Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sleepy little suburb of New York has a cheerful, if dilapidated, sign that welcomes them as they drive up to the city limits. Continuing on, they pass through the areas of the city that tell a story of expansion in what once was a one-stoplight town, but over the last twenty years has grown into a moderately sized bedroom community that still clings to that small-town feeling. The thoroughly middle-class, two and one-story building homes eventually give way to the older parts of town, those occupied by families who, if asked, would count themselves as middle class in only the broadest stretch of the term.

Alex glances at the instructions he printed out last night at the mansion and tries to remember if this is the route he took with the relator a few weeks back. Then, at last, he spots it. The two-bedroom, one-and-a-half bathroom house which the previous owners had inexplicably painted bright purple is wedged in between a sensible yellow-brick house and another wooden house painted a light sepia. He winces anew at the color and then reminds himself just how little he’ll have to pay before the house is well and truly his, and he can paint it whatever color he wants. Then again, when he looks over at the wondering eyes of his little brother, he may decide to live with it. Scott is a sweet, thoughtful, well-behaved kid, but he rarely ever looks so excited about anything, much less the physical proof of their departure from the home where he has spent that last few years of his life.

Hopping out, he directs Scott to grab the small black duffel bag with the clothes he’d worn last night and takes out his own bag, giving silent thanks for Charles’ foresight in sending Raven ahead to direct the movers yesterday. If he and his little brother had been forced to drag all of their worldly belongings – it shocks him still when he thinks about how much had accumulated in the years since Charles tracked him down and told him he was fostering his little brother – things would have been pretty tense. The car ride alone had been fairly rough – three hours from Westchester – and physical labor on top of that would probably cause even Scott to rebel.

They make the short walk from Alex’s beat up red Ford in silence, and at their new doorstep he fishes his key out of his back pocket, reminding himself to add it to his key chain once he has Scott settled in for the night. He breathes a sigh of relief when the door opens just as easily as it had when Ms. Frost had shown him the house, and then he pauses, catching sight of something out of the corner of his eye. Covered in blue cellophane, a plate of cookies sits carefully hidden from the potential ravages of the elements, with a note taped to the top. From this distance, he cannot read the words on the slip of paper, but he can tell that the hand which penned them was deliberate and neat, and that, though it had been written in dark blue ink, nothing had been scratched out.

“Hey Squirt, could you grab that for me?” he nods to the gift as he pushes the door open further, noting the squeaky quality of the hinges and adding oiling all of the door hinges to his list of things to do tomorrow. At this rate, that list is going to be taller than he is. ‘The joys of home-ownership,’ he snarks in the privacy of his thoughts, not wanting any part of the move to seem negative for his little brother, because according to Moira, the caseworker who still keeps tabs on how he and Scott were doing, Alex’s attitude constantly influences the way his little brother feels about the world, whether they both realize it or not.

Alex kind of wants to tell Moira to stop using her touchy-feely psychology bull-crap to guilt him into acting like a happier, better adjusted person. Sadly, in spite of the fact that after knowing each other for so long, they are basically friends, he still never knows exactly how much of what he says around her goes into his and Scott’s files, and he refuses to allow his typical distaste for any sort of censorship on his self-expression to damage the system’s view of his guardianship abilities.

“Don’t call me that,” Scott snipes by rote, the argument so old he could carry it out in his sleep. Still, he swoops down and retrieves the cookies before following him into the house, so Alex is going to consider that one a win.

“Dude, I’m your brother – I’m supposed to embarrass and annoy you. I’m also your guardian now, which means I’m, like – doubly obligated to make your life as frustrating as possible.” While he delivers his imminently logical rebuttal, he searches for the switch to flip on the entrance light and then makes his way into the kitchen, flipping the light on in there as well. Scott joins him and sets the cookies on the little round dining table Alex and Raven had discovered in the mansion’s attic when Charles instructed them to take whatever they wanted for the new house, claiming that the mansion had far too much furniture cluttering its halls and rooms, and therefore could stand to lose several items here and there. It is a dark, smoothly polished wood that stands lower to the ground than the dining table used in the mansion; perfect for a shorter than average guy and his kid brother, whose feet might actually reach the floor when he eats now.

“Yeah, yeah. Are you going to feed me, or what?”

Eying his mouthier-than-normal brother, Alex cocks his head to the side. “I don’t know… You’ve eaten in the last twenty-four hours. You could probably survive another twelve without doing it again.”

He earns a distinctly unimpressed glare for his troubles. Scott rarely receives humor well when tired, and handles it with even poorer grace when hungry.

Sighing as though this is the most onerous task he has been given by anyone ever, he moseys over toward the olive green fridge – which clashes horribly with the vibrant fuchsia paint that covers the kitchen walls. The rest of the rooms in the house are all similarly garish, and he has to wonder, had the previous owner been blind, or just insane? He decides to reserve judgment until he can gather more data.

Opening the fridge door, he takes in the glorious sight of the chicken casserole Charles had sent with Raven, with a little note declaring, “Welcome to your new home, Alex and Scott!– All my love, Charles” in his gorgeous, flowing script. He is not going to cry over a freaking note. He is manly, and tough, and way too freaking old to get this emotional over a note from his dad/uncle/guardian/whatever Charles is to him and his little brother. Swallowing, he takes a few breaths in and out and then grabs the Pyrex pot as casually as he can muster and then sets about figuring out the ins and outs of the clementine oven. When he feels like he has a fighting chance against the impending waterworks, he tells Scott, “Looks like you’re in luck, Squirt. Charles must have known I was planning on sending you to bed with nothing and come to the rescue.”

Scott snorts, accusing him with childish scorn, “You are such a liar.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Smirking, Alex goads, “What makes you so sure, hotshot?”

“Because you love me and because Aunt Raven would kill you. After letting Charles stare at you like you just kicked his favorite puppy.” This is a pretty serious threat, actually. Charles Xavier could make hardened criminals cry simply by gazing mournfully at them.

“Touche.” Glancing at the time remaining on the oven timer, he orders, “Since you’re obviously going to be fed soon, go to your room – it’s the electric blue one, you can’t miss it – and change into your PJs. I reserve the right to not do it for you if you fall asleep at the table.”

“Jerk,” Scott mutters as he rises from the table.

“Pipsqueak.”

“I’m telling Ms. Moira.”

“No you’re not.”

About to disappear into the hall now, he concedes, “… No. I’m not.”

Plopping himself down in a manner reminiscent of his recently departed sibling, Alex stares at the plate of cookies, then toward the hallway. He has maybe two, three minutes before he needs to worry about being caught breaking the rule about eating sweets before a meal. ‘What could it hurt, really?’ Clear cellophane crinkles as he carefully eases one corner away and retrieves a cookie. In the light of the kitchen, he can make out the shapes of raisins and chocolate chips, as well as the distinct texture of oatmeal. Someone, somewhere, was either psychic or incredibly lucky, because what are the odds that one of his neighbors would be able to guess he favorite dessert? More than that, there must be well over a dozen cookies on that plate.

At the first bite, sweet, rich, earthy goodness explodes on his tongue, and he fervently hopes that whoever baked these is not only single, but very, very male. Kissing anyone else in gratitude would be kind of awkward, and Alex does not do awkward. He reads through the note, grinning around a mouthful when he reaches the bottom. “Dear neighbors, I believe it is customary to welcome newcomers with homemade foods. Ergo, in the spirit of friendliness and an attempt to be a good neighbor, please enjoy these cookies. If you have any questions or would like to become better acquainted, you may find me at 403. Sincerely, Hank McCoy.” Either the guy is older than dirt, or he’s a total nerd. The first option would be a little weird, but the second one Alex could definitely live with. His few attempts at romantic liaisons have taught him that he has a bit of a thing for the shy, nerdy types, and the guy baked him chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies.

It was meant to be.

At the back of the house, a door opens, and Alex shoves the last of his cookie into his mouth, regretfully rushing though the last bits of goodness for the sake of the façade of at least trying to follow the rules.

Walking in, Scott scrutinizes him suspiciously. “Did you eat a cookie?”

“Dude,” Alex objects, glad his mouth is crumb-free, “would I do that to you?”

Scott purses his lips and refrains from dignifying that with a response. Okay, fair enough.

That night after making sure that Scott is properly fed and watered – Moira would be so proud – he thinks about Charles. When Alex had been sixteen, his foster father at the time had handed him the phone while he was in the middle of fixing his foster sister’s bike. On the other end, a cheerfully British voice had informed him, “Hello, Alex. I’m Charles Xavier, and I’d like to offer you a chance to come live with me and your brother.” There had never been any question of it – of course Alex was going to move to Westchester – he hadn’t seen his little brother in the three years since that awful plane crash, ‘Don’t think about it,’ and like hell was he going to give up the chance to be with him now. He soon learned that Scott and Charles also meant Erik and Raven, and that was fine with him. They made a pretty decent family, all things considered. Charles and Erik may not have been the most conventional parents, but they made it work, and Raven pretty much thought that Scott made the world go ‘round, so she was always going to be awesome in his book, and Scott – Scott was everything.

A few months back, though, Alex started to feel that itch – that yearning – every young person feels at some point, to strike out on his own. He wanted to be able to make it on his own dime, and though Charles had been a bit sad, he had understood. Besides, he and Erik had been making plans to adopt a set of twins soon, and it didn’t feel right to take up the attention they could be paying to kids who actually needed them. He could acknowledge now, in his own room, that part of him would always need the two of them – not because he couldn’t take care of himself and Scott, but because he loved them, and he finally remembered what it felt like to actually belong to a family.

Counting lumps in the ceiling – which was, remarkably, still white; apparently the thought of putting crimson paint on the ceiling had stymied even the kook responsible for the kaleidoscope of colors on the rest of the house – Alex slips easily into slumber.

…

Alex hates mornings. They should be banned.

“Scott Summers, you are going to be late! Get your butt out here – I don’t care if your hair is still wet, and neither does anyone else.” The pressure of being what basically amounts to a single parent may have been something he chose, but that doesn’t make him anymore pleasant to deal with whenever his kid brother inadvertently does something to make it feel that much heavier.

“Okay, okay. Is my lunch ready?” He hands the small, far too enthusiastic earthling he is forced to call his blood his Captain America lunchbox and a Pop-tart before ushering him out the door.

“Keep on moving, Squirt-“

“Don’t call me that!”

“-I have orange juice waiting for you in the truck, and I will call you whatever I want, so deal with it.”

“Geeze. What crawled up your butt and died?” Oh you have got to be kidding.

Slapping an exasperated palm to his forehead, Alex demands, “Have you been watching TV with Raven again?”

Shoving his Pop-tart into his mouth, Scott opts to plead the fifth.

It’s too early for this. “Fine, whatever. But don’t even think about talking like that in front of your new teacher.”

Scott chews and swallows before giving him an innocent look. “Sure thing, Alex.”

He wishes he could say that his day improves from there. It really, really doesn’t. His first few classes at the dance academy down town are filled with bleach-blonde chicks who think Britney Spears is the height of cool and wish more than anything to be backup dancers in her next music video, and his one advanced hip hop group gives off this aura of jaded disrespect that kind of makes him want to drown himself in the shower. After that, he heads to the lockers to change into his jumpsuit and then drives over to his second job in the garage a few blocks from where he and Scott now live.

The other guys are huge by comparison, and they all pretty much heed the “Stay away from me,” vibe he puts off, because he can smell self-absorbed jerk from a mile away, and these dudes absolutely reek of it. At least he makes friends with Armando “but you can call me Darwin” Munoz, the manager who shares his shift.

Still, it is an unqualified relief when he finally leaves to pick up his brother, playing a Linkin Park CD from the days before they sold out and became just another mainstream group and telling himself that no, he does not need to call Charles and tell him how awful his day was. Even though he knows that Charles would be perfectly willing to listen, he would feel like such a failure if he admitted how much it sucks having to live in the real world.

Scott hops in and he makes himself act like an involved, caring provider, turning down the volume of his music and asking, “How was your first day?”

“It was fine.”

“Do you like your new teacher?” He gets a shrug that he sees in his peripheral vision and sighs. It’s like pulling teeth. Worse, actually, it’s like dealing with a miniature version of himself. Where exactly did the perky little pest from this morning go?

“Did you make any friends?” He glances away from the road for a moment, not liking the continued silence. His little brother’s nose is wrinkled, and he looks faintly disgusted with the world at large.

Finally, Scott gets out, “… This girl tried to kiss me.”

Okay, so. They are definitely getting somewhere. “And how did that go?”

“I ran and hid behind this kid called Logan. He smirked at me. But then he flirted with Jean and she left me alone, so… I guess it was okay.” Alex should probably feel guilty about how ecstatic he is that his brother ran from a girl’s lips, but he hopes and prays that the trend lasts long into his public education, because he wants to have The Talk about as much as he wants to die his hair pink and work on a street corner.

“Good for you, kiddo. Stick close to that Logan kid, and you should be fine.”

After Scott plays on the PS3 Erik gave him for Christmas two years ago, giving Alex some time to read the chapters for a few of the classes he’s taking online from the local community college, they eat another quarter of the leftover casserole and polish off a few more cookies, washing it all down with apple juice. To ease his conscience about their diets, he makes them both eat some grapes, as well.

He is washing dishes and listening to the local news report coming from one of the smaller television sets that had been in storage at the mansion – Alex thinks it must have been bought some time in the nineties, but Scott can still play video games on it, and it hasn’t died yet, so he refused to allow Charles to buy them a brand new one – when he hears their doorbell ring. “Scott, don’t even think about it.” He goes to answer the door before his little brother makes it so much as a foot out of his room.

Standing on his doorstep is what looks like a Flying Tomato Wannabe, his hair brilliant red and hanging low on his shoulders, an easy smile on his lightly freckled face. “Hey, man. Welcome to the ‘hood. I’m Sean Cassidy, and these,” he thrusts a plate of brownies into Alex’s surprised hands, “are the most amazing brownies you will ever eat in your life.”

Alex raises his eyebrows, silently asking, ‘Are you serious right now?’ before he nods and says, “Thanks, man.”

The guy nods and keeps on giving him that lazily pleased look and then he turns and walks ever so slowly away, heading back to 404, the house directly across from his own. For a while, Alex stands and wonders if that really just happened, and then he hears a curious voice asking, “Can I have one?”

He blinks and turns to tell his brother, “You just ate, Squirt. Go… read a book or something until it’s time for bed. I have to study.”

Scott frowns a little at this, but goes and does what he’s told. He knows better than to bug his older brother when he needs to study – a few years of interrupting him while he crammed for finals had taught him well. Besides, Alex won’t have a Saturday physics lab for another few weeks, and he promised him that they would go and do something fun on Saturday. He works to shove down the guilt that swells up at sacrificing time with his brother.

It’s for him, really – he wants to be able to provide for Scott, and the kid knew what he was signing up for when he said he wanted to move out of the mansion with him. Alex had made it Scott’s choice, trying to let him know he shouldn’t feel obligated to live with his big brother and promising to visit as often as possible. Scott had stared at him incredulously and said, “Hey, Alex? You remember that laptop you got for your birthday last year, right?” When Alex nodded, he had continued, “And you do know what Skype is, right? Right. So, I can ‘see’ Charles and Erik and Aunt Raven whenever I want. I want to live with you.”

He still becomes a bit choked up when he thinks about it for too long, so he cracks open his Statistics textbook and does his best to ignore it, absentmindedly scarfing on brownies he’s pretty sure he’ll be kicking himself for later. He hates dancing after eating too much sugar, and he’s already eaten quite a few of those cookies, but chocolate makes everything better and hey, are the words blurring?

The knock at the door is a bit surprising, but he gets up obediently, not wanting Scott to get curious and do it himself. “Heeey. How are you on the beautiful evening?”

The dork on his doorstep – and honestly, what else can he be with glasses like that and a Star Trek TOS T-Shirt and a freaking lab coat on – blanches and says, “I guess I got here a bit too late. Am I right in assuming you decided to eat some of Sean’s brownies?”

Alex grins and offers, “Yeah, heey, do you want some, dude? They’re pretty sweet. Not as amazing as the cookies, but still, they’re worth the calories and the sugar.”

Mr. Tall and Dorky bites his lip and fights a grin, shaking his head. “No thanks. In fact, I think you should probably refrain from having more as well.” He ducks and then looks up at Alex again. “So you uh, you liked the cookies?”

Leaning forward, Alex whispers, “Can I tell you a seeecret?”

“Um. Sure. Why not?”

“I’m gonna marry Hank McCoy.” He watches with a detached interest as the guy’s ears go pink, followed by his cheeks.

“Oh, really? Why would you say that?”

“He made me chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies. And they were the Best Ever.” He considers for a moment if he should be telling this guy about his Epic Love of Hank McCoy when it’s still so new, but well… Scott probably wouldn’t get it, since he’s still in the girls-have-cuties stage (may he stay there forever) and Raven would laugh at him.

Mr. Tall and Dorky finally gives into that grin he’s been holding back, and while it is a bit embarrassed, it’s still completely gorgeous, and Alex feels a bit like a heel for kind of cheating on Hank McCoy of the Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Raisin Cookies but… he hasn’t come back since apparently leaving the plate of deliciousness on his doorstep, and that sort of estrangement puts a strain on relationships. “Look, why don’t I just relieve you of the rest of Sean’s brownies and help you get somewhere comfortable so you can sleep this off?”

“Oh, but I have to make sure Scott gets to bed.” He stares up, up, up soulfully at his visitor and asks, “Could yoooou do it?”

Opening and closing his mouth a few times – and what a pretty mouth it is – the dork finally says, “Sure, why not?” and that’s pretty much the end of Alex’s good decision-making for the night, but that’s okay, because Mr. Tall and Dorky totally has it under control.

The next morning, he wakes up in his bed still wearing his shorts and long-sleeved shirt from the night before, with no clue how he got there. He realizes this is fairly common for most kids his age – college is typically a time of fun and experimentation, or so the movies say, but he personally has never had time for it, so he takes a moment to settle into this new experience and then decides he never wants to have it again. He goes to check on Scott and finds that he, at least, made it into his pajamas before going to sleep last night, and then goes through the motions of getting ready for the day.

