I do not own X-Men: First Class.
Duh.
In the Beginning
Chapter 3: An Intimate Date, uh, Meeting
". . . ever since I was a little boy."
He was talking, rambling. Nervous and uncertain, but feeling the words spilling out of him because she was listening. Listening without laughter, without jibe, without doubt.
She was listening and in her beautiful blue eyes, he could see her compassion and understanding. And it was phenomenal what that was doing to his cerebral cortex and his limbic system. His entire body felt like it was rushing, surging with adrenaline and exhilaration. He could barely sit still.
He wasn't alone, he wasn't ridiculous, and he wasn't a joke.
It felt great.
Of course, it also might be due to a little bit of a sugar rush. He had brought cokes and Twinkies to share on this . . .
. . . not a date, date, it's not a date . . .
. . . meeting and had nervously ingested two while waiting for her.
And now here he was, spilling out his deepest secrets to this beautiful, bright creature who appeared to be rapt with attention and interest.
". . . give to feel . . . normal."
She said it with him and he froze in stunned delight. Then they smiled and laughed together.
Such a relief, such a freedom to be understood and accepted.
And it felt incredible.
Even though he had no idea what to do with it.
He had seen television and observed other people respond to experiencing these reactions, of course. He knew what they did. He just didn't know what he should do.
Plus, a gentleman was always courteous and mannerly toward a lady. And she was a lady. And he was a gentleman. Very much a gentleman. Despite the other within him. The one connected to his feet, his mutation.
Then she spoke and sounded relieved to reveal her hidden thoughts.
"Charles has never understood. He's different, but he's never had to hide."
Hank nodded, glancing away for a moment. Yes, he understood him, this Charles, quite well. A pretty boy with money and class and sophistication whose mutation was internal. Who could use it as he pleased without alerting the world to it. And put it away as he chose. All the power with none of the shame.
Hank liked him fine, he really did. But a person like that could never understand what it would be like to be a person like him. Like her.
Like us.
The beautiful, soul-searching blonde before him drew him out of his wandering machinations again (probably didn't even know he'd been gone, that's how quick he was) by speaking of the real reason they'd come here.
"Hank . . ."
I love the way you say my name. Say it again.
". . . this serum that you're making, it doesn't affect abilities, right? Only appearance. Normalizes it," she clarified hesitantly.
He nodded.
Her ability. To shift her form to mimic that of others. It was scientifically amazing to see. She had demonstrated it briefly by morphing into Mr. Oliver. Whose stunned expression sent Hank into internal gales of laughter and an outward small smile.
Who wouldn't want an ability like that?
Except of course, that the true form that came with it made her feel odd, out of place.
After her 'magic trick' as Charles so eloquently put it, she'd morphed into her natural form. Blue scales. Yellow penetrating eyes. Slick red hair.
It was . . . different. Radical. Unnatural.
It wasn't ugly, per se. But this. Her blond haired, blue eyed, creamy skinned self. The one that looked like the perfect woman. The kind that never would talk to someone like him. And if one of those did, it was always negative. Pitying. Repulsed. Dismissive.
Not this woman. She was beautiful. Open. Kind. Engaging. To him.
But this form now, the one he'd first seen her in when she smiled. The one he'd imprinted on. The one he instantly loved. And as gentleman as Hank was, he had to admit this one, this form was vastly preferable. Alluring. Sexy.
It reposed before him now on the blanket he'd spread for their indoor picnic, uh, meeting.
She sat, legs demurely bent to the side, body tilted slightly to the right. He studiously chose not to notice how short her skirt was. Well, not again.
Because she was a lady and he was gentleman. And he, not the other, was in control.
And here he'd started wandering again. At least it was so quick within his synapses that she didn't seem to notice.
He nodded, murmuring his assent. He'd spoken to her of his serum because he wanted to be normal.
For himself.
Maybe for her.
And he needed her blood, her DNA to search for the answer further.
"Do you think it would work on me?"
She seemed so vulnerable, so tentatively hopeful.
He was thankful he could be honest and not have to lie to get what he wanted.
"I could look into it if you like," he offered generously, nodding and smiling.
Of course, that would involve being around you more. Which would be a dream.
"I mean," he continued somewhat anxiously, "it's the least I can do after asking you to come down here with such a weird request."
He was rambling again and fidgety and self-conscious and he knew it. But she was smiling and laughing with him so maybe it was okay.
