X-Men: Beast (4/8)
Jan. 31st, 2009 11:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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prose_alchemistTitle: Beast (Chapter 4 of 8)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jordannamorgan
Archive Rights: Please request the author’s consent.
Rating/Warnings: Mild PG, for angst and adult situations.
Characters: Emphasis on Beast, with support from various other characters.
Setting: Mainly mid- to post-X2.
Summary: The personal journey of Henry McCoy—as a mutant, and as a man.
Disclaimer: Marvel and Fox create the characters that sell. Nora is mine, and so is Kristen, who has appeared in several of my stories.
Hank deliberately turned away from the mirror and began to dress. His powerhouse figure strained the confines of the clothes, but his only real discomfort came from having his fur rubbed the wrong way by sleeves and pant legs—as evidenced by the blue hairs that poked haphazardly through the fabric, in spite of his best efforts to smooth them. To his surprise, the clothing on top of his coat of fur did not make him too warm, and even those ill-fitting garments did not intolerably restrict his new range of motion.
He gave his reflection only one more cursory glance, knowing well enough the absurdity of the too-tight coverings. It was a trifle compared to the strangeness of his own face and body. He was sure that even the students who had faced mutation themselves, and Nora who had studied it for years, would need time to become used to him as he was now. For a while he could expect them to stare when he wasn’t looking, and have difficulty looking him in the eye. It was the understandable response of human nature, and he silently forgave them in advance.
At last, heaving a deep sigh, Hank stepped out of the bathroom. His body still ached as he moved slowly down the hall, to the kitchen and the adjoining dining room. This part of the house was fragrant with the rich, comforting aroma of chicken soup, a recipe Nora had learned from her grandmother—and without really understanding how, Hank found himself clearly differentiating the scents of individual vegetables and spices. His empty stomach proved itself to be quite unconcerned with his emotional state, and gave a hearty rumble of anticipation.
Most of the students, having already eaten as much dinner as they could be coaxed to, were in the living room with Kitty and Peter. Only a few of the youngest and most clinging children sat around the table with Nora, who had barely touched her own meal.
When Hank appeared in the doorway, Nora gave a barely-perceptible start. She began to rise, but he smiled hollowly and made a slight staying gesture. He collected a bowl from the cabinet, and—after a moment’s awkward consideration—he chose a serving spoon from the silverware drawer. The large utensil nonetheless felt small in his huge hands, and he moved hesitantly as he ladled soup into the bowl. He even felt half-skeptical of the high-backed wooden chairs that suddenly seemed so spindly and fragile, but the empty seat across the table from Nora bore his weight with barely a creak.
One advantage to his heightened sense of smell, at least, was its natural consequence of enhancing his sense of taste. He had enjoyed Nora’s cooking often, but now he perceived nuances he never had before, and he could appreciate each separate ingredient to the most minute level. Had his mind and heart not been so distressed, it could have been the most enjoyable meal he had ever eaten—and experienced gourmand that he was, a small part of him couldn’t help but look forward to exploring many other dishes on this wondrous new level.
Few words were spoken during the meal. Nora gently encouraged the children to eat, and now and then one of them would pipe up with some bit of randomness, as children do; otherwise, they sat in a silence that was inescapably heavy with awkwardness and worried tension. It was uncomfortable for Hank, but he sensed he had little to do with those feelings, at least on the children’s part. Strange mutations were nothing new or terrible to them, even when it happened before their eyes. What they really feared was that another phantom attack of violent suffering might come… and at that moment, he could hardly have promised them that it wouldn’t.
As for Nora, he felt her eyes upon him many times as he ate, but she managed to be preoccupied with one of the children each time he looked up at her. Now that the urgent shock of the day’s events was fading, he suspected she was trying to come to terms privately with what he had become, much as he had wanted to be alone when he faced himself. He understood that, but even so, it left him troubled and torn.
He wished she would meet his eyes, but at the same time, he didn’t want her to look at his brutish face. A part of him wanted a chance to talk with her alone… and a part of him feared that more than anything.