Scott gives him a few probing looks throughout munching on his Blueberry Eggo’s – just a bit crunchy, so that they make a little noise while he chews them –  and sipping his OJ, but is apparently disinclined to elucidate on the nature of said looks, so Alex decides not to ask. When he glances at the kitchen clock, he swears and then orders Scott to never ever mention it to Moira, and hustles the kid out the door.

They sort of stumble through the rest of their first week, each acquiring a few bumps and bruises along the way – though not as many as his students claim they’ve been getting, the wusses – and both breathe a sigh of relief when Saturday rolls sluggishly around.

Alex kicks off the morning by donning a pair of faded old cargo shorts and mowing the lawn. It’s 10:30, so he refuses to feel bad about waking anyone else lazy enough to still be sleeping in on such a gorgeous day, pointedly ignoring how much he wishes he could sleep in ‘til about 12:00 during the week. Yeah, he’s a hypocrite. What’s the rest of the world going to do about it?

When he finishes with the front lawn, he hears the door of the yellow-brick house open and turns to wave. He doesn’t remember anyone ever coming or going from that place in the days before this, and he’s curious. The answering wave comes from a tall man who is similarly topless. “Hey. You about to do yours?” Alex asks, gesturing to his lawnmower.

“No,” his neighbor denies, “I’m going for a run.” He seems to hesitate for a minute before asking, “How are you?”

“Me? I’m fine…. You?”

“I feel quite well, thanks.” The guy examines him for a while. “You… don’t remember me, do you?”

Stumped, Alex tells him, “Sorry, man. Can’t say that I do.”

He strides toward Alex at that, offering his hand. “In that case, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Henry Phillip McCoy. But um, you can call me Hank.”

As they shake hands, they observe each other, and Alex is tempted to do a victory dance right there on the front lawn. He’s adorable. Alex had known he would be adorable. No man who baked his new neighbor chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies could be anything else. “Nice to meet you, Hank. I’m Alex Summers, and this kid,” he gestures toward the boy who has emerged from their purple eyesore, which he is reluctantly growing to love, “is my brother Scott.”

Scott glances between the two of them and then sticks his hand out. “Hi.”

Something passes between the two of them when Hank takes the proffered hand and genially tells him, “Hello, Scott.”

Chalking their ‘moment’ up to mutual nerd-recognition, Alex shrugs it off. “We were going to see what sort of trouble we could get up to in this place on a Saturday. You know of anything?”

“Well, there’s a wildlife preserve not too far from here. It’s three dollars for kids under twelve and five dollars for adults. The proceeds go to the animals, so, it’s for a good cause.” Oh, he likes Hank. He’s so earnest and awkward.

“Well, how could we deprive the animals?” He turns to Scott. “We would never deny furry creatures the right to their continued comfort, would we, Squirt?”

Scott predictably rolls his eyes, young enough to still fear girls but old enough to think adults are just plain dumb, and won’t be able to tell exactly how excited he is about the prospect of tiny animals. “Don’t call me that. And yeah, the preserve could be cool.”

Chapter Text

The preserve is definitely cool – there are more than a few fluffy bunnies and toads in evidence, and quite a lot of other fascinating creatures besides. They even get to see a few birds of prey and examine an owl pellet or two, and Alex has to fight to hold onto his cool older brother attitude, because he is in desperate danger of geeking out like the (closeted) intellectual teenager he still is.

After seeing all there is to see at the preserve and donating a few more dollars to help save a dying snake, they visit the shops in the well-preserved downtown, stopping into the old-time candy store and buying candied popcorn and a few packs of licorice. Alex figures he can absolve himself of all the sugar by not touching the last of the batch of chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies until at least Tuesday.

 Alex deems their money well-spent and then they head home only to discover that Saturday evening television is every bit as dull here as it was back in Westchester.

The contented smile hovering around the edges of Scott’s lips convinces his older brother that the poor quality of their current entertainment will not do anything to lessen the success of the day, and so he settles back into the squishy old couch – he is frankly shocked that the Xavier family had something like this grey monstrosity lying around, but Charles chalked it up to the vagaries of the seventies, and they left it at that – and feels warm all over when his kid brother snuggles up into the crook of the arm not holding onto the licorice pack they’re devouring.

Scott finishes up his piece of licorice and glances over at him out of the corner of his eyes. “Hey, Alex?”

“Yeah, kiddo?” He’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming.

Scott always gets a bit tentative when he’s about to say, “I love you.”

Squeezing him gently with the arm wrapped around his shoulders, Alex tells him, “I love you, too, Scott.”

Right now, in this very moment? Life is good. Perfect, really.

It’s just sucky timing that the anniversary of the plane crash that changed everything falls on the following Wednesday, ruining their idyll.

They both wake up even more subdued than usual, and Alex doesn’t call Scott “Squirt” even once, simply tugging him close before they climb morosely into the Ford and holding him as tightly as he can without risking leaving contusions. Scott still tries to squirm closer, so Alex figures he doesn’t mind. “It’s not too late for me to call us both in sick today, you know.”

His human growth breathes out heavily and shakes his head against his abdomen. “You know we can’t.”

They really can’t. They need every bit of what Alex brings home, and his guardianship is still in a sort of probationary period, so taking unnecessary time off is pretty much not an option.

Heaving his own sigh, Alex slowly lets his little brother go. “We’d better get this over with, kiddo.”

The car ride to Hunt Elementary is silent, but when Scott opens the door, Alex calls, “Hey, hold up.”

“Yeah?” He hates hearing the little guy sounding so depressed.

Instead of offering platitudes about everything being fine and keeping his chin up, Alex tells him, “I love you, Scott.”

Scott’s little face crumples, but he mumbles out, “Love you, too,” before he makes a run for the entrance to the school, not wanting to lose it in front of the rest of the arriving student body.

Rather than taking this time before his first class to sit in the parking lot of the academy and study, Alex jumps out and makes a beeline for his studio, ignoring the greetings of the other instructors. Heading over to the stereo, he puts on something his bratty charges would no doubt inform him was not right for hip hop, but feels just right for him in this moment, and he lays it all out on the springy rubber mat of the studio floor.

He should have warmed up, but at the moment he cannot even begin to care.

In that first year of living with the Blandings, the foster family he had originally been placed with, Evan Blanding had done one truly nice thing for him. He had started out his time with them lashing out at anything and everyone, getting called up to the carpet at least once a week. Finally, Evan had gotten tired of it, and on a Friday night, he had pulled up to building with all the lights turned on, in spite of the late hour, and told him calmly, “Son, you have an anger problem.”

“Wow, thanks for the newsflash. I feel much better now.”

“Hold your horses, son. Maybe if you stopped to actually listen every once in a while, you’d be able to tell when people are trying to help you out.” When Alex had simply glared at him mulishly, Evan had continued, “Now, I know there are a lot of people who would like for you to talk about it, but since you obviously won’t, and since you can’t seem to stay out of trouble, I’m going to make sure you get the next best thing.”

Interest reluctantly piqued, Alex had asked, “What would that be?”

“An outlet.”

Surprisingly enough, Evan Blanding had been right. The dance classes his foster family had sent him to every night during the week and every Saturday morning had given him a way to work through everything he felt like the rest of the world had no right to hear about, but he needed to let loose because without it he was going to explode. It had the added benefit of making his foster parents really see him, rather than a replacement for their dead son, and he actually felt capable of breathing in their house for the three years it took for Charles to convince the system to release his contact information.

At last, when sweat pours down every inch of his body in rivulets, and his mind is a hazy exhausted muddle, he forces himself to run through a few cool down exercises. He may not feel better, exactly, but he doesn’t feel like telling the entire universe save his little family – and maybe, just maybe, Henry Phillip McCoy – to screw itself and die, so he thinks he might be able to tackle his students for the next four hours before he can take the rest of his turbulent emotions out on legally procured engines.

He gets through the rest of the day on sheer force of will and then he and Scott spend the night curled up together on the ugly grey couch, not speaking, simply holding onto each other and hoping the message that of, ‘I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere ever, I promise,’ seeps into the others’ skin.

They roll off the couch to the sound of Alex’s alarm clock blaring music from entirely the wrong radio station – he still has yet to figure out how it gets off of the one he sets it to, but that’s life, he supposes – sore and stiff, yet much more at peace with life as a whole.

Alex spends the rest of the week fending off concerned questions of his coworkers at the dance academy and searching whenever he leaves the house for signs of Hank.

For a guy who looks like he runs every day without fail, Hank McCoy sure knows how to make himself scarce.

…

On the next Monday, Alex gets a call at the dance academy and braces himself. Scott has never gotten in trouble at school before this, not even on That Day, but this is a new town, and he supposes anything is possible. “Alexander Summers?” asks a rich, smooth voice, which under any other circumstances would set him immediately at ease. It practically oozes southern hospitality, and he knows that if he swung that way, he would be a goner.

“This is he.” He waits for the impending disappointment with a sinking heart.

“This is Anna Marie Kellogg, the receptionist for Hunt Elementary, and I’m calling because the school needs to you update your brother’s emergency contact list.” Oh!

“Oh, um. Sure.” He fights not to let his overwhelming relief bleed through the receiver and out of the other line. He’s not entirely certain how great his success is, but as he’s currently trying to remember if he even knows the number of anyone else in the area, he opts to worry over it later. Finally, his mind latches onto Hank’s number, which his neighbor had provided that first Saturday before he and Scott set off for the wildlife preserve, and he gives it while silently hoping there is never a reason for his neighbor to find out that his contact information has been used without his knowledge.

His luck holds for about two weeks, and then he has an unexpected meeting with the rest of the academy instructors. The school is, apparently, losing too many students. He’s not sure why they think he can do anything about it. He is a part-time hip hop teacher who only meets other people when he remembers to go to the grocery store and when he occasionally has Saturday or Sunday free enough to bop around town with his little brother, but the meeting runs into the time he would have taken to have lunch with Darwin before they both go on shift at the garage, and his phone is on silent in the pocket of his hoodie as a sign of respect and out of fear of the thing going off in the middle of the eerily quiet theatre.

It isn’t until he finally escapes to his old Ford that he gets a chance to pull out his cell, and he stops at the number of missed calls he has showing. Diverted from calling his manager to apologize and say he’s going to be late for his shift, he instead scrolls through the list of missed calls. Originally, it was Scott’s school, and he starts to feel the first stages of panic setting in as he sees that the next set of calls all came from one Hank McCoy.

Rather than bother with listening to the messages, he dials his neighbor’s number and when he hears someone pick up on the other end, he demands frantically, “What’s wrong with him?”

Strawberries. They are a thing of evil, and he plans to track down every last one of them and obliterate them from the face of the earth. Some soccer mom had been trying to obey the rule about providing enough for everyone in the class in the event of bringing snacks for a student’s birthday or other special occasion, and she had the terrible luck to pick out the one thing that would apparently set off Scott’s previously latent food allergies: strawberry shortcake cupcakes.

He stares at the pitiful little face of his brother and slumps down beside him on the hospital bed. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he asks again dully, “Strawberries? Really?”

A large, warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder with a comforting pressure. “They’re actually one of the more common food allergies, believe it or not.” Alex chooses not to snap, ‘I kind of have to now, don’t I, Bozo?’ because Hank is only trying to help, and he actually is, even though Alex never asked before involving him in his brother’s life in the first place.

Instead, he whispers, “He looks so… small.” He does. Alex knows on an intellectual level that he and his brother are not the tallest of the male half of their species. He even suspects that Scott will most likely be taller than he is in that far-off nebulous Someday. For now, though, he simply looks tiny and frail and young, and the sight is breaking his heart, because he should have been there, and this had never happened when they lived in Westchester, and how could he let this happen?

In the midst of his silent self-recriminations, the door to Scott’s hospital room – room 209, and Alex decides he is going to hate that number for the rest of his life, because he has to hate something about this, and he thinks that the people who care about him would prefer if it isn’t himself, in spite of the fact that it’s incredibly tempting – opens, and he hears a voice which for the past few weeks he has only conversed with via phone and other technological devices, “Come here, Alex,” and he goes willingly, gratefully into Charles’ waiting arms.

“It’s going to be alright.” He would hate that coming from anyone else, but Charles never says anything unless he means it, and so he allows himself to snuffle into his neck and believe.

…

Eventually, Alex pulls back and accepts the hand kerchief Charles readily provides – oh, Charles – and realizes as he wipes his face that the room has become more crowded than he thought. “Hey, guys,” he croaks, and Raven comes forward to give him a swift hug, whereas Erik nods and runs a soothing hand down the back of his neck and squeezes, forces the tense muscles there to finally release.

“Now, I believe introductions are in order if you feel up to it,” Charles declares, and Alex shoots an embarrassed glance toward the young man in the oddly suspiciously-stained lab coat and Led Zeppelin T-Shirt.

“Yeah, sure. Hank McCoy, this is the rest of our family. The guy to your left is Erik, this is Charles, and that’s Raven. Guys, this is Hank McCoy, he lives in the house right next to ours.” Normally, he would feel pretty uncomfortable doing the whole “Meet the Parents” thing while his eyes are all red and his nose is basically stuffed tighter than one of Christina Aguilera’s shirts, but since Hank has no reason to consider this anything particularly momentous, he handles it fairly well.

Or at least, he handles it well until Charles grins delightedly and says, “Oh, yes, Hank. Yes, Scott has told me all about you,” pumping the poor guy’s hand with obvious enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry, what?” What could Scott possibly have shared about their neighbor? So far, all they know is that he bakes cookies that are to die for, is a bit of a Trekkie, does something involving lab coats for a living, and that he likes to run. Oh, and he apparently likes Led Zeppelin, which, you know, kudos for good taste.

 “Oh, right. I was told not to let on about it. Well, never mind that. So, Hank, how exactly did you come to be here this afternoon?” Charles looks incredibly abashed at the situation, and so even though Alex would love to demand he explain what exactly he’s not supposed to know, he lets it go for now.

Hank fiddles with his glasses, pushing them up his nose. “The school called me when they couldn’t get hold of Alex.”

“Yeah, about that –“ Alex’s attempt at running interference amounts to nothing around his family.

“Did they now?” Erik is grinning that sardonic grin of his that makes Alex feel sorry for innocent fish, and when he glances over to check Raven and Charles, they are similarly pleased and amused by this turn of events.

“Moving kind of fast there, aren’t we Alex?”

“Shut up, Raven.” While it lacks a certain amount of panache present in his usual comebacks, he hopes it will at least put off his humiliation until after Hank has gone home. When it looks like his hopes are about to prove futile, he looks at his neighbor and asks, “Look, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”

Startled, Hank blinks and then nods at him obligingly. “Oh, of course.” To the others, he bids goodbye and says, “It was nice meeting all of you – not under these circumstances though!” and then he goes to hold open the door for Alex.

Once out from under the gleeful eyes of his family, Alex looks up at Hank and apologizes, “Look, man, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you about giving Scott’s school your number, but you’re kind of one of the only people I know around here who I might trust with small human beings, and especially with my kid brother, so, um. Yeah.”

Hank stares down at him with his big blue eyes, his hands in the deep pockets of his lap coat, and reassures him, “Don’t worry about it – Scott’s a sweet kid, and I’m glad you felt comfortable giving them my name. I would like to ask that you consult me the next time you make any similar decisions, though, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“No, yeah, of course.” Anything that will make Hank feel more okay about the whole thing is perfectly fine in Alex’s opinion.

“May I ask – well. Mmm.”

“What?”

Peering at him consideringly, Hank asks, “Would you tell me why you trusted me enough for this?” When he says, “this,” he waves one arm around the hospital hall in a movement that is so artlessly beautiful that it would make Madame Pryor sigh with jealousy.

“This is going to sound really stupid,” he cautions, watching Hank nod encouragingly, “but um, it was the note you sent with the cookies.”

He braces himself for skepticism, and is pleasantly surprised when all he receives is scholarly intrigue. “The note?”

“Yeah, it just – you sounded like such a nerd – no, Hank, that’s a good thing – and I mean, Scott likes you, from what I can tell, so,” he trails off, cheeks bright red, eyes firmly locked on the tile that now seems hideously white when compared to the sunny yellow tile of the kitchen floor at home and the turquoise tile in the master bathroom connected to his bedroom with its burnt orange carpet. To break up the lingering awkwardness – and he knows it’s a product of his own perceptions, he took an A plus in AP Psychology, thanks – he enquires, “Is there anything you need that I could do to make this up to you?”

Hank cocks his head to the side. “Would you feel better about things if I said, ‘yes’?”

“Yeah?” he hazards.

“Well, I have been having some trouble with my washing machine.”

Relieved, Alex gushes, “Oh, hey, I can totally take care of that – I have everything I need at home.”

“Why don’t you wait a few days and then come over?” He smiles and offers, “I could bake you some more cookies for you to take home.”

“Would they be chocolate chip oatmeal raisin?”

Hank gives Alex this Look, as though he thinks Alex is the adorable one, and says, “As you wish,” before waving and heading toward the elevator. At the last minute, he asks, “Let me know how Scott is when he wakes up?”

The doors close even as Alex avers, “Yeah, definitely!”

He keeps his word three hours later, after much hugging and hair-ruffling, and he hands Scott his cell at his little brother’s request, trying not to listen in. This becomes much easier momentarily, because after Scott whispers in a voice made husky by his reaction and by several hours without consuming fluids through anything other than an I.V., “Hey, Mr. Hank,” his doctor comes in and wants to talk to Alex about things like allergy testing and preventative measures, and his attention is completely diverted.

