A/N: If anybody remembers this story, I'm sorry it took so long to update. I had the worse case of writers block in existence. As always, please let me know if you like, or dislike, this installment.
Hank McCoy was fast. Even as a child, before his mutation had manifested, he'd won scores of first and second place ribbons in his school track and field days. He was always picked first for after-class games of soccer and football, only because his speed made up for his lack of coordination when a ball was concerned. Upon entering adulthood, and learning of his mutagenic condition, he had still taken it upon himself to maintain his shape and ability. For a while, it was for nothing but his piece of mind. After meeting Professor Xavier, however, his penchant for running and staying in shape had translated into another asset for the team.
Not one of his childhood ribbons could help him catch an upset and bothered Remy LeBeau, though. The man seemed to have given stealth and speed a new definition, and thus given Hank a new standard to judge himself by. He couldn't have possibly been more than five or ten seconds behind the younger man, but Hank discovered, as he wandered through the main floor of the mansion, there was no sign of him anywhere. Hank knew better than to check Remy's room; that hiding spot would be too obvious even for a small child playing hide and seek. It seemed an insurmountable obstacle, to find one man among the hundred acres of land upon which the mansion stood. A man like Remy, who could blend into the wallpaper if need be, made it exponentially harder. But concern for the Cajun motivated Hank better than anything else ever could, and so he kept up his search.
And once again, persistence seemed to have paid off when he passed the mansion's kitchen, and spied Jubilee crouching on the floor, scooping up a small mountain of spaghetti and meatballs. Her expression and whole demeanor could only be described as irate. He approached her cautiously; she had somewhat of a reputation as a butter fingers with the other students, and she became rather angry when confronted with proof of the nickname.
"Would you like some help, my dear?"
She whirled around on him in a way that made him wish fervently that his last will and testament were in order.
"You can start by stringing up that damn Cajun by his toenails," she snapped, before grabbing a roll of paper towels off the counter to assist in clean-up. Hank frowned, but didn't comment on her choice of language. Hanging out with Logan had not only affected her vocabulary, it had also made her temper much more potent. "He tore through here like the seat of his pants was on fire, and knocked me right down. Didn't even stop to apologize."
Hank glanced up to the open door beyond Jubilee, leading out to the slate patio off the kitchen. And just like that, he knew where Remy had gone. He dragged the garbage can over to Jubilee's side, and without another word left the kitchen. He should've guessed an unconventional man like Remy would've chosen an unconventional hideout.
He stepped onto the stone patio, and craned his neck to study the heavy wooden trellis that ran up all three stories of the mansion. For nearly anyone else, such a feat as climbing up an apparent flimsy structure like the trellis was a death wish. For a man of Hank's agility and grace, however, it was a walk in the park. He made short work of the great height, and soon stood looking out over the grounds that seemed to stretch on forever.
Hank eventually found Remy on the roof of the mansion's east wing, sitting with his legs dangling over the gutter, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring out over the grounds. If Hank had seen anyone else sitting that closely to the edge, he might've been worried. But he had confidence in Remy's skills, and knew that even if the young Cajun were to fall, his natural agility and quick thinking would ensure he was not injured.
Hearing Hank's claws click against the tiles of the roof, Remy turned around slowly, and regarded Hank with an even eyed gaze. "Je regrette, Henri. I don' have any bourbon to cry in. I'll let you know when I refill m'stock, enh?"
Hank crossed the length of copper tiled roof that separated them, and crouched next to Remy, casting a casual eye over the view before them. He didn't say anything. Although he was not very well versed in matters of psychology, he nonetheless felt with a strange conviction that Remy should be the first one to bring up what had happened. It did occur to him that he could grow old and waste away while waiting, but, nonetheless, it seemed like a good idea.
Remy cleared his throat, reached into one of many pockets in his ever-present duster, and pulled out a creased pack of marlboros. Being the gentleman he was, he offered one to Hank (who politely declined), before lighting his own with his fingertip. He puffed quietly on the cigarette, leaned back on his elbows and blew smoke rings out into the air.
If Hank didn't know there was something wrong, he might've believed the casual relaxed pose for what Remy intended. But as it was, he noticed the slight tremble to the cigarette held in his fingers, the tense muscles around his mouth and eyes. He itched to say something, anything, to make the younger man feel better, be more comfortable, but he was at a loss as to what that might be, if such words even existed.
