professor_cx (professor_cx) wrote in firstclassrpg, @ 2011-07-29 23:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! complete, # day 1, charles xavier, hank mccoy |
Who: Hank McCoy and Charles Xavier.
Where: Midflight; American Airlines.
When: Day One; January 15th, 1963
Rating: Teen.
Summary: Hank and Charles come to realize that while Plan A is possible, it’s also naively optimistic.
The human memory was an odd intangible force, one that had a reach far beyond what most people credited it for. For Charles, he saw evidence of that fact daily. Some of his own memories were so painfully muted that they could have easily been considered forgotten, yet he experienced those of others with such sharp recollection that they became his own. In the past, he had precisely replicated Shaw’s appearance from the memories of the teleporter down to the last measured detail. However, over the course of the last week, Charles’ own memories hadn’t been enough to fully paint Hank’s illusion. For all that he had accepted the mutation of his friend’s appearance, he still remembered a great many details of who Hank had been before: the way his brows would pinch in concentration, exactly where his glasses fell on his nose (and their exact slide down its slope). But these were all small things; the larger picture had long since been tucked away. Until he drew more, the illusion had been lacking- jerky in a way that Emma Frost would have almost certainly mocked.
Mercifully, Sean and Alex provided the rest of the puzzle- having seen Hank in a separate light from Charles altogether. With them, it was easier to smooth away the edges of the ‘beast’. Collectively, their memories were capable of chiseling those edges back into the muted and understated features of a hopeful but painfully insecure boy.
It was a marvel of an illusion, even if Charles was uncomfortable feeding directly into Hank’s insecurities regarding his appearance. It had gotten them through the airport terminals, through the absolute ordeal of actually boarding the plane, the slight humiliation the came from needing Hank’s help moving from one seat to another. Through take-off; which was made all the more impressive due to the fact that the last time Charles had been on an aircraft, it had crashed spectacularly.
“I miss the safety harness,” he said after depositing his brandy on the tray. Charles unbuckled the lap-belt as instructed. “This thing hardly seems like enough.”
“It’s highly unlikely that this plane will be spinning upside down,” Hank replied mildly from the next seat over, not quite looking up from his newspaper. Despite the casualness of his reply, it was evident from the tautness of his frame and the slight tremor of the pages in his hands that Hank’s nerves were on edge. Unlike Charles, he had experienced very little discomfort with the actual flight (though he knew if he had been piloting, they might have avoided the abundant turbulence that had rocked the cabin for several minutes). He was more concerned with the presence of so many people. Hank had actually been looking forward to being out in public again; he had thought it would be like being his old self. He had thought it would be a relief to march around freely among normal people, protected by Charles’ mental influence from stares, whispers, fright. But instead, he felt in a constant state of unease, afraid that at any moment the illusion might falter and there would be a horrible public scene - with him playing not the hero, but the monster. For the first time, he thought maybe he understood what Raven had gone through, hiding under a mask that could break too easily if she suffered a lack of concentration - and thinking of her did nothing beneficial for his mood.
Now, he was veritably trapped here in the cabin of the plane, with nothing but Charles’ focus between him and the judgment of the multiple other people on board, and no possible escape in the instance of failure except to lock himself in the bathroom. Or leap from several thousand feet. He couldn’t deny that thought had crossed his mind, however fleetingly.
He tried to focus on the reason why they were out at all - and his gut fluttered, this time in excitement. The presentation on Cerebro promised to be fascinating, and Hank could not deny himself some of the pride associated with having his work presented in such a public scientific arena. Then again - his thoughts circled back to square one - it was disappointing that he couldn’t be there as himself to receive some of the acclaim.
“Did you want this section? I’m finished with it.” He often relied on such idle, automatic sorts of table talk with Charles. It helped him avoid addressing the uncomfortable reality that the man had immediate access to every thought roiling beneath the surface of their superficial conversation.