Chapter Text

Hugging Charles one more time, Alex tries to prepare himself to say goodbye until winter break rolls around and he and Scott can take the time to visit with their little make-shift family for something other than a medical emergency. He knows Charles would stay longer if asked, but Raven, at least, needs to return to the mansion so that she can get back to classes tomorrow – and to theatre practice. From what she’s shared over the last few days of all of them living in the close quarters of what he and Scott now consider ‘home,’ she landed a fairly sweet role in Twelfth Night, and wants to ensure her ability to do it justice. He’s not entirely sure what she’s worried about – ever since he first met her, he has watched her transform seamlessly into one persona after another, managing to infuse all of them with something that is uniquely and enchantingly Raven, whilst still staying true to the spirits of the characters.

Still, he doesn’t want to seem clingy, and so he plasters on a brave face, reminding himself that there truly was a time in his life without each of these crazy, brilliant, wonderful people. It helps that Scott sits under a pile of blankets on the couch watching the proceedings, and that every once in a while, he sees in his minds’ eye horn-rimmed glasses and pink cheeks framed by dark hair and a shy grin. I will see you tomorrow, Henry Phillip McCoy.

Every day since Scott’s surprise trip to the hospital, their neighbor has called to check on his progress. He would have come over to do it in person but for the already fit-to-bursting state of their house, as well as a few things he ambiguously referred to as ‘projects.’  

Whatever Hank does, it clearly involves maintaining a friendly relationship with the local allergy specialist, as Erik had come in yesterday with the results from Scott’s blood test fresh from the mail, though the doctor had informed him it would take at least a week for them to arrive. Thankfully, the results yielded few food allergies, and they all seemed fairly easy to avoid and prepare meals around – honestly, the kid can live without avocadoes, bananas, and papayas, and he’s never cared overmuch for cantaloupe and pineapples anyway.

After squeezing him back, Charles pulls away so that they are eye to eye. “You call me if you need anything – anything at all. Alright?”

Alex shrugs as much as possible while still in the circle of two lightly muscled arms. “Yeah, sure.”

“That wasn’t convincing when you were seventeen and promising us you wouldn’t stay up all night studying for your exams, and it isn’t convincing now. Try again,” Erik orders, flat yet slightly amused underneath his perpetually steely resolve.

The only thing stopping him from rolling his eyes is the near-identical pair observing him from the comfort of the grey monster. He appreciates the fact that Scott still considers Erik the ultimate authority on life, and doesn’t want to do anything to change that prematurely. Alex may not care one way or the other about following directions, but he hopes to make Scott’s life a little easier by not ridding him of the healthy respect he still holds for the adults in his little world.

“I promise that I will call you if we need anything. Besides, Scott will just tell you if I don’t.” Scott tells Charles everything. When Alex first arrived at the mansion, he had been jealous of this, until he realized that Scott’s talks with Charles were a much less physical version of his own dance lessons, which Charles had graciously paid for Alex to keep up with at a school the Blandings could never have afforded. If he ever stops to consider everything he owes the two men standing before him, he cannot help but be floored by it. They took care of his kid brother when he couldn’t, and took him in even though he already had a stable roof over his head and guardians who, though they never loved him, certainly treated him better than he at times felt he deserved.

“That’s because Scott isn’t emotionally stunted and is actually capable of holding a conversation for longer than the few seconds it takes to say, ‘Hi,’ and ,’How are you?’ or, ‘Pass the salt, please,’” Raven teases, pulling Alex out of his oddly maudlin musings.

“Raven, how dare you blacken my character so horribly? I would never say, ‘please,’ for something like salt,” he deadpans, grateful for the timely rescue from his inner monologue. Sometimes he wishes he could simply stop thinking – it would go a long way towards curbing his tendency to self-flagellate.

“Philistine,” she smirks.

“Hedonist,” because she is.

Preening, Raven says, “Thank you,” with unnecessary relish.

“You would take that as a compliment.”

Charles’ mouth twitches. “Now children,” and things pretty much derail from there. Alex is glad – he doesn’t want their last moments of physically occupying the same space for the next few months to be filled with solemn goodbyes.

When he finally closes the door behind the other half of their family, he turns back to Scott and raises his eyebrows, asking, “A New Hope or Empire Strikes Back?” When they were little, their parents had always put on the old Star Wars movies whenever they were feeling sick, and Alex reinstated the tradition the first time he was there while Scott came down with a cold in Westchester. Scott, too young to remember much of life prior to the plane crash, but already a fan of science fiction thanks to all the blockbuster sci-fi films he had grown up seeing at the theatre, had loved it, not even caring that the special effects were, by today’s standards, incredibly cheesy.

“It’s an Empire Strikes Back kind of night.” He has to give it to him – the kid has good taste.

“You think so?”

“Definitely.”

Strolling over to the shelves holding their collection of DVDs, Alex fishes out the movie in question and shoots a grin over at his little brother. “Empire it is.”

…

“Okay, you know what to do if anyone brings snacks or another kid tries to share with you, right?”

Scott gives him a look far too close to long-suffering for a seven-year-old. “Yeah, Alex. I have to ask for the ingredients.”

They’re parked in front of the front doors of Hunt Elementary, and Alex is aware in the back of his mind that he is blocking traffic, but the incident last week has his protective instincts running even higher than normal, and he thinks he is doing well simply by not putting Scott in a clean room somewhere that has never even heard the word “strawberry,” much less contained one. Some jerk in a suit and tie honks his horn and Alex studiously ignores him. Did his kid have an anaphylactic reaction last week? No, he doesn’t think so. So he can just deal with it. “And what do you say if you’re allergic?”

“’No, thank you,’” Scott sighs, eyeing the entrance longingly.

“Da – “ he checks himself at the last minute, “Darn straight.”

“Great. Can I go now?”

Suit Guy is going to have a coronary any second now, so Alex slumps back against the seat and says, “Yeah, kiddo. You can go.”

Perhaps he feels bad about getting snappy, or perhaps he feels a bit nervous about emerging from the little safe haven of their ugly purple house regardless of the nonchalant way he’s been acting all morning. Whatever the cause, Scott throws his arms around Alex’s neck for a split second and then he hops out of the car like his little butt is on fire, almost forgetting his matching Captain America lunchbox and backpack in the process. “Bye, Alex!”

“Bye,” Alex hollers out the rapidly closing door, and then, before shifting into ‘Drive,’ he whispers, “Be safe.”

The drive over to the academy is filled with overly loud grunge rock in an attempt to drown out the worries which overcrowd his brain. He turns down the volume as he enters the parking lot though, not liking what he sees. Beautiful and petite, one of the jazz instructors is standing in front of the back entrance to the school, stuck in the middle of three men who, if he had to guess, Alex would say were in their mid-twenties. Her normally perfect posture is hunched and defensive, and he wonders where exactly the security guys are until he remembers that he and Angel are typically the first ones to arrive at the academy each morning; he’s seen Angel sitting in her car with one textbook or another open in her lap every day during the week, and he thinks he may have seen her once or twice at the community college campus on the days he’s needed to go in for practical work.

He parks quickly, blood pumping hard in his ears and adrenaline rushing through his veins, “Hey!”

The three idiots turn toward him, but Angel’s eyes continue flitting from one man to the next. Good girl. After eyeing him for a few seconds, they decide to take their chances, but their cockiness is their undoing: they never considered that Angel might be the one to strike first, dropping to the pavement and scissoring her legs, knocking two of them to the ground. Then Alex is there, and it’s like he is back in his freshman year of high school all over again, taking out his fury on the asshats dumb enough to make themselves convenient targets.

The fight ends with all three of the men groaning on the ground, and the sound of sirens moving closer, closer, closer. Keeping one eye on the would-be assailants, Alex asks, “Those cops for them?” throwing a final kick at one of the figures for good measure.

Angel pulls out the cell which is still showing a phone call in progress from one of the pockets of her cargo pants and gives him an exhausted yet triumphant smirk, “Yep. Started dialing 911 as soon as I heard them following me.”

“Nice. Wait – why were you out of your car in the first place?” The doors stay locked until the vice principal gets there every morning, roughly fifteen minutes after Alex and Angel typically arrive.

She shrugs uncomfortably. “I had coffee this morning – I stayed up late last night studying for a test in biology – and I wanted to throw it away. Next thing I know, these assholes are tailing me.”

Alex’s grin is dark and, he suspects, a little too similar to some of the ones he has witnessed on Erik whenever his time serving in the Special Forces is brought up. It doesn’t happen often. “Something tells me they won’t be making that mistake again anytime soon.”

“Oh, honey, idiots like that never learn.” There is a tragic knowledge in her dark eyes, and Alex can’t stand it. He would say something to try and make it go away, but the police have finally parked and all he has time to do is take her hand in one of his and squeeze it ever-so-gently, not wanting to aggravate the damage she most likely incurred when she punched one of the men on the temple. She never looks at him once throughout the answers and statements they have to give the officers of the peace, but neither does she loosen her hold on his fingers.

When the dean of the academy warns the two of them against discussing this incident openly with the students, Alex is livid. He gets that she’s worried about losing more pupils, but putting young men and women at risk because her school is low on funding is so far beyond not okay that they would have to create an entirely new map in order to find it. Luckily, Angel is one of the best jazz instructors they have, so when she fails to comply, Madame Pryor cannot do anything too heinous in order to shut her up. He follows Angel’s lead and takes some time out of each class to teach his students some basic self-defense, and reminds himself to do the same for Scott. Incidents like the one from that morning may occur less with little boys, but Alex would be an idiot to ignore a wake-up call so close to home.

By the time lunch with Darwin rolls around, Alex is ready to crawl up the walls of Pryor’s Academy of Dance, and so after stopping in to check on Angel, he high-tails it to his beloved truck. He only realizes he has been speeding when he breezes past this woman driving a car at least thirty years behind the times, who looks at least that many years in the grave, and he searches reflexively for patrol cars even as he slows to a more reasonable rate. He still reaches the Jason’s Deli he and Darwin frequent in record time, and he knows when his friend gives him a wide-eyed look that he must seem like he’s losing it.

Darwin adjusts fairly quickly to his mood, offering calmly, “You wanna talk about it?”

For once, the answer is actually, ‘Yes,’ and so once they’ve gone through the line and taken their usual booth (When, exactly, did he become so predictable that he now has a specific seat in a delicatessen of all things? Probably when he became wholly responsible for a young child. Yeah. That would do it.), he spills the entire messy saga, starting with what caused Scott’s medical emergency and finishing up with his and Angel’s rebellion against Madame I Have an Entire Barre Stuck Up My Butt.

“So, basically what I’m hearing is, you’ve had the week from hell.”

He thinks it over for a second and then nods sharply. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

…

That afternoon, Scott scurries into the Ford with heretofore unprecedented alacrity, and Alex raises his eyebrows, asking, “Missed me that much, huh?”

Scott scoots way, way down into his seat, until even the top of his dark mop is invisible to the rest of their boring little town, not opening his mouth until they are well beyond the campus grounds. Alex waits him out: the Summers men are notoriously reticent when pressed for information, and he has a whole ten minutes remaining before they hop out and throw something together that at least vaguely resembles dinner and then head next door so Alex can see about fixing Hank’s washing machine. Finally, Scott glances over at him and swallows before licking his lips in an all-too familiar nervous quirk. “You know how, when you start at a new place, and you’re kind of this weird new thing everyone wants to poke and stare at?”

“Yeah?”

“Well,” he breathes, “it was kind of like that, only worse, because I already did that, and because they all saw me, like, implode in class last week. That wasn’t the weird part, though.” The kid stares out the window before he goes on, “The weird part was when Logan finally got so pissed off,” here, Alex has to bite his lip to prevent the automatic response of, ‘Don’t say that word until you’re old enough to shave,’ because if he scolds the kid now, he’ll never find out what actually happened, “that he actually growled at the other kids. I think he probably would have kicked their butts, but Miss Monroe got out Bunnicula early, so. Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” because what do you say to that, really? “But, hey, it sounds like you’ve got a pretty good friend.”

His little brother scrunches his face up and then says, “Yeah, I guess so. Only…”

“Only – what?”

“Well, he calls me ‘Slim’ all the time and he doesn’t really talk a lot. I mean, he gets real chatty whenever Jean comes over, but most of the time he just kind of glares at everyone.” Oh. Oh, this is priceless.

Testing his theory, Alex probes, “Does he ever glare at you?”

“Well… no,” Scott admits, completely confused, and yeah, that pretty much clinches it. His little brother has an admirer.

“Has it ever occurred to you that this kid calls you ‘Slim’ sort of the same way I call you ‘Squirt’?”

At this, Scott snaps with all the scorn a seven-year-old can muster, “Yeah, I know he does it to annoy me, that’s kind of the point.”

“Okay,” Alex placates, “there’s that. But I also do it because I love you, and because you’re cute when you get your feathers all ruffled.”

“Alex,” Scott cries, utterly scandalized, “he likes country music and monster trucks!”

“So?”

“So, he knows I’m a nerd – he calls me that, too. There is no way he has a crush on me,” he declares in all his childish wisdom.

“Give it a few years. Or better yet, don’t.” He can probably find some sort of monastery to ship the kid off to before his hormones kick in, and a little touch of denial never harmed anyone – much.

As they pull up and park on the curb in front of their house, Scott wrinkles his nose and tells his brother flatly, “Grownups are so weird.”

He’s not wrong, but later on he proves that kids can be pretty weird, too: when Alex plates their dinner up, Scott covers his entire serving of vegetable stir fry in ketchup and mustard, and Alex can feel himself turning green as he watches the disgusting combination disappear into his little brother’s bottomless pit of a stomach. “Please don’t tell anyone that I let you do that,” he begs, earning a confused blink and then a shrug which he chooses to interpret as compliance.

When the last of the desecrated attempt at exposing his brother to other cultures is gone, they dump their dishes into the sink for later and Alex retrieves his tool kit from his bedroom closet before heading for the door. “You ready to go, Squirt?”

He may know the secret now, but Scott still pulls a disgusted face and makes another futile attempt to stop the use of his sobriquet before agreeing that they can leave the house. It’s nice to know that some things never change.

Chapter Text

When they reach the front door to number 403, there is a placard hanging above it declaring that, ‘If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’ and Alex rings the doorbell to the tune of his little brother asking, “What does ‘im-prob-able’ mean?” Thanks for that, Hank.

The accused must have exceptional hearing, because when the door opens mere seconds later, he tells Scott, “I have a fairly comprehensive dictionary in my office - would you like to go find out?” and Alex kind of wants to kiss him for saving him from having to search for the right words - it’s not that he doesn’t understand things, he just fails utterly when it comes to explaining them - but that would probably seem kind of random.

“Really?” Scott soaks up knowledge like a sponge. Gazing up at Hank, who is currently absorbed in his little brother, Alex wonders if he realizes he has just become one of Scott’s favorite people. Then again, judging from the lengthy conversations the two of them had whenever their neighbor would call to check on him over the last few days, and the story Scott shared about Hank arriving in time to join him in the ambulance on the ride to the hospital, he probably already was. That’s okay - he’s getting to be pretty far up there on Alex’s list of people too. The chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies were one thing, but the continued interest in his little brother’s well-being - in a kind, non-creepy-stalker way - has pretty much clinched it for him. Hank is awesome.

“Absolutely. Why don’t you head down there - it’s just down the hall - and I’ll be there with you momentarily to help you get the dictionary down?”

The kid gives Hank a delighted grin and chirps, “Thanks, Mr. Hank!” and Alex notes that Scott smiles a lot whenever Hank is around. Then he slips past the bespectacled man and goes off in search of the promised office.

Alex cocks his head to the side and smirks not-unkindly before asking, “You know you’re never going to be able to get rid of him now, right?”

Shifting his weight, Hank tells him, “I don’t mind,” before reaching forward and offering, “Would you like me to take that?”

“What, this?” he hefts his tool kit and shakes his head, “No, it’s fine - I’d just have to take it back as soon as I started working on the washer. Speaking of - are you planning on letting me in any time soon?”

“Yes, of course! I just wanted to ask you - would you mind allowing me to take a blood sample? I already have some of Scott’s from when they took it at the hospital, but it would be highly beneficial to have yours as well,” Hank explains, falling into the rather rapid speech pattern he uses when he fears he has overstepped some sort of social boundary. He may have, actually - Alex has never been asked for his blood by a neighbor before, but then, they do say there’s a first time for everything, and he’s not always the most couth or socially conscious person either, so he firmly resolves not to judge.

“You want some of my blood?”

Hank blinks at him guilelessly before confirming, “For my research, yes.”

“You can have it after I finish with your washing machine - if,” he qualifies, “you finally tell me what it is you do in here all day, every day.”

Startled, his neighbor asks, “I haven’t told you yet? I could have sworn I mentioned it at some point.”

“Nope.”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t trying to keep that from you,” the unintentionally odd inflection when Hank utters, ‘that’ definitely piques Alex’s interest, but he files that away under ‘Things to Ponder Later.’ “I’m a geneticist - I’m trying to find a way to predict and help prevent the development of allergies in children. You’d be surprised how many more cases of children with autoimmune disorders have occurred in the last ten to fifteen years.”

And cue the sinking feeling in Alex’s gut.

He swallows convulsively and asks, in a voice that absolutely falls short of the unconcerned tone he was aiming for, “So that’s why you’ve been so interested in Scott? His allergies?” Has he been so completely wrong about this? How is that even possible?

“What? Oh, Alex, no! I mean, I’d like to be able to help Scott, definitely, but that’s not -” Hank stops, rakes a frustrated hand through his hair and then tries again, “I care about your brother. A lot. I may not have known him for long, but he - not his genetics, not his allergies, Scott - matters to me. And um. You do, too.” He mumbles the last part, but Alex cannot even manage more than faint amusement at this, so overwhelmed by the immense feeling of relief he gets at Hank’s words.

“Yeah?” he breathes out softly.

“Yeah.” Hank glances around, taking in the pink tint which now covers most of the visible horizon and suggests, “Anyway, why don’t I show you that washing machine now?”

He shakes himself and nods distractedly. “Right, yeah - the washing machine.”

When he finally enters the house, his nose is welcomed by the glorious scents of vanilla and chocolate with something just a bit darker underneath - must be the oats and raisins - and he shoots Hank an appreciative grin. “You remembered the cookies.”

