I do not own X-Men anything.
You'd think I'd run out of words by now. You'd be wrong.
Reaching Out
(Warning: This chapter is rated 'M' for horror. Just to be safe.)
Chapter 21: The Dark Beast
Hank held her body as her precious lifeblood gushed out upon the once pristine lawn of Xavier Manor. That proud and once noble structure that now belched flame and smoke into the night sky.
She convulsed his arms, those arms that despite their covering of blue fur and thick roping of muscles, held her dying body gently, tenderly.
"Hope," was all he could manage. "Hope, no . . ."
Her bloodshot brown eyes, once so bright and warm, were rapidly losing their light as her spirit drained out of her mangled body.
Ink couldn't have healed the ragged hole in her chest. Not even if his cooling corpse had not been face down only feet away from where Hank now huddled, weeping over his Hope.
His Hope who had now gone away from him.
Forever.
He clutched her body to his, gently rocking it back and forth, tears streaming down his filthy face.
His glasses were gone, lost in the battle.
It didn't matter. There was nothing left of worth for him to see anymore. Now that she was gone.
That battle which at the moment had seemed so very important. That battle which had become so pointless now that she lay dead in his arms.
He wondered vaguely then when he would die. Surely now that so many of his allies and friends lay lifeless around him, his time wouldn't be long in coming.
If he could have felt anything, he would have yearned for death. For the timeless void. For the empty darkness.
Because without her, he had no life.
Erik. Erik, the instigator to all this misery and pain. Erik the destroyer. Erik the one who had descended onto their sanctuary, ripped apart their burgeoning family of mutants.
At least he lay dead amid the smoke and ashes.
With Charles. Charles the peacekeeper, Charles the negotiator, Charles the professor.
They lay nearly in an embrace, mutant brother to mutant brother. Always at odds, always arguing, always battling between them for each other's agendas. Each other's souls.
Their mutual brotherly love had not been enough to save them from destroying each other.
And everyone around them.
Including his Hope.
His beautiful, ethereal, dead Hope.
"It was . . . Erik," he whispered.
An image, monstrous and hulking, wavered before him as his salty tears coursed their way down his face again.
"No," the deep voice replied. "Not Erik. It was the humans. What they did to him, that caused all this. The humans. They should be made to suffer. And the mutants that did not stop it."
Hank shook his head. With Hope gone, it was so hard to think, to consider, to analyze. He couldn't tell fact from lie, reality from hallucination.
And it didn't seem to matter anymore anyway.
Hope. Hope was dead. His Hope.
And their child growing within her still flat belly.
The figure continued speaking.
"But if you agree to work for me, I will bring her back to you. I have the power."
Power.
Power.
Power to save Hope.
Save Hope.
Hank looked up, the humanoid form mysterious in the floating smoke and ashes.
"What . . . what do I have to do?"
The voice spoke again. Soft as thunder and cruel as snow.
"Does it matter if you can have her back?"
It should.
But it didn't.
Hank looked back down at the hollow, bloody form still clutched in his desperate embrace.
"No," he replied, carefully closing her eyes with his blood-smeared fingers and softly kissing the lids.
And he lay her gently upon the crushed grass. Her long brown hair fanned out, lifeless figure still svelte and lithe.
Too soon. It had been too soon. They had only just found out. He had never even gotten to hear the heartbeat.
Hank McCoy stood slowly, beast muscles rippling, blue fur caked with dirt and blood.
Her blood.
And stepped toward the humanoid figure waiting for him.
Then she appeared.
Raven.
Her whom he had first loved, first failed.
Her blue form, red hair, yellow eyes stepping out from the swirling smoke, approaching him.
"Hank," she pleaded beseechingly, crying out for him. "Hank, don't go with him! Please, he's not what he seems, Hank!"
He barely glanced at her as she approached.
"I don't know you," he muttered absently.
She reached him, clutching at his clothes, rippling from her blue form into her human form.
"Hank," she pleaded, her now blue eyes filling with tears. "please, Hank, you know me. You remember me, Hank."
His legs wobbled suddenly with overwhelming grief and Hank collapsed to his knees in supplication, his anguished face cupped in his clawed hands. He felt her move forward, kneel in front of him.
He couldn't look up at her, couldn't move.
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. He wept openly, unable to stop, unable to care.
"Hank," she whispered. "I'm sorry but she's gone. Come away with me now, Hank. Please, come with me. She's dead. You have to let her go. I'm sorry. She's dead."
He didn't know where the gun in his hand came from, or when it had appeared.
He didn't know when he pulled the trigger or when he had held it up to her head.
But when she collapsed against him without a sound, rippling back into her natural blue form, he heard himself whisper words he faintly recognized as his own.
"You're not Hope."
And she slid off him, crumpling onto the ground, stunned cat eyes open, fresh blood now upon his clothes, mixing with his beloved Hope's.
He stood slowly, everything he had ever known destroyed and gone away from him.
He was hollow, empty, a shell of a creature. Even his flow of tears had dried up as his soul withered and died within him.
The deep, commanding voice spoke again.
"Come, Beast. There is nothing left for you here now."
And he did.
He moved numbly to stand in front of the shadowy entity.
That entity that mimed human interaction and held out his hand-thing to Hank.
Who, in an empty daze, gripped it.
As he did, power and rage surged through him like a shot of white lightening. His fur and exposed flesh rippled from rich blue into a darker, inkier, almost black color tone. His orange eyes blazed with an unholy light then turned completely jet black.
