Not Now, Please

It was late, the dim lit hallways of Xavier’s once precious school now flickering wearily. The war had been ravenous, leaving those who survived empty, lifeless shells of who they once were. Charles’ school had been closed for a few years now, not having had a child run carelessly through the corridor in what seemed like decades. Whispers of voices that once brought life to the stone walls of this magnificent building are now but a haunting cry. Charles was no longer the man that brought inspiration to young, lost, helpless minds. No, he was a different man now. Engulfed by grief and swallowed by self pity, he was unrecognizable. Everyone had left him, his sister, his best friend who could have possibly been more, his teachers, his students, everyone. That is, everyone but Hank.

One of his first students, now prime caregiver, Hank had stuck by him ever since that day on the beach in Cuba. His utter faith in Charles never wavering, his loyalty unchallenged by any other person Charles had ever known. He felt pangs of shame whenever Hank would come to help administer the physical therapy Charles so adamantly refused. Hank, in his eyes, was still just a boy. Still in such need for guidance, encouragement, mentorship. With Charles’ newfound depression wearing him down ever so relentlessly, he had been unable to be that mentor for Hank. He constantly asked why Hank stayed, why he was so determined to help Charles, when he believed himself to be helpless. Hank’s reply was always the same,

“You’re my friend, Charles.”

Those words, beautiful and true as they were, only made Charles more angry with himself, and eventually, with Hank. He hated that Hank still believed in him. That he still cared for him. Charles decided once he lost everything, that he was essentially useless. The voices plaguing his mind rendered him a wallowing mess, terrified, sleep-deprived, and shaken. When Hank proposed the idea of his serum, Charles hadn’t believed him. In no way could he ever regain his ability to walk, nor shut out the agonizing screams of his fellow mutants. However, that is exactly what the serum did. Hank warned Charles that if too much was taken, he could lose his powers completely. At least, for as long as he was using the drug. Charles became hungry for it. Craving the relief of the golden liquid that flushed through his veins and washed away the voices. Not only was he able to walk again, he could sleep again. He never cared much to ask Hank why he had derived the serum in the first place, since it obviously attacked the mutant gene. In all honesty, he just hadn’t cared enough. He regretted that now, as he spoke with a man from the future, who told him what treacherous fate lies ahead in greater detail than before.

They had just returned from attempting to retrieve Raven. She had refused to come home, fleeing the scene after Erik had tried to kill her. The news channel was on, playing the footage of Erik’s attack and Hank’s defense. The cameras closed in on Hank’s blue form, tied up and restrained in the metal wraps that Erik had manipulated to control the Beast. Watching over the film now, Charles can see the panic and desperation that etched into his dear friend’s eyes. As the film reeled on, Charles watched as Hank let out a guttural howl before breaking free and bolting away from the civilians' sight. Logan must have noticed Hank’s expression too, as he looked around for the boy, by which he referred to him, because he was “so young here.”

“Where’s Hank?” Logan asked, not seeing or smelling him anywhere near.

It was weird, Logan was more man than he was wolf, but when exposed to another mutant with an animalistic mutation, his wolf-side was almost heightened. He could identify Hank’s smell, or more specifically, Beast’s. He could pick up on the different emotions that radiated off of the younger man. Despite his calm outward composure, Hank was a mess. More so than Charles realized due to his telekinetic drought or whatever he called it.

“I’m not sure, probably resting after the events of today.” Charles supplied, looking over his shoulder and being met with the same absence of his friend.

There was a loud clang that came from somewhere in the house, and a sharp shattering that followed after. Logan looked at him, his face showing confusion and concern. He looked on edge, like he was ready for a fight. Charles reached out slightly, his powers still stifled by the serum he took for his legs. He tried not to use his powers anymore, but since being with Peter, Logan, Hank, Raven, and Erik, he seemed more likely to try and assist the situation. Even if that meant causing himself discomfort or distress. He picked up on the slightest hint of what could only be described as disgust. He assumed Hank was most likely working himself up over an equation he couldn’t solve. The signal seemed to be coming from the… bathroom.

