I do not own X-Men anything.
And I've given up attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.
Dream On
That Day
That spring day in 1978 had started out quite promising.
Mind blowing impromptu morning sex tended to have that effect on him.
And her as well, it seemed.
And when they had finally bid farewell, Hank had seen nothing but joy and happiness in their future.
It just didn't seem possible for there to be anything else on the horizon for them.
Quite illogical and improbable thinking for a genius scientist such as Hank McCoy.
Especially the Hank McCoy who had been caught up in the chaos of the Paris Peace Accords only a few years prior.
That Hank would never have dreamed that this hopeful, Hope-with Hank could exist.
Especially on such an elevated level.
But everyone had their moments.
And he decided to simply enjoy his.
It was a good thing he did.
Because it was the last he would have for a very long time.
In his lab, having dismissed his class just a little early to go out and enjoy the budding spring sunshine.
Humming a little of this and a little of that as he worked.
Dreamed.
Envisioned.
Floated.
And then the door burst open.
In such a great mood that not even the abrupt intrusion . . .
Knock, knock, knocking not on my door . . .
. . . could cause a dent in his lighthearted mood.
Until he turned.
And saw her.
Chloe. Standing there.
Tears streaming down her cheeks.
Mouth hanging open, filled with words she didn't want to speak.
His brow furrowed.
Grrr . . .
As the Beast grumbled a low warning, a premonition.
Which Hank reflexively pushed away before he could even acknowledge it.
"Chloe? What- "
She lurched forward, seeking his form. Breathing and crying and talking in hitching little, almost incoherent gasps of broken syllables.
"Oh Hank . . . I'm so sorry . . ."
Nope.
"It's awful . . ."
Nope.
"She was just walking . . ."
No.
". . . down the street . . ."
No.
". . . and . . ."
Oh god.
". . . swelling on the brain, Mr. McCoy. The crushed sternum is causing her considerable difficulty breathing and stressing her heart to beat. Her liver and spleen have suffered major contusions and lacerations, causing poisons to leak into her body . . ."
The doctor continued solemnly talking and Hank let him, unable to stop the verbal flow of physical brutalities inflicted upon his wife's body at the time of collision.
". . . stop her internal bleeding. But it's only a matter of time."
The doctor did stop then and it took Hank a few moments to realize and respond to it.
He spoke the only words he could.
"I want to see her."
She had always been smaller than him.
More delicate. More vulnerable.
But also stronger than she looked. More fiery.
Braver.
More everything.
Just right to him in every possible way.
But now, as he gazed upon her in that hospital bed, he saw her diminished in a way he struggled to process.
Enveloped in bandages, wrappings, and ointments.
Tubes and hoses and machinery breathing for her, living for her.
Her and her broken, mangled body.
That body that only that morning he had joyously made passionate, all-consuming love to.
His wife.
His Hope.
Pinned, she had been pinned.
Between a telephone pole and a car.
A car driven by a drunk driver.
A human drunk driver.
Who probably wasn't hurt at all.
While Hope . . .
Oh Hope. Oh, no.
. . . fought for every second of life she painfully endured from that moment to this.
The vision of her in the hospital bed filled his mind, the steady beeping of the heart monitor and shushing of the ventilator deafening him.
Then his body responded on a molecular level.
And everything ground to a screaming halt.
He thought he would die.
Convinced his heart had stopped, his neurons had ceased firing.
He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to save her.
We were talking about having kids just yesterday.
I was afraid they would inherit my mutations and be shunned by society.
She was confident, so confident just like always, that everything would work out okay.
I . . . I was thinking I just might say yes.
He could have stood there for days, weeks, months, years.
Stood there and never moved.
Until he did.
"Hope," he murmured, unaware he had even spoken. "No . . ."
And he staggered to her side, sank to his knees.
And wept there beside his wife.
They made him leave to work on her contusions, her open wounds, her broken bones.
Check her catheter, re-adjust her breathing tube.
That was a mistake.
He shambled out in the hall.
Found Alex, Charles, and Peter situated out of the way against the off white wall, holding white cups of hospital coffee sludge in their hands.