After putting away three helpings of soup, he felt a little better, at least physically. With careful movements he pushed back from the table, reaching out to pick up his empty bowl—but Nora stood quickly and gathered it herself, along with her own bowl that was barely half-empty. “Let me.”
Gingerly turning sideways on his chair, Hank watched her move to the sink in the adjoining kitchen, and listened to the splash of running water under the faucet. With unthinking, mechanical movements, she washed the dishes and set them aside to dry. Then she turned back, and finally met his gaze.
He wanted to look away from the dark apprehension in her eyes, but he did not permit himself that retreat.
“What happens now?” she asked quietly.
Hank gazed at her gently, and his vast shoulders lifted in a shrug. “We do the best we can. We… adapt.” He let out a faint, flat chuckle, staring down at the palm of his left hand. Then his eyes returned to hers.
“The most important thing is still to be here, taking care of the students. Unless we get word from the other X-Men, or even Bobby and Rogue, I don’t think there’s anything to be done tonight. Tomorrow I’ll start fresh in the search for answers.”
Nora flinched slightly and stepped toward him, automatically reaching out to place her hand on his. “You won’t—leave, will you?”
For a brief moment, Hank consciously considered withdrawing from her touch. Then he rejected the idea, and turned his hand over to grip her fingers—lightly, for fear of hurting her with his claws or his untested new strength.
“You know better than anyone that I can’t hide here forever.” He smiled sadly, and shook his head before Nora could reply. “But no—I’m not going anywhere tomorrow. For that matter, after what’s happened… I’m afraid no obvious mutant may be safe in public for a little while.”
The green-skinned boy seated beside Hank, who was old enough to understand this suggestion of danger, let out a slight whimper. Nora made a soothing noise and reached out with her free hand, hugging the child’s head against her.
Hank was silent for a moment, regarding her keenly. For the first time, he questioned why she had so willingly chosen to make herself a part of his world: the mutant world, with all its strangeness and uncertainty. Whether it could really have been because of him…
Or at least, because of what he had been.
“You don’t have to share in this, you know,” he said solemnly.
Her gaze turned back to him, and with a melancholy smile in return, she squeezed his hand. “Now you’re the one who knows better.”
A fresh and very human ache stirred in Hank’s heart. He took a breath to speak, although he was not quite sure of what he would say.
Then they heard the telephone ring.
It took Hank and Nora all of two seconds to reach the living room, but by that time, Kitty had already caught up the receiver. The safe house had a special private number, and there was very little chance that any call they received could be accidental or unwanted.
“Hello?” the teenager gasped breathlessly—and as she listened to the reply on the other end of the line, her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, yes, Professor!”
Hank’s heart took a dizzy tumble inside his chest, and he sat down hard on the armchair behind him, causing its springs to creak violently. Nora gave a start, and moved as if to step toward Kitty—but Hank caught her hand and held it. As she turned to him, he made a small gesture with his other hand: wait.
Kitty listened for a moment, then said into the phone, “Yeah, the rest of us are all here, and we’re okay.” She hesitated slightly. “Doctor McCoy and Miss Tanner have been with us the whole time.”
There was another pause, and then she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, turning to look somewhat uncertainly at Hank. “The Professor wants to talk to you.”
For a long moment, Hank struggled internally. He couldn’t bear the thought of explaining to Charles what had become of him. At least not this way, over the phone, in mere awkward words—especially not when the Professor surely knew the pain that had swept the world that morning, and needed no more guilt added to that burden. If Hank spoke to him, Charles might hear the change in his voice, or sense it in some other way. Having guessed already that his friend had endured unspeakable suffering of his own in those two days, Hank longed to spare them both what grief he could, at least for a little while longer.
But he had to know.
Reluctantly Hank reached out, accepting the receiver from Kitty, and tried to lighten his voice to something that at least resembled its former tones. “Charles—this is Henry.”
“Henry… thank God.” There was an underlying strain of ragged weariness in Charles’ voice. “Are you and the children alright?”
“…Yes.” It took a moment to push the lie—which it was, at least where Hank was concerned—past his lips. “Tell me what happened, Charles.”
The Professor’s words confirmed the theory Hank had postulated. “It was Stryker. He planned to use Cerebro—to use me… to destroy every mutant on Earth.” A trembling breath escaped from the older man. “The others stopped it… with Erik’s help.”