“Huh, that’s strange. Hank doesn’t seem to be in his lab…” Charles offhandedly mumbled.

Logan looked down at the shorter man in surprise, “Did you just use your powers?”

Charles rolled his eyes, “Don’t think too much of it. And don’t get used to it.” He huffed, turning away from the clawed man and seemingly making his way upstairs.

Logan had a hint of a smile glint across his face before following the professor. To his surprise, Charles led him to a room upstairs that looked like a bathroom. Logan’s confusion was quickly dispelled as he caught a whiff of Hank’s wrecked form from behind the locked door. Charles must have picked up on it, since this is exactly where he came after searching for Hank’s whereabouts.

“Hank? Are you alright in there?” Charles asked softly, knocking on the door.

“I’m fine Charles, leave me alone.” Came the reply from inside the bathroom. Hank’s voice was cracked and hoarse, his words came out shaky and his breath hitched before he replied.

He was clearly not fine. And both Logan and Charles could easily tell, even without the help of their mutations.

“Come on Hank, it’s me. Just let me in and we can talk, alright?” Charles placated, his voice giving into a new tone of plea and worry.

There was no reply this time, just pants of breath that came out too quickly and jagged. Charles sighed, he should have been able to pick up on Hank’s discomfort, even without his powers. Hank could always tell when Charles was upset, and he was no mind reader. Logan seemed to be growing concerned now, too. He didn’t know what his presence in the past would mean for his friends in the future. Maybe his presence leads Hank down a dark path, or maybe it gets him killed early on, before he and Hank ever meet as adults.

Logan grabbed the door knob, shaking it to try and pry it open. Charles moved his hand to the side, shaking his head in disapproval.

Logan scoffed, “Well then what do you want to do?”

“Hank is a grown man, Logan. He is allowed to deal with himself as he pleases.” Charles explained, though he wasn’t sure if he really agreed with those words. Yes, Hank was technically a grown man, but he was also Charles’ student. He was confused, and hurt, and needed help.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Logan asked smugly.

“You really are a perceptive one, aren’t you Logan?” Charles replied, redirecting his focus back to the closed door. “Hank, will you please let me in?” He tried again, keeping his tone soft and calm.

“Go away!” Hank screamed. Maybe it was supposed to be intimidating. A growl of warning. But it came off as scared, hurt, vulnerable. Hank knew this, and he hated himself for it. Even as a big, furry beast, he was still just a coward who couldn’t control himself.

----

He had been quiet on the trip back to the school. He didn’t want Charles picking up on anything that he was feeling, or Logan, for that matter. So he stuffed his feelings down to the pit of his stomach and kept going. Inevitably, that pang in the pit of his stomach began to rise, slowly but surely. He could feel it bubble up and pull on the bottom of his lungs, right where he knew his diaphragm to be. When he, Charles, and Logan had returned, he quickly retired to his room. He saw the news on the TV, every network, and PBS, showed him exactly what he feared. He watched the footage of his Beast form take hold of Erik and relentlessly attack him. Justified as it may have been, he looked wild. He looked like an animal. And then everyone was screaming, children were crying, and the police had aimed their guns to kill. He watched as the metal constricted his rabid form, and he watched as he writhed and howled, trying to break free.

They were right, he was an animal. He quickly shut the TV off. He could feel the effects of his serum wearing off, so he took to his room to fetch another dose. He slung the drawers open looking for the vial. It was empty. He had forgotten to make another batch the night before they left for DC.

“This can’t be happening.” He breathed, rummaging through his drawers for an ounce of medicine left. “No, no, no, no.” He needed the fix. He didn’t want to sound like an addict but he could feel the Beast coming on and he needed to be rid of it. He needed the cure. He needed to fix himself. He yelled and threw the drawers of empty, useless vials onto the floor across his room. He didn’t understand, why was he feeling so angry? His breath came in quick pants and his arms and legs shook with energy. He stood there, glaring at the mess he had just made. What’s happening to him? Why was he so irritable? He felt a surge of panic, frustration, and helplessness rise into his chest. It was getting harder to breathe now. He needed to do something. Maybe he could whip up a new batch of serum tonight. But that would still take too long. He needed something now. He needed it now or he felt like he would explode. He looked at his trembling hands and saw the blue fur start to creep up on him like a recurring nightmare.

