, chasing away
all signs of his arousal, he answered. “Good timing. As you can see, things are
progressing nicely.”
“The baby?” That was always the first question; Julio hated that fucking thing,
the yet unborn life that was so damn important. Just like his father, his
benefactor didn’t really care about him, focused entirely upon the child. It
would be so easy to end it, a knife in the belly and no more competition.
“Esta bien.” He fell back into his native language and cursed himself for doing
it “The child is fine. Responding well to the treatments.”
“Good.” Just a voice, nothing more than money in a bank account and Julio’s
ticket out of this backwater shit hole, he knew nothing about this man.
“Everything rides on the health of the baby.”
Fuck the baby. Julio had plans for the girl. “Then it’s time?” He could barely
contain his glee.
“Yes. Set it in motion.” The line clicked, connection ended.
Time. It was time. The bastard who’d killed his brother was going to learn just
how wrong he’d been; pulling the picture up on the computer, Julio stared at
the face of the enemy. The man he was going to enjoy killing slowly, filleting
his skin off, strip-by-strip. Strolling over to the comatose girl, he stroked
her stomach, and the baby kicked, skin rippling as the contraction rolled over
the stretched mound.
“Silly bitch. I don’t care about you or this damn kid. You are just a means to
an end.” Opening his fly, he pushed up the soiled cotton of her dress and
spread her legs, stepping between them. “Blame this on your daddy, little girl.
Soon, I’ll have him here, tied up and at my mercy.”
The men knew to leave him alone; he’d killed enough of them to get that message
across.  And he’d kill more before this was over. As long as he got the one
thing he wanted most of all.
Clinton Francis Barton.
Hawkeye.
Agent of SHIELD.
Avenger.
Ronin. 
Chapter End Notes
     Next is All that is Gold ... and it's a dark tale of Clint's Ronin
     days coming back to haunt him. But hold on through the sadness and
     pain. Some good may come out of it.
End Notes
     so, I get migraines and what Clint is doing here is using acupuncture
     pressure points and reflexology to relieve the pain. I've done both
     and I've found them highly useful in mitigating the pain.
     "I Bleed Orange" is actually on T-shirts and caps for the University
     of Tennessee Volunteers. And the Victorian Inn in Anniston is lovely,
     plus it's supposed to be haunted! :)
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