Chapter 6
“Hank, are we almost done here?”
“Almost, now hold still.”
Lane rolled their eyes in exasperation but made no move to stop Hank as he fastened the cuff around their arm. Their sweatshirt had been taken (and probably thrown away, now bloodied and sporting a bullet hole in the shoulder) and Lane shifted uncomfortably as the pressure around their bare arm increased. They were still exhausted, their post-battle nap only lasting for about half an hour before they had been shaken awake and directed to the medical bay for observation along with the handful of other injured or otherwise shaken students. First matter of business had been getting the night’s blood off of their body and out from under their nails, and then Hank had swept in with a number of tests - including poking and prodding at the new scar on their shoulder. It was entirely smooth, almost a perfect circle of blue-black space less than an inch wide and situated just above what Hank had called their humeral head.
“So no head?” Lane had joked under their breath, but quickly brushed the comment away as Hank had fixed them with a confused expression. They were too exhausted to explain the joke.
The pressure on their arm diminished, and then Hank was slipping the cuff off their arm and writing down the numbers on Lane’s chart. His handwriting was crooked, the pen dwarfed in his massive paw-like hands as he scratched on the paper, and then his eyes fixed themselves on Lane.
“Blood pressure and heart rate are slightly elevated, but that’s to be expected after something like this,” he explained in his very calm, doctor-y voice that reminded Lane of daytime hospital programs and clean white sheets. “Everything looks normal, medically speaking.”
“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
Hank sighed. “But, I am concerned about what you mentioned earlier, those moments in the kitchen and again in the hallway. You said you never lost consciousness, correct?”
Lane rubbed at their bare arms and nodded. “Yeah, it wasn’t like I blacked out and suddenly there were bodies around me and I had blood on my hands; it was still me but…different, and really disorientating. Like, suddenly I know all the ways to break a man’s arm without knowing how I know that.”
“You also experienced a sort of flashback moment, in the kitchen?” Hank had picked up the chart again, jotting down notes in a hand that Lane couldn’t read but the sight of made their skin prickle. Subject is experiencing extreme signs of psychosis, recommended to be put into a straightjacket and locked away in a padded cell and fed applesauce through a straw…
“Sort of, yeah,” they shrugged. “Like that time with the glass door, but I didn’t get…stuck, if that makes sense? I was too busy trying to get Yukio and Ellie out of there.” They hadn’t seen the two girls since earlier that night, and now a ball of worry settled into their gut. “Are they okay?”
More nodding, and more notes. “Ellie’s been healed up, she’s resting now and Yukio hasn’t left her side.”
“Good, good.” Lane fidgeted on the table, the paper beneath their body crumpling with the movement. “The other students, are they all okay too? Relatively speaking, I mean.”
Hank looked up at that, and in the deep yellow of his irises the layers of sadness and pure exhaustion were plain to see. He looked just as tired as Lane felt, maybe even more so after spending the evening patching up the minor wounds in order to speed up the queue of students waiting to see the healers. Lane doubted it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, but it didn’t stop him from looking any less haggard as he let out a breath and set down Lane’s chart.
“Relatively speaking I’d like to say yes, that once we get the house fixed up and all the damage repaired it’ll be like this never happened. Charles will make an announcement that classes have been canceled for the next week as we make repairs, then we go back to regularly scheduled programming.”
“Again, my ‘but’ sense is tingling.” Lane said. Heh, butt sense.
“But the reality is that for some of us, the damage will go beyond just a fresh coat of paint. Students and staff alike were threatened, some beaten, and that damage takes time to heal beyond just on the physical level.” Hank explained, his face looking more and more drained as he spoke. “Charles and I are discussing a plan of action for the entire school, on top of some specialized sessions for those who might need them.”
Lane nodded, silence falling between the two as the weight of Hank’s words settled in the air. The earlier hatred they had felt towards the intruders had now settled into smoldering embers, still there but now slowly suffocating under a cold blanket that took all of the air out of the room as it descended onto a once-roaring fire. Lane’s fingertips went to their throat, to where just hours earlier a boot had been pressed there, and shivered at recalling the sensation.
“I believe it might be beneficial for you to talk to Charles about what you experienced in your next session,” Hank said after about a minute of silence between them. “Get plenty of rest, hydrate often, and don’t be a stranger.”
Numbly, Lane nodded once again and slid off the exam table then exited out into the empty hallway. It had been down to a trickle of people by the time Lane had been brought in, some students sitting on fold-out chairs waiting for their friends to be healed or for their collars to be removed, and now those chairs were empty and pushed up against the wall. They had to marvel at the efficiency of it all, how just hours before it had all been chaos and now everything was once again operating like a well-oiled machine; Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters pushed ever onward, ever forward.
The doors whushed behind them as they pushed through and passed into the waiting area with the comfy armchairs. That feeling of exhaustion had returned, and Lane debated on settling down into one of those chairs when they noticed that one was already occupied by a large form. He was clearly too big to sit comfortably, his legs squished tightly together and the seat compressed under his weight as if it was children’s play furniture and not designed for normal sized people.
All seven feet of Piotr stood up as Lane stepped out into the waiting room properly, his silver skin reflecting the fluorescent light from the ceiling and highlighting his face as he smiled. It wasn’t an entirely happy smile, though, more of one of relief as he looked over their form; Lane imagined a similar look now appearing on their face as well, looking him over to find he was in one piece. Piotr’s arms lifted just a fraction before falling down to his side, as if he thought better of the movement as Lane drew closer.
