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Hankfic

My entry for beautifulxbeast's fanfiction challenge. Not exactly in Bobby's point of view all the way, more like a 3rd person know-it-all one (love my "I can't remember which omni- to use" wording?) Has not been betaed, just finished it a few minutes ago. Did use spellcheck though, so yay for spellcheck!

Movieverse Hank, I've always seen as one of those absentminded sexy as hell scientists. Well, I've always seen any 'verse Hank as a sexy as hell scientist, but that's not the point. I've always seen him as kind of a mix between professional with a razor sharp wit and a really laid back easygoing type of guy. So I gave him long hair and a beach bum wardrobe for this fic.


Bobby had taken to wandering the halls of the mansion ever since John - no, he corrected himself - ever since he had gotten back from Alkali Lake. The place was full of people at all hours, yet it still seemed horribly empty. Mr. Summers, Scott, his mind told him. We’re on the team now, so Scott. Scott had closed up in front of everyone’s eyes. He hadn’t been that sociable of a man before Miss Grey…Jean had died, but now he wouldn’t talk to hardly anybody. It did seem that him and Wolverine’s differences were settled though; Bobby had seen the two of them ride off towards town and towards Harry’s Hideaway, one of the bars that hadn’t bothered to card him or John. Bobby sobered. Nearly every time he thought of John, he felt a pang of loneliness hit him deep in his chest.

It wasn’t like how he sometimes missed his parents or some of his old friends from way back either. John and him had been best friends. They’d done the usual things best friends do together; gone out to movies just to make fun of the crappy plot, been the other’s wingman when they were out ogling girls, covered each other’s butts whenever one or both of them had skipped out on a class. They’d been closer than Bobby and his own brother had been, which made John leaving hurt all the more. And it wasn’t like Bobby was some loser or anything either. He had plenty of friends. Sure Pete was all hung up on Kitty and he and Bobby really didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things - how could Pete say that Pam Anderson didn’t have the best rack in the entire universe? - but they still got along pretty well nonetheless. There were some other younger guys in the school that he kinda sorta hung around with too, but…

Oh hell, he thought, frowning and sticking his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. Who am I kidding? Ever since John left you’ve been on your own. He didn’t like that feeling one bit. Rogue had tried to get him out of his funk, but between his moody behavior and frustration with dating the literally untouchable girl on campus, she had given up with a sigh of exasperation and her hands thrown up in the air. Lately she’d been hanging around Logan even more. Bobby knew it was all his fault and if he didn’t watch it, his girlfriend might get tired of trying to cheer him up and move onto better, if not clawed, hairy, and older than dirt pastures. That was another thing he didn’t like thinking about much if he could help it.

He was so immersed in his morose thoughts that he didn’t see the large bundle of cardboard boxes come his way from the left. He gave a small shout of alarm as he fell, watching as if in slow motion as the boxes tumbled down on top of him.

“Damnation,” the person carrying said boxes in the first place muttered, reaching out to grab one, their large hand cradling the bottom of the box, another smaller carton balanced precariously on top wobbling. A sandaled foot shot out and caught a third just like it was a soccer ball.

“Are you okay?” the person asked, balancing on one foot. From behind the large box a large, friendly looking face emerged. Blue eyes hidden behind wire framed spectacles looked at Bobby and dark eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Getting hit with a box full of Keats, Byron and associates surely must have hurt.”

“I’m okay,” Bobby said, still trying to get off from where he had fallen on his butt in the middle of the hallway. He picked up the few titles that had managed to fall out of the box on the floor and stuck them back in their cardboard container. “What’s a little concussion now and then?”

The man laughed. “That just goes to show that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. If you’d be so kind as to get the box off my foot, I’ll be happy to check out the goose egg on your forehead for you.”

Since his mother had instilled into Bobby‘s brain the sense of good manners, he extended his hand. “I’m Bobby Drake. You’re the new teacher, aren’t you?”

The man grinned; balancing the boxes he carried in one arm to shake Bobby‘s hand. “Guilty. Doctor Henry P. McCoy at your service. I was just about to move into my new office when the law of inertia came into effect.”

“Huh?”

“The tendency for a body in motion -my boxes - to remain in motion unless acted on by an outside force, in this case, your head. Terribly sorry about that, by the way.” He gave a slight grunt as Bobby lifted the box off his foot and tilted his head as if to tell Bobby to follow him. Bobby shouldered the two boxes he now held and trailed after the taller man. They walked a short distance to a once empty room that was now filled with more boxes and metal filing cabinets than Bobby had ever seen before.

“I’m glad Charles gave me the larger room as an office instead of a classroom,” Henry said, almost to himself. “I don’t know where I would have stored my materials otherwise.”

“What is all of this?” Bobby wondered.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Mostly it’s my Magnum Opus; reference materials and notes I’ve collected over the years to write my book on genetics.” Henry unloaded the boxes he carried onto the already cluttered desk and turned to take the ones Bobby had in his hands.

“You’ve written a book?” Bobby absently asked, head injury forgotten, his eyes too occupied on the floor to ceiling bookshelf that had been unpacked. Leather bound copies of books with either medical or Latin titles shared shelf space with The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and a few Terry Pratchett novels, the paperback spines creased and worn. Plaques and medals for some innovation or other in the name of science were grouped together with several old and well polished college football trophies for the most yards rushed and MVP of the year from 1985.

