Chapter 2: Many Meetings
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?"