“Yes, thank you.” Charles said. They were essentially two ancient men around one another, splitting the paper at the breakfast table, jointly arguing over the crossword. It was funny that they had found each other in all of this, two men with the same genetic alteration of intellect, which was astoundingly not the extent of their similarities. As much as Hank grumbled, Charles enjoyed his company immensely. “I’ve forgotten how much that I’ve missed the paper.” The newsprint crinkled beneath his fingers comfortingly; even its smell was soothing.
Hank’s nerves kept plucking at the forefront of Charles’ mind, and when he took the paper from the scientist, he paused before letting Hank release it. He met the younger man’s eyes kindly. “Don’t,” he warned. “We’ve made it this far, my friend.” The whole experience of prolonged illusion was new enough that Charles was legitimately afraid of betraying Hank’s true appearance, and his trust. This skill had never truly been tested, and was pitiful in comparison to Emma’s mastery of it. She’d looked bored in Russia, as if she were changing channels on the telly, or waiting for an over-late bus. In comparison, every part of him felt stretched and his mental facilities grew sore against the strain. I will try not to let you down, but I need you to trust me. He could hold the illusion for a while longer, but it was very possible that Hank would have to excuse himself to the bathroom in order for Charles to seek a moment of reprieve before they landed.
He rubbed the corner of his eye. “This,” He stressed, hoping to indicate the illusion. “Wouldn’t have been possible without you, you know. Cerebro, what it did for me, it goes beyond amplifying power. I can’t even begin to explain the knowledge that I’ve gained about my limits because of your work. I owe you a great deal of gratitude.”
Of course, Charles was never very good at maintaining that front of superficiality, as if pretending he couldn’t read Hank’s mind was somehow outside his imagination. Maybe it was. Charles had that peculiar arrogance that was at once irritating and endearing; it seemed to enable him to forget that polite boundaries existed in conversation, never mind around people’s minds. Not that Hank could ever usually trump Charles in terms of social niceties; it just seemed like the other man thought that since he could read others’ minds, there was no sense not doing so, and certainly no sense in not bringing up what he found. Hank couldn’t help but feel some jealousy over Charles’ apparent acceptance of his ability as simply an extension of himself - then again, that was easy for him, wasn’t it? It didn’t show.
Hank gave him a tight smile, finally meeting his eyes. He did trust Charles, or at least his intentions, or he would not have even considered setting foot off the Westchester grounds. He might have said so, but Charles continued, and the nosing into his thoughts was all but forgiven as he was flooded by the flush of warmth that accompanies genuine praise. Still, Charles was going to have to read his mind to tell that his compliment was accepted; the habit of self-deprecation ran too deeply in Hank’s nature to allow him to accept thanks. Instead, his automatic reaction was almost apologetic, though he intended it primarily to be matter-of-fact. “We’ll have to be more careful with it this time. We were lucky - I was too excited about it at the time to think about the damage it could do.” He paused for a moment, remembering again Erik’s assessment of Charles as a lab rat; it continued to give him a sense of guilt, even if this particular lab rat had been very willing. “The presentation will be useful for determining what measures we might need to take based on the readings. Dr. Green has always been very thorough.”
At his tender age - perhaps even in spite of his age - Hank had a wealth of accomplishments, yet virtually no self esteem in regard to any of them. “Hank,” Charles intoned quietly. His lips pressed in parental concern, but he cut off any warning or advice that was gathering at the tip of his tongue. While there were few things more subjective than personal pride, Charles didn’t understand the younger man’s unending fount of modesty. Some of Hank’s innovations, which were all remarkable and beyond the scope of even modern science fiction, Hank introduced with near clinical detachment. Any success he achieved was immediately paled; had the experiment been flawlessly executed, the scientist would have immediately proposed how it could have been improved. Had the device exceeded even Charles’ expectations, the result wasn’t quite what Hank intended, and therefore a failure. “‘Lucky’ would imply that I was in the hands of someone with no skill. That was never the case.”
Charles felt Hank’s reaction to the praise, even if the boy gave no outward response to it. “A man is entitled to a little pride, now and again.” In the fraction of an instant, anything parental was wiped entirely from his face, replaced with subdued mischief. “I won’t tell the others. I promise.”