He wants to hug me, and I want him to, too, Lane thought, their head buzzing just slightly at the realization of how badly they wanted to touch him. Just to feel the solidness of him, the coolness of his skin against theirs as he held them. They wanted to tell him that, tell him it was okay to hug them tight to his chest, even if it was just for a minute. A fraction of a second just to have his body close to theirs when they worried they’d never get to have that again.
Instead what came out was, “it’s a relief to see you all giant and silvery again.”
Piotr chuckled at that, the sound reverberating slightly in his metal form. “It takes a lot to keep Colossus down.”
It was Lane’s turn to chuckle, going to cross their arms and say something smart but instead falling quiet as their hand skimmed across one of their bare arms. They had no covering over their scars, the largest of which jutted around their right bicep down to their forearm in a swath of blue-black stars; Hank had given them a thin t-shirt after taking away their bloodied sweatshirt, and to Lane it felt like it had all the integrity of a napkin in comparison to their normal outer layers.
“You’re telling me.” They said after a moment. “I think you threw, what, 200 or so pounds of man through a wall without breaking a sweat? Gotta be some sort of record for that.”
Piotr shrugged, his smile now slightly melancholy as he looked down at Lane. His jaw had tightened, shoulders ridgid with tension and when he swallowed his adam’s apple bobbed thickly with the movement. The smile faded, replaced by a stricken look with that familiar crease in his brow.
Shit, did I say something wrong?
“I was so scared to lose anyone,” he said softly after a pause, his voice picking up urgency as he spoke. “I did not even think how I could have hurt more by going without my armor…and then in the tunnel when I heard shots I thought…ya ubil tebya, eto blya moya vina”
The only word that Lane could parse out was ubil…killed. Piotr’s gaze remained steadily focused on his feet, and Lane now found their gaze drifting there as well; they wanted to say something to him, anything to reassure him or bring that smile back to his face, but nothing would come from their lips. They thought about screaming, just to make room in their mouth for the words to move and to tell Piotr it was okay, they were okay, but instead remained dumbly silent.
“I imagine you would like to rest now,” Piotr said quietly, turning to leave as he spoke. “You have been through a lot today.”
No!
“No!”
Lane’s shout echoed in the waiting room, as did the sound of skin against metal as their hand shot out and grabbed him around the forearm as he was mid-step. It was cool under their skin, all solid muscle telling Lane that Piotr could shake them off in a matter of seconds if he wanted to; but he didn’t. He didn’t pull away, not even as the dam burst from behind Lane’s lips and the words began to flow.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry Piotr. I was scared and embarrassed of what you might think of me and I thought - I thought you would think I was some sort of monster. Then I just iced you out completelybecause I thought it would hurt less and I just ended up hurting you.” Lane was panting now, struggling to breathe between their words but afraid that if they stopped they might not ever do so again. Piotr hadn’t moved, his eyes now firmly fixed to theirs, and Lane found their pulse quickening under his gaze.
“I just f-fucked everything up by being too scared to actually talk to you,” Lane continued, “a-and the only thing I could think about while I was running around was you. How afraid I was that the last time I would ever talk to you would be that fight, and I saw you there and you saved me and I couldn’t, I can’t let anything happen to you, because…because I-I-”
I need you. I need to see you smile at my dumb jokes and teach me to make blinis, and to make me feel like a person again when I start feeling like someone else’s pet science experiment. I need to hear you laugh and watch you teach the kids and be a giant hall monitor. I need to see your face when you’ve painted something you like or when you call Wade out on his language. I need you.
It took a moment for them to realize that they were trembling in every limb, that their cheeks were hot and their eyes were wet and their stomach felt like it was caught at the precipice of the world’s highest roller coaster waiting for the inevitable drop. They might cry, or throw up, or both (probably both) but then Piotr was gently pulling them into his torso and wrapping his arms around their shaking shoulders.
“Oh, zvyozdochka,” Piotr was murmuring, and then Lane’s arms were wrapping around his waist and tugging him closer, burying their head in his shirt and inhaling the scent of him.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” they mumbled into his shirt as they hugged him tight as they could manage with their limbs feeling like gelatin. They could hear his heartbeat, a solid tick-tick-tick like a clock as the organ pumped inside his metal body.
“Shh, it is alright. It is over.” He soothed, his voice rumbling up through his chest and against Lane’s ear as he gently rubbed their head with a cool metal hand. “I could never think such things of you, not when I see how hard you try. I wish you would have talked to me but…but I think you are hero, Lane. Not monster like you say.”
“No,” Lane sniffled into his shirt and shook their head. “I’m not a hero.”
“Da. I am professional hero, so I would know.”
Lane laughed wetly at that, pulling their head back to wipe away the salt that had gathered on their eyelashes. Their body was warm now, from being so close to his but also from his words settling into their core. I see how hard you try, I think you are a hero.
“Thought you were an art teacher,” they said with a small snicker.
“Who says I cannot be both?”
They looked up at Piotr and saw he was wearing the same face he had in the hallway; they didn’t quite understand, not yet, but something told them that they’d have time to figure out what that look meant and why it made the air around them suddenly so much sweeter to breathe. There were a number of things Lane didn’t quite understand about their past and about the world around them, but Piotr Rasputin had suddenly moved to the top of their list of things to figure out.
Not today, though. Today they were tired, and it was with some reluctance that they pulled away with the scent of him still clinging to their body.
“You are right, though,” Lane said, “today has been a lot.”
“But the house did now blow up, so…positive?”
“Let’s not go that far, I’m still not sure how sore I’ll be later on. That good with you, Rasputin?”
“Da.”