“I did promise you chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies - and I make it a point to never go back on my word,” Hank tells him, and Alex decides that yes, he really did mean for him to take more away from that statement than what was on the surface.

Casually, he examines the interior of 403 on their way through the kitchen and into the washroom. The colors of this house are, thankfully, far less blinding than those in their quirky 405. Muted browns and yellows make up most of the walls and panelling. The one concession to the more vibrant side of the spectrum is the royal blue carpet which feels heavenly underneath feet which have worked doggedly all day long. He imagines what it would be like to kick his shoes off and wallow in the decadent texture, but resists the urge. If things go his way, there will be more than enough opportunities for him to play with that fantasy - along with several, far less innocent others - in the future.

They reach the washroom and Hank flips the light on before motioning for Alex to walk in. Slapping a hand gently against the frame of the door, he says, “I’m off to aide Scott’s endeavor to acquire more knowledge - let me know if you need anything,” before giving Alex a soft smile and departing for his office. Alex stands a few feet into the washing room, simply observing Hank’s easy, loping strides as he disappears and then he gets to work, determinedly not thinking about full lips, red from frequently being chewed.

A high, youthful voice dances with a deeper, scholarly one; the comforting soundtrack to his repairing efforts. He settles into the task smoothly, tongue peeking out of the side of lips slightly pursed in concentration. There are two things in life which come to him as easily as breathing, and both involve a sort of mathematics. Perhaps this is why he actually enjoys physics - he understands motion, understands the way things work, and he constantly has numbers flowing in and out of his consciousness.

His hands still as the voices fall silent, all responding to the sound of the timer going off in the kitchen. Two sets of feet hasten to the source of the noise, and as it ends, the scent of the finished cookies becomes even more heady, and Alex finishes the rest of the repair job in record time, though with all of his usual skill and attention to detail still present. After putting everything back in its proper place, he emerges from the washroom, toolkit in one hand and grins at the two figures standing before twin cookie sheets, staring at the treats with obvious desire. “You guys wouldn’t be coveting my cookies, would you?”

Hank raises his eyebrows, but Scott gets there first, saying, “They’re not just yours, Alex. Mr. Hank says they’re for me, too, for being such a good pupil.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, as though Hank’s word is final.

He meets Hank’s eyes over his little brother’s head and gives him a languid, rather tired grin, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Well, alright then.”

They wait five minutes and then each eat one of the cookies, the still-molten chocolate chips smearing their mouths and the raisins bursting on their tongues. Until now, Alex thought that first cookie on the night he and Scott moved in was the best thing he had ever tasted. Hank’s chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies fresh from the oven, though? Are hands down the most out of this world, decadent, practically illegally amazing cookies he has ever and will ever eat. It hits him then, as he watches Hank wet a paper towel and wipe gently at the corner of Scott’s chocolate-covered lips as though he takes care of little kids all the time - even though Alex would bet a pretty hefty sum that Scott’s the first child Hank has ever had such extended contact with; he definitely strikes him as the only-child type - that he just might be in love.

It’s strange how anticlimactic the moment really is, though. It’s not like he had secretly thought it would be this huge, life-changing event, but still, the fact that it’s warm and simple, and it’s not even all that surprising, sort of flies in the face of all the ride-off-into-the-sunset, one-true-love movies that his foster sister used to beg him to watch with her. But from the oddly worded note the night they arrived, to that first day in the front yard when Hank was so completely adorable, to his awkward but compassionate support at the hospital, to his stumbling admission at the door, the signs have been there, plain and easily read.

His thoughts are interrupted by their subject, who enquires, “If you wouldn’t mind, we could take that sample tonight?”

“What, you have the needles and everything here?” Okay, that’s... kind of unusual, but in the scheme of things, he thinks he can live with it. He has known from the start that Hank works from home - he probably should have expected the amount of medical equipment that would involve.

“When I first moved in, I converted one of the bedrooms into a lab. Everything I use in my research is there,” Hank explains as he transfers the rest of the cookies onto a cooling rack.

“Hey - how do you get the funding for your research, anyway?” It’s something that has been niggling at the back of his mind all evening.

Hank shoots him a mischievous look and then says, “Well, I’d tell you, but then I would have to kill you.”

Raising his eyebrows, Alex asks, “What are you, five?” It’s good to discover that being in love hasn’t damaged his snarky tendencies. Honestly, he’s not sure that it has changed anything, except for the fact that he probably won’t be checking out the guy who always bags his groceries - well, okay. He will. He just won’t do anything about it. Because you were getting so much action before, right? He gives himself a mental eyeroll and then says, “Whatever - we can go ahead and get that over with tonight. I should probably drink some water first, though. For some reason, people have a hard time drawing my blood.”

At this, Hank step toward him and takes his arm, running his fingers over it and examining the veins revealed under the florescent lighting - Hank would have energy-saving bulbs. “Really? I find that somewhat hard to believe. Your veins look perfect to me.”

“My ‘veins look perfect.’ That’s a new one for me,” Alex remarks, waiting for Hank to realize exactly how far he has come into his personal space. He sees the moment it happens, the color flowing into his cheeks, the reflexive swallow and subsequent bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Are you guys okay? You’re acting kind of... weird.” Scott’s confused voice is like a douse of icecold water, causing Hank to release Alex’s arm and move over to one of the cupboards, searching for and selecting a glass which he then fills from water from one of those filtered pitchers Alex sees in advertisements from time to time on television.

Accepting the glass, Alex finally takes his eyes off of Hank and glances over at his little brother. “No, yeah, we’re fine, kiddo.” Turning back to his neighbor, he asks, “Do you mind if we watch something while we wait for the water to do what it needs to do? And then maybe we could leave it on for Scott while we go get you that blood sample?”

Hank nods obligingly, his cheeks slowly starting to lose some of their fire, but the memory of what just transpired still in the set of his shoulders and mouth and the way his attention always seems to drift toward Alex’s own lips, only to refocus somewhere else. “Scott, you like science fiction, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Scott draws out, continuing to look between Alex and Hank in a way that silently demands to know what on earth is going on.

“Have you ever seen the original Star Trek series?”

“No.”

“You haven’t? You’ve missed out!” Hank enthuses, doing what he can to dispel the remaining tension in the kitchen.

Anxious now, Scott asks, “I have?”

Hank nods solemnly. “You really have. Don’t worry though - we’re going to fix this egregious oversight in your science fiction exposure.”

“Henry Phillip McCoy, are you trying to turn my brother into a Trekkie?” Alex’s voice comes out calm and amused, glad of the distraction.

“I believe the commonly accepted term among fans is ‘Trekker’ - and yes, I am.” Alex is strangely okay with that.
…
The prick of the needle is light - truly like the mosquito bite most medical personnel claim it should be, though Hank makes no such promises before sinking the thin strip of metal into his flesh and the water-swollen vein that lies beneath. It helps that they’re talking about something wholly unrelated to the entire process. He wishes they could have landed on any topic other than this, though. “They told you not to disseminate the information because the school lacks sufficient funding?”

Hank may have missed the bruising on both of Alex’s hands earlier when he was so captivated by his veins, but he saw them clearly enough when he told Alex to make a fist for the tourniquet and then he had to know where they originated from. While he appreciates the concern, Alex sort of wants to ask his neighbor to leave it alone. Up until now, he has been doing a bang up job of ignoring everything that happened earlier in the day, and he doesn’t really see the point in rehashing it yet again. “Yeah, but it’s not like we actually listened to the dean. We may moan about them behind their backs, but we take care of our students.”

“I wasn’t implying that you neglect your students, Alex.”

“Oh. Well - good.” It’s an odd sensation, having the needle removed - wrong somehow. Then again, the entire act of placing a foreign object in his body and then taking it back out is wrong. He doesn’t feel squeamish about the whole thing, and he’s definitely never felt the urge to check out of the conscious world during the few times he has had his blood drawn for various reasons throughout his medical history, but neither is it an experience he would voluntarily seek out.

The cotton ball Hank presses to the miniscule wound is expected. What is less so is, “Hang on, is that a Captain America Band-Aide? Really?”

His companion grins up at him as he leans forward, smoothing down the aforementioned strip of plastic and adhesive. “I thought Scott might appreciate it.” His face becomes pensive after this, and he says, “Scott’s told me about your Saturday labs - that he stays with Mrs. Weaver a few doors down.”

Alex scrubs the hand he isn’t holding out straight over his face and sighs wearily. “I know he hates playing with her little girl - she guilts him into playing dress up and having tea parties - but everyone else has kids who are way older than he is, and people kind of like to go and do things on Saturday, so. What else am I supposed to do?” If he were less exhausted, he might be a little faster on the uptake.

Thankfully, Hank has no qualms about spelling it out for him. “I thought Scott might like to stay here on the days you have labs - if you feel comfortable with that.”

Alex blinks at him silently and then says, “Hank. You rode with him in an ambulance - Scott told me later about you holding his hand the entire time. Of course I feel comfortable with that.”

“He remembers that?”

His mouth quirks, and Alex informs Hank, “You’re kind of his hero.”

He watches as Hank takes that in, his eyes widening in unexpected gratification. “I’ve never been someone’s hero before.”

Shaking his own, Alex says warmly, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I trust you to keep me sufficiently humbled.” Hank busies himself with labeling and storing Alex’s generous donation to science, and then they hear the sound of little sneakered feet thumping across first carpet and then tile.

“Alex, Mr. Hank, look what I can do!” Scott exalts as he enters the lab.

“What can you do, Squirt?” He receives a scrunched up nose, but Scott is too caught up in whatever new and fascinating - he realizes momentarily how ironic that particular verbiage truly is - skill he has learned in the time since Alex and Hank have been in the lab.

Thrusting his little hand into the air, Scott manipulates his fingers until they form a ‘V,’ his thumb out to the side.

Delighted with his little protege, Hank bids him, “Live long and prosper.”

Alex is surrounded by nerds.

Somehow, he thinks he will survive it.

Chapter Text

A little boy with perpetually scrunched eyebrows and curly brown hair shoots Scott a curt nod, and after glancing at Alex out of the corner of his eye, his little brother tentatively waves back. Watching the whole thing, Alex puts two and two together, coming up with, “That’s Logan?”

Still maintaining eye contact with Logan, who is, to all appearances, waiting to walk in with him, Scott confirms, “... Yep.”

“Do I get to meet him?” He kind of wants to know who this kid that’s been growling at other small beings for his brother is.

“...Nope.”

“Why?” As soon as he asks, he wants to kick himself. It really hasn’t been that long since he was Scott’s age - and he knows how awkward and humiliating it can be to have an overprotective guardian sizing up friends. Erik had put the few students Alex brought to the mansion through hell, and it was even worse when Alex had to go home with someone else. It wasn’t even that Erik had done anything weird or socially deviant or anything like that - he had simply been himself, which was terrifying enough in its own right, unless he actually allowed someone to get to know him. None of the students in Westchester had been brave enough to take that chance. “You know what, kiddo? Nevermind.”

“Yeah?” Scott asks hopefully.

“Yeah.” Especially since Suit Guy from the day before is once again giving him a death glare in his rearview mirror. Maybe he should think about leaving the house a few minutes earlier in the morning so that they can stop meeting like this. “Go on - get out of here.”

He has a lapful of Scott Summers for all of a second before the kid is out of the car and making remarkable time toward the little boy he insists is not actually his friend, his little Captain America backpack bobbing up and down with every step, lunch box swinging to and fro. Watching the two of them walk in together, Alex shakes his head and huffs a laugh. Yeah. They can’t stand each other.

Because he is sick and tired of Suit Guy, and simply because Alex is a bit of a smart aleck, he raises his hand and gives a little wave, smirking into his mirror. Suit Guy revs his engine and Alex gets the heck out of Dodge, grinning for the entire drive over to the dance academy.

He arrives before Angel this time and tries to absorb himself in his Sociology textbook. As fascinating as the facade of legitimacy isn’t, he actually succeeds, and it comes as a surprise when Angel taps on his window and motions toward the doors, which the vice principal is in the process of unlocking. Shoving his book back into the duffel bag which accompanies him on all his weekday escapades, he vacates his truck and joins the waiting Angel on the short journey to the back entrance of the school. “Coffee again? That stuff will stunt your growth, you know.”

She shoots him a dry look. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Looking down at the incriminating cup in her hands, she says, “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

He gets it - yesterday could have ended quite a bit differently for her if she hadn’t made that phone call or he hadn’t arrived exactly when he did. Bumping her shoulder gently, he asks, “You want to grab lunch with me when morning classes end?” to take her mind off of might-have-beens.

Angel glances at him curiously. “You asking me out? Because your timing is kind of...”

“Um - no. That wasn’t what I had in mind at all, actually. You’re... a little too female for my tastes.” He’s not sure how she missed it, what with the looks he sometimes sends Warren Worthington III, the guy who teaches the advanced ballet classes. He may snicker at the guy’s name, and he’s come to accept that he’s totally ruined for anyone but Hank, but he can still appreciate a man who is that cut and who, when he dances, looks like he’s flying. “Besides, we’d be eating with a friend of mine from the garage, and I would hate to make him feel like a third wheel.”

They enter the building and he pointedly does not hold his breath for her reaction. Alex finds it hard to believe that someone in their line of work would have a problem with his preferences, but there’s no way to know for sure. His slight apprehension proves unfounded. She simply raises her eyebrow and asks, “Tell me something, Summers: why is it that all the good men are either taken or gay?”

“I hate to break it to you, Angel, but I’m not a good guy.”

The look she bestows upon him is warm and open. “Yes you are. You like to walk around pretending that you don’t care, but that’s all you’re doing - pretending. You do care. You care more than anyone, which is why you try so hard to keep people from getting close to you - you can’t stand the thought of disappointing them once they realize how great you really are.”

Alex flounders for something to say to that - and comes up blank. Angel saves him from his verbal malfunction by slipping into her studio and he trudges gratefully in the direction of his own. If his students notice his mental abstraction during class, they keep their mouths shut about it. They’re probably just enjoying the brief relief from his usual torture for as long as they can. He vows to work them twice as hard as he usually does tomorrow in order to make up for it and dispel any potential rumors that he’s going soft.

Dressed in his jumpsuit, he heads over to tell Angel, “You never actually said one way or another if you wanted to do lunch.”

“Oh, he speaks!” she jibes gently before saying, “Getting out of here for a little while would be great, actually,” and grabbing her purse.

“You know where the Jason’s Deli is, right?”

Snorting, Angel reminds him, “I grew up in this town. I can still remember when the area where Jason’s is now was an open field.”

Holding up the hand not carrying his duffel bag, Alex placates, “Just checking. I won’t have time to drive you back over here, so we’re going to have to take separate cars, and I didn’t know if you’d need to follow me or not.”

“You sure know how to treat a lady. If you ever meet a guy who actually disproves the going theory that chivalry is dead, please let me know.”

Alex refrains from saying anything, but that’s actually another one of the reasons he wants Angel to join him today: he may have found the one good straight man in this town who is still single.

...

“Angel Salvadore. Aren’t you supposed to be off performing on Broadway by now?”

Alex blinks and then looks first at Darwin, then at Angel. “You two know each other?”

“Armando’s another person lucky,” there’s a dark twist to the word that leaves Alex mystified - this place may not be the most exciting, but he doesn’t think it’s bad enough to warrant that amount of distaste, “enough to have lived here since he was in diapers. He was a few years ahead of me in school and he spent more time doing things like Academic Decathlon than anything in the Arts department.” She eyes Darwin with a critical expression. “And you’re one to talk. Weren’t you attending Stanford?”

“I graduated early, but then the school loans hit, and this recession hasn’t really been inspiring people to hire college graduates. So?” Darwin asks, “What happened to New York? Janine always said you couldn’t wait to get out of this town.”

“My mom got sick - lung cancer. Dad took off when things got too hard, and someone had to stay and help take care of my little brothers and sisters, so here I am.” Alex stares at Angel throughout her explanation. This is the first time he’s heard any of that, and judging by the gutted look on Darwin’s face as he and Angel gaze at each other, he’s not alone in the rough cessation of ignorance.

Not sure how to handle the odd tension in the air, Alex asks, “Was this a bad idea?”

Angel startles and looks away from Darwin to reassure Alex, “No, it’s fine. I just didn’t realize the friend you were talking about was my best friend’s older brother - well,” she amends, “we were best friends. I haven’t heard from Janine since she went off to NYU.”

Feeling awkward about the whole thing, Alex tells them, “Listen guys, I’ll just get a sandwich to go - it looks like you two have a lot of catching up to do, and I actually have some homework I need to catch up on.”

They both object and try to convince him that they want him to stay, but he really does need to get to the essay he neglected last night in favor of spending more time at Hank’s house, and he kind of wants his friends to have some time to sort out their issues without him present. Finally, they concede and allow him to go ahead of them in the line. He kisses the baked potato he was planning on goodbye and opts for a bag of Lays and a turkey sandwich instead, wanting to have at least one hand free to write with.

Armed with his lunch, Alex bids Angel and Darwin goodbye and sets out to tackle his English essay, spreading everything out along the dashboard of his Ford. When the last of the chips and sandwich are gone, he has made fairly decent headway on his essay, and when he glances at the time he has only a little time remaining before the start of his shift. Darwin’s car is no longer in the lot, and neither is Angel’s. He only hopes they didn’t leave right after they saw him become oblivious to the outside world. It would be nice for what few friends he has in this town to be able to spend more than ten minutes in each others’ presence.

He violates a few speed limits on his way to the garage, but someone up there must love him, because the ticket-happy cops do not flash their lights in his general direction, and he manages to get to his shift with two minutes to spare. He takes the time remaining to track down Darwin. Leaning against the desk in his office, he asks his friend, “So did you two have fun catching up?”

Inhaling slowly, Darwin’s face takes on a slightly philosophical quality, and he says, “I wouldn’t say that it was fun, exactly, but it was... good. I think we both needed it. Angel said she’d like to come with us again sometime, and I figured you’d be alright with that, seeing as it was your idea to start with.”

