I do not own X-Men or Hank McCoy.
Sob.
Precious Minutes Ticking in the Clock
"Mornin', Ma!"
The brilliant little boy ran down the stair railing perfectly balanced on his bare monkey toes. He leapt, swung off the overhead light fixture, and landed in front of his mother.
He kissed her cheek soundly as she was turning from the steaming pot on the stove. She hugged him close for a moment before releasing him.
"Good morning, Hank, my dear! Now what about those 'g's?"
He grinned toothily at her.
"Good mornin-g, Ma!"
He grabbed the milk bottle out of the Frigidaire plopped himself down at the kitchen table, swinging his prehensile feet restlessly.
After a moment, Edna McCoy placed a blue bowl of Cream of Wheat on the placemat in front of her towheaded son.
"Thanks!"
She patted his shoulder affectionately as he reached for the sugar container in the center of the table.
She let him scoop two big spoonfuls into his bowl before casually scooting it back to its original spot.
"Ah, Ma," he pouted half-heartedly.
She pecked his cheek.
"You're sweet enough already, dear."
The bespectacled eight year old rubbed his cheek.
"Aww, Ma!"
She turned away with a hidden smile.
The boy dove into his sugar-laced breakfast bowl eagerly.
Norton McCoy punctually arrived into the kitchen and, anticipating his entrance, his wife turned and handed him his cup of coffee.
"Thank you, my dear," he pecked her on the cheek and she patted him on the arm.
The lanky older man ruffled his young son's brown hair on his way to the table.
Sitting down across from the boy, the older McCoy scooped two heaping scoops of sugar into his steaming cup of joe.
His loving wife edged the sugar bowl away, this time from her husband.
As she turned away once more, the sneaky scientist nicked another scoop of the granulated goodness, winking conspiratorially at his son who tried to cover his giggles.
"Fifteen minutes until school, Hank," his aproned mother announced, glancing at the clock.
Hank launched up out of his chair, bounding his breakfast dishes into the sink, then turned to his seated father.
"Hey, Pop, are you going to help me with my science project tonight?"
His father nodded, sipping his coffee before setting it down.
"Sure thing, Son. Catch, supper, science."
It was the one day during the week when the hard-working Norton McCoy took off work early to spend time with his son.
"And 'Jack Benny' after?" Hank queried hopefully.
Norton McCoy smiled.
"You bet."
Little Hank fist pumped the air.
"Yes!"
Hank excitedly began discussing ideas for his science project with his father. The older man gladly acquiesced, enjoying the boy's enthusiasm.
"Ten minutes," Edna McCoy, their resident time-keeper, announced, reluctant to break the two men apart.
Little Hank ran up the stairs to get his shoes.
The next day he walked slowly down the stairs, quiet and despondent. He mutely opened and closed the Frigidaire and set the milk down at the table, slumping into his chair.
Edna McCoy turned curiously at looked at her unusually quiet son.
He was already wearing his shoes.
She silently placed his bowl in front of him, untied her apron, and hung it on the hook behind the door.
Then sat down across from him.
He was crying silently into his Cream of Wheat.
"Hank?'
He rubbed his eyes, thoroughly smearing his glasses.
"I don't want to go to school."
She gently took his smudged lenses from his face and began cleaning them.
"May I ask why?"
As he was forming his words, Norton McCoy came into the kitchen, saw his concerned wife and distraught son. He poured a cup of coffee and wordlessly sat down at the table to listen.
"The kids . . . they . . ."
The eight year old glanced miserably at his parents.
"They said I'm weird! They said I'm too little to be smart and too big in my feet! They said I'm a bozo!"
His parents repressed grimaces, knowing this day would come.
"I don't want to be a freak all the time!" he cried piteously. "I just want to be normal!"
His mother snorted, a very unusual, unladylike behavior for her.
"Normal? You want to be stupid and imperceptive and ill-mannered?"
Hank sniffled.
"Well, no. But I don't want to be picked on anymore either."
Hank continued to ramble for several minutes and they listened quietly. Finally, when he had run out of words, his father spoke.
"Take off your shoes, boy."
Hank looked up, confused.
"Now," his father said sternly.
The child did and revealed his prehensile feet. He gazed at them sadly. His father gestured for his feet. Hank hesitantly placed one on his father's knee.
The man touched one foot.
"What can you do about this, Hank?"
The boy looked confused.
"Nothing. It's my genetics."
His father nodded.
"Right. What can you do about those kids?"
Hank's face crumpled.
"Nothing! That's the problem!"
His father nodded again.
"That's right. You can't fix them. And there's nothing about you that needs to be fixed. Do you understand?"
Hank nodded into his Cream of Wheat.
His mother spoke up, reaching across the table to touch his small, trembling hand.
"Those children are small minded idiots. Your father's right. You can't fix that. But when you're older you can help shepherd the world into a better perception of people who are different."
She continued.
"You can be in charge and make people understand each other better and be kinder to each other by your example. You can be the better person, Hank. And guide others to be as well."
The boy looked at her hopefully.
"Do you really think so?"
Both parents nodded together.