“Well, not exactly,” Henry replied, digging out a ceramic coffee mug that said ‘Geeks do it online’ from one of the boxes and placed it on his desk. “I’m having a little difficulty starting.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, helping himself to look through a pile of yet to be hung certificates. Doctor McCoy had a lot of letters behind his last name. “I get that way with my English essays. Miss Monroe says its writer’s block.”

“Certainly is. I have roughly fifteen years worth of writer’s block piled up. Ah, Yorick, I knew you were in here somewhere.” He dusted off a plaster skull and shoved it on a bookshelf behind his desk to act as a bookend. “So you’re a student here?”

“Yeah. Been here for a couple of years.”

“Ah.” Henry dug through the larger box and unearthed more paper. He leafed through it all before carefully organizing it in a nearby filing cabinet. “And your…”

“I freeze stuff. The kids around here call me Iceman.” To demonstrate, Bobby concentrated. His right fist turned blue and a thin layer of frost covered his skin. In another blink of an eye, his hand was back to normal.

Henry quirked an eyebrow. “Quite the apt nickname.”

“And you? Since Professor Xavier hired you, are you a…”

“Yes. Enhanced agility. I’d love to say that my genius level mental facilities aren’t part of my mutant powers, but I have a feeling that they are.”

“You’re really that smart?”

“Without conceit I can say that yes, I am. Graduated top of my collegiate class at the age of fifteen, earned my doctorate by seventeen, became the lead researcher for genetics at eighteen.” He paused, taking the certificates from Bobby’s hands. “Became the Science and Biology teacher at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters at thirty-five. The years in between are sort of a moot point.” He raised a hand and tucked a few strands of hair that had fallen in his eyes behind his ear.

“You’re not exactly what I would have expected. As a teacher, I mean.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I would have thought the way Scott -er, Mister Summers, and Professor Xavier were going on that you were some stuffy old guy in his fifties that wore a lot of tweed jackets.”

Henry pointed a finger at him and gave a mock glare. “Hey, you have to respect the tweed. I happen to fancy myself as rather dashing in it. This is just my weekend wear.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hands as if to say that he didn’t always wear Hawaiian shirts, faded Bermuda shorts that were frayed at the ends and sandals. With his long, black hair tied in a ponytail that fell over his shoulder and the slight dark shadow of five o’clock stubble on his chin, Bobby was sure that Henry McCoy looked more beach bum than teacher. The expensive looking watch on his wrist was the only thing that clashed with the image.

“I bet you’ve already heard the rumors then, about us, I mean.”

“Oh? And what would they be?”

“That we’ve got an underground base and stuff. The government was bashing the Professor on CNN a few nights ago.”

Henry continued to putter about, organizing things as he went. “Well, from what I heard from Charles’ own mouth was that the underground base wasn’t a rumor at all. And seeing that you are on the team of so called super mutants that go around saving the world yourself, I can hardly see how you could doubt it.”

Bobby looked up. “You know?”

Henry smiled again. “Of course I do. Charles extended an invitation to myself to join. I told him that I’m more of a lover than a fighter, but I would gladly help out here in the mansion. The schematics to the Danger Room are quite intriguing.” Henry leaned back and watched as the teenager he had run over not even five minutes ago curiously walked around his new office. The box full of poetry must not have done any lingering damage when it hit him, he was bending over and picking up a few of the DVDs in another box that hadn’t made their way into Henry’s personal quarters just yet. There was an air about the boy that spoke of somebody that had either lost someone dear to them or of great loneliness, perhaps both. Henry ran a finger under the band of his wristwatch to alleviate an itch. The watch had been a gift from Tony Stark for Henry’s early work in one of many medical research facilities under the Stark conglomerate umbrella. It told the time, date, longitudinal coordinates of the wearer via a GPS system, and most importantly, harbored a personal holographic system that sheltered Henry’s true appearance from the general public. If any of the media knew about his blue fur, slightly pointed ears, and sharper than normal canine teeth, pitchforks and torches would quickly appear. Maybe not the literal objects themselves, but raking his name and reputation through the mud and worse worked just as effectively. It was something that he couldn’t afford people to know about.

“I gotta go,” Bobby said, putting down Henry’s copy of A Night at the Opera. “I’ve probably been bugging you.”

“On the contrary, you’ve been good company. I do hope that I’ll see you again.”

“Well, I did sign up for Biology next month.”

“Excellent.”

Bobby didn’t know if it was Henry’s laid back attitude, the fact that he was a new guy at the mansion and on the team, or the simple fact that Bobby himself was just plain lonely, but he opened his mouth. “We usually have a movie night on Fridays in the recreation room. If you want, that is, if you’re not too busy or anything, it starts at seven.”

“I’d like that. Thanks for the invite.” Bobby turned and was about to leave the office when Henry called him back.

“Call me Hank, by the way. All my friends do.”

It felt as if a heavy weight had lifted slightly from Bobby’s chest. It was still there, but just not as suffocating. “Thanks. I’ll see you around then, Hank.”

As he left and continued his wandering down the mansion’s expansive hallways, Bobby felt a little bit better. Sure, Hank wasn’t John, but he had a feeling that there was a start of a friendship there in the older man‘s office. Either way, he was sure he had just met the coolest teacher alive. Anybody that had a complete collection of Monty Python’s Flying Circus on DVD couldn’t be that bad.

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