I do not own X-Men: First Class.
Duh.
In the Beginning
Chapter 10: Fast Times At Xavier Manor
Wow.
The seven of them stood together in front of the massive façade of Xavier Manor. It was massive, impressive. Intimidating.
"This is yours?" Sean half stated, half questioned slowly.
He sounded like he was trying hard to not sound impressed.
"No," Charles Xavier corrected mildly. "It's ours."
Hank gazed up in wonder.
Uh, no, I don't think I can live here. Unless you have servants' quarters?
"Honestly, Charles, I don't know how you survived," Erik intoned dryly. "Living in such hardship."
Ah yes, Erik, the concentration camp survivor. It must be both a revelation and a slap in the face to see the grandeur of Charles' boyhood abode while Erik himself had groveled in mud and torture.
And then Raven stepped forward to screen Charles from the sly verbal barb and to put herself forward as the heroine of Charles' tale.
"It was a hardship softened by me," she replied with the aplomb of a goddess.
Charles reflexively put his arm around her, kissing her hair.
You lived in this castle, Raven? So you really are a princess.
Taking a deep breath, the blond beauty announced congenially, "Come on, time for the tour."
She led the way and the rest followed obediently.
Yes, my princess, I'll follow you anywhere.
And so he did.
The distance away from the Institute improved Hank's ragged mental state considerably.
He had slept upon arriving at Xavier Manor. Deeply. Without nightmares. Of Shaw. Of the red-skinned beast Azazel. The exotic-looking cyclone man. The losses. The deaths.
He hadn't even dreamt his desperate, craving dreams of Raven. Those dreams were very enjoyable, he couldn't deny. But the lingering feelings upon awakening were a frustration to him, leaving him worked up and agitated with nowhere for his energy to go.
But now, here in Xavier Manor, he had simply slept. For several long, undisturbed hours. Deep and restful. Regenerative almost.
And now that his body was receiving such badly needed rest, healing thoughts were forming in the recesses of Hank's mind as well, slowly pushing themselves to the forefront.
It wasn't our fault. We weren't ready.
He welcomed those thoughts, those healing thoughts that seemed to come from deep within and grant him a whisper of hope.
Along with another thought.
But we can be ready next time. I will be ready. I don't know how, but when the time comes, I will not run. I will stay and fight.
He didn't know if the thoughts were his or if Charles the telepath had subtly planted them there.
Either way, he was beginning to feel a little better.
Then Charles insisted on an outdoor activity that involved Hank being, well, more than simply Hank.
He took him running.
Hank McCoy did not run. Not since he was a boy being chased by the bullies.
But Charles suited him up in a gray sweat suit and tennis shoes reaped from the abundant collections stashed away by his stepfather during the rise of the fear of the nuclear war.
Um, okay, these are definitely not my flat front slacks. They're so loose, I can see the outline of my –
And Charles challenged him to a race.
And Hank, trusting the clever telepath, reluctantly accepted.
Down around the gravel driveway, around the front of the house, they raced.
Charles of course being smaller, more agile, and more athletic, won easily.
No real surprise there.
But that was fine. Hank was used to it.
Okay, well that was fun. Back to my lab . . .
But apparently that was not end for Charles.
"Within each of us, two natures are at war," Charles quoted.
Oh please, that's easy.
"Robert Louis Stevenson, 'Jekyll and Hyde'," Hank replied effortlessly.
He knew his literature. He also knew his monsters.
As a eight year old boy in the second floor bedroom of his house, he had sat alone one night and read the story. From time to time, he paused to gaze upon his deformed monkey feet. And inevitably flinch away.
Even now he remembered the isolation, the loneliness, the hopelessness that had plagued him that night. As well as so many other nights of his short life.
He had paused in his reading to consider the desperate notion of cutting his feet off to rid himself of his inescapable monstrosity.
But of course that was illogical.
None of his mother's kitchen knives were sharp enough to saw through his tarsals. And his scientist father did not own a buzz or chainsaw. At least not at home.
The brandy case was locked and brandy itself probably would not block out the pain enough to keep him from screaming and alerting his parents. They would rush him to the hospital and save his legs and then send him to the psychiatrist. Or lock him up in a sanitarium.
He also did not have the necessary supplies to make an adequate tourniquet. He would bleed out and die and shame his parents even more at the funeral when they were asked how he had died. They would have to lie. That would embarrass them more.
And if the procedure, despite it all, still worked, then he would be forced to live out his days without feet. Stuck in a wheelchair, a burden, a shame to everyone.
So, reluctantly discarding the flawed plan, little Henry McCoy had finished the book. Turned out his tableside light. And cried himself to sleep.
And in the morning, hid his ugly monkey feet in socks and overlarge shoes and arrived in the kitchen precisely on time to eat his Corn Flakes before heading off to middle school.