Sprinting across the hall, he growled inadvertently, mentally cursing himself for letting it slip. If Charles heard him, it would be over. Even without Charles’ powers, he can still pick up on emotions better than most. Hank has attempted for so long to keep himself under control, he can’t let that crumble now. He practically leaped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Surely Charles couldn’t have heard that. He rummages through the gauze tape in the cabinets, trying to cover his hands and arms that were steadily transforming. He was shaking, he couldn’t focus on anything but the slight stinging of his skin as it morphed against his will. He growled in frustration, ripping the tape and taking some of his fur and skin with it. ‘Good, let it come off’ he thought as the familiar tingling pain etched through the nerves in his arm. He glanced up at his reflection staring back at him. The blue had spread across his face, from the base of his brow to the edges of his temple and start of his lips. He felt hot liquid burn behind his eyes. How could this have happened to him? How could he have become so ugly? He hated the thing he saw in the mirror, hated it more than anything else in the world.

He wanted so badly to blame the humans for their reactions to his mutation but, truthfully, he reacted the same inwardly every time he saw it. He bared his teeth at the sight of his own face, regretting it instantly as the fangs protruded out of his mouth like that of a monster. His heart quickened, breaths coming out shallower as they hurried in pace. His eyes were on fire, as was his skin, and he just wanted it to stop. He felt the all-too familiar rage built up in his chest start to melt into his fists. His knuckles, if not blue, would have been clenched white. He stared at his face in the mirror, giving himself a glare of death. He couldn’t handle it anymore. He just wanted it to stop. Before he realized what he was doing, he let out a low growl and smashed the mirror with his reactant fist. He had attacked the reflective glass with such a force that left it breaking apart into tiny shards. His blood coated the shards that had been at the center of the impact, knuckles bleeding a constant red. At least he still bled red.

He looked at the disaster in front of him. ‘What would Charles think? This was his most precious possession. This school, these walls, even this bathroom. It had meant everything to him. And now look at what I’ve done, I’ve ruined it. I ruin everything.’ He spiraled in his thoughts of being worthless, stupid, helpless, disgusting, and just flat out disappointing. He was a freak. An angry, reckless, destructive freak who made a mess of everything. His body felt foreign, like he couldn’t even recognize himself. His skin felt like it had been sewn on against his will, like he had been stripped of any dignity he once had. At some point while he was thinking, his shaky legs gave out and he fell to the floor, pushing into the wall and curling in on himself. He cried pathetically as the dark nature of his reality clung to him like a life force. His ribcage strained against every breath in, and almost collapsed with every breath out. It was all just too much, he couldn’t bear it. He wanted to peel the skin off and discard it forever. He wanted to be free of the dense weight that soaked him like a sponge. He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his head against his forearms. Why was this happening? It was then that he heard the knock and Charles’ soft voice make its way through his fit.

----

“Alright, break it.” Charles commanded after hearing Hank’s voice break so painfully. Although he was cut off from the majority of his powers, his empathy stayed with him, steady as ever. His heart ached at the sound of his dear friend fighting so hard against some sense of comfort and companionship.

Logan nodded, kicking the door open. The sight they were met with was not what they had expected. The mirror that hung on the wall above the sink had been destroyed. Its shards splayed across the floor in a cracked, bloody mess. Hank was on the other side of the room, across from where the mirror used to hang. His blue, furry form was pressed against the wall, curled in on itself. His clothes were ripped at some of the seams, as his mutated form was larger than that of his “human” form. His knuckles were split open, sheening a thin layer of red that dripped down his middle finger. His body was rigid, his back heaving, arms covered in half-applied tape wrapped around his legs in such a way that could probably leave him with a lesser blood flow. His head was buried into his knees, and he gasped for air.