His gaze was rerouted to the flight attendant. She smiled prettily at anyone who garnered an ounce of her focus, as was her job, and she briefly paused in order to offer both men an additional drink or a cigarette with a flirtatious flip of her hair. Charles had a momentary flash of panic, the very same leap one experienced when encountering one more stair than they had anticipated, once she reached for Hank’s shoulder. The illusion held, but Charles momentarily squeezed his eyes shut in order to focus on what a shoulder felt like beneath his own hand. Chances were that he looked absurd, or affected by a sudden mental defect. He only opened his eyes once the desired sensation had been secured, “Nothing for me, love. Thank you.”
Hank managed to permit himself another small smile, if a somewhat befuddled one. Charles was a unique sort of man, devoting himself to the protection and education of what amounted to a ragtag team of social misfits. Hank could never be quite sure of his motivations, except that they were well-intentioned. The confidence he had in Hank was not something altogether novel - he’d been labeled a genius at puberty, accepted to a top-ranked school at age fifteen, and hired on by the CIA quite shortly following that - but the frequency with which it was expressed was certainly outside of Hank’s experience. That, coupled with Charles’ unmistakable concern, made the man something of an oddity in Hank’s eyes, and one he was not always sure what to make of, having never been exposed to his brand of care. Hank’s parents were educated, ambitious people who had had much more important affairs to consider than coddling their child, who after all had succeeded in every way important to them. He had never resented their lack of parental concern, had not even known it was missing, until recently; the realisation made him more uncomfortable than grateful.
Charles’ humour, on the other hand, was easier to work with. “Yes, I’d hate for Alex to think I’d developed a big head. ‘Big foot’ was enough.” Remarkably - he surprised even himself - he managed to keep bitterness out of his tone; instead there was only the wry acknowledgement of what had been and what was. He was trying. It was easiest to hide behind humour, right?
They were interrupted, and Hank was once again on alert. It took an enormous amount of willpower to crush his initial instinct, which was to jerk away from her touch. He stiffened, but tried to soften this with a quick, nervous smile. “No, thank you, that’s fine.” He was relieved that, at least, his voice didn’t crack from the strain. She moved on, and he let out a breath. Hank was sure that she was used to men fumbling over themselves in front of her; he’d certainly fumbled in front of a fair few pretty women in his life. It was just the nature of the beast.
He looked again at Charles, finally - he hadn’t dared look before out of fear he’d break his concentration. “Are you all right?” he murmured, noticing the strain on the other man’s face.
“A beautiful woman touches you,” Charles said while opening his eyes. “And you’re worried about me?” The mischief struck out and found its foundation upon bravado. It was clunky, and almost immediately he regretted it. Hank was introverted enough that Charles shouldn’t push him away, not even in friendly jest. His gaze softened a degree, and he swiftly squeezed Hank’s shoulder. Without worrying about supplying his own mind with the sensation, it was disparaging to feel the muscle and deeply warmblooded heat beneath stretched fabric. It was absolutely impossible to rationalize the touch with the boy’s false appearance. “I didn’t account for touch. She startled me, nothing more.” He dropped his hand, “Thank you for your concern, but for now... I’m well enough to keep on.”
Part of Charles was glad that Alex wasn’t aboard the flight. As much as Charles appreciated alternative viewpoints, even those as seemingly mean-spirited as Alex’s, Hank was under enough pressure. This charade was entirely dependent on the both of them remaining calm. If Hank was worried about Alex, or if Alex roused Hank’s temper, Charles’ focus would quickly crumble. “I’d say that he means well, but I’m not so sure that he does,” he said fondly. “Solitary confinement wasn’t as good for him as he wishes to believe. Alex is still learning how to be around people again, and I’m not so sure that he was ever good with them to begin with.” The Summers boys, from what Charles had garnered, were complicated. “Each of us is more complicated than credited for.”
Hank did his best not to scowl at Charles’ joke, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered stifling expressions around him - except, perhaps, to practice his self-control, which he found slipping from him far too easily of late. He said nothing, but he couldn’t help but think about how that beautiful woman wouldn’t have touched him at all if she’d been able to see him. That no woman would. Except maybe Raven, but he’d pretty much blown that chance completely, hadn’t he?
