Author's note: Thank you to anonymouscsifan, gossamermouse101, kmj1989, TReneem, and MrsPandaBrowncoat for the reviews! You guys have no idea how much reviews make my day, considering how hard my job is trying to slowly kill my soul *sigh*.

Anyway, for today the two songs that are quoted are Existentialism on Prom Night by Straylight Run and then Secret Love Song Pt. 2 by Little Mix. I know, I know, it's kinda corny, but trust me, the song fits our favorite pair's situation perfectly. We're only a chapter or two away from some big revelations, haha. Leave a review if you like, and thank you for reading!

The Music Room

The music room is pretty average-sized, with no windows and a low ceiling. Whoever picked this space had a good understanding of acoustics, yeah, but that's basically the only thing the room has going for it.

It's really dusty, like no one's been in here for ages. There's this sorta haphazard stack of guitar cases and some other instruments over on one side, and then no sound-proofing on the walls. Like this is a storage room they just threw a bunch of instruments in and then forgot about.

Well damn.

After seeing so many of the other rooms in the mansion I was expecting something a lot nicer than this. At least a room that was finished, you know? Not a glorified closet.

It's pretty much the definition of an anticlimax.

"We've never really had a music teacher," Hank explains apologetically. I guess he can see the dissatisfaction that I can't hide on my face. "So I never got around to finishing this room."

"What's the point of having it, then?" I ask, and I might sound a little snippy. I almost wish he'd told me they didn't have one when I asked about it, you know? Could've saved me the major disappointment.

"The kids like to come in here sometimes to goof off," Hank tells me. "And... maybe one day we'll get a teacher. Then I'll finish it."

I snort. "Or maybe you should finish it first, and use that to lure a teacher in," I mutter. I can't really imagine how any self-respecting teacher would agree to work in here without knowing what the finished product looked like.

Out of an almost morbid curiosity I step closer to the dusty baby grand piano in the center of the space- is it even in tune, or is it in as bad a shape as the rest of this room?

The sad thing is that it's a really beautiful instrument, too. Like, way nicer than anything I've ever played. The fact that it's just sitting here, unused and dusty, is practically a crime.

Don't these people have any culture? Jeez.

I press a few of the keys and breathe a sigh of relief. "Still in tune."

"You play?" Hank asks.

I nod. "This and guitar, but that's about it."

He steps closer, so he's at my side again. "How'd you learn?"

"My dad," I reply quietly, taking a seat on the piano bench. "The human."

For a moment I stare blankly, remembering the way it seemed like my dad's strong, work-reddened hands almost flew across the keys when he played on our little upright.

It's getting harder and harder to picture it as the years go by. I'm afraid one day I won't even remember the sound of his velvety baritone voice or the look on my mom's face when he sang for her...

I swallow thickly.

My father was a sweet, gentle man who worked hard at the local mill to provide for us all. He was a logger by occupation, but if you asked him how he defined himself as a person, I bet he would've called himself a musician and a father first. The fact that he was the only human in a family full of mutants never seemed to bother him any. Actually, this whole obsession of a line between the species that his sons have started to spout would've been a foreign concept to him.

How many people do I know like that nowadays? People who don't give a shit who or what you are, as long as they can count on you as a friend? Marcel, Mr. Cole and my other buddies in Hell's Kitchen are pretty much the only ones I can think of. I definitely can't say the same of most of the mutants I know.

"You ever notice how a lot of mutants see themselves only through that prism?" I wonder aloud. "Like, being a mutant is the only way they can see themselves, because that's all that anyone else sees. Not musicians, or lovers or even friends. Just... mutants."

"You don't get that so much around here," Hank replies softly as he takes the seat next to me. "We want the kids to know that what they are is only a mere part of who they are."

I chuckle bitterly. "Must be a Brotherhood thing, then," I mutter. I reach out and skim my fingers across the keys without pressing down. "They're all too busy being 'mutant and proud' to really be anything else. God, I think it's been over a year now since I even touched a piano."

Ever since that terrible day when James and Myles broke my poor little piano...

"Maybe you should play something?"

My smile is a little anxious- my first time playing in forever, and I've got an audience, great. I really do want to play, though, so it's a risk I'm willing to take. "Only if you promise not to laugh if I'm terrible," I plead. God, I hope I don't suck. "It really has been a long time."

"I promise."

"Good. Now, just so we're clear- if you laugh, I'm going to punch you."

Hank swallows nervously. "Deal."

I take a deep breath and place my hands on the keys. "Alright, here goes."

And I start to play one of my favorite songs of all time, Pachelbel's Canon, from memory. I make it through the introduction fine, and then through the next few bars-

Wait, that's the wrong part. Shit.

I hit a couple bad notes as I try to smoothly transition back into it, but then I psych myself out and my fingers suddenly lose their rhythm. I don't even remember how to go on.

In that instant it's like I've completely forgotten how to play.

"Dammit!" I whisper, shaking my head frantically.

No way. This can't be happening, it can't.

"Don't pressure yourself too much, Vivien," Hank murmurs soothingly. "You said it's been a while."

"You don't understand," I retort. Without even meaning to, I blurt out something I've never told anyone. "Music is- it's the way I keep my dad alive for me. It's the one thing I can do that actually feels like it's a purely positive force in the world. Because even when I'm trying to help mutants I'm still hurting people, you know? But this... with this I feel like I can create something good, rather than destroying things. Without it, what am I?"