Charles’ heart snapped at the view. He didn’t need to ask what was wrong, he could sense it as it emanated off his friend in waves. Shame, disgust, hate, fear. Charles’ breath hitched as he allowed his mind to absorb a fraction of Hank’s thoughts.

‘I’m disgusting’
‘They hate me’
‘I’m ugly’
‘They’re scared of me’
‘I’m scary’
‘I hate myself’
‘This body is disgusting’

He was almost overwhelmed by the sudden ambush of these negative, horrible thoughts. Logan seemed to be just as aware, as he stared down at the younger man in what could only be described as sympathy and compassion.

“Oh Hank…” Charles started, wanting nothing more than to reach out and assure his friend that these thoughts were nothing but evil lies put in his head by the rest of society.

“Don’t.” Hank replied abruptly. He didn’t look up at them, afraid to be met with their faces of pity. ‘You think I’m pathetic.’

“I do not.” Charles snapped harshly, before realizing that he had just fortuitously read Hank’s mind and replied to it aloud.

Hank looked up at this, confusion furrowing in his brow, tilting his fur-coated head in question. If Charles didn’t know any better, he’d think Hank was offended. Maybe he was, it wasn’t considered polite to read the minds of those around you without their consent. Still, it was an accident.

“I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean to.” Charles explained shakily. His legs trembled under his weight and felt as though they might buckle at any given moment. Logan eyed him through his peripheral vision, ready to catch the man if he were to fall. That wasn’t important now, though. What mattered was Hank, his dear friend suffering and shaking on the floor beneath him.

“I just want you to leave. Please.” Hank begged, removing his gaze from Charles’ eyes and back to the blood-soaked floor.

Before Charles could think of a comforting reply, Logan stepped up.

“Not gonna happen. You’re bleeding, you need our help.” The man stated harshly, leaving no room for negotiation. Charles looked up at him, aghast, understanding that if Hank was set off, there would be a much bigger mess to clean up.

Hank just scoffed from his place on the floor, “I can lick my own wounds, thanks.” He replied dryly, making to get up.

Charles thought about that sentence. ‘Lick his own wounds?’ Of course, Hank feels like an animal, it makes sense he would resort to using language that implied such. This, in turn, made Charles reconsider how deep the wounds must be, though he wasn’t referring to the gashes on his friend’s knuckles. How had he not seen it before? How had he not noticed? Hank was always right there for him, picking him up when he fell down, physically and mentally. Yet, for the longest time, Charles had managed to miss how hurt Hank truly was.

By the time Charles had found his way out of his own head, Hank and Logan were standing in front of each other, facing off. Hank’s posture was still curled in, his shoulders rounding and his back not quite straight. Any other time, Hank would have stood a few inches over Logan, but not now. Logan seemed to have picked up on this, as his stance showed no sign of the familiar hostility or rigidity, which Charles seemed to consider as voluntary.

“Get out of my way, Logan.” Hank growled lowly, glaring up at the older man through knitted brows. His fists clenched and unclenched as he seemingly grew angrier every moment Logan and Charles stood there, unmoving.

When the wolf-like mutant did not move out of his way, Hank shoved his chest to push him aside. This ellicited a reaction, which shouldn’t have surprised him at all, and Hank felt his own shoulders jolt by the enhanced force of Logan’s palms pushing back. He growled, and before he knew it, was in a stalemate with Logan.

“Come on Bub, you can do better than that.” Logan gruffed, pushing Hank away as hard as the younger man was pushing against him. He could feel the rage. Unadulterated, seething, and gaping for release. It was then that Logan remembered that this was not the Dr. Hank McCoy he was familiar with. The old blue Beast who read books on Quantum Physics hanging from the celing and screeching at kids (and sometimes Logan), not to run in the halls. This was a much younger, less refined and controlled version of that man. It was jarring, to say the least. It was also quite surprising considering the calm and collected composure Beast kept up when Logan had known him.

