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Bruce Banner; Threat Level Alpha, flashed, scrolling green print overlaid on every screen in the SHIELD base, a loud, piercing signal coming over the coms, forcing those with headsets on to startle into action, hands going for weapons or ripping at the com-sets, while others went into immediate action, trying their best to track the transmission.
Their attempts proved futile, even as the screen’s finally flickered back to color, a mop-topped man in a ruffled shirt and slacks standing quiet and calm, hands wringing in front of him in an unconscious gesture of nervousness. His head was down, and for a moment there was no sound, only a collective narrowing of attention on this small, unassuming figure, every agent in the base staring with rapt interest.
After a long, drawn out pause, a chuckle registered across the speakers, and a collective shiver ran down the spines of everyone watching—and everyone was not just SHIELD, but every television able to register the transmission, near and far, no matter the country, no matter the quality. Families and government officials, hermits in their own little shacks and the President herself; no one would miss these weekly messages. No one dared to.
“Hello,” came a soft murmur, and the ruffled man lifted his head, tilting it to the side and smiling serenely, his glasses glinting coldly in the light of the camera’s spotlight. “Hello world,” he said more firmly this time, squaring his shoulders out of their humbled slump, hands clasping audibly behind his back.
He stood as though he were a dignitary before his peasant flock, and his gaze went from glancing here and there to boring straight through the camera and into the eyes of every engrossed spectator. Once his cold eyes had left their own chilling mark, his small smile turned into a wide, wicked smirk, and he lifted his chin.
“My world.”
Children trembled; mothers whispered assurances; SHIELD agents ran franticly about, trying to find the hidden location this feed was being broadcast from; and in a Tower at the center of New York, the strongest of the resistance watched the feed with locked jaws and clenched fists.
“I suppose I should, well, tell you what I’ve done,” he said rather suddenly, as though snapping out of his distracted thoughts. “I’ve been a bit bad,” he stage-whispered, shrugging his shoulders and glancing around the black interior of his recording room. He snapped his eyes back to the camera rather suddenly, clapping his hands together in front of him.
“France, I hope you have your ears on,” he said, tone guilty, though he looked anything but. “And I hope you all haven’t been too thirsty lately.”
Nose twitching as though he was fighting a wide grin, he gestured his hands widely, and a French translation of his words began to scrawl across the bottom of the screen.
“I created a bit of a bad thing,” he said, turning to pace back and forth before the camera, laughter jittering his step and shaking his shoulders silently. “I—well, see, I do love a bit of experimenting now and again, and—” He pressed two fingers over his lips, glancing off in thought as he turned to pace the other way, smile brimming across his face, wild and amused. “Well, I won’t give too many spoilers—you will either believe me, or you won’t—but I may have put a few drops of something interesting in your main water supply.” He turned abruptly once more, rolling his eyes and waving his hands. “I know, I know—Master Banner, that’s not very nice, you’re going to kill people.”
He smacked his hands loudly together, loud enough to make even the SHIELD agents jump in surprise, and he looked suddenly angry, something dark and writhing burning in his gaze when he turned it once more to the camera. “Now, you all know me,” he said, smile gone and voice low. “I don’t kill unless killing must be done. And no one needs to die.” He spun away, agitated steps clicking away from the camera, before he snapped back into sight, clutching a beaker in his hand, face as hard as granite.
“Be a good little country and come to my side of things, and you’ll have this: the cure. Sign yourselves to me. And don’t go crawling to the other countries for aid; I’ll know.” He let the beaker slip, and only caught it at the last second, scooping it up and looking at its clear, sloshing contents with interest. “Non-negotiable, too; I have one formula, right here, and I assure you, none of your useless doctors or scientists will figure it out.”
He straightened back at center screen, holding the beaker to his chest carefully and sniffing in disinterest, glancing off to the side. “You have one month to have all the paperwork sorted and the keys in my hand. The effects will start setting in within three weeks, and people will start dying in five. Tic-toc, France.”
The beaker fell from his fingers, shattering across the ground, and he stepped over it, coming closer to the camera, eyes glinting darkly. “Tic. Toc.”
As quickly as the tendrils of darkness had crowded across the pale lines of his face, they vanished, replaced by his false warmth and serene expression, small, pleased smile once more in place. “Now that the announcements are out of the way, I feel it is time for me to issue the usual, ever present threats, yes?”
He lifted one finger. “Firstly; I am not here to destroy you. I only want to put you in your rightful places, and your rightful place is at my feet. So we’re not misunderstood here.” He chuckled, low and mirthless. “Secondly,” here he raised a second finger. “If you appose me, you will die. Your heroes, your SHIELD; they will die. If your governments appose me, they will die. It’s simple.” And three fingers were raised before the camera. “And, finally—”
There was a sudden commotion outside of the camera’s range of view, and Bruce’s head jerked away from the camera, craning around to see what had caused it, the cold calm replaced by a furrowed brow of annoyance.