Maybe it wasn’t so easy to hide behind humour after all.
He accepted the change of subject gladly, if only because thinking about Charles’ sister was really awkward when Charles knew what he was thinking. “The CIA has done meticulous research on the effects of solitary confinement on an individual’s thought patterns. I can’t really blame him for being....” He waved a hand, trying to think of the most diplomatic word possible. “Impolite.” He really held very little hostility for Alex, despite everything. Of course, he had trouble holding much hostility toward anyone, except maybe himself.
After a moment’s silence, Hank met Charles’ gaze, pursing his lips. “You’re right though. We are all complicated.” Messed up, was more like it. “Are you sure you can handle more of us running around your house?” Charles was an idealist; he wanted to help everyone. But if the rest of the mutants they came across came with baggage of their own, Hank wasn’t sure how the man might deal with everyone else’s problems on his mind.
“There’s a good chap,” Charles said. In October, things had been quite tense between Hank and Alex. Alex was too cavalier with biting words and Hank ultimately sensitive regarding his appearance. Charles was a compassionate man who wanted the two to set aside their differences, or find an equilibrium. They needn’t operate by Charles’ definition of peace, but they did need to find a mutual definition that worked for the both of them. From what he could gather, they weren’t all there, but it was reassuring to hear that Hank was quite forgiving of past grievances. “It’s remarkable what the CIA has and hasn’t done research on,” he pulled a dignified face that seemed playfully in thought. “I suppose we’re quite lucky that the extent of Alex’s... rudeness... is just an occasional off-hand remark. He could have fared far worse in prison.” Walking to collect Alex had been proof of that enough- the inmates had varied from petty thugs to those who were at their base foundation unforgivably cruel, and their headspaces hadn’t boded well for Alex’s alternate future. Whatever made his expression playful disappeared, though he found a moment of solace in the newspaper.
“I can do more than handle it,” Charles said fondly. The school was a dream he hadn’t formed until a few months ago, but the passion with which he took to it made Charles believe that it was what he had wanted all along. Dreams were funny in that respect, and he recognized that this one had taken him wholly. “If each student is even a modicum of the joy that you, Alex, and Sean are, then I’ll be a happy man for a long time to come. I can’t think of a better use for the house, or my time.” He turned to glance at Hank again, “We’ve not really talked about whether or not you are ready, though. It’s a big commitment for everyone, but with everything that you’ve been through, I can understand if you wish to take things slowly.”
Was he ready? Hank hesitated, pulling at a loose thread in his slacks out of nervous habit. He had grown comfortable with the Westchester estate as it was - vast and largely unoccupied. There was the little community of familiar faces and Charles’ companionship; this, Hank thought, was more than enough. He had never felt in his element in social settings and, though he hadn’t given it much thought until now, he was uneasy about the idea of a mansion crawling with people of every persuasion. Not only that, but Charles wanted him to teach them. Hank had headed straight for the pool of “do” rather than “teach” and was decidedly reluctant to leave it, especially looking as he was. The lab afforded him a privacy from staring eyes and he would much rather devote his time there.
Rather than voice any of that, however, Hank settled on withdrawing a pencil from his breast pocket and filling in the word “evasive” in 21 Down on the newspaper’s crossword puzzle. “I am at your disposal,” he said simply. On a practical level, Hank considered it only fair trade to offer his services for Charles’ dream: he was staying in the man’s house, after all, and utilizing his facilities. On a more personal level, however, Charles had become a friend, and one to whom he owed a great deal.
He peered again at the crossword puzzle and frowned. They had never been truly challenging for him, but this was ridiculous. “They’re not even trying,” he complained.