A disquieted feeling crept through Hank’s heart. He remembered the way Nora alone was struck by the second wave of the telepathic attack, and it suddenly made a terrible kind of sense. The suspicion arose in him that at that moment, he understood more of the real story than Charles himself did.
“I suspected as much,” he answered carefully, still trying to keep his voice level. “Where are you now?”
“We’ve returned to the school.” A heavy silence held for a moment, and then Charles added quietly, “Except for Jean.”
Hank nearly dropped the receiver, and for a brief moment, the guttural new undertones of his voice were unmasked.
“No…”
Jean Grey was not only a friend to Hank, but one of his most valued scientific colleagues. It was because of him that she chose to become a doctor herself—and he had done so much to guide her that she became almost his own pupil, in spite of the relatively small difference between their ages. So often they had worked together in the labs beneath the Xavier School, researching the diverse mutations of the students, seeking to understand and prepare for the unique physical needs and abilities of each one. Then too, her own powers intrigued him; she was hesitant to test them, but he had always felt she was capable of more than they imagined.
The thought that she was gone—she, with such power unrealized, yet unable to save herself—felt like a physical blow to him.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” Charles said softly. “It may be difficult to understand, but Jean made a choice… and she saved the rest of our lives.”
Hank swallowed hard, and tried to compose himself. “I do understand, Charles—I know Jean. It’s exactly what she would have done. How is Scott?”
Charles hesitated grimly. “Not well.”
A pang of sympathetic pain thumped in Hank’s chest. Before he could say anything, Charles went on, in a tone of drained dispassion born out of sheer emotional and physical exhaustion.
“Our abducted students are safe, but the school was severely damaged during Stryker’s invasion. It will take us some time to restore it. There are… certain things here, that children should not have to see.” He paused. “If you or Miss Tanner have no urgent plans, I would appreciate it very much if one or both of you could stay at the safe house, with the students who are there now.”
“Yes, I… I think that would be best, for the time being.” Hank gazed down morosely at his blue hand for a moment, then steeled himself. “If you want to send over the children you have there…”
“I’ll ask them. I’m afraid they’ve seen things far worse than the damage here… but I think some of them may choose to stay and help.” Charles paused. “In the meantime, if there’s anything you need…”
“Nothing just now.” Only time.
“Alright.” Charles hesitated, and a faint, uncharacteristic note of wistfulness crept into his voice. “There’s a great deal I want to tell you, Henry. If you want to come for the children here yourself—”
“No.” Hank’s answer was just a little too sharp, too alarmed. He caught himself at the end of the word, but he could hear and feel the tangible change of Charles’ demeanor over the phone.
“Henry… what’s wrong?”
And across the two miles between the safe house and the school, Hank felt the tentative, inquisitive touch of Charles Xavier’s mind.
It was neither furtive nor forceful, and by no means meant to be. Charles knew that after their years of friendship, Hank had developed a certain awareness of his telepathic contact. Instead it was a silent question, in search of an answer that was equally beyond words.
“Please, Charles,” Hank said quickly, mentally shrinking back from that tendril of concern and curiosity. It was not the most tactful of reactions; he knew Charles would sense his psychic cringe, and might even interpret it as meaning that Hank was afraid of him. That was not the case, and in a clumsy effort to cover his distress, he fumbled for the words to reassure his mentor of that.
“It’s just… been a very difficult day. For you even more than for myself, I’m sure. We do have a lot to talk about… but I think it will all be more clear for us both when you’ve had a chance to rest.”
He could almost feel the Professor’s troubled uncertainty—but the gentle probe vanished.
“Perhaps.” Although deep concern still lingered in Charles’ voice, he spoke patiently. “Alright, then. In a short while, Ororo will bring you any of the students here who would rather stay at the safe house.”
“We’ll be expecting them,” Hank acknowledged.
There was a long and unsettled silence then, as if Charles wanted to say or ask something more, but he wasn’t sure whether he should. At last Hank broke the spell, with words that carried the weight of a promise—to his teacher, and to himself.