“She wants to eat with us again? Yeah, definitely. That sounds great.” Scrutinizing his friend, he checks, “Is there anything else I should know about?”

Embarrassed, Darwin looks away and then admits, “We’re going to see a movie on Sunday.”

Alex grins, enormously pleased with this turn of events. “Good for you, man.”

His shift flies by and before he knows it, he’s heading over to fight pick up traffic at Hunt Elementary. When Scott reaches the car, he has this adorably consternated look on his little face, and he mumbles, “Hi, Alex,” without even looking at him.

After emerging from the parking lot - always a harrowing experience at the end of the day - Alex gives Scott another minute or so before he takes matters into his own hands. “Okay, kiddo. I’m not actually a mind reader, so you’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

Thumping his head against his seat, Scott stares up at the roof of the truck. “I have to go to a sleepover at Logan’s house.”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s pretend that made sense.” Aren’t kids typically excited about these kinds of things? He remembers being pretty stoked about getting invited to sleep over at his friend’s houses when he was little.

Still keeping his head against the seat, he rolls it to the side and explains, “Logan’s eighth birthday is in two weeks, and since I’m the only boy in our class who he hasn’t given a black eye, his mom said Logan should invite me to celebrate it with him. It’s just me and Logan. For a whole night. What are we supposed to do for a whole night? We barely talk to each other at school.”

Most guardians would probably take this moment to forbid their kids from ever spending another second with a boy who is apparently as prone to violence as Logan. Alex is not most guardians. So far, Logan is the only kid he has heard Scott mention at least once a day since school started, and he’s almost certain Logan is the only kid Scott actually hangs out with. Scott gets along with almost everyone he meets, but most of his friendships up until now have been incredibly superficial - they interact at school and then they never see each other again. It isn’t that Scott isolates himself intentionally - he’s just comfortable keeping his own company or seeking out the adults in his life for social interaction. It is things like this that make it readily apparent that the two of them are closely related, and while Alex is fine with that for himself, he wants Scott to learn earlier on in life than Alex himself did that it’s okay to let people outside of his family in. Which is why he throws the good parenting ideology out the window and tells his little brother, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You two have to have something in common. Find whatever it is and focus on that.”

“That’s not exactly helpful,” Scott says plaintively.

“Yeah, well. Life sucks that way,” and then you die. He figures Scott’s a little too young to have that harsh aspect of reality thrust upon him, though.

His little nose wrinkling, Scott tells him, “Sometimes, I really don’t get you.”

“And yet you love me anyway.”

He sighs and capitulates, “Yeah, I do.”

“Don’t look so down, Squirt - it’s pasta night.” Scott loves pasta night - anything with tomatoes and noodles makes him happy. Alex wishes he could get so excited, but the truth is, they only have pasta night when the pinch on their finances becomes too tight. It’s going to be fine - he gets paid this Friday - but in the meantime he will suck it up and be happy about eating his spaghetti and meatballs. His outlook on the saucy affair brightens when he remembers the cookies left over from their visit with Hank. Just one, Summers. No need to blow yourself up like a balloon. They’re so tempting, though.

“Yes! And don’t call me that.” The kid is grinning while he says it though, so he can’t be too miffed.

The rest of their day is filled with Scott reading ahead in Hunt Elementary’s copy of Bunnicula while Alex finishes writing and then typing up that English essay. Later on, the scents of garlic, basil, and oregano twine with tomato, parsley, and beef, filling the entire house with the savory aroma. Even Alex is forced to admit that it smells good, and he actually manages to enjoy his dinner. More than likely, it’s because he knows what he’ll be having for dessert, but still. After he finishes his pasta, he waits for Scott to follow suit, and then they both bite into their chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies, and it’s bliss all over again. Where have you been all my life, Henry Phillip McCoy?

That night, he has a dream about Hank, but it’s not one he would ever have chosen. They’re both in his lab again, and Hank is trying to create a serum to help prevent the immune systems of children with the genetic potential to develop allergies from starting to attack foods and other everyday substances as if they are pathogens, only he tests the serum out on himself, and because he doesn’t actually have allergies, the serum turns him into this evil mad scientist version of himself. It’s when Evil Dr. McCoy is about to turn on Alex and inject him with the same serum that he jerks awake, staring up at his lumpy ceiling. He carefully avoids looking at the walls - crimson would probably not be a very helpful sight at the moment, even though in the wee hours of the morning, it looks like a deep, almost black shade of grey.

He’s not entirely aware of what he’s doing, only that he needs to hear Hank, his Hank, sounding like himself, and so he reaches over to his bedside table and pulls his cell off the charger, scrolling down to ‘H’ in his contacts list. There’s only one person in that section, and moments later, the phone on the other line is ringing. He hears a groggy, “Hello?” and though he feels foolish, he says “Hi,” back, and after reassuring Hank that Scott’s fine, he explains what happened in his dream - or nightmare, really, since that’s the only thing it could be - and Hank listens calmly through the entire thing.

“So um, yeah. That’s what happened,” he finishes lamely.

“Well, I can see how that would be frightening. You know I would never hurt you and Scott, right?”

“Yeah - yeah no, of course I do. I just...” He really doesn’t want to tell Hank he wanted to hear his voice.

He doesn’t have to. “That’s good, then. Do you think you might be able to get some more sleep, now?” Hank doesn’t sound impatient at all, just concerned and yes, incredibly drowsy.

“Yeah, maybe.” He’s almost certain of it. Listening to Hank, even through the medium of their cell phones, has a remarkably calming effect. It’s almost better than chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies, but not quite. He’s not that far gone yet.

“How about I stay on and talk to you until you fall asleep?” Then again, it probably won’t take much to push him over the edge. His cell phone bill might be a little high for this month, but it’s going to be worth it.

“Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks, Hank.” Hank tells him he is more than welcome and then prattles on about his research. Alex drifts off with a soft smile on his face, cell still pressed to his ear.

Chapter Text

Today is the day. Alex can feel it.

They are going to get there early.

“Alex, I can’t find my shoes!” Or not.

Glancing at the time displayed on the microwave, Alex sets down the knife he has been using to spread almond butter - which Scott had initially been wary of, but now loves with a passion Alex finds a bit ridiculous; the allergy specialist insists that they vary Scott’s diet as much as possible, and he’s trying to comply, but it’s hard with little boys, especially when they really only want some decent PB&J, so he’s kind of cheating by letting Scott have the next best thing - on what is supposed to be his little brother’s sandwich and wipes his hand on the little tea towel hanging off of the ridiculously cheerful clementine stove.

He makes his way toward the frustrated little voice and sees a tiny bum sticking out from under a bed covered in a dark blue star-patterned quilt and mustard yellow sheets. “Okay, kiddo,” he says softly, not wanting Scott to startle and bump his head on the bed frame - the last time that happened, there had been tears, and he doesn’t think his little brother wants to go to school with his face all splotchy, “why don’t you come on out of there and we’ll see if we can’t figure this out.”

The bottom wriggles and scoots backward, joined momentarily by a torso and mussed brown hair. Shaking his head, Alex kneels down as his little brother turns around, lifting his hands to arrange tousled locks into some semblance of order. “I always put them under the bed and they’re not there!” Scott declares. He’d probably be stomping his foot if Alex wasn’t in the process of wiping away the streak of - something - from his little cheeks, red with childish ire and distress.

“What would Charles tell you to do?” He has to work to keep his tone serious - Scott really is incredibly adorable when he feels put out, but he doesn’t want to belittle what the kid clearly considers a serious problem.

Alex carefully avoids looking at the often-neglected pair of sneakers peeking out from Scott’s closet; a very sensible black and blue pattern, with good, springy soles. Suggesting that Scott wear those today would destroy what composure his little brother has left. The missing pair, which was once pristine white and has Captain America’s shield on the top of each shoe, has accompanied Scott to school every day since this school year started. Alex thinks it has something to do with Captain America protecting him when he cannot, and has a feeling they’ve become infinitely more precious since Scott’s allergic reaction last week. He’s not sure what Moira would say about his allowing Scott a security blanket, but Charles has assured him that it’s nothing to worry about - not at Scott’s age - so he’s going to do his best to be supportive and find the all-important shoes.

Swallowing, Scott thinks about the question and takes a few shaky breaths. After a moment he answers hesitantly, “He’d tell me to retrace my steps. To think about what I did last night.”

“Good,” Alex praises softly. “That’s good, kiddo. What did you do when we got home from school? Did you take them off then?”

“Well... I was reading... I was reading on... the couch!” Scott tears off into the living room and Alex follows at a rather more sedate pace, to once more see his little brother’s bottom sticking up in the air as he fishes first one, then the other sneaker out from under the grey monstrosity.

“Crisis averted?”

“Situation is under control, Captain Summers,” Scott chirps, still a little breathless from his previously high emotions as he methodically pulls on and ties his beloved shoes.

“Alright, Private. To the mess hall.”

Scott marches smartly toward the kitchen table and falls into the consumption of his blueberry yoghurt. Alex returns to the task of putting together his little brother’s lunch, and everything goes smoothly from there - until Scott nearly forgets his backpack and has to double back to his room.

By the time they reach the elementary school, Suit Guy is nowhere to be found, so Alex supposes that at least something went right this morning, but after kissing Scott on the forehead, earning an affronted look and ushering him out of the Ford, Alex has precious little time to spare before he needs to be at the dance academy.

When he finally arrives at the school, he looks down and realizes he’s in the wrong clothes. He glances around the parking lot and decides to risk changing in the car - reasoning that, at the very least, his boxers will still be on, so it’s not like he’ll be arrested for public nudity - to avoid having to hear any obnoxious comments from his students. Jumpsuit in the duffel bag and wife beater and basketball shorts on, he strides into the building at a calm but purposeful stride, striving to look like he meant to come to school this late in the morning. His first student strolls into the studio not long after he does, and after that everything is a blur until he has kicked the kids from his last class of the day out and is heading gratefully toward the locker room to change.... only to have his arm grabbed and pulled in the other direction.

“What the hell?” he demands until he realizes it’s Angel who has accosted him.

Still dragging him toward what he now realizes is the main auditorium, Angel asks, “Didn’t you get the e-mail Pryor sent out this morning?”

“Um - no?” There was an e-mail?

“Staff meeting - at least we’re being fed. Although I hope she realizes how much of a hypocrite she is for criticizing me about my weight and then having the nerve to feed us pizza.”

“Hang on, Pryor’s been giving you crap about your weight?” Angel is perfect. He’s pretty sure that if there was an image in the dictionary beside the word beautiful, she would be in it. Hank would be, too, but Alex is a bit biased that way.

“Pryor gives me crap about something on a weekly basis - she hates that she can’t get rid of me. That’s not really the point right now. Where were you this morning?”

He thinks about tiny shoes under the couch and tells her, “Saving the world.”

…

There is officially a mystery at Pryor’s Academy of Dance.

During the meeting in the auditorium, Madame Pryor opens by informing all of the instructors not stuck overseeing the students as they eat in the cafeteria that they are no longer in financial trouble. This is a good thing, but it sends a ripple of excited confusion through the staff, and Pryor is forced to wait until they all stop speculating, curious chatter quailing under the force of her ire. Alex may not like her methods, but he has to admit; she gets things done.

The rest of the meeting is spent discussing what will be done with the influx of funds - several of the barres need to be replaced, there’s a mirror in Warren Worthington III’s studio that is cracked, some of the scholarship students have outgrown their pointe shoes, the teachers who actually cover practical subjects like algebra and English are adamant about the need for new textbooks. But while a lot of this information matters to certain instructors, most of them have one question on their minds.

Where is the money coming from?

Kitty Pryde, the modern dance instructor who is known mostly for her penchant for choreographing dances where the students practically have to melt through the floor, is the only one with enough guts - or possibly enough cheek, Alex isn’t completely sold either way - to ask. Madame Pryor at first tries to tell them it is a private matter and that it should not concern them. When that fails, she confesses that she has no idea who has paid a tidy sum to breathe new life into her school. Two nights ago, an anonymous donation of a few million dollars arrived in the account she has for the school. After confirming that it was not, in fact, fraudulent or a clerical error, she attempted to discover the identity of the generous gift, only to be told firmly that the party concerned wished to remain unknown.

Alex departs from the auditorium with his belly slightly too full of pizza, and mind entirely too empty of answers. He changes perfunctorily into the jumpsuit he mistakenly wore out of the house that morning and then drives over to the garage. As it seems to be a theme today, he arrives for his second job late and feels immensely fortunate upon discovering that Angel called ahead to warn Darwin prior to practically frogmarching him to the staff meeting earlier.

Most of his shift is spent pondering over the change in circumstances at the academy, though he manages to avoid injuring himself amidst his ruminations and projections. There’s something pulling and niggling at the back of his mind, insisting that there’s something odd about this, some detail he has that no one else does. It’s useless - by the time he has bidden Darwin adieu and is well on his way to picking up Scott, it still has not ceased to elude him.

Another mystery presents itself in the form of his little brother, who climbs into the passenger seat with a look on his face that says something significant this way comes. “Iraq.”

“It exists, yeah.” Scott shoots him an irritated glance and he relents, “What about it?”

“You told me to find something Logan and I have in common. His dad died last year serving in Iraq.” His shoulders slump and he stares down at the hands twisted into the handles of his lunchbox. “But I don’t want that to be what we have in common, Alex.”

There are words he could say right now, but none of them are soothing or age appropriate, so he simply says, “I’m sorry.” Logan’s behavior makes a depressing amount of sense now, and he’s doubly certain that he wants Scott to give the kid a try - he and his little brother are practically attached at the hip, so he has a feeling if the two of them can actually move past the awkward stage of getting to know and trust one another, they’ll be somewhat of an unstoppable force. “His mom - is she doing okay?”

Scott shrugs. “He said she tries to act like she’s not sad whenever he’s around, but he has really good hearing.” At Alex’s confused look, he elaborates, “She cries when she thinks he’s asleep.”

Could this day suck any more than it already does? As soon as the question forms, he sends a frantic command into the cosmos to not provide an answer. He has the distinct impression he wouldn’t like it. “Okay. There has to be something else the two of you share. I refuse to believe not having both of your parents is the only thing you two can talk about.”

“You’re sure?” Scott’s gazing at him with their mirror-image eyes, though his are currently wider than normal, and have a slightly watery sheen.

“I’m sure.”

…

The days leading up to Saturday yield far less drama. Scott continues trying to find new things to talk to Logan about, with mixed results - Logan has apparently been giving him a lot of confused looks, but he is actually responding, so Alex and Scott both agree to consider the operation a success. The staff at the academy continues to buzz with theories regarding the mysterious patron, with nothing new coming to light. Through it all, Angel walks around looking more content than she has the entire time Alex has known her, every now and then glancing at the messages on her cell and biting her lip to conceal a smile. Hank calls each night now. On Wednesday they only spoke for a little while, but Thursday and Friday, they talked for nearly an hour. Alex and Angel make quite a pair now, both with a beau on the brain.

It feels weird being this happy - in a good way.

On Saturday morning, he sends Hank a text to let him know they’re coming, and he herds a still-sleepy Scott out the door. Originally, Hank and Scott were going to spend the time while Alex was stuck doing his physics lab playing at the park not far from where they live. Unfortunately, an angry horde of thunder clouds rolled in during the wee hours of the morning, and that idea was thoroughly nixed. Alex is not sure what they’re going to do while he’s gone, but whatever it is, Scott won’t be bored. Hank mentioned something earlier on the phone about a hands-on introduction to science, so Alex imagines there will either be contained explosions or some sort of model built. Whatever it is, his little nerd child will love it.

They reach the porch right as the door opens, and Alex flicks his eyes up and down appreciatively. Hank must have chanced the rain and gone for a run anyway, because he’s standing in shorts, sneakers, and specs, sweaty and glorious. Henry Phillip McCoy is gorgeous before a run, but after - there’s really no word Alex considers adequate. Hank clears his throat and apologizes, “I thought I had enough time to make myself a little more presentable - I do hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” Alex is fairly certain he has a stunned expression on his face, but - well. He’s only human.

Scott rolls his eyes for Alex’s benefit and then grins beatifically at his idol. “Hi, Mr. Hank!”

Hank beams down at his eager pupil and greets him before asking, “Are you ready to explore the world through the lens of scientific discovery?”

That shakes Alex right out of his ogling stupor and prompts him to say, “Science - right! That thing that I have to do.” Where, oh where is his brain?

Peering at him curiously, Hank asks, “Are feeling alright, Alex? You look rather flushed.”

“It’s um - the joy of physics, Hank. I just - can’t wait.” In order to leave with a least some of his dignity still intact, Alex kneels down and gives Scott a hug. “I’ll see you later, okay kiddo? You two have fun.”

He makes a tactical retreat, two perplexed loved ones staring after.

When he goes to pick Scott up a few hours later, he finds out that Hank entertained him the entire time with bubble gum. They covered the concept of malleability, the effect chewing gum has on one’s ability to focus, they tried to figure out which gum was the strongest and which one held onto its flavor the longest.

Alex tells Hank that he missed his calling - he should have been a science teacher.

It’s later on, once they’ve said goodbye and are sitting together on the big grey couch at home that Alex finds out that’s not all that happened while he was away.

“I think Mr. Hank is a mob boss.”

His first reaction is to duck behind the couch and check the area for long auburn hair, because one of these days Moira is going to ream him out for allowing Scott to watch so much television - except, not really. She’ll give him this patently disappointed look instead, the one that always makes him want to ask, ‘Why have you not procreated yet?’ because that look deserves to be seen by someone who might actually benefit from it, such as her hypothetical future offspring.

His second reaction, and the one he actually decides to go with, is to feel Scott’s forehead, prompting a surprised, “Hey!” from the little guy. He breathes a sigh of relief when his tactile examination reveals a temperature well within normal parameters, but then he is forced to sit back and actually try to figure out what to do with the information which sent him into overprotective brother mode in the first place.