“Clint?” It was a hissed whisper, but it was not missed. “What the hell are you—?”
“Sorry! I tripped!” There was a laugh, and the sound of things breaking. Loud cursing followed, and Bruce’s expression shifted from annoyance, to worry, to exasperated fondness in the blink of an eye. “Fucking sweatpants strings came out in the wash again, I can’t keep these pants up to save my life, man!”
Bruce heaved a heavy sigh, pinching his brow as he looked off to some unseen scene of idiocy unfolding. “Clint. Please. I’m in the middle of—” he cut off, as if remembering everything he was saying was being broadcast live across the world, and he straightened slightly, hands fidgeting nervously at his sides as he squinted towards the archer. “I’m sending out a message, Clint, you know that. If you could let me continue…”
He trailed off as he turned once more towards the camera, tugging at his collar as he cleared his throat. “Ahem. Yes. As I was—”
“Oh, oh, you’re on live!” The exclamation was loud and cheerful, and suddenly the blond figure came bounding into view, one hand gripping tight to a pair of purple slacks and the other clamping down around Bruce’s slim shoulders. “Hey world! Or, uh…” He straightened slightly, trying to turn his features more serious and he half-heartedly glared at the camera. “Hello, minions, and welcome to terror hour—this is your host, Threat Level Alpha, Bruce Banner, and I’ll be your special guest, Clint Barton!”
Bruce closed his eyes, rubbing at his brow and muttering under his breath. “Clint, I’m—”
“I know, I know, instilling terror in the hearts of millions, very important. But I have somethin’ for you and it’s not like they’re gonna forget you if you leave a bit early today.” Clint flashed a winning smile, wiggling the hand around Bruce’s shoulder at the camera in greeting. “Come on, babe, tell the nice viewers nighty-night so I can show you the thing!”
Another full body sigh came over Bruce, before he straightened his shoulders under Clint’s hold, shooting the blond a half-glare before directing a more heated gaze towards the camera. “As you wish,” he mumbled, before clearing out into the more dangerous version of himself, all darkness and command. “Remember, France; one month. And to everyone else watching…I assure you, it takes absolutely no time for me to drop a bit of my concoction into your water supplies as well. Sleep fretfully knowing I will achieve my goals.”
The low, imposing drawl of Bruce’s reminder sounds stark and strange compared to the bright and chirping words that follow in a rush from his archer companion. “Oh, and, hey, SHIELD! Don’t be dicks, yeah? Y’all know exactly how this ends, so, like, chill out, okay? Fury, Coulson, Maria; come off your high horses and realize this sides way better, and fucking better off to boot. Nobodies gotta die if you just, you know, sign up for the cool kids club!” He flashed another bright smile, and Bruce took a deep, steadying breath.
“Signing off—until next time, world,” Bruce murmured, flashing one small, unhinged smirk at the camera before every screen broadcasting the view fell to static, a loud, blaring rendition of the National Anthem playing, as though the broadcast were a parody of the Presidential address.
SHIELD agents sat back in their seats, or slumped over their desks in defeat, coming up empty handed in their searches. Director Fury rubbed furiously at his forehead, a growing headache in place, and Coulson’s eyebrow twitched, the only sign of a reaction to the video on his neutral face.
The outside world began to crawl out of its frozen slump after the video feed finally cut completely, and French officials scrambled frantically in every portion of the capital.
Inside the heart of New York, three superheroes looked at each other grimly, and only one spoke, one hand clutching unconsciously at the blue glow at the center of his chest.
“We have no choice.”
None of them seemed pleased, but as the final notes of that bastardized anthem came to a close, they all knew what had to be done, or else their world would burn.
“Clint,” Bruce snapped suddenly, shrugging out from under the man’s arm in an angry huff, turning to glare more fully at the broadly beaming blond. “I was in the middle of a broadcast,” he growled out softly.
Clint rolled his eyes, his entire body rolling with the motion as he threw his hand up into the air. “Oh, come on, people just sit there and piss themselves the whole time, babe! It’s effective, and skipping out early a few times’ll keep ‘em on their toes!”
“Not the point,” Bruce shot back, scrubbing his face with both hands before taking a deep breath and rolling out of his annoyance. “What is it you just had to show me, anyway? Did Loki find another corporal weak-spot? Did Natasha bring in another official for me to ‘question’?” When he looked up at Clint again, the archer had his arms crossed, even though that left his tie-less pants to hang low on his thin hips.
“No, none of the ‘world conquering’ stuff!” He huffed, looking ready to go into a full-tilt whine, and Bruce let out what must have been his fiftieth world-weary sigh.
“Alright, then what is it?”
Suddenly his hand was seized by a warm, calloused one, and Bruce was yanked from the room, stumbling through the lab equipment he had scattered about the floor, an excited archer bubbling with life ahead of him. “Alright, I can’t tell you, but I can show you,” he babbled, flinging open the door to flood the room with light, dragging Bruce down a long corridor and through a few adjoining rooms in the underground base they now inhabited.