"Well, I have to admit when guys ask me out . . ."
So this is a date?
". . . they're not usually after my blood."
That gave him pause even as the thought of other guys asking her out made him feel jealous and angry. Even as he remembered sheepishly trying to formulate a plausible opening line to request her company that didn't end with 'and will you marry me'.
"Sorry," he apologized, his nervousness and insecurity causing him to shift uncomfortably again. "I didn't intend to be forward . . ."
I would never treat you as anything less than what you are. A beautiful, perfect creature.
"I was just . . . excited," he confessed somewhat sheepishly.
And he was. So happy and excited. Giddy as a schoolboy.
I'm rambling again, I sound like an idiot, and now I am being forward . . .
And she was still looking at him and smiling. He found it difficult to think when she was smiling. Or talking. Or breathing. Or existing.
Oh help, okay, um, just keep talking, explain yourself quick, you fumbling idiot!
"I mean, the nature of your mutation . . . if any genes hold the key to changing appearance . . . it's yours."
He was hopeful he didn't sound like a creepy, raving lunatic. Her clear blue eyes were still gazing straight into him.
"Hank . . ."
Oh, she said it again.
". . . you weren't being forward. That's kind of what I meant."
She spoke so gently, so kindly that he felt his anxiety, his nervousness actually slow down. He wanted to thank her for that but he couldn't find the words.
It's okay. She doesn't think you're creepy. It's alright.
"No," he ventured, trying to think through her warm gaze and keep his crooked teeth hidden at the same time. "But . . . I'm just sorry if you thought I was."
Her eyes deepened then, turning a darker blue than before.
"I'm sorry that you weren't," she purred a little quieter, her voice deepening into an even more sultry tone.
Gentleman, gentleman, I'm a gentleman.
Naw, you're a beast.
Shut up . . .
She shifted up on her knees, resting her forearm on one of his crisscrossed thighs.
Oh, she's . . . touching . . . me.
Her face was now mere inches from his. Open. Vulnerable. She was so close he could lean forward and kiss her if he chose.
"Go ahead," she murmured. "Take the blood."
For a infinite second, he couldn't process anything beyond the proximity of her face to his, light scent of her perfume, and her arm laying across his leg.
Then part of his body kicked in . . .
Oh boy . . .
Causing his mental defense mechanism to respond immediately . . .
. . . amblygon, selcouth, deisidiamonia . . .
And finally his brain rebooted. He blinked rapidly. Carefully grasping her right arm and pushing up the sleeve . . .
I'm touching her. She's letting me.
. . . to expose the smooth, creamy skin of her forearm.
. . . vernorexia, huderon, pataphysics . . .
His hands worked on autopilot, having taken blood samples from himself and other willing male participants (though never like this exactly) for testing before. His runaway heart pounded erratically in his thin chest and deafened ears even as his mouth suddenly dried up more arid than the Sahara.
He carefully dabbed a cotton ball dampened with alcohol onto her arm and restrained himself from blowing on moistened flesh.
I could never do that. Me?
And picked up the needle.
Suddenly the moment was filled with too much symbolism. Him penetrating her skin (was he the first to needle her? Could it be too much to ask that she had not been 'needled' by other men?), the pinch of discomfort on her lovely face . . .
"Sorry," he murmured apologetically, removing the needle from her arm, his needed blood sample obtained. "Did I hurt you?"
Too much . . . symbolism . . . can't take . . . much more of this . . .
To which she unbelievably responded by leaning forward, bringing her soft, plump lips closer. Her beautiful blue eyes slipped closed and his breath caught in his throat.
Oh . . . my . . .
"Kinky."
Whthf?
The reserved, predatorial-looking man, Erik, was standing silently before them, having caught Hank in the most exotic moment of his entire life. His cool gaze, virtually skewered Hank for his ridiculousness even as it switched to her.
Drinking her in even as it skinned her for her vulnerability.
And called out to her in the most direct way.
"By the way, if I looked like you, I wouldn't change a thing."
And then, gifting Hank with another acerbic glance, dismissively walked away.
And the moment was, irretrievably, over.
Alrighty, awkward enough for you? Oh dear, our young, inexperienced Hank is doing the best he can, isn't he? I just don't think he is going to make it. Haha.
Thanks to brigid1318 and MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul for reviewing and thanks to The Clara Oswin Oswald for adding your support to this retelling.