“You’re going to be a miracle for some child, Hank.” Charles said cautiously. Hank’s newfound beastly appearance only exacerbated the man’s social discomfort, and while Charles wanted to reassure his friend aloud, there was only so much that he could say in the open cabin of the aircraft. On this matter, speaking to Hank telepathically might even be construed as a gross violation of his friend’s mind. Hank was often so reclusive that lines weren’t often visible until after they had been crossed, but Charles didn’t need to intrude on the scientist’s mind in order to vehemently believe that the problem was rooted with his mutation. Hank’s silence, his mindless tugging of loose threads, and the focusing on the crossword allowed no other interpretation. ‘Evasive’ was a word more serendipitous word than Hank might ever realize. “Truly,” He canted his head in an effort to draw Hank’s gaze. No matter what he believed, Raven wouldn’t be the only person to ever look at Hank and accept his appearance. Tomorrow or ten years from then, some child was going to take Hank in- blue fur and all- and see a kindred for the first time. It was a beautiful, precious inevitability. Charles’ expression softened just thinking about it. ‘You’re going to be able to help children that I couldn’t dream of connecting with. They’ll see you and realize that knowing you was what they never knew they needed. I believe nothing more, my friend.’
Charles wasn’t naive enough to believe that an Academy for mutants would run entirely on dreams. It would start one, but for every person who Charles sought to enrich, there would be one who needed more than he could give. Raven had begrudged his personal mutation because it was invisible. She wouldn’t be the only one to ever feel that way. As much as mutants needed universal acceptance, they needed the understanding of one another more.
It was heartening to hear that Hank was at his disposal, but Hank was pivotal to the institution- not just for the things he could do, or for his intellect, but for who he was. ‘None of us are alone... but right now, I have no doubt that there’s a child out there who feels as if they are the only physically altered mutant in the world. Together, we’re going to find them and show them differently.’
Charles didn’t often spend much time on the crossword. He spent any spare time afforded to him reading. The crossword proved to be the perfect way out of the conversation for Hank though. Gently, Charles disengaged from Hank’s mind. “Maybe you should retire from science and start your own series of crossword puzzles... though, I doubt that the average subscriber would appreciate ‘allele’ or ‘pyrimidine’ showing up as 11 across. Methylation and DNA aren’t nearly as inviting as general trivia.”
“I can’t retire from science,” Hank replied deftly, latching onto the thread of conversation that made him least vulnerable. “It would be like retiring from breathing. Still, your idea has its merits.” He lowered the pencil and rubbed his thumb along the dulled tip of it, colouring it grey with the worrying of it. He let out a sigh that had nothing whatever to do with the poor quality of the crossword.
Charles was right - there probably were children out there, somewhere, feeling just as he did now, but that did not fill him with any sense of peace. It did not inspire him to prove to them that they could be just as accepted as any other child -- which could only be what Charles was intending. How could he prove to them something so patently false? Though Hank regretted every word he had said to Raven the night of his transformation, the fact remained that most of it had been true: society’s idea of beauty would not match up to her appearance, nor his, nor that of any other mutant like them. It was fact. They would be outcasts based only on their looks, probably for their whole lives. All that inspired him to do was find a cure, and though his first had failed, he couldn’t help but hold to the belief that all that was needed was a re-evaluation. As he’d said, he could not retire from science - nor from what had, at least in part, driven him to it in the first place. From the moment he’d known he was different, he had hoped to find a way to change that.
“It seems to me that after this expo, the average subscriber will be much more aware of DNA... and all of its implications,” Hank said distantly, leaving such thoughts behind in an effort to conceal them..
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to, Hank.” Science was Hank’s life, there was no way around it. He saw the world in terms of it, drew boundaries in accordance to it, and used it’s rules and limitations to define his own. Charles understood it to an extent. While he was obsessed with the nature of genetics, science was so much more than basic understanding for Hank. “It’s very much a part of you. It would be like me asking you to... deliberately breathe from only one lung.”
Charles frowned, deeply affected by things that were never actually said. He supposed that it was one of the drawbacks of being a telepath. People could communicate anything free of guilt or responsibility, yet he heard it regardless. He heard callousness beneath a dishonestly kind face, and he read Hank’s bitterness and regret as if they had been transcripted for him. His eyes flickered over to Hank, betraying a deep emotional connection to what the scientist thought. “It’s not false,” he said, at a loss. How could he continue spouting off dreams about mutant equality to a man he knew felt the weight of some imagined hierarchy? “It’s not false if we accept them as any other child. It’s not false if we nurture children otherwise cast out. They need homes, and they need acceptance. We can’t change the world all at once, Hank- but we have a responsibility to find and care for one another if at all possible.”