“I’ll see you soon, Charles.”
© 2009 Jordanna Morgan
Author:
jordannamorganArchive Rights: Please request the author’s consent.
Rating/Warnings: Mild PG, for angst and adult situations.
Characters: Emphasis on Beast, with support from various other characters.
Setting: Mainly mid- to post-X2.
Summary: The personal journey of Henry McCoy—as a mutant, and as a man.
Disclaimer: Marvel and Fox create the characters that sell. Nora is mine, and so is Kristen, who has appeared in several of my stories.
Hank deliberately turned away from the mirror and began to dress. His powerhouse figure strained the confines of the clothes, but his only real discomfort came from having his fur rubbed the wrong way by sleeves and pant legs—as evidenced by the blue hairs that poked haphazardly through the fabric, in spite of his best efforts to smooth them. To his surprise, the clothing on top of his coat of fur did not make him too warm, and even those ill-fitting garments did not intolerably restrict his new range of motion.
He gave his reflection only one more cursory glance, knowing well enough the absurdity of the too-tight coverings. It was a trifle compared to the strangeness of his own face and body. He was sure that even the students who had faced mutation themselves, and Nora who had studied it for years, would need time to become used to him as he was now. For a while he could expect them to stare when he wasn’t looking, and have difficulty looking him in the eye. It was the understandable response of human nature, and he silently forgave them in advance.
At last, heaving a deep sigh, Hank stepped out of the bathroom. His body still ached as he moved slowly down the hall, to the kitchen and the adjoining dining room. This part of the house was fragrant with the rich, comforting aroma of chicken soup, a recipe Nora had learned from her grandmother—and without really understanding how, Hank found himself clearly differentiating the scents of individual vegetables and spices. His empty stomach proved itself to be quite unconcerned with his emotional state, and gave a hearty rumble of anticipation.
Most of the students, having already eaten as much dinner as they could be coaxed to, were in the living room with Kitty and Peter. Only a few of the youngest and most clinging children sat around the table with Nora, who had barely touched her own meal.
When Hank appeared in the doorway, Nora gave a barely-perceptible start. She began to rise, but he smiled hollowly and made a slight staying gesture. He collected a bowl from the cabinet, and—after a moment’s awkward consideration—he chose a serving spoon from the silverware drawer. The large utensil nonetheless felt small in his huge hands, and he moved hesitantly as he ladled soup into the bowl. He even felt half-skeptical of the high-backed wooden chairs that suddenly seemed so spindly and fragile, but the empty seat across the table from Nora bore his weight with barely a creak.
One advantage to his heightened sense of smell, at least, was its natural consequence of enhancing his sense of taste. He had enjoyed Nora’s cooking often, but now he perceived nuances he never had before, and he could appreciate each separate ingredient to the most minute level. Had his mind and heart not been so distressed, it could have been the most enjoyable meal he had ever eaten—and experienced gourmand that he was, a small part of him couldn’t help but look forward to exploring many other dishes on this wondrous new level.
Few words were spoken during the meal. Nora gently encouraged the children to eat, and now and then one of them would pipe up with some bit of randomness, as children do; otherwise, they sat in a silence that was inescapably heavy with awkwardness and worried tension. It was uncomfortable for Hank, but he sensed he had little to do with those feelings, at least on the children’s part. Strange mutations were nothing new or terrible to them, even when it happened before their eyes. What they really feared was that another phantom attack of violent suffering might come… and at that moment, he could hardly have promised them that it wouldn’t.
As for Nora, he felt her eyes upon him many times as he ate, but she managed to be preoccupied with one of the children each time he looked up at her. Now that the urgent shock of the day’s events was fading, he suspected she was trying to come to terms privately with what he had become, much as he had wanted to be alone when he faced himself. He understood that, but even so, it left him troubled and torn.
He wished she would meet his eyes, but at the same time, he didn’t want her to look at his brutish face. A part of him wanted a chance to talk with her alone… and a part of him feared that more than anything.
After putting away three helpings of soup, he felt a little better, at least physically. With careful movements he pushed back from the table, reaching out to pick up his empty bowl—but Nora stood quickly and gathered it herself, along with her own bowl that was barely half-empty. “Let me.”