"Yes, Hank. You can."
He seemed pensive now, his salty tears dried up.
"Okay."
His mother glanced at the clock out of habit.
"Now go wash your face. Fifteen minutes until school."
Hank washed his face and felt a little better.
Another morning. Another breakfast.
The monkey toed young genius yawned his way down the staircase, wrapped his arms sleepily around his mother's aproned waist, and owlishly retrieved the milk bottle from the Frigidaire.
"Good morning, dear," his mother welcomed him.
"Mornin', Ma," he replied.
She rubbed a gentle hand across his back for a moment as she set down his Cream of Wheat bowl in front of him.
"-g," he said reflexively, stifling another yawn.
She hoped he didn't fall asleep in his breakfast. He might drown.
She handed her husband his morning cup, meaningfully tossing a glance toward the boy.
His father sat himself down at the table, sweetening the dark concoction to perfection. As much as his wife would let him anyway.
"Late night, Son?"
The boy slurped up more of his breakfast sustenance , nodding.
Glancing to make sure his wife's back was still turned, Father McCoy slid the coffee cup over to his son, making a 'shushing' gesture and smiling a little.
The boy curiously sipped, his face squelching up into grimace and then blinked as the caffeine coursed its way through his little system.
He perked up a little and his father withdrew the cup to take his own sip.
"I stayed up reading 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde'," Hank announced, slightly more alert.
"Ah, did you now?" his father inquired mildly.
The boy nodded, interest beginning to brighten his face.
"Yep."
His feet began to swing, just a little.
"And what did you think?"
The boy responded self-assuredly.
"I felt sorry for him and lucky for me."
The elder McCoy studied his son over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles.
"You did? How so?"
The boy shrugged, scraping the last remnants of the Cream of Wheat onto his spoon.
"Well, he didn't have anyone to help him control his mutation and care about him. If he did, he might have been okay. Like me. 'Cause I've got you and Ma."
Over his brown haired head, his parents smiled at each other.
"Well, that is certainly an interesting perspective, Son."
"Ten minutes until school," his mother announced, blinking back a sudden mist in her eyes.
And the little, caffeine charged Hank bounded up the stairs with renewed energy.
Edna McCoy turned to her husband.
"You gave him coffee, didn't you?"
He pecked her cheek.
"Of course not, dear."
She patted his arm.
"Mmhmm."
Years later . . .
'Dad, oatmeal again?"
"When I was your age, I ate Cream of Wheat."
"Sounds gross."
"Oh, I don't know. I have fond memories of it."
Skye McCoy surveyed her father's blue teddybear face doubtfully.
"Really? Of Cream of Wheat? That seems highly improbable."
Hank grinned at his precocious eight year old daughter. She had her mother's physical features and her father's intelligence.
In his orange eyes, she was absolutely perfect.
"Well, better eat up and go then," Hank advised. "Fifteen minutes until school and I'm not getting in trouble with your mother for you being late."
She huffed a bit in mock derision and downed the breakfast connotation quickly.
She preferred to sweeten hers with honey rather than sugar.
Well, he didn't profess to understand everything about his precious offspring, did he?
She popped up out of her seat and dashed the dishes to the sink, her high ponytail bouncing. Then she grabbed her bag and headed to the door. She opened it and called a 'bye, Dad' back to him.
As he was about to respond, she suddenly reversed and advanced toward him.
Wrapping her arms tight around him, she whispered, "I love you, Dad."
A very grateful father wrapped his arms around his small daughter.
"I love you too, Skye."
He relished in holding her tightly for a few moments before she started to wiggle away.
Then she dashed out the door, leaving it ajar.
As she always did.
He moved toward the door and watched her bounding departure.
As he always did.
At the sidewalk she was enthusiastically greeted by a small gaggle of friends, both male and female, mutant and human.
A few waved at him, calling out morning greetings of 'Hey Mr. Mac!'
He waved back, slightly bemused as always at their moniker for him and how they never seemed to take umbrage with his beastly appearance.
The world indeed had changed.
His daughter glanced back at him for a split second and he saw her light, her beautiful little spirit glowing out at him through every pore and fiber of her being.
She grinned widely and he returned it to her.
Then she headed off to school.
It was going to be a good day.
Hank McCoy awoke in the dark not knowing exactly where or when he was. Instinctively, he stretched out his hand for the warm body he felt should be there to his left.
It was.
All warmth and sleep and peacefulness.
His hand grazed over her curves lightly, causing her to roll in her sleep and reach back out for him. They snuggled up together in the middle of the bed.
He took comfort in her steady, accepting presence and held her gratefully in his arms. The even, calm rising and falling of her breath worked to lull him back toward sleep.
Did I just wake up from a parallel dimension? Huh. Logan would be proud.
And then he fell back to sleep again.
And dreamt no more that night.
I wrote this because Hank needed some happiness. And because I love my own child very much.
Thanks to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, the1upguy, Voodoo-Mutant-Child, ABewilderedBear, Aletta-Feather, ChiefPam, and brigid1318 for reviewing. You're very sweet and generous.
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