They stopped suddenly, and Bruce raised a brow in questions as he was faced with their bedroom door, turning to look suspiciously at Clint. “This wasn’t just some ploy to have sex or something, was it? Because if so, I’m going back to the lab.”
Before he could turn on his heel, Bruce’s shoulder was seized by a firm grip, and Clint let out a rushed breath of annoyance. “Babe. Come on, I’m not that big of an idiot. Just look inside. Please? For me?”
When Bruce glanced over to him, Clint was staring at him with wide, blue eyes, fluttering his lashes and trying his damndest to put on a cute pout. There were many things Bruce could resist tooth and nail, to his very bitter end, but Clint’s particular brand of begging certainly was not one of them.
“Fine,” he muttered, looking away and ignoring the heat of his cheeks, shaking his head as he turned the doorknob and peaked cautiously inside the room.
Almost as soon as the door was opened wide enough, two wiggling figures came flying out, and Bruce was so surprised that he went down without resistance, falling onto his back as he was attacked by a pair of fuzzy, bouncy bodies, one dark and one blond, both yipping as their paws padded over him.
“What the hell?” Bruce was staring up at the ceiling, glasses tangled in his hair, face scrunched up as the blond dog came to lick excitedly at his face. He tried to brace his hands against the excited puppies, but they were heavy and far too happy, and only when he realized he’d be needing help with this situation did he realize that a loud, boisterous laugh was playing out just to his side, and he squinted over to see Clint clutching his side, leaning against the wall as he laughed at his prone lover.
“Bastard,” Bruce spit his way as he tried to fend off the affectionate nips and licks of the puppies, before he just gave up completely and let them do as they wished. Clint was still snickering, too, but at least he was moving to crouch next to Bruce, face flushed with laughter as he ran a hand over the brown puppies fur.
“Ah, yah love me,” he replied, shooting Bruce a wink, before he pulled the blond puppy off of Bruce’s chest, where it had been in the process of licking Bruce’s chin and scratching at his shoulders. “I found these little buggers on me and Tash’s last mission—Lucky here had a pretty bad scrape with a car, and the mastiff on your chest just kept following me when I picked Lucky up, so I had to take him too.”
Said mastiff barked as though in acknowledgement, before it began to excited slobber on Bruce once more, forcing the scientist to pet its warm fur. “And you’ve been hiding them where, all this time?”
“Loki’s room,” Clint replied, shrugging before he peered closer at Bruce’s annoyed face. “You’re not actually pissed, are yah? Cause, I mean, I just thought you’d like ‘em—who doesn’t like puppies?—but you don’t have’ta keep ‘em, I mean, I like Lucky a lot, I think me and him have become cross-species brothers by now, but that mastiff’s a little prick, chewed up my shoes so screw him, but he’s still kinda cute, but it’s fine if you don’t wanna—”
Bruce propped himself up, pushing the mastiff pup into his lap and silencing Clint with a look, before running his hands carefully through the puppy’s fur. He fixed his glasses one handedly, before he shrugged. “I deal with you, don’t I? I think I can handle a few dogs.”
“Hey!” Clint looked offended for a moment, before he broke into a beaming grin. “Hell yeah, you’re the best, babe!” Leaning over, Clint smacked a kiss onto Bruce’s cheek, before looking down at the blond pup and ruffling its fur, laughing. “Hear that, Lucky? Not tossin’ yah out in the rain after all! Just don’t try and hump Tasha’s leg ever again and you might live to be nice’n’old!”
Letting out a soft sigh, Bruce looked down at the dog in his lap. “What’s this one’s name?”
“Hm?” Clint glanced up, before he shrugged. “Didn’t name him. Thought you’d wanna give him one, iffin you wanted to keep him at all. You get your pick, babe.”
For the first time all day, Bruce’s lips twitched up into a small, genuine smile, barely there, but gentle and happy none-the-less. He patted the dog’s head, ruffling its ears affectionately, and looked at it thoughtfully. It stared back at him, before barking happily and thumping its tail against his leg.
“Freckles,” he murmured, leaning forward to let the puppy lick his nose, before looking over to Clint, who was far too absorbed in the appeasement of his little monster of a mutt. He looked like the picture of perfection to Bruce, happy and handsome, sitting next to Bruce without fear or suspicion.
Reaching over, Bruce wrapped a gentle hand around his arm and pulled him closer, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, ignoring the dog biting at the collar of his shirt. “Thank you, Clint,” he breathed against his lover’s skin, hand running down the archers arm to intertwine their fingers between them.
Clint turned his head before Bruce could pull away, slotting their lips together for a real kiss, breaking apart after a chaste moment, smiling sweetly. “You’re welcome, you silly hermit.”
Bruce snorted then, bumping their shoulders together as he scooted closer. “I love you, you idiot.”
Clint grinned, wide and bright. “And I love you, my evil little genius.”