Gingerly turning sideways on his chair, Hank watched her move to the sink in the adjoining kitchen, and listened to the splash of running water under the faucet. With unthinking, mechanical movements, she washed the dishes and set them aside to dry. Then she turned back, and finally met his gaze.
He wanted to look away from the dark apprehension in her eyes, but he did not permit himself that retreat.
“What happens now?” she asked quietly.
Hank gazed at her gently, and his vast shoulders lifted in a shrug. “We do the best we can. We… adapt.” He let out a faint, flat chuckle, staring down at the palm of his left hand. Then his eyes returned to hers.
“The most important thing is still to be here, taking care of the students. Unless we get word from the other X-Men, or even Bobby and Rogue, I don’t think there’s anything to be done tonight. Tomorrow I’ll start fresh in the search for answers.”
Nora flinched slightly and stepped toward him, automatically reaching out to place her hand on his. “You won’t—leave, will you?”
For a brief moment, Hank consciously considered withdrawing from her touch. Then he rejected the idea, and turned his hand over to grip her fingers—lightly, for fear of hurting her with his claws or his untested new strength.
“You know better than anyone that I can’t hide here forever.” He smiled sadly, and shook his head before Nora could reply. “But no—I’m not going anywhere tomorrow. For that matter, after what’s happened… I’m afraid no obvious mutant may be safe in public for a little while.”
The green-skinned boy seated beside Hank, who was old enough to understand this suggestion of danger, let out a slight whimper. Nora made a soothing noise and reached out with her free hand, hugging the child’s head against her.
Hank was silent for a moment, regarding her keenly. For the first time, he questioned why she had so willingly chosen to make herself a part of his world: the mutant world, with all its strangeness and uncertainty. Whether it could really have been because of him…
Or at least, because of what he had been.
“You don’t have to share in this, you know,” he said solemnly.
Her gaze turned back to him, and with a melancholy smile in return, she squeezed his hand. “Now you’re the one who knows better.”
A fresh and very human ache stirred in Hank’s heart. He took a breath to speak, although he was not quite sure of what he would say.
Then they heard the telephone ring.
It took Hank and Nora all of two seconds to reach the living room, but by that time, Kitty had already caught up the receiver. The safe house had a special private number, and there was very little chance that any call they received could be accidental or unwanted.
“Hello?” the teenager gasped breathlessly—and as she listened to the reply on the other end of the line, her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, yes, Professor!”
Hank’s heart took a dizzy tumble inside his chest, and he sat down hard on the armchair behind him, causing its springs to creak violently. Nora gave a start, and moved as if to step toward Kitty—but Hank caught her hand and held it. As she turned to him, he made a small gesture with his other hand: wait.
Kitty listened for a moment, then said into the phone, “Yeah, the rest of us are all here, and we’re okay.” She hesitated slightly. “Doctor McCoy and Miss Tanner have been with us the whole time.”
There was another pause, and then she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, turning to look somewhat uncertainly at Hank. “The Professor wants to talk to you.”
For a long moment, Hank struggled internally. He couldn’t bear the thought of explaining to Charles what had become of him. At least not this way, over the phone, in mere awkward words—especially not when the Professor surely knew the pain that had swept the world that morning, and needed no more guilt added to that burden. If Hank spoke to him, Charles might hear the change in his voice, or sense it in some other way. Having guessed already that his friend had endured unspeakable suffering of his own in those two days, Hank longed to spare them both what grief he could, at least for a little while longer.
But he had to know.
Reluctantly Hank reached out, accepting the receiver from Kitty, and tried to lighten his voice to something that at least resembled its former tones. “Charles—this is Henry.”
“Henry… thank God.” There was an underlying strain of ragged weariness in Charles’ voice. “Are you and the children alright?”
“…Yes.” It took a moment to push the lie—which it was, at least where Hank was concerned—past his lips. “Tell me what happened, Charles.”
The Professor’s words confirmed the theory Hank had postulated. “It was Stryker. He planned to use Cerebro—to use me… to destroy every mutant on Earth.” A trembling breath escaped from the older man. “The others stopped it… with Erik’s help.”