“Okay, kiddo. What makes you think that Hank is involved in a mob?” He’s prepared for something ridiculous like the way Hank uses a knife to cut up his sandwich, or some sort of secret handshake he taught Scott while he was watching him - because Henry Phillip McCoy is just the kind of nerd to still think things like secret handshakes are cool. So he’s kind of thrown by what actually comes out of his kid brother’s mouth.

Scott inhales enough air that his head might be in danger of popping off, and then launches into a stream of infectiously excited chatter, “Because this guy came to Mr. Hank’s house in a suit - one of those black ones like in the movie, right? The one with all the computers and bent spoons that weren’t really there? And he handed Mr. Hank this huge envelope - all ma-nil-la, you know? And then he called Mr. Hank, ‘Sir’ and left, and when I looked out the window, there was another guy holding the door of a  limo, and the first guy actually got in, and when I asked Mr. Hank what was in the envelope, he said, ‘Just boring stuff from one of my sponsors,’ or something like that. The thing is,” and here, he pauses and leans as close to Alex as he can, balancing with his little hands on Alex’s thighs, to the point where Alex can feel his hot breath - which smells of the sandwich he ate in between experiments, along with something suspiciously like a cookie, and bubblegum - against his face, “thing is, it totally wasn’t, because he acted all weird and like he didn’t want me to read it, and then he went and put it in his office.”

Instead of sitting back and allowing his brother the return of his personal space, Scott stays right where he is and stares at him, his wide eyes and slightly open mouth practically begging for Alex to accept his evidence for what he now believes to be the gospel truth. It’s actually fairly compelling stuff - if you’re seven and you like to watch old batman cartoons on Sunday mornings. Also, he and Raven are going to have words about her allowing Scott to watch The Matrix - and he knows it has to have been her because no one else is blase enough about exposing the kid to violence and disturbing imagery before he’s mature enough to handle it. The two weeks Scott spent sneaking into Alex’s bedroom at the mansion and slipping under the covers because he’d had nightmares about “giant slug things” trying to bury themselves in his bellybutton are starting to make a lot more sense now.

To give himself more time to think, he says, “Okay,” and then he says it again, because the first one didn’t really help. “Let’s say Hank is actually a mob boss. He’s one of the good ones.”

Scott gives him a scornful look. “Well, I know that.”

Oh, the faith of innocents. “Yeah, so, Hank is a good mob boss - that doesn’t mean we can tell him that we know.”

“We can’t?”

“No. We can’t ever talk about it with Hank. That’s one of the rules.” It’s like when parents tell their kids to sleep on Christmas Eve, or there won’t be any presents on Christmas Day, right? Whatever helps you sleep better at night, Summers.

It won’t. Alex has no idea how he’s going to sleep tonight, unless he can get some answers.

What are you hiding, Henry Phillip McCoy?

Chapter Text

“Well, I certainly wasn’t trying to keep that from you.”

“Well, I’d tell you, but then I would have to kill you.”

“You know I would never hurt you and Scott, right?”

“Where is the money coming from?”

“I think Mr. Hank is a mob boss.”

“I think Mr. Hank is a mob boss.”

“I think Mr. Hank is a mob boss.”

“I think Mr. Hank is a-”

SHUT UP!

Sitting on the edge of his bed long after Scott has gone to sleep, Alex cradles his cell phone in his hands, debating with himself.

There are things in the Xavier-Lensherr family that by unwritten rule, they do not discuss. Each of them has something they would rather forget, and they respect that fact - even Scott, who normally cannot cease asking questions about anything.

So long as this remains true, Alex will never know exactly what happened to Erik during his time in the Special Forces. Truthfully? He doesn’t want to. What he does know is this:

When Erik was little, his family came to the United States because his parents decided they wished to raise him away from the violence in Israel. By the time Erik was eighteen, he and his parents had still not been naturalized, and so he took his fate into his own hands, signing up to serve the country he hoped to one day call his own.

While Erik excels at many things, becoming one among thousands and blindly following orders have never been among them. Because of this, rather than joining the young men and women serving in the army, he joined the Special Forces.

Alex isn’t naive. He knows Erik must have done terrible things while in the service of the United States, things that turned an already stoic man into a hard one, softened only by the love of his family.

Eventually, he came back, citizenship official and understanding of the world irrevocably altered.

So no, they don’t talk about what happened while Erik was in the Special Forces.

Except, apparently, when they do.

While the three of them were staying with Alex and Scott at 405 in the wake of Scott’s strawberry scare, Erik took advantage of Charles and Raven’s trip to the grocery store to pull Alex aside and inform him that he still maintains communication with friends he made during That Time of his life, and that if Alex ever wanted him to have someone looked into, all he need do is ask. The attempt at keeping the conversation vague had been appreciated, but Alex knows Erik had been talking about Hank. At the time, he said he would never need to.

Now, though? He’s not so sure.

His fingers hover above the keys indecisively, and he hates it. He hates not knowing what he wants - or, well - knowing what he wants, but not being sure if what he wants is right, is what he should want, not just for him, but for Scott.

Scott. His sweet, innocent, inquisitive baby brother, who thinks Hank hung the moon. Does Alex have the right to disillusion him? Can he afford not to, if it means somehow putting him at risk?

Things had been so good not twelve hours ago. What happened to that?

Maybe nothing. Maybe Alex is worrying about absolutely nothing.

He’s about to convince himself to set his cell down on his bedside table when it rings, ‘Hank’ flashing on the screen.

His fingers aren’t anywhere near indecisive now. He presses, ‘Accept’ and says, “We need to talk.”

There is a sigh on the other end and then he hears, “I know. Would it be acceptable if I came over? I don’t believe this is something we should discuss over the phone.”

“Yeah, okay. Scott’s in bed, but I have the drier and the laundry machine going - he probably won’t hear us if we’re in there.” He fully expects there to be some yelling, which Scott cannot stand. Moira has a theory that the loud noises of the plane crash had a lasting traumatic effect on his ability to tolerate sounds above a certain decibel. Movie theatres have always been a bit dicey for this very reason - there have been times when it became necessary to leave the theatre due to a particularly violent and loud action sequence; they always return right after the volume returns to normal, but it leaves Scott slightly embarrassed all the same. Because of this, no matter how mad Alex gets on the incredibly rare occasions that Scott truly crosses the line, he has never once yelled at his little brother. He keeps his voice low, and occasionally becomes incredibly emphatic, but he never raises it, and he doesn’t intend for Scott to ever see or hear him doing it to anyone else, either, unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.

Hank, who knows this already from a long conversation they had the night before, in preparation for watching Scott, simply says, “I’ll be over shortly.”

‘Shortly’ turns out to mean in less than a minute. Alex isn’t sure whether to feel grateful for that or not; while he really just wants to get this over with, it would be nice to have a chance to collect his thoughts. Instead, he receives a message saying, ‘Here,’ and he heads to the entryway, where carefully eases the front door open - all that work oiling the hinges when they first moved in is really paying off tonight. Hank passes through the wide berth Alex allows him, and Alex shuts and locks the door before leading the way to the laundry room.

The rhythmic sounds of the washing machine and the drier pound sluggishly in his ears as he shuts the laundry room door and leans back against it. Alex plans to handle this calmly and maturely, like the responsible adult he thinks he’s becoming. What he actually winds up doing is scrubbing his hands over his face, staring up at Hank, and begging, “Please tell me you’re not actually a mob boss, Hank. I really need you to tell me that right now.”

Eyebrow quirking, in spite of the solemnity that colors the rest of his expression, Hank dutifully replies, “I am not, in fact, a mob boss. Nor am I affiliated with any sort of criminal organization.”

Breath Alex hasn’t even been aware he was holding floods heavily out of his lungs, heating the space between them, and he slumps against the wood at his back, which on this side of the door is painted spring green. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I mean - I knew that. I just. What exactly am I supposed to think right now?”

Hank swallows and bites his lip before telling him, “I don’t suppose saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ really covers this. I am sorry. I never meant for it to come out this way, though I was eventually planning to tell you. The right moment never seemed to present itself.”

“The ‘right moment’ never presents itself.” Alex looks away from Hank and says, “The day of the plane crash, my mom and I had an argument. It was stupid - I didn’t want to bring my homework with us on the plane, but she refused to let me leave it at home. I was sulky for almost the entire day, and when I finally got over it, I couldn’t drag her attention away from Scott long enough to apologize. Next thing I know, she’s shoving me and my baby brother out of the plane.” He’s never actually shared this with anyone, and the only other witness still living wouldn’t remember.

Hank’s staring at him with his big blue eyes, and he barely finishes saying the word, ‘I’ before Alex tells him flatly, “If you even think about saying the word ‘sorry,’ right now, I will punch you in the face.”

Shrugging helplessly, Hank asks, “Then what would you like me to say, Alex? What do you need?”

“The truth would be nice.” And then maybe some groveling until we’re, oh, in our seventies.

Hank crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Alright. The truth is that I really am researching ways to help children with a genetic predisposition toward developing allergies.” When Alex opens his mouth, he holds up one hand and says, “Let me finish,” before putting it back. “I am also a freelance inventor. The people who came over while I was watching Scott today work for the weapons division of the United States government.”

“So you’re, what - the real live hermit version of Tony Stark?”

He mouths, ‘hermit version?’ before shaking his head and huffing a laugh. “Sometimes you and Scott are so alike. Does everything come back to Marvel characters with the two of you?”

Alex smirks and denies, “No. Sometimes we like to shake it up by throwing in a little DC action into the mix.” Something Hank said nags at him, “Those guys were from the weapons division? You’re not really like a hermit version of Tony Stark, are you? I’m not going to wake up one day and hear that some terrorist group attacked an innocent village using ‘McCoy Tech’ weaponry, right?”

“Absolutely not. My clients are very carefully vetted and monitored before and after every transaction.” He sounds so certain, but how can he possibly know for sure? Hank must see the doubt on Alex’s face, because he says, “You know Sean, who lives across the street? He’s the one of the best hackers out there - he routinely hacks the United States and other national intelligence data bases. He’s the one who keeps an eye on all my clients, although officially he works for the CIA.”

His eyes are so wide right now that it kind of hurts. “Sean? Sean Cassidy? The druggie who hums Yellow Submarine every time he goes to check the mail?”

Is he? He is. Hank is laughing at him, albeit ruefully and not at all unkindly. “Would you believe me if I told you he graduated first in his class? Originally he was going to study marine biology, but then the government talked him into pursuing other avenues, trying to put some of his less legal abilities to better use.”

“Because that apparently worked so well.” Did he fall asleep while he was staring at his phone earlier? Because that’s the only way this night is going to make any sort of sense. Screw the Matrix. They’ve gone right past taking pills and fallen straight down the rabbit hole. Does that make Sean the Cheshire Cat? Alex isn’t sure. The guy is pretty crazy, though, and Hank is probably the Mad Hatter, so. He tries to picture Madame Pryor as the Queen of Hearts, and it’s really not that much of a stretch. He’s kind of having a hard time figuring out whether he’s Alice and Scott is Dinah, or if it’s the other way around. Is it better to be the favored pet, or the favored pet’s capricious owner?

“Do you need to sit down?” Hank’s concerned tone causes Alex to look up from his hands, which he has been examining in an attempt to determine that yes, his hands are still the same size they were this morning.

He feels so strange. “Cookies.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I ate cookies. Lots of them.”

Hank is staring at him in what Alex can, with a great deal of focus, identify as alarm. It feels like he has only blinked, and then, much as Alex had done to Scott earlier in the day, Hank has placed his palm - his large, gentle, blessedly cool palm - against his forehead. “Alex, you’re burning up. Have some of your students been ill recently? Are there any viruses going around Scott’s school?”

Viruses? No. No, Alice never caught any viruses in Wonderland. Did she? Maybe Lewis Carrol did, and the entire story was written because of some long feverdream?

Alex closes his eyes and he is

            falling

                down

                    down

                        down;


he is landing and being carried... Somewhere.

His bedroom door opens, pulling him from the murky depths of slumber, and as he opens his eyes, he realizes that the sun is way higher in the sky than it normally is in the morning. The next thing he registers is that everything hurts, and he kind of wants to crawl into a hole and die now. Since he’s not sure he could even manage that much, he settles for rolling over onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow.

Added weight dips the edge of his bed, and a hand presses against his shoulder. “Alex?” Ah. Hank. At least he’s smart enough to keep his voice down. Alex will probably do something incredibly unfortunate to his lovely face right now if he so much as dares to use anything louder than a murmur. If he can muster enough energy. “I have Ibuprofen and I really think you should take it right now. It should help with the pain and the fever, and then maybe we can talk about who I need to contact to cover your classes for a few days, and anything I should know about Scott’s schedule during the week.”

“Mferlug.” It’s not the most eloquent thing he’s ever said, but Alex figures Hank will be able to interpret it as compliance. When the hand on his shoulder is slowly removed, Alex begins the onerous process of turning back over. Hank uses his pillows to prop him up and then hands him a glass of water and two Advil liquid gels, the kind of pain reliever Alex typically only uses when he has a migraine. Since it basically feels like his entire body has a migraine, he supposes that’s probably the best solution.

“I think it’s pretty safe to assume you have the flu. You were rather delirious last night.” Hank has this wry look on his face, and Alex would be embarrassed if he could feel anything but pain right now.

“What did I say?” he rasps, and oh, is it possible to have a migraine in your throat, too? If it wasn’t before, it totally is now.

“There was one particularly memorable rendition of A Very Merry Unbirthday, and quite a few demands of ‘off with their heads,’” Hank reports, running his hands through what Alex is certain is a truly horrendous case of bedhead, and then feeling his forehead and cheeks. He has vague memories of something like this happening the night before, but for the most part, everything after discovering that Sean is not, in fact, a career junkie, is pretty much a blur.

“Awesome. I didn’t wake Scott while I was being an idiot, did I?” And then he freezes, because, well. Scott. His temperature had been fine yesterday afternoon, but that doesn’t mean it has stayed that way.

Hank knows the look of panic on Alex’s face fairly well at this point, and doesn’t bat an eyelash before saying, “He’s not sick, Alex. And no. Surprisingly, he managed to sleep through it all.”

Sighing, Alex falls back against his pillows, a boneless puddle of relief. “Thank you. I’m still not... completely happy with you right now, but thank you.”

Nodding, Hank admits, “I suppose I deserve that. And you’re always welcome.”

“Just so that we’re clear on everything - we are dating, right? I mean. We never actually said.” This conversation would be much easier if he didn’t have snot threatening to drip down to his upper lip, and if he didn’t feel like ten different kinds of awful, but there’s been enough confusion and evasion at this point.

Hank tilts his head to the side, considering. “‘Dating’ is such a transitory term. May I speak frankly?”

“Now would be a really good time for that, yeah.”

And even though Alex looks completely disgusting, he’s sure, and Hank has now seen him at his best and his worst, he looks at him and says, “I’d like to be a part of your life for a very long time, Alex Summers. At some point, I’d like to marry you. I suppose what I’d like to say is, I love you.”

That’s - kind of fast, isn’t it? Does he care? He’s pretty much been a goner for Hank for several weeks now, and trying to pretend anything else seems kind of ridiculous. “I love you, too. That still doesn’t get you off the hook.”

“As you wish.” Hasn’t Hank said that before? Yes. Right before he left the hospital. Alex hadn’t realized it until now, but Hank’s been trying to tell him he felt the same way all along. Which is pretty cool, all things considered.

He’ll probably be able to appreciate more when he’s not feeling like he needs to, “ACHOOO!”... right in Hank’s face.

Chapter Text

There is a reason people tend to believe Alex and Raven are actually brother and sister whenever they see them together, and it has nothing to do with their similar coloring. They may love each other, but they choose to express it by spending most of their time together at each other’s throats - unless Scott is there, and then they at least make a token attempt at acting like mature young adults. Right now, though, it’s just Alex and Raven, staring at each other from twin laptop screens.

He should have known better than to try talking to Charles while his pseudo-sister was in the house, but he’s been so bored today, with Scott off furthering his elementary education and Hank in his basement next door, being brilliant. On the bright side, all of his assignments for the next few weeks have either been started or completed. He’s not entirely certain how well he will score on a few of the pieces he finished, considering the cold and flu medicine Hank bought him yesterday leaves his mind rather muddled, but he’s not as miserable as he was before he took it, so he can’t be too worried about such paltry matters as his grades. Well, actually he can, and more than likely will. Later.

“Seriously? You hear a declaration of love and then you sneeze in the guy’s face? You’re hopeless.”

Alex glares in the general direction of the camera and demands, “Who let her near the laptop? I am an invalid, and I want some freaking sympathy. Get her off my screen. Now.”

“Awww, I love you, too, Alex.”

Alex watches as Charles gently elbows Raven out of the way. “I am sorry about that, darling. I needed to discuss something with Erik for a moment, and had to step away. Raven,” and here he turns his head and stares at his step-sister pointedly, “was just leaving to do her homework.”

There’s this wicked look making its home on Raven’s face, and Alex has about a second of foreboding before she says, “Oh, that’s right. Because I had a date the other night with the Russian transfer student who’s playing Sebastian. We saw a movie, and then we went to his apartment and - got to know each other. All. Night. Long. After that, Chemistry just didn’t seem that important. Not that you would know anything about that now, would you?”

He could totally take this opportunity to mock her about how taking after Charles in this department isn’t actually something to be proud of - if the man in question weren’t looking right at him with loving and paternal exasperation. So instead, he chooses to exact his revenge using another, perfectly viable avenue. “Actually, Raven, I did have something I wanted to talk to you about before you go off and stick pins in voodoo dolls, or whatever it is you do when you’re hiding out in your room.”

Raising her eyebrows sardonically, she asks, “Are you sure that fever hasn’t fried one too many brain cells? Normally you’re dying to get me off of Skype at this point.”

He smirks at her darkly. “Hank says the Advil ‘lowered my temperature significantly,’ so yeah, unfortunately for you, my brain is perfectly safe. When I’m done saying what I’m about to say, though, your hide might not be.”