Alex saw him first, straightened up.
"Hey, man. You o-"
His voice faded out as he took in Hank's ghost white face, realized how stupid the question really was.
And Hank kept moving, zombie-like, past them. As if they themselves were but only hazy apparitions in his own private circle of Hell.
"Hank . . ."
This time Charles. As if he could possibly have anything to say to ease suffocating pain slowly squeezing Hank's core to dust within his numb body.
He rounded a corner, saw the policemen speaking to a shambling mess of a blobby man with a large bandage affixed to his graying head.
And just knew.
His speed increased, legs scissoring mindlessly.
". . . again, sir, your version of the events leading up to the . . ."
Until he reached the man, the monster, the bastard who had drunkenly driven his car into Hank's wife only hours before.
In the last few feet, he morphed into the Beast faster and violently than ever before in his life.
A roar tearing from his anguished throat.
Fabric ripping apart at the seams as his muscles swelled and flexed, claws slicing out of his flesh.
"You! You did this to her!"
And as the terrified man drunkenly swayed away from the blue-furred mutant, Hank froze.
The hands of Alex and Peter gripping his upper arms in a futile effort to stop certain disaster.
The policemen, their hands reaching for their holstered revolvers.
And Hank, Hank McCoy, Henry Philip McCoy, gentleman scientist and peacekeeper, caught midsnarl in a terrifying visage of feral rage.
And Charles Xavier, concentrating all his power on the force of Hank's pain.
And the humans caught in the impending maelstrom of it.
He reached out with his mind to the inebriated man who had effectively murdered an innocent woman.
Good afternoon, sir.
And strove to show his better side.
Oh my god, what the hell's happening? Who is that mutant freak?!
It wasn't easy.
That mutant freak, as you so crudely put it, is the husband of the woman you drove into today.
Oh my god, oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Please, please, tell him I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it! It was my sister's birthday and we just went out for a few drinks and-
Stop. Stop talking now. Or I let him go.
Psychic silence.
Charles gathered himself, compartmentalized his rage against this useless, slobbering creature who had stolen their light.
We are relatively certain his wife is going to die at any time now. And absolutely certain that it is your fault.
Charles gathered his thoughts, feeling his dear friend struggling against the confines of the mind control necessary to keep this from escalating out of control.
Now listen to me very carefully. This man is not a blue, furry beast. That vision is only a hallucination of your own inebriation. He is human, he is distraught. You are scared, remorseful, and filled with sincere guilt and regret.
All Charles wanted to do was kill him. Or have him kill himself.
He had killed Hope.
He had possibly ruined Hank forever.
He was worthless. A worthless, dangerous human.
The kind Erik would have taken great pleasure in slowly killing.
But Charles Xavier knew he could do better than have the man kill himself.
Killing himself would be too easy, accomplish nothing.
You will serve whatever incarceration the judge degrees without argument or complaint. You will never again touch alcohol for the rest of your life because the mere thought, the mere sight, the mere smell of it, will make you violently ill and mentally distraught.
You will never approach, talk to, or contact this man in your entire life. You will learn to live with what you have done and you will use this experience to teach others about the dangers of drunk driving. You will do so without benefit allowed to yourself.
Charles stopped, waited, then realized the man's consciousness was still psychically frozen.
You may speak.
Yes, yes, sir. I'm sorry. Please . . . tell him I'm sorry.
I will. I am going to remove this man and his associates from this area now. I have communicated the necessary information to these law enforcement officers. You will speak nothing of this to them nor anyone else your entire life. You will believe it was part of your hallucinations.
Yes, yes, sir. Please . . . please tell him I am sorry.
And then Charles guided Alex, Peter, and Hank went back the way they had come.
Charles soothed Hank's mind enough so the man could take his serum, revert himself back to human form.
And attend himself to the only important task in the world for him.
Caring for and loving his dying wife.
Alright, yeah, we're doing this and I hope you can understand and forgive me.
Thanks to brigid1318 and GladerTributeCamper for your previous reviews. :)