A disquieted feeling crept through Hank’s heart. He remembered the way Nora alone was struck by the second wave of the telepathic attack, and it suddenly made a terrible kind of sense. The suspicion arose in him that at that moment, he understood more of the real story than Charles himself did.
“I suspected as much,” he answered carefully, still trying to keep his voice level. “Where are you now?”
“We’ve returned to the school.” A heavy silence held for a moment, and then Charles added quietly, “Except for Jean.”
Hank nearly dropped the receiver, and for a brief moment, the guttural new undertones of his voice were unmasked.
“No…”
Jean Grey was not only a friend to Hank, but one of his most valued scientific colleagues. It was because of him that she chose to become a doctor herself—and he had done so much to guide her that she became almost his own pupil, in spite of the relatively small difference between their ages. So often they had worked together in the labs beneath the Xavier School, researching the diverse mutations of the students, seeking to understand and prepare for the unique physical needs and abilities of each one. Then too, her own powers intrigued him; she was hesitant to test them, but he had always felt she was capable of more than they imagined.
The thought that she was gone—she, with such power unrealized, yet unable to save herself—felt like a physical blow to him.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” Charles said softly. “It may be difficult to understand, but Jean made a choice… and she saved the rest of our lives.”
Hank swallowed hard, and tried to compose himself. “I do understand, Charles—I know Jean. It’s exactly what she would have done. How is Scott?”
Charles hesitated grimly. “Not well.”
A pang of sympathetic pain thumped in Hank’s chest. Before he could say anything, Charles went on, in a tone of drained dispassion born out of sheer emotional and physical exhaustion.
“Our abducted students are safe, but the school was severely damaged during Stryker’s invasion. It will take us some time to restore it. There are… certain things here, that children should not have to see.” He paused. “If you or Miss Tanner have no urgent plans, I would appreciate it very much if one or both of you could stay at the safe house, with the students who are there now.”
“Yes, I… I think that would be best, for the time being.” Hank gazed down morosely at his blue hand for a moment, then steeled himself. “If you want to send over the children you have there…”
“I’ll ask them. I’m afraid they’ve seen things far worse than the damage here… but I think some of them may choose to stay and help.” Charles paused. “In the meantime, if there’s anything you need…”
“Nothing just now.” Only time.
“Alright.” Charles hesitated, and a faint, uncharacteristic note of wistfulness crept into his voice. “There’s a great deal I want to tell you, Henry. If you want to come for the children here yourself—”
“No.” Hank’s answer was just a little too sharp, too alarmed. He caught himself at the end of the word, but he could hear and feel the tangible change of Charles’ demeanor over the phone.
“Henry… what’s wrong?”
And across the two miles between the safe house and the school, Hank felt the tentative, inquisitive touch of Charles Xavier’s mind.
It was neither furtive nor forceful, and by no means meant to be. Charles knew that after their years of friendship, Hank had developed a certain awareness of his telepathic contact. Instead it was a silent question, in search of an answer that was equally beyond words.
“Please, Charles,” Hank said quickly, mentally shrinking back from that tendril of concern and curiosity. It was not the most tactful of reactions; he knew Charles would sense his psychic cringe, and might even interpret it as meaning that Hank was afraid of him. That was not the case, and in a clumsy effort to cover his distress, he fumbled for the words to reassure his mentor of that.
“It’s just… been a very difficult day. For you even more than for myself, I’m sure. We do have a lot to talk about… but I think it will all be more clear for us both when you’ve had a chance to rest.”
He could almost feel the Professor’s troubled uncertainty—but the gentle probe vanished.
“Perhaps.” Although deep concern still lingered in Charles’ voice, he spoke patiently. “Alright, then. In a short while, Ororo will bring you any of the students here who would rather stay at the safe house.”
“We’ll be expecting them,” Hank acknowledged.
There was a long and unsettled silence then, as if Charles wanted to say or ask something more, but he wasn’t sure whether he should. At last Hank broke the spell, with words that carried the weight of a promise—to his teacher, and to himself.
“I’ll see you soon, Charles.”
© 2009 Jordanna Morgan