“I’ve never been spanked a day in my life, and I doubt that’s going to change any time soon, seeing as, in spite of your superiority complex, I’m actually older than you.”

His throat is beginning to feel every bit as on fire as it had first thing this morning, before the meds had time to kick in. It’s from talking for so long, which should probably be taken as a sign that he needs to sign off now, but he is determined to see this through, especially since Charles is still present as a witness. “Yeah, by all of a year. I bow to your greater knowledge and experience, Oh Wizened One. We’re kind of getting off topic, though.”

“Okay, then. What do you want to share with the rest of the class?” The tone of her voice is challenging, because if she can get away with blatant references to nights out with strange men, there’s really not much she can’t come away from Scott-free. Alex mocks himself silently - apparently his puns get worse when he’s this sick. He probably could have lived the rest of his life without having such vivid proof of that fact.

“You let Scott watch The Matrix.” There’s a beat of silence and then a muffled curse on the other end, and he watches with satisfaction as Charles sends his step-sister an appalled look.

“Raven, really.” Clearly, Alex is not the only one who still remembers the bags he wore under his eyes after sharing a bed with a squirming child huddled as close as possible for two weeks.

Eyes wide, Raven prepares to make a hasty retreat. “You know what? Suddenly, I have this burning desire to go study redox. I think I’ll go do that - right now. Bye, Mutant.”

“A pleasure, as always.” Alex observes her departure with satisfaction, simultaneously making contingency plans. He may have won this round, but she’ll be back. She practically invented the concept of tenacity.

There’s a buzzing noise and when he looks over at his bedside table, his phone has a message. He knows already who it’s from, and thinks he has at least some idea what it’s about. The words, ‘Chicken noodle soup?’ confirm his theory, and he texts back that he’ll meet Hank at the door in a moment. When he sets his cell back down, Charles is watching him with a fond, slightly indulgent expression, and Alex feels warmth that has nothing to do with his illness filling his cheeks.

“What?” he asks, not wary exactly, but a little self-conscious.

“You’re quite happy with your young man, aren’t you?” Charles’ voice is warm and affectionate, and Alex cannot even begin to articulate how grateful he is to have someone so pleased because he is happy. It’s one of the best feelings - right up there with when Scott musters up the chutzpah to mumble, “I love you,” without something big preceding it.

The truth is, Charles is right. Alex had all day yesterday to come to terms with everything he learned on Saturday night, and he’s mostly forgiven Hank, especially because the guy has pretty much done whatever Alex asks of him without question or complaint, and Scott has been so happy to have Hank around so much that it’s really hard to stay even a bit upset about the whole thing. He’s not sure what expression he has on his face right now, but Charles’ softens even further, especially when Alex tells him, “He bakes me chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies, he likes Scott and does bubblegum experiments and takes him to school when I can’t, and he brings me medicine and chicken noodle soup, even when I sneeze all over his glasses.”

“I’m so glad, darling.” Charles sees Alex glancing toward his bedroom door and says, “Go see him. Tell him, ‘hello,’ for me, if you would.”

Alex cannot stop smiling. Really, he can’t. “Thanks, Charles. I will.”

He’s in his boxers, a sweatshirt, and his feet are bare, but Hank still looks at him like he’s gorgeous when he opens the door, so there’s that, too, but there are limits to what he will gush about regarding Hank, even while on flu medication. “I also brought extra tissues, Throat Coat tea, and honey. The tea is actually the children’s kind, but it works just as well as the adult version, and I’ve found it actually tastes better.”

Alex is impressed. That’s the smoothest reference to his sneezing disaster ever, and it’s the only time Hank has said a word about it since his incredibly surprised, “Oh!” yesterday.
“Thanks - for this, and for getting Scott up and ready for school this morning. Are you morally opposed to eating on the couch, or would that be okay?”

“You are more than welcome, for lunch, and especially for this morning. The couch will be more than adequate - normally I eat most of my meals in the lab, so eating on the couch isn’t much of a stretch.” At this point, they’re walking together towards the couch, and Hank has his bag of supplies in one hand, while the other has slipped into Alex’s own. Alex has never been particularly aware of his hands in all but the most practical senses, but holding Hank’s makes him realize just how small his are. It’s - kind of nice.

The living room doesn’t actually have a coffee table, because the grey monster takes up far too much space, but there is a side table, and so Hank uses that to set everything up while Alex goes to grab water and spoons from the kitchen. Alex motions for Hank to sit down first, and then he arranges himself against his side, almost burrowing. This means they both have to be careful about how they hold their bowls, but Hank doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, Alex has the impression that this is what Hank wanted all along.

This is a good thing.

Warm, salty, comforting fluid flows down his throat, soothing the soreness and killing germs along the way. The person who came up with chicken noodles soup as the cure for all ailments was brilliant. Alex would totally share that with whoever it was, but he has a feeling he or she - probably a she, because women just seemed to know things about this stuff - kicked the bucket a long time ago, and that ship has sailed. That’s alright. He has someone else he can say, “You’re brilliant,” to.

Hank ducks his head shyly and says, “Thank you. I’m glad it’s helping.”

Shaking his head, Alex tells him, “Not just for the soup. I mean, for everything. You’re this awesome scientist who can build weapons and try to figure out how to help little kids at the same time, and then you do science experiments with my kid brother and don’t even complain when I make your life harder by doing things like sneezing in your face. And you don’t even really see how awesome you are, do you?”

He feels, more than sees, Hank’s shrug, and he checks on both of their progress. There once was chicken noodle soup. That soup is no more. He takes both of their bowls and sets them on the side table before snuggling back into Hank’s side. It’s okay that Hank doesn’t believe him just yet. Alex is more than willing to be patient and persistent in this, because it’s worth it, and because no good thing in life is achieved without expending a certain amount of effort.

He heaves a contented sigh and says, “Tell me about something.”

“As you wish. What would you like me to tell you about?” Instead of answering, Alex snuffles and settles in closer, and Hank begins carding his fingers through Alex’s hair and just talks.

Henry Phillip McCoy started out with a fairly normal life. He had two parents, Norton and Edna McCoy. He lived in a reasonably sized house with a white picket fence (“What, really?” “Yes, really.” “Like, an actual white picket fence?” “Rest your voice, Alex.” “Yeah, okay..”). Then, he turned five, and that year, like most American children of that tender age, he attended kindergarten. Right away, his teachers noticed something different about little Hank McCoy. There were IQ tests and aptitude exams and plenty of people muttering about what to do with the little boy who had such potential. His parents were convinced to hire a private tutor, to supplement his lessons in school. This worked well for a while, and then little Hank began growing bored. The adults in his life all agreed that this was A Very Bad Thing for a little boy of such intelligence, and so the next year, they moved him up a few grades. This process would repeat itself several times over the years, until Hank graduated from high school at twelve, and went on to receive his bachelor’s online, then his masters, until finally, he was eighteen, an age his parents deemed old enough to live on campus. And so it was that Hank had his first true experiences with college life six years after the fact, while working towards his doctorate. He reveled in spending time with people his own age for a few weeks, learning all sorts of new and exciting things, until he had seen all there was to see of typical college experience, and he grew bored once more. After that, he threw himself into his research and studies. He emerged a few years later as a Ph. D. and then moved here, beginning his life as an inventor and cementing his reputation among the scientific community as a bit of a recluse (“So you really are a hermit!.... Yeah, sorry. Shutting up now.”).

Alex falls asleep listening to the gentle cadences of Hank’s voice as he moves on from his past to some of the experiments which have, over the years, gone wrong. He dreams of a young Henry Phillip McCoy playing with Scott, his little human shadow, the two of them making great strides in science long before they are even able to drive. In the dream, he’s not sure how he fits into their brilliant duo, but he doesn’t really mind. They invent something that cures viruses, and that’s worth any amount of social awkwardness. Raven wants to know who will love him now, and he winds up with that sacker from the grocery store. He’s not even sure what the guy’s name is. Bobby, maybe? Whatever. He’s nice, and that’s all that really matters, since Hank is off-limits. Through it all, someone is stroking a gentle hand through his hair and over the normally tense expanse of his neck.

He wakes when that hand stills, and Hank says, “It’s time for me to go pick up Scott,” before laying a soft kiss upon Alex’s temple and arranging him carefully on the overstuffed couch. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmokay. Love you.” He’s back out before he can hear Hank’s reply. That’s alright. He already knows.

There are two eyes peering down at him from the other side of the couch. Alex knows this because this is not the first time this particular set of eyes has observed him sleeping in this very spot.

Alex grins sleepily, not yet opening his eyes. “Hey, kiddo. Did Hank go next door for a bit?”

He hears the rustling of fabric, and figures Scott has forgotten once again that he cannot actually see nods with his eyes closed. “Hey. Mr. Hank says you’re doing better, but you tired your voice out.” This is true, but that’s not what Alex is interested in. It sounds like Scott has something on his mind, and he’s leading up to it.

“I can talk for a little bit. Give me a minute and we can go sit in the kitchen and talk. I’ll drink some of that tea Hank brought me.” He lays still for a few minutes longer, listening to Scott’s little sneakered feet passing over from carpet to tile. Eventually, Alex drags himself up from the couch and rummages for a small sauce pan, filling it with water. He locates the honey and the box of tea, still on the side table where Hank placed them earlier.

Tea prepped and steeping in front of him, Alex says, “Okay, kiddo. What’s up?”

Scott gets this guilty look in his eyes for a moment, piquing his older brother’s curiosity even further. “I might have been listening yesterday while you and Mr. Hank were talking.”

This is surprising, but Alex can understand. Scott’s love of information has on occasion led him astray. For the most part, he’s able to contain himself, but every once in a while he has been known to do a bit of eavesdropping. “Did you hear something that bothered you?”

“No.” But he’s staring up at Alex from across the table with anxious eyes, and it’s hard to feel convinced.

“You sure?”

It comes out in a jumble. “AreyoureallygonnamarryMr.Hank?”

“Oh. Um... probably? Yes. Not right now, though. It’s going to be a while. We haven’t really known each other that long. Would that be okay with you?” He’s been wondering about this anyway. Scott cannot ever get enough of Hank, but Alex doesn’t know if he’ll feel quite the same way about his scientist friend if said friend is in love with his older brother.

“Yeah, that’s actually pretty cool. But I was wondering...” Alex breathes a congested sigh of relief as he waits for Scott to say what he needs to. “Well, you know, in the movies when people do the whole love-at-first-sight thing, there’s usually a whole lot more singing.”

Snorting, Alex racks his brain, trying to find the right response. In the end, he winds up fudging it, because this isn’t something he’s ever run into before, and he’s pretty sure there isn’t a right or wrong answer. “That’s because guys don’t really do the whole love-at-first-sight thing. They do love at first... bite.”

“Really?” Scott’s doing that adorable head-cocked-to-the-side thing that makes little old ladies want to pinch his cheeks.

Alex nods firmly before confirming, “Totally. You know that old saying, ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’?”

“Yeah?”

“If you really want someone to fall in love with you, you have to feed them.”

Scott’s eyes become wide, and Alex stares at him in confusion as he wails, “Oh no!”

“Scott? What? What’s wrong?” He’s preparing to jump up and fix whatever it is that’s put that horrified look on his little brother’s face.

“Logan likes to share his Oreos!”

Alex promptly covers his mouth with his hand, gets up from his chair, and walks out of the room, shoulders shaking with repressed hilarity. He can drink his tea in a few minutes, after he’s calmed down enough that he won’t give the poor kid a complex.

Chapter Text

All he wanted was to slap together a pickle, cheddar, and mustard sandwich.

He’s not sure what to think about the unexpected crowding of his shelves which rather impedes his search for the pickle jar. Unconsciously mimicking his younger brother, his head tilts to the side as he eyes all the food he cannot remember purchasing, much less arranging in the olive green fridge.

The cold and flu medicine he’s been on for three days now leaves him slightly out of it, but not enough to hallucinate a fully-stocked refrigerator or to entirely forget shelving everything. He would remember putting the pickle jar somewhere odd, because he cannot live without his pickles, and so he always, always, always puts them on the bottom shelf of the fridge door.

Before he can start to panic about his alleged blackout and the mysteriously missing pickle jar, he spots a note written in what is rapidly becoming an incredibly familiar hand. He snatches it from its place atop a bag of red grapes.

“Alex,” it reads, “I noticed when I made Scott breakfast yesterday that your refrigerator was in need of restocking. Since you slept in this morning, I went to the grocery store after dropping Scott off at Hunt. PS: Your pickle jar was raided last night by someone who would prefer to remain anonymous. To prevent the world’s end, I purchased two more jars. You will find them in the pantry, on the third shelf. Love, Hank.”

If the worst things Scott gets up to as he grows up are eavesdropping, the occasional swear word, and pickle theft, Alex will consider himself lucky indeed. That’s not what bothers him, although he’s sure Scott will walk around on eggshells for the next day or so, wondering when the retribution for his pickle pilfering ways will be exacted.

What bothers Alex is that he has apparently gone from having one multi millionaire genius swooping in and solving all his problems to another. Perhaps he’s using the wrong word. He isn’t bothered, so much as caught off-guard, and uncertain as to the proper response. Charles and Hank both love him, in their own ways. He understands that. They also adore Scott - which is completely logical and as it should be, because who wouldn’t love his kid brother? Scott is awesome. Alex loves Charles and Hank, too, but he feels like all he ever does is accept things from them. He never really gives back - not because he is unwilling, but because he is without the means. Add to that the fact that he’s incredibly rough around the edges, does not play well with others, and only feels as though he can express himself when he is dancing or fixing something with his hands, and he finds himself utterly inadequate.

He mulls the matter over as he retrieves one of the new pickle jars from the pantry shelf Hank specified and sets himself to putting together his sandwich, grateful that the mustard and cheese, at least, are where they should be. While he’s up and thinking about it, he sets his sandwich masterpiece upon a plate and then goes about cleaning the grapes, some of which he plops next to the sandwich, because, why not? After pouring himself some apple juice, he pads over into the living room, curling up on the great grey thing with his - he’s going to call it brunch, considering the fact that it’s his first meal of the day and it’s almost eleven.

How should he address this? Should he say anything at all? He’s moved on from his delicious sandwich, eating grapes mechanically, when the front door opens. “Alex?” Hank calls softly.

“In the living room.” He pops another grape into his mouth so there’s no need for him to say anything else when Hank walks into the room and sits down beside him. However, his desire to sort out his thoughts does not disuade him from settling against his companion after Hank drapes his arm across the back of the couch.

“How are you feeling?” While most people would accept a mumbled, ‘fine’ or ‘better,’ Henry Phillip McCoy cannot abide such vague responses, something which Alex has known since Scott went into anaphylactic shock. Hank does not heckle or push for more data, he merely asks in a calm, academically interested tone, a series of questions about the state of a multitude of body parts and functions.

Still, Alex has no desire for a verbal Q&A at present, so he swallows his mouthful and replies, “My throat aches a little less today, breathing is easier, and I don’t feel dizzy or shaky.” He realizes that Hank is staring at him fondly and tilts cocks his head. “What?” There is nothing endearing about what he just said, so what could Hank be thinking right now?

“You have mustard on your nose. I take it your sandwich was thoroughly enjoyed?” Hank’s knowing tone tells Alex that he is remembering Sunday,  when he wound up making a pickle, cheddar, and mustard sandwich for Alex - twice, because at the time, that was all he would agree to eat. The next day, when Hank asked about the odd comfort food, Alex explained that it was what his mother craved when she was pregnant with him, and nothing else is quite as soothing when he’s feeling poorly.

Hank lifts the arm not resting behind Alex and raises his palm, seeking silent permission. When Alex nods, Hank proceeds to gently remove the spicy yellow testament to his delicious sandwich with the pad of his thumb.

“It was. Scott can sleep easy tonight, knowing his continued existence is assured.”

Hank widens his eyes playfully, asking, “Am I to understand that you have divined the identity of the pickle thief?”

Shaking his head and rolling his own eyes, Alex tells him, “I am not the Dr. Watson to your Holmes.”

“Well, no, but you are the Kirk to my Spock.” It’s so innocuous, but Hank’s joke conjures up the image of Spock pressing his hand against the glass in the engineering room, with Kirk slumping down and raising his own hand on the other side. Alex never wants that to be them. He doesn’t ever want Hank to feel like he should sacrifice himself in any way for the good of others, and especially not for Alex.

That thought brings him back to his earlier ruminations. He hasn’t stopped debating with himself about what he should do, but he can still be polite, so he says, “Thanks for the note, and for getting the groceries. If you have the receipt, I can pay you back, or you could just give me an estimate.” Although Alex hates talking about money, especially when there is an abundance of better topics in the world, he will suck it up and deal for this. He’s fallen in love, not forgotten his principles, and he refuses to be a burden to anyone if he can possibly avoid doing so.

At first, it looks like Hank will object, especially as he starts with, “That won’t be-”

“Hank.”

He must hear the seriousness - or possibly the stubbornness, since he’s been reliably informed that he has it in spades - in Alex’s voice, because Hank nods and says, “As you wish,” which sounds entirely too close in Alex’s currently maudlin mind to “I have always been, and always shall be your friend. The needs of the many...”

Shoving that thought aside, Alex thanks him and then states, “Also, you should probably know - you aren’t nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

Bemused, Hank tilts his head. “That was rather cryptic. Would you mind elaborating?”

“It hasn’t really come up until now, but since we’re talking about money already - I know you’re the Academy’s ‘mysterious benefactor.’” He raises his eyebrows and asks, “Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Shifting awkwardly, all Hank’s remarkable brain comes up with is a rueful, “Ah.”

“As much as I appreciate the fact that you care about me,” and he really, truly does, but there are limits to what his sense of independence will allow, “I’m not some chick you have to swoop in and rescue whenever I have a scraped knee or a chipped nail.”

Chastened, Hank still objects, “I would never disrespect you enough to think of you that way.”

Alex gives him a level look. “You say that, but do you actually mean it?”