He blew out a soft sigh, and settled back on the roof. It really was quiet peaceful up there, he decided. It was no wonder Remy so often retreated to the solitude the roof offered. Hank allowed his eyes to close, letting the various sounds of the grounds wash over him. The crickets singing away in the bushes at ground level, a group of children playing an after school basketball game, the distant sound of someone, most assuredly Logan, revving a motorcycle…
"Wasn't a panic attack."
The words came as a surprise. Hank wasn't expecting a response from Remy this side of the century, and to hear one so soon was astonishing. He turned slightly on the tile, taking in the Cajun's tense profile. "All right, Remy. What was it then?"
The younger man frowned, as though he was actually considering the question. "I dunno. But it wasn't a panic attack, or an anxiety attack, or whatever else y't'ink it was."
Hank nodded to himself. "Okay. But you do understand why I feel it necessary to find out exactly what it was. Until we know what caused the episode, and fix it, the Professor and Scott will not allow you to take part in any training sessions or missions."
Remy looked over sharply. It wasn't like Hank to make empty threats. He had no doubt that the consequences he mentioned were real, but he was having a hard time caring in light of all that had just gone on.
"I ain't been on a mission since I got back, Henri. What makes y't'ink I miss 'em now, let alone in the near future?"
Hank sighed, and allowed his chin to drop to his chest. "You're not fooling me, Remy," he said, his words muffled by his chest. "I know you are an intensely private, and proud man. I know both these forces are pushing at each other. You don't want to let anybody in, but at the same time, you don't want to admit defeat. For you, not being allowed to go on missions isn't an issue of like or dislike. It's all about pride. You hate being told you can't do something. But I have to tell you. The Professor is quite adamant on these conditions. I'm afraid you can't charm yourself out of this situation. The only way to satisfy the Charles, and myself, is to submit for a complete physical, preferably sooner rather than later."
Remy was silent. He lied back on the tiles, hands folded on his stomach while puffing quietly on the cigarette. He seemed to be mulling over Hank's proposition, but the doctor wasn't about to make any assumptions. The Cajun was extremely difficult to read; as far as Hank understood, even telepaths had a hard time getting a reading on him. And as far as negotiations went, Hank knew he was supporting a very weak argument. There was nothing he could offer Remy that the man didn't already have, or had never desired to possess. He could only hope that the Cajun would make the mature decision, and side with his health for once.
Although, he didn't seem too concerned about it. In the time Hank had been pondering the situation, Remy had lit up a second cigarette, and was now sucking happily away on it.
"I don't believe I have to tell you how harmful smoking it to your health."
Remy looked over in astonishment. "Y'don't say. Never heard dat one b'fore. Next t'ing, dey'll be tellin' people it causes cancer or somet'in'."
He smirked in self-satisfaction, and turned back to regard the view, cigarette held loosely between his lips.
Hank was not amused. "Remy, you can use all the sarcasm in the world, and the Shi'ar Kingdom besides, but I'm not going away. I'm not going to let you sabotage your life again."
Remy didn't respond for a long minute. Instead, he turned his head away from Hank, chin against the lapel of his duster as though he were trying to hide his face. Hank was overcome with an inexplicable urge to rest a hand on the younger man's shoulder, provide the kind of silent support he knew Remy accepted from Ororo, and sometimes Jean. But Hank was not a fool. He knew full well that touching the Cajun at this point, or any point really, would likely end in loss of one or more limbs. But nonetheless, Remy LeBeau seemed to inspire a sort of latent fatherly concern in Hank, something he had never felt before, certainly not in the company of someone who so clearly did not want him around. There was something in Remy's eyes, he decided; some kind of emotion that he could name no easier than he could describe. Whatever it is, something in Hank commiserated with it, and wanted to help. Too bad Remy didn't accept the help of others.
"Dis ain't gonna work," Remy replied finally. "Y'can't use any o'dat emotional shit to get me to do whatevah it is y'want. It might work on de other X-Men, but not dis ol' Cajun. Tell de Prof he can shove his missions where de sun don' shine."
Without another word, Remy rose with a surprising grace, considering not only what he had been through during the past hour, but also given the steepness and slight slippery quality of the copper tiles. He moved past Hank towards the trellis, and disappeared over the edge of the roof.
Hank watched him go with a crestfallen look. He had lost a battle, but the war was far from over. He would get the younger mutant to the med-bay one way or another. He just wished fervently that when it happened, Remy came under his own power, and not carried in on a stretcher.