His eyebrows knitted as he rested back in his seat. “Do you think that I need a cure?”
Hank's back and shoulders bristled with tension as Charles chose to ignore the illusion of normalcy for the moment by responding to his thoughts rather than his words. It had been a flimsy illusion, as such conversations always were, but Hank had hoped to maintain it despite all Charles' attempts otherwise. He had been forgiving thus far - and he usually was, since Charles was his friend and, after all, very mild-mannered even in his intrusions. This time, though, something in Charles' tone - accusation perhaps - truly rankled him. He felt irritation work its way steadily along his nerves as Charles spoke, until by the time the man had finished, it had become something more like anger. It was a sudden and shocking sort of alteration in his mood that had become much too common lately; here, nervous already in the crowded cabin, Hank had little patience to bite his tongue.
"Maybe you do," he bit out, looking up sharply. "At least for your inability to respect someone else's privacy."
It wasn't so much that he thought Charles was wrong, but whatever point the man had was lost in Hank's indignation. To be challenged for a thought -- a thought he had tried to hide, a thought that was embarrassing and secret and perhaps even ugly -- and then to be asked that question, as if it was a fair one, as if telepathy was anywhere near the curse that being a monster was-- was too much to bear. It was too much to bear being next to Charles, too, because something in him - he thought it must be that animal part of him, that all of them had but especially him, especially now - really just wanted to punch Charles in the face. And as that would just draw the attention Hank had been trying to avoid, it seemed the best course of action now was getting as far away as possible.
He stood quickly, intent on reaching the plane's bathrooms so Charles could read his mind as he took a dump, if he was so inclined - and accidentally knocked into the flight attendant.
Charles stiffened too, but tempered any further response. Biting back would force them further apart, and that was not what Charles wanted. Anger had no place in a conversation about hope or acceptance, and even if Hank hadn’t removed himself from the seat, Charles would have granted him the solitude that he desired. The conversation was an important one, one that did need to happen before Hank was forced in with students and children, but Charles feared for the man as much as he was frustrated by him. He rubbed the inside of his right eye with one finger, trying not to take Hank’s acidic comment any further to heart.
Looking back, Hank had been right... there was accusation in Charles’ tone, and for that he was sorry. He was often too intensely involved in conversations, and there was no other matter that Charles felt so vehemently about. If Hank couldn’t accept himself, how could he accept the children? Would he inadvertently push away those without cosmetic mutations? Would he believe that their alienation was any less real if it didn’t stem from their physical appearance?
Telepathy wasn’t a burden because Charles refused to see it as anything other than a gift... that didn’t mean it was without hardship. There had been times when it had come with such ugly truths that no person, let alone a child, should be privy to. It also made personal betrayals harder. There was no way that Charles could ever begin to describe the moment Erik silenced his mind before killing Shaw. Those things were hardly blessings.
Hank’s thoughts progressively became more bitter, and Charles moved his fingers to brush over his forehead. He didn’t realize that there was a problem until the flight-attendant yelped in confusion and terror. Charles’ eyes flew open and his hand dropped from his head long enough for him to surmise that the woman only knew that what she had touched was not what she saw. She pressed herself back up against a passenger in confusion, trying anything to put some distance between she and Hank. ’Go. I’ll handle it, Hank.’ Mercifully she hadn’t incited a riot, just startled one or two other passengers. Others hardly looked up from their gin and newspapers, chalking the noise up to her being groped or pinched by a handsy drunk.
Charles delved into the woman’s mind, undoing the last thirty seconds of her trek down the aisle. All the while, hoping that the illusion would hold until Hank was safely ensconced in the facilities.