Now as he walked next to Charles (not nearly as out of breath as the shorter man, thank you very much), he pulled himself back to the present.
"Top marks," Charles was replying lightly.
Yeah, yeah, I'm a genius, Hank thought sardonically.
"Except it wasn't really about good and evil though, was it, Hank?" Charles continued, warming to his subject.
Alright, go on then, Professor.
"It's about man's animal nature and his struggle to control it, to conform . . ."
Charles, are you really preaching this to me? Me?
But his words were very sincere, very compelling.
"And it's that struggle which is holding you back."
Still, it seemed he as an apt pupil should reply with some sort of dutiful response.
"Jekyll was afraid of what he could be capable of," he stated, already seeing the parallel Charles was drawing.
I know what you're going to ask, Charles. And I'd really prefer not to if it's all the same to you.
"And you are too," Charles concluded.
Ahh, I don't want to do this . . .
He looked around the quiet, secluded estate and its vast green lawns.
Then again, there's no one around to see . . .
He glanced sidelong at the man next to him.
And it would be rather enjoyable to thoroughly trounce you . . .
So as Charles continued his pretty speech, Hank slowly made his decision and removed his socks and shoes.
"If you want to beat me this time, you have to set the beast free," Charles gently admonished.
Ahhhhhhh . . .
It felt so good to stretch out his cramped up toes. He flexed them slowly, feeling the muscles and tendons profusely thank him for the fresh breath of air and freedom.
Glancing down, he saw them. Those horrid, obscene atrocities he had walked upon all his life. He restrained a sigh.
But maybe, just this once, I can have a little fun?
The other within him grinned.
A little? Come on, man, give me my head, I can run all day! Let's whip this little slut.
Charles was counting.
". . . get set . . . go!"
Now, should I give him a head start? Let him feel as though he is doing well? Naw.
So Hank McCoy took off, leaving Charles Xavier to eat the dust of his prehensile monkey feet.
He ran the entire circle of the house, feeling the wind in his hair, the stones under his thick-soled, agile feet, and a smile fighting its way onto his face.
This . . . feels . . . so . . . good!
Up onto the path next to the house he ran. Saw Charles ahead of him, still running as fast as he could.
I should pop up, just to say 'hello', he thought mischievously, advancing rapidly.
Pull his pants down! the other hollered gleefully, reveling in the exhilaration of the run.
Uh, no. . . .
Chicken!
Shut up.
But the internal interactions were so much more jovial than he was used to that he hardly minded them at all.
He placed one hand on Charles' shoulder, startling the older man. Who good-naturedly turned and laughed as he offered Hank a congratulatory handshake.
Hank took it . . .
I could have pulled down your pants, you know.
With a smile on his face.
But I didn't.
"Congratulations, my friend! Robert Louis Stevenson would have been proud."
Hank's face finally broke into a full smile. Both at the wonderful delight of being free and the visual image of pantsing one Professor Charles Xavier.
The elation was short-lived.
Alex approached, similarly clothed and wearing a thin smile. Hank nodded at him, completely swept up in the moment of empowerment. Feeling quite fine and ready to accept Alex for the unique person that he was. Willing to let bygones be bygones.
"Impressive, Hank," the blond guy commended him casually.
Well, thank you very much, my fr-
"With feet like those, all you need is a big nose."
And all Hank's joy was quenched on the drowning altar of Alex Summer's slicing proclamation.
"Right, Bozo?" he finished, clapping Hank on the back.
Hank's entire countenance fell and he withdrew from the ice-blue mocking gaze.
"I'm done here," he murmured, turning defeatedly away.
As he retreated back toward his shoes and his glasses, he heard Charles' most prim, thickly-veiled sarcastic reprimand.
"Thank you, Alex."
Oh cut the crap, Charles! Stand up and say something direct, 'Professor'! Or turn his brains into applesauce! Something!
"Come on, Hank!" Charles called out behind him.
Drop dead, both of you.
He passed a large plate glass window and glancing up, saw Raven. Picturesquely framed in the window. She gifted him a delicately beautiful little smile and wave.
Don't look at me. I'm a hideous, monstrous malformation.
He reached deep down and summoned a smile and a half-hearted wave so as not to be rude.
And continued on his way to once more hide his clownish feet in his overlarge, restrictive shoes and continue his desperate, scientific search for normal, human-looking feet.
Here's a thought. Would Hank have so desperately pushed to take the serum if Alex had left him alone a little more? If Alex had accepted him and went 'Man, you're cool!' ('cause I'm pretty sure Sean's too laidback to really tease), maybe Hank would have taken a little more time to perfect the serum? And of course if Raven would have stopped wigging out all the time. *rolls eyes* Drama queens.
And that little remembrance there? All me.
Anyway, thanks to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, A Bewildered Bear, and brigid1318 for never leaving Hank alone to fend for himself. :)
So let's see what else Hank and the others have been doing. This should be fun . . .