While the two cave-men wrestled with each other in the middle of the bathroom, neither giving in to the other or showing any sign of resignation, Charles felt his legs growing weaker and weaker. His spine tingled and brought along with it the painful realization of imminent paralysis. He let out a groan and started to fall, headed for the bathroom floor that was still littered in broken glass and blood and fur.

Hank heard Charles, and before he even realized what he was doing, he leapt toward the smaller man and caught him before he made impact with the cold tile.

“Charles? Are you alright?” He asked in a hurry, panic-ridden voice, holding Charles up completely now.

“I- yes I’m alright Hank, I’m sorry, I- I didn’t realize-” Charles started, tears piling behind his irises. He didn’t mean to become a weeping mess, but when his legs give out, his mind turns on full force. It is overwhelming when it floods in all at once. Despite how the scene might appear, he was focused only on Hank’s mind. His thoughts, his fears, his insecurities. Everything he had been shut off from for so long, due to his own cowardice. Hank was looking at him now, concern etched into his blue features that seemed to bring him such discomfort. His yellow eyes shone with compassion, his large hands supporting Charles with the gentlest of holds. His mouth agape, his oversized fangs showing clear now that his lips were apart. Different, yes. An adjustment, definitely. But ugly? Never. Charles held his gaze steady with Hank’s, smiling softly at his friend. He seemed to be revelling in the sight of the man who had once been his student, now best friend. After a moment of silent staring, Charles cut the tension.

‘“Oh Hank, you are beautiful.” He assured him resolutely, cupping the side of his face with one hand and tilting his head to follow the descend of Hank’s glittering-gold, shameful eyes.

“You should help him get another dose.” Hank said lowly, shifting Charles to Logan while refusing to look at either of them. Charles frowned, brow furrowing. He was about to protest when Logan grabbed him from Hank’s hold. Once Charles was being supported by Logan’s comically large biceps, Hank swiftly stood up and strode out of the room and down the hall. Logan and Charles watched after him hesitantly, unsure if they should follow or leave him be.

“He’s right, we should get you situated.” Logan concluded after hearing one of the doors down the hall slam shut. Charles nodded defeatedly and allowed Logan to help him down the stairs.

Logan considered going back to check on Hank after he had helped Charles. He figured that he might be able to say something that could help, let him know about his bright future- minus his untimely demise, that is. No, talking about his future would do him no good, not with the state he was in. Logan couldn’t help but relate to Hank in some way. He, too, had been lost and seemingly out of control. He feared what he was for a long time, and still did on occasion. Affirming words and comforting gestures were not in his wheelhouse. Heck, none of this was in his wheelhouse. He really was the wrong man to send. Still, he was the only man who could be sent, so he might as well try. It was decided, after helping Charles, he would find Hank and try to talk with him. If anything, he could make a good sparring partner if the kid needed to let out more than a little steam.

Hank paced his room, agitated and more than uncomfortable. Why did they have to get involved? It was none of their business. Charles’ endeavors were enough to worry about, they didn’t need to focus on his problems too. Besides, he was good at dealing with these things himself. He didn’t drink like Charles, or smoke like Logan. No, he had a different coping mechanism. If anyone ever found out about it, he might be sent away to one of those crazy wards. Luckily, when he took the antidote to turn him back into a human, his skin transformed too. That means, all the scars he’s collected as Beast have no effect on his preferred form. So, he gently opened one of the drawers of his nightstand, and lifted the knife from the bottom of it. He stared into the blade’s reflective shine, his stricken, yellow eyes seemed almost iridescent against the glare. He took a deep breath. ‘What would Charles think?’ He sighed. ‘...What would Raven think?’ With a vengeful tear slipping down the curve of his jawbone, he slashed the knife against his thick skin in one, haste movement.

Hank’s bedroom door stood ajar, with one shocked, concerned, and angry Wolverine standing in the light that cracked through the gaping space between his body and the wooden frame.

It wasn’t until after watching the red ooze drip off the swell of his arm did Hank notice his uninvited company. ‘Oh shit.’