Hank reeled back from the woman - the same woman who had smiled and touched his shoulder easily only minutes ago - and staggered down the aisle. His face was drawn, his mouth taut, his eyes wide with an animalistic sort of apprehension. Had she seen? The cold and paralyzing seizure of his stomach could only be described as panic, and for a very discomfiting moment he could not think what to do. Hank, of course, was not accustomed to being unable to think; in that moment, despite his current frustration wit Charles, he was grateful the man could think for him. The man’s voice in his head jerked him into action, and with a stammered, “Sorry,” he all but bolted toward the end of the aisle and closed himself into the cramped space that passed for a washroom.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. he thought, knowing Charles would be listening. The bitterest part of him tacked on a spiteful as usual, but his close call in the cabin of the plane had cured him of his temporary fit. It seemed he could only process one alarming emotion at once, and with both anger and fear having chased through his system so quickly, he was left only with exhaustion and a sense of resignation. Why they had thought this would work in the first place, he wasn’t sure, but he could probably blame Charles’ unfailing optimism.
As he leaned against the washroom door, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, he could only think it was much too ironic that the situation would force him somewhere with a mirror. He grimaced, which didn’t make his reflection much prettier.
It was a close call, one that he and Raven used to refer casually to as “slip-ups”. Sometimes her true form would make itself known during moments of heightened agitation, fear, or even happiness. While he accepted her appearance, there were those who had been understandably startled by a flash of it, and it wasn’t long before their school had been swept up by rumors of a blue monster running around the Xavier household. Westchester had plagued the Xavier family with rumors of mad scientists and secret labs, it had almost been a matter of time that the other children had jumped to the conclusion that either Brian Xavier or Kurt Marko had engineered a blue child in the depths of the mansion. It was a constant struggle for Raven in the early days to maintain an ordinary appearance, though as a young adult she nurtured a control that warranted less telepathic intervention on Charles’ part.
This situation in the cabin was different, but not unfamiliar. Charles reacted protectively- but in a way that was quite instinctual. He shut his eyes, drowning out idle thoughts on the plane and sifted gently through the minds of the passengers for anyone that he had missed. Mercifully, it was just one flight attendant... something that he and Raven would have referred to as the smallest slip-up.
‘Don’t let this deter you, Hank.’ Charles said, having been listening just as Hank suspected. ‘I will defer to your judgement, of course... but I do believe that we have other undiscussed options. This- this was such a small accident, we’ll be the only ones who remember it.’
He paused, letting Hank work out his disgust and reluctance with the mirror. ‘Have I ever told you about the night that Raven and I met, Hank?’ Charles knew that he hadn’t, but he felt Hank’s distress keenly enough that he wanted to soothe it. Hank didn’t need lectures, or to be criticized for his flare in temper. He was still so young, and more importantly he was hurting beneath the layers of his intellect and ordinarily distant facade. ‘She showed me her true appearance... she was brave, even then. But even though she’d been on her own for so long, even though she had broken into my parent’s home to steal, she didn’t want me to be afraid of her.’ Charles warred with something that started to ache dully in his chest. It was caught between fondness and sorrow. ‘I wasn’t frightened of her. The moment that I saw her, I knew that neither of us had to be alone again... Hank, you could have that too. You already do.’
Hank rubbed his forehead as Charles spoke in his mind. It didn’t hurt, but there was always a strange sensation; he could feel the man’s presence there, a foreign invader but growing steadily more familiar. Charles’ voice ringing in his head cleared his mind of all other thought, so that he could do nothing but pay attention. Was that what it was? Was he just looking for someone not to be afraid of him? He remembered the flight attendant’s face as she had gripped his shoulder; the shock, the horror. It had been on the faces of the military forces at Cuba, too. It had been on his own, when he’d looked in the mirror for the first time.
Charles had never looked like that, though. Not Raven either. Not Alex, even. Not Magneto. Surprise, perhaps, but not fear. But was that enough? Was it enough to belong, even if you only belonged to a group of outcasts? He didn’t know, but the question bred thought, and in Hank’s workings, thought was in opposition to anger.
We’re already on the plane. No sense wasting the trip. he thought finally, regaining some scrap of his previous humour, however self-deprecating and ironic it was..