Apocalypse, his master, released his grip and spoke in a booming command.
"You will now serve me as my fourth horseman . . . Death."
The Dark Beast threw back his head and roared to the skies and all who heard it shuddered and moaned and covered their ears as they fell to their knees, trembling in abject dread and cold fear.
He thrashed himself from sleep, sitting up in the darkness, snarling and roaring, sweating and crying.
"Hank? Hank?"
He heard his name but ignored it. It could not be. It was not her voice. He had held her as she died, bled to death in his arms. Watched as the light he loved so faded from her beautiful brown eyes.
It could not be her. It could not be his Hope.
His Hope was dead.
"Hank? Hank?"
His blood red gaze took in his surroundings. A dark room. Light in filtering in from an open door. Figures just within the space.
That voice again.
". . . go, Charles! He needs me!"
Another voice. Slightly deeper, male.
"No, it's not safe just yet. Wait a minute."
He felt a presence pressing against his consciousness and shoved it away with a deep throated snarl.
His claws were out, shredding the bedding that trapped him.
Growling, snarling, roaring.
More light, a . . . what was that thing called . . . a . . . lamp . . .
And again, the voice calling out to him.
"Hank? It's me. It's Hope. Hank?"
He looked and his vision cleared a little and he saw her.
Hope.
Long, dark hair. Pale, frightened face.
Soft green sleeping pants, simple white shirt.
She couldn't be here. She was dead.
He looked again.
She was whole, she was breathing, she was alive.
She was not real. She could not be. A hallucination. A trick.
". . . trick," he muttered gutterally. "Trick. Dead."
She paled further, but managed to respond.
"No, Hank, I'm not dead. I'm alive. And so are you."
The man in the wheelchair spoke.
"Hank, you need to calm your mind."
That man. Charles. That man was Charles Xavier.
"Get . . . out . . . Xavier."
Charles hesitated, looking at Hope. She kept her eyes trained on the blue, furry figure before her but reached back for the man behind her. He took her hand. She squeezed it.
"It's okay," she whispered back to him.
Charles hesitated further, opening his mouth, and speaking in Beast's head at the same time.
"Hank -"
"GET OUT!" he roared.
Both figures flinched and beyond them, Beast saw more shadows gathering in the light.
Heaven? For her? Waiting? For her?
"Hope," his voice rough and broken. "Don't . . . go."
Her form paused, head bobbing.
"Okay. Charles, leave and close the door."
Without a word, the man in the wheelchair slowly reversed out of Beast's mind and the room itself, closing the door.
The room fell dark again, save for the soft glow of the doorside lamp.
The figure of Hope moved slowly toward Beast. She stopped at the foot of the bed, heart pounding so hard her entire body ached.
"Can I . . . touch you?" she requested quietly.
He nodded, head down, words failing him.
She reached out slowly, willing her hand not to tremble. It still did.
He had torn and ripped off his shirt in his rage. Now his upper body was bare and blue and furry. Heaving with heavy emotion and rushing adrenaline.
She laid her hand on one shoulder. He flinched just a little, growling with each ragged breath. His muscles were tensed, tight, knotted.
She took another step, finally standing directly in front of him.
"It's okay, Hank. It's okay," she whispered, now placing a stabilizing, reassuring hand on each shoulder, moving slowly up his neck to his furry face.
He closed his eyes. Reveling in her closeness. She must be real. She could not be here and look and feel and sound and smell so much like Hope and not be real.
He reached up with his furry, clawed hands and placed them on her hips, submissively resting his blue, sweat-damp forehead against the flat of her stomach.
He was still trembling and moaning and growling deep within his throat.
She pressed her hands to the sides of his head, curling her fingers softly in his tangled fur.
"It's okay, Hank. It's okay."
Such relief flooded through him that she was here and alive and speaking that he forgot to be embarrassed at the intimacy of her touch to him and his to her.
She continued whispering to him. He absorbed her intonations and meanings without really hearing her exact words.
Little by little, his growls and snarls continued to ease and his breathing evened out. Hope gently guided him to lay on his bed on his stomach, with his head turned toward her beloved form.
She rubbed and massaged his tense, angry muscles from head to toe. Soothing down his tangled, wild blue fur with her strong, loving fingers.
Whispering, whispering, always whispering. Reassurances, promises, admonitions of devotion and love.
Until the blue, furry creature fell asleep.
Okay, so did I send everybody back to church then? *grins
There is an alternative comic reality storyline much different than mine that I plucked the Dark Beast character from. But the story itself is all mine.
In response to my sweet brigid1318, allow me to clarify. Dreams aren't logical. And I'm not saying this is prophetic either. I mean, Hank can't even know about Apocalypse. This is just Hank's worst nightmare. And you'll see the effect it has on him tomorrow.
Due to my environment, as a child I frequently was plagued by reoccurring nightmares. They were vivid and hellish. As an adult in charge of my own life, I now sleep peacefully. But I still remember the dreams.
Let's switch gears for a second. For some inexplicable reason, I keep associating Hank/Raven interactions with "Lady, Your Roof Brings Me Down" by Scott Weiland (oh yeah, former lead singer of Stone Temple Pilots but this is not STP, no). Youtube it and tell me what you think, if you like.
So thanks to brigid1318, ChiefPam, I've Been a Labrat, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, and Aletta-Feather for reviewing. Hope you survived this chapter. ;)
Now, in true form and 'cause I love you guys, let's find the brighter side, shall we?