Jesus, what an embarrassingly personal and- and private thing to admit out loud. Especially to him, you know?

To make my humiliation even worse I can feel tears stinging my eyes.

You cut that shit out right now, Babineaux, I scold myself.

"Vivien," Hank whispers.

He reaches out and wraps his arms around me, and I immediately stop tearing up and just melt into him. I can't really help it, dammit. There's just something so right about Hank holding me like this. I can't explain it any other way.

"Give yourself a moment and try again. I'm sure you haven't really forgotten how to play- you're just rusty is all," he assures me.

I sure as hell hope so.

For a minute I just let him hold me, leaning my head against his chest and breathing in his fresh, clean Hank smell while I calm down some more. I kinda want to keep sitting like this, but I also don't want to seem like some super clingy crazy woman.

"Ok," I say, pulling away and smoothing my dress. I close my eyes. "Ok, let's try this again."

This time I decide to play one of my songs, and it goes about a million times better than before. I think it's because the songs I write are so much a part of me that I don't have to really think about playing them, no matter how long it's been. The music just flows out naturally from my fingertips.

And so do the words. For the first time in a good long while, I start to sing:

"When the sun came up/ We were sleeping in/ Sunk inside our blankets/ Sprawled across the bed/ And we were dreaming-"

I'm surprised to find that it doesn't feel awkward to perform in front of Hank like this. I kinda expected it to, since for me music is a really intimate thing in the first place and an audience of one is sometimes more stressful than a room full of people, if that makes any sense.

Instead I grow more confident under his watching eyes, hearing his encouraging words.

"You're amazing," he tells me, and it's pretty obvious from his admiring expression that he means it. "Truly, Vivien. You're very talented."

My face gets a little hot hearing such sincere praise.

Don't judge me, alright? I'm just as much of a sucker for compliments as the next girl, ok?

"Want me to teach you some?" I ask after a while.

Hank shakes his head. "No, thank you," he replies quickly. "I'm about as musical as a tone deaf rock."

I laugh. "What kind of rocks aren't tone deaf, Hank?" I tease.

He chuckles sheepishly. "Just trust me," he insists. "Don't waste your time. I'd much rather listen to you. Your voice is... I honestly think I could listen to you all day."

Again, I feel myself blushing. Because even if he's exaggerating (something that I don't think he does all that often, anyway) I'm still really flattered, you know?

Jesus, it's like he's turning me into a real girl or something.

"Why, thank you," I say coyly, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

I can't help giggling when he flushes, too.

Eventually Hank says he's getting hungry. "How about you?" he asks. "You only had that muffin you stole for breakfast, didn't you?"

I nod uneasily, remembering the surly blonde reason I had to skip out on breakfast. I really don't want to go back in there and deal with the hostile stares and comments again. And what if one of the X-Men tries to confront me like Storm and Havok did already? Ugh.

"I'll go get us something and bring it back," Hank assures me, "like yesterday."

"Thank you," I tell him gratefully.

He winces in sympathy- I'm guessing because he understand how bad this sucks for me. I've been doing my best not to bother anyone, but the others keep trying to pick fights. It's just not fair.

But it's also understandable, isn't it? I'm a Brotherhood member on their turf, after all. They've got every reason to be mistrustful.

And then Hank, Hank's been caught in the middle this whole time. His teammates on one side, and his friend (I don't think I'm being too flattering if I call myself that, at least) on the other. The poor guy.

"I'll be right back," he says, standing up and heading for the door.

"Hey, Hank?" I blurt out.

He turns to look at me. "Yes?"

I'm sorry it has to be like this, baby, I want to say. I really am.

But instead I swallow and grin cheekily at him. "Make sure you get me something chocolate."

"I'll consider it," Hank replies. His chuckles give me butterflies again.

I sigh and roll my eyes at myself after he steps out. You've got it for him so bad, Babineaux. What are you going to do?

The truth is, I don't know.

I know I'm falling for him, hard. I mean, how can I not? Hank is everything I could ever want in a guy- sweet, funny, smart, and sexy as fuck. And even though that scares the living shit out of me, I really can't stop these feelings.

These feelings all started at Alkali Lake, and now they're only getting deeper as I spend more time with him. And God damn, it's so easy, so natural to feel this way about Hank.

I guess maybe that's why they call it falling in love, right? It takes a whole lot of effort to stay upright, and none at all to let yourself go.

Jesus Christ, I'm an idiot.

For the past few minutes while musing about my Hank problem I've been absently tapping on the piano keys. Nothing in particular at first, really.

But now it comes to me, already completely formed and perfect.

It's this wistful, plaintive melody that I can channel all of my feelings for Hank into- the lyrics are already there in my head and everything. Judging from how complete it is I have a funny feeling that this has been lurking somewhere inside me for a while, just waiting for me to have an opportunity to play it. Music is like that for me sometimes.

"It's obvious you're meant for me/ Every piece of you, it just fits perfectly/ Every second, every thought, I'm in so deep/ But I'll never show it on my face/ But we know this, we got a love that is homeless-"

I'm so absorbed that it takes me a minute to realize I have an audience again, watching me from the doorway.

And this time it's not Hank.

Uh oh.