@cykehead: continued from here.
It's a strange thing, it really is.
There had once been a time where Henry P. McCoy was the oldest of the original X-Men, the one who could most easily reach up with one, oversized hand and touch the ceiling, feel the hollow, unexplored space of the floors above them, and realise that there was so much more to come. The closest to grasping that adulthood was near, the closest to the knowledge that it would be both the most incredible and most terrifying singular experience that they would ever know.
And now? Now, his life has passed him by.
"Scottie, I . . ." He stops. How does he even begin to explain how he feels right now? He's sure it's strange for Scott. From what he's been able to piece together, their friendship had been on the rocks for a long time before him - the other Beast - had gone completely off the rails, so for him to just, pop up, and be his old self again, had to be disorienting.
Maybe that's why Scott is being so kind, so friendly, so - happy. So unlike the man Hank remembers. They'd always been friends, of course, but Scott, he remembers, had always been that much stiffer, closed off. He remembers that very clearly.
But that's the problem, you see. What does Hank remember?
Scott staggering out of that little alcove, his costume torn to shreds, his life in tatters. A single, horrified look between Hank and Warren, because where was Jean, where had she - wasn't she with Scott, when you last saw her, didn't you - ? And then the realisation, as the smell of ozone had hit his nose, and Scott fell apart at the seams, and Hank had wanted to weep -
But none of that's true anymore. Jean's alive. Scott's different, now. That's all old news to them. If he mentioned it, they'd probably just. Smile, a little bit.
Oh, that old bit of trauma.
For Hank, it was just months ago. He still hasn't processed it. Can't process it, now. How do you mourn someone who died ten years ago when they're still alive?
You don't. You shut up, and you take the beer, Hank, because otherwise Scott's going to realise you're off your game, and frankly, you don't know if you're ready to have a conversation of that level of emotional complexity and honesty with this Scott Summers.
"You're right, of course." He accepts the beer, pops it with a claw, sips. The Alaskan air bites even more than the alcohol. The children make him smile, of course, even if he's not sure the abandoned Sentinel factory is the best place for them to be milling around - it's not quite the school, after all, but then, that's gone, too - but it's all just so . . . ohhh, Rip van Winkle, eat your heart out.
Is this what he'd wanted? This version of him, yes. He'd wanted this with all his heart, a place where they could all be themselves. But the other version of him, the one that he'd wholesale replaced, had had even better than this, and he'd - he'd just -
What had happened to that Hank, that had made him not want this anymore? To make him think that he'd had to do those things to keep their people safe? He almost doesn't want to know. Maybe, the less he knows, the further away it all gets. The less like that he'll become.
Try and be less of a drag, Hank, there's a good chap.
"This is all you, Scottie. My grubby blue mitts are all on the bits and pieces downstairs. All of this, all of the people, that's all on you. They believe in you." He summons a convivial smile, one that actually reads as genuine.
"Ever the fearless leader. At least that much hasn't changed."