“Absolutely. I admit my actions may appear rather contradictory in that regard, but I assure you I do not consider you helpless, nor could I ever mistake you for a young woman when you are quite clearly male.” Why is Hank looking at his chest...? Oh. Right. Alex neglected to pull on a shirt prior to following his stomach’s demand for sustenance.

Alex grins unrepentantly. “Oops.” Then, he becomes serious again, twisting around so that, while he’s still pressed up against Hank, he can actually look at him straight on. “Do you trust me?”

Hank doesn’t even have to think. “Unequivocally.”

“Then believe me when I say that I can take care of Scott.” He adds, as an afterthought, “And myself.”

“I do,” Hank assures, “I simply feel that it is only logical to help, especially since...”

Even though his voice trails off, Alex can fill in the blanks just fine. “You said you want to marry me at some point. And... I want that.” He does. He hadn’t known until it tumbled from Hank’s lips several days ago, but now that he does, the force of it occasionally bowls him over.

Alex is the committing type. He’s known that for years - ever since a guy he was sort of seeing in his junior year of high school tried to get in his pants, and he said ‘no,’ not ready for things to be so serious, and recoiling at the thought of opening himself up to someone without trusting him enough to agree to something more lasting. It’s likely he would have earned himself a reputation of being a prude, if he hadn’t been established as someone not to mess with long before that incident, and a few others which followed with some of the other students later on. So, yeah, his desire for the trust and security with which he equates more permanent relationships doesn’t come as a surprise. He simply wasn’t aware that he could want something like this right now, when his life has barely even started.

Hank gently breaks into the silence which has fallen briefly between them with, “Why do I sense that a qualifier is imminent?”

“Because you’re brilliant?” When Hank merely continues looking at him with a patient expression, Alex tries to give voice to his thoughts. “It’s just - I want to be able to prove that we can do it - that we can make it on our own - before we’re not anymore. Does that make sense?”

Nodding slowly, Hank allows, “It does,” before going on to explain, “but it’s difficult, having the potential to help and then holding back.”

Alex widens his eyes slightly and says, “I think this is the part where I tell you that you have a ‘saving people thing.’”

Snorting, Hank corrects him, “I believe it would be more accurate to say I have a ‘saving Summers’s thing,’” which causes Alex’s nose to wrinkle.

“You’re not supposed to turn my quotes against me. It’s like - some unwritten rule.” After this, Hank stares at Alex fondly and then leans in, prompting him to attempt scooting backwards, which is difficult due to the way the grey monster causes his body to sink into the stuffing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What about my funk? If you get the flu and die-”

Hank peers at him, eyes alight with good humor as he says, “That’s interesting. You look highly animated to me. Also interesting is the implied accusation of my necrophilic tendencies, of which I assure you I was not previously aware.”

“Oh, sick-nasty. You did not just...” Alex makes a wounded noise and thumps his head on Hank’s chest. “There’s no way I’m kissing you after you put that image in my head.”

“Are you quite certain? I’ve often found that distractions are a sufficient avenue for eliminating unpleasant thoughts.” Hank’s academic tone would probably be more convincing if he were talking about something a little more serious.

Raising his head, Alex quirks his eyebrows and asks, “You break it, you buy it?”

“Well, that is one way to perceive this particular sequence of events.” He bites his lip and then smirks not-unkindly, reminding Alex, “And really, we have long since passed the point where we might have worried about sharing pathogens.”

Alex sees again in vivid remembrance the surprised blink Hank gave after having snot unintentionally sneezed all over his face and lenses. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

Hearing this concession, Hank uses his free hand to cup the side of Alex’s face and leans forward, moving slow enough that Alex could pull away if he truly wished to, and then tilts his head to the side, bringing their lips together. It’s not overtly passionate, not forceful, not desperate, though Alex gets the sense that it could be those things, if they both wanted. Instead, it is tender and soft and deliberate, and exactly right for this moment.

They pull away and Alex just knows he has a sappy look on his face, but that’s fine with him, considering Hank’s own soft expression.

Pressing his forehead against Hank’s own, Alex decides to return to the reason they had planned to spend time together during Hank’s break from his lab, suggesting, “Star Wars?”

Hank breathes a laugh, his warm breath falling on Alex’s face. “As you wish.” He must have been right about distractions exorcising unwanted thoughts, because this time when he says it, all Alex hears is, ‘I love you.’

Chapter Text

The rest of Alex’s convalescence passes relatively unremarkably. The only hitch they experience is their exhaustion of the original Star Wars trilogy. They supplement with the first few Star Trek movies, and if Alex goes a little quiet and still during the end of Wrath of Khan, Hank apparently understands his desire to leave the matter alone, merely running his fingers through Alex’s hair until he feels him relaxing fully once more. By Wednesday night, Alex feels well enough that he decides to put an end to his unplanned vacation, and so Thursday morning he and Scott rush through their morning routine and then make their usual trek to Hunt Elementary.

“Hey, when do I get to meet Logan’s mother?” He has a brief feeling of deja vu before he shakes it off. It’s probably the after-effects of taking that cold and flu stuff for so many days.

“Well... probably when you drop me off at their apartment on Friday, right?” Scott has his lunchbox and backpack at the ready, his hand on the door, practically leaping at the chance to hop out of the truck.

Hesitating, Alex says, “I don’t know, kiddo...”

Scott stares at him incredulously. “You’re the one who wouldn’t let me back out when I told you about it. Why are you being weird about this?”

“You always think I’m weird.”

“That’s because you’re old,” Scott tells him, all matter-of-fact.

Snorting, Alex retorts, “Only to you.” The ‘friendly reminder’ from CPS about his probationary status as Scott’s guardian is fresh on his mind - which only makes sense, given it was in a pile of mail he retrieved from the mailbox last night, after receiving a vague grin and a lazy wave from Sean Cassidy, who was quite happily singing Yellow Submarine, just like he always does while checking his own mail, wearing his terry cloth robe and bear-paw slippers. “You do know that Hank is five years older than I am, right? Do you think he’s weird?”

The kid rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning when he says, “Yeah - when he’s making googly eyes at you.”

“You want to see googly eyes? Go find your little Lothario - and tell him I’d like to meet the woman who brought him into this world, alright?” He takes far too much delight in how quickly his words cause Scott to scrunch up his nose and escape from the truck - not because he’s leaving, but because Alex totally won this one, and his kid brother knows it. Then he glances in his rear view mirror and quickly calls his brother’s name before the door slams shut.

Scott has this expectant look on his face that wars with his dejection at being ordered to violate the childhood policy of keeping adults as firmly removed from their contemporary friendships as possible. “Yeah?”

“Not right now, though - okay?” He hasn’t actually told anyone about Suit Guy yet, largely because he doesn’t want them to think he’s being paranoid or melodramatic - things of which Raven, especially, is fond of accusing him. Judging purely by the flared nostrils and flushed features of Suit Guy featured prominently in Alex’s rear view mirror right now, though, he is well within his right to feel angry and a little bit anxious. He doesn’t care about pissing the guy off when it’s just him, and he knows the guy must have at least one kid with him in his snooty Lexus, but Scott is standing less than a foot from the truck, and that’s not really something he’s comfortable with at the moment.

“She’s probably gone already anyway. Logan is always here before me.” This is true - except for when Hank drops Scott off, and then he’s at school with plenty of time to spare. Alex tells himself firmly that no, that is not a good reason to let Hank drop Scott off every morning. He offered, but Alex wants this time in the mornings to belong to him and Scott, unless something unexpected comes up and prevents that.

“Okay, point. Bye, kiddo.” Alex watches as Scott waves, and the second he’s off in search of Logan - he may not have agreed that was what he would do as soon as he got the chance, but Alex knows, because Scott, using a poker face? What poker face? - he’s driving out of the parking lot, remembering why he wanted to arrive earlier in the mornings. In all the furor of getting back to their schedule, he forgot this time, but he’s sure to remember tomorrow.

When he arrives at the academy, he quickly becomes absorbed in studying for midterms, but Angel has other ideas, ordering him with rather pointed gestures to unlock the passenger door. She hops in and starts off with, “So, rumor has it that someone other than you called to say that you were sick. You have anything to say about that?”

“Only that people around here must be really bored if all they can find to gossip about is who told our receptionist I had the flu. I’m a little surprised, actually - I figured the change in Pryor’s fortunes would be way more interesting than my private life, which is meant to be, you know - private.”

Angel smirks at him, delighted. “So there is someone.”

“I never said that.”

“Oh, honey, you didn’t have to.” She’s laughing at his expense, and it is so not appreciated.

That’s okay - he has something that will either shut her up, or distract her so much that she won’t be able to continue digging for information. “What about your date with Darwin, hmm? Or, as you like to call him, Armando? Why don’t we talk about that?”

Peeved, she tries to tell him, “First of all, his name is Armando, and second of all - it was not a date. It was a day-”

“Wait, wait, wait - a day? As in a whole, entire, day that you spent together, the two of you?” And yeah, he’s having way too much fun with this, but in his defense, she started it.

Nostrils flaring and eyes rolling, she attempts to retake control of the conversation, “As I was saying, it was a day we spent catching up together as friends, and then we saw a movie together-”

“As friends?”

“You don’t have to be such a pill about this.”

“I know I don’t, but it’s so much fun.” She’s probably plotting all kinds of things that end with his funeral in that beautiful head of hers, but he’s not all that worried. Darwin would be kind of sad to lose his only real friend at the garage, so Alex has that in his favor, and she seems to care about kids - which makes sense, now that he knows more about her - so she would never be heartless enough to deprive Scott of his older brother.

Breathing out heavily, Angel crosses her arms and can only manage to say through her frustration, “Summers...”

Alex sobers after reveling in her misfortune for a moment, telling her, “Look, it may not have been a date to you, but I definitely think it was to him. So just think about that, okay?”

“Yeah, I know. I think he’s always carried a bit of a torch for me, but I wouldn’t do anything about it, because how cliché is that, falling for your best friend’s older brother?” She won’t look at him though, which makes him think there’s more to it than that. Of course there is - when is life ever that simple?

“What’s the real reason?”

For a long time, it looks like Angel won’t answer. She stares out of the passenger side window, small and weighed down by something she doesn’t seem to think she can share. Then she shakes her head and turns to face him. “I don’t have anything left, okay? I work, I take care of my brothers and sisters, I go to class - when I can - and then that’s it. Spending time with Armando this weekend was great, but I won’t always be able to press pause on my life so that I can go and do something fun. Something normal. The fact that my mother felt well enough to take care of things at home for a day was a miracle - and that kind of thing doesn’t happen twice.”

“Does he make you happy? No, scratch that - I know he does, and so does anyone else who’s ever seen you reading one of his text messages. Do you care enough about him to explain why you feel like going out isn’t on the table?” He understands - probably better than anyone, although he only has Scott to take care of.

He wonders for the first time if maybe he had it easy, not having to watch his parents die, and then he shakes that thought away, because it’s nearly impossible losing a parent, no matter how it happens.

“I don’t want to make him feel guilty, or like he should be able to help somehow.”

This would be so much easier if he and Angel were less alike. The worst part about it is he is fully aware that what he’s about to say will be completely hypocritical. He’s going to do it anyway - they may have similar personalities, but their situations are still different enough that he feels justified in asking, “Would it be so bad, having a little help?”

She stares at him as though he’s lost his mind, and Alex winces. Yeah, that’s probably pretty hard to take seriously, coming from him. Still, he had to try, at least. “Are you on something? Did you really have the flu, or were you abducted and given a brain transplant?”

“Look, take it or leave it, it’s your life, but I think the two of you could actually be happy together, if you’d give yourselves a chance. Don’t walk away from this unless you really don’t want it, okay? Because anything else would be - wrong.” When he glances away, frustrated by his so-far futile attempt, and hesitant to do anything to cause a rift with the one person he feels like he can trust at the academy, he sees the door to the back entrance being propped open and turns to let Angel know.

They head inside without sharing another word, but before they split off to their studios, Angel grabs his wrist and presses it gently, giving him a quick, conciliatory smile before letting him go and walking away.

Everyone in his classes groans when they see him, but Alex sees right through it, especially when they all start moaning about the instructor who taught them while he was gone. Apparently everything was way too easy, and the chick spent half her time texting or on the computer. Alex would say something to Pryor, except that would mean actually having to interact with the harpy, and potentially making an enemy of another member of the staff. Instead, he apologizes to his students and promises - probably unwisely, but the gesture is what counts at this point, and it goes a long way to soothing ruffled feathers - to avoid getting sick in the future.

He stops by Angel’s studio when his last class is over in order to ask, “Are you coming today, or what?”

She inhales slowly and then lets it go. “Give me a few days, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Just thought I’d check. See you tomorrow?”

“See you - and Summers?” He turns back to face her and Angel opens her mouth before closing it and shaking her head. “Nevermind.”

He nods at her, a bit confused, and then leaves for Jason’s Deli.

Things with Darwin are much more straightforward. He claps Alex on the back and shakes his hand, joking, “Look who’s back from the dead! How are you?”

“I’m good. How about you? Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” It’s such a relief seeing him again, and it strikes Alex how attached he’s grown to his friend in the short time they’ve known each other. Darwin is so cool and laid back, and he lets everything life throws at him slide off his back. Alex needs that - that quiet support, without the slightly manic-genius vibe Charles and Hank both exude without any conscious effort or intent. They go through the line and, though he gets an odd look from the chick behind the counter when he puts in an order for a sandwich with pickles, cheddar, and mustard, and a bag of Lays, she refrains from commenting. Normally he tries to order something a little less out of the ordinary when he comes here, but he’s still not feeling completely like himself, and so he caves to the vagaries of his tastebuds.

Lunch is nice. They talk about what Darwin definitely considered a date with Angel, and a bit of drama that happened in the garage - apparently two of the guys who work there had an ugly falling-out over the same girl, and Darwin is extremely grateful to have Alex back so he won’t have to deal with the tense atmosphere alone. Alex never gives any indication that something important happened in his own life while he was gone, and his friend never asks, which is a relief. He can talk to Charles about Hank, and he would be willing to talk to Darwin about him at some point, but not so soon after everything has happened. So far as he knows, the only one in this town with any of the details of their relationship is Scott, and Alex would like to keep it that way for a while.

At the back of his mind, even after they leave the deli and start their shift at the garage, Alex is going over the letter from CPS. What was the point? He still talks to Moira every few weeks on the phone. The likelihood of him forgetting how tenuous his guardianship is right now is pretty slim. Should he mention the letter to Moira the next time she calls, or not? Their calls are recorded for legal reasons, so he’s thinking not, but the uncertainty gnaws at him. He also has her cell number though, which CPS has no legal right to monitor, since she doesn’t use it for work. So for now, he’ll wait, and if anything else odd happens, he’ll call her when he is certain she will not be at work. The decision sits uncomfortably within the confines of his mind, and by the time he is ready to pick up Scott, it still has not settled entirely, but he does his best to push it away.

A diversion comes in the form of Logan and his mother following Scott on his way to the truck. At least - Alex assumes she is Logan’s mother, considering how much they resemble and the fact that the kid’s allowing her to walk so closely. She’s wearing the kind of fifties diner-inspired outfit some waitresses are required to wear, and she has dark circles under her eyes and a brittle, tragically brave look that actresses shoot for but can never quite replicate, unless they, too, have suffered true loss and found a way to keep going. He rolls down the window on the passenger side and tries to appear as friendly and open as possible. It’s not all that much, since it’s coming from him, but he’s at least making the effort.

“Hi - Alex, right?” When he nods, she smiles a bit wider than before and tells him, “I’m Elizabeth, and this is my son Logan.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” The ‘ma’am is instinctive still. His mother always emphasized the importance of respecting women, and he still is not fully accustomed to being considered one of the adults, and therefore perfectly capable of using people’s first names.

He’s surprised when she laughs - startled that such a beautifully broken creature can still laugh with such honest delight - but he’s glad of it. “Just ‘Elizabeth,’ will do. Logan, say ‘hello,’ to Scott’s brother, please.”

Finding himself scrutinized so keenly by someone his little brother’s age is disconcerting, to say the least, but Alex meets his gaze head on, and they have a short staring contest before Scott whispers anxiously, “Guys, really?”

“Hi, Logan. I hear you’ve been looking out for my brother. That true?” Alex talks to him like he would to a peer, and Logan’s shoulders relax as the stony expression melts from his face.

“I guess so.”

Dipping his head, Alex thanks him and says, “Just be careful that you don’t get into too much trouble while you’re doing it, alright?”

“You’re not going to tell me that it’s not my job? That I should let the teachers handle it?” When Alex simply shakes his head, Logan actually smiles at him, which he can tell has shocked both of their loved ones in the periphery by the way they shift around and sort of gape at the two of them. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

After they end their little ‘moment,’ Alex raises his head to look back at Elizabeth and sees a mixture of bafflement and approval before she recovers herself and says, in a voice even warmer than before, “Thank you for agreeing to let Scott celebrate Logan’s birthday with us this weekend.” What she really means is, ‘Thank you for not counting my son out, for giving him a chance.’

His soft, “You’re welcome,” is meant to show her that he understands - so many things - and he can tell that she appreciates it.

They all say their goodbyes and head their separate ways - a good thing, since they’ve been irritating the countless other parents, babysitters, and older siblings sitting behind the wheel - and Scott turns to Alex and demands, “What did you do?”

“What do you mean, Squirt? You were there.”

“Don’t call me that - and you know exactly what I mean.” Poor Scott - he sounds as if he doesn’t know whether to be awed or terrified or completely exasperated with both of them.

Alex shrugs eloquently. “All I did was what Charles and Erik did for me.”

Raising his little eyebrows, Scott prompts, “And that was...?”

“I showed him a little faith.”

Chapter Text

“Do you have your toothbrush?”

“Yes.”

“Your toothpaste?”

“Yes.”

“Your Benedryl?”

“Yes.”

“Pajamas and clean clothes for tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Your sleeping bag?”

“Do you have eyes?” Scott glares at Alex in exasperation, pointedly holding up his little blue sleeping bag.

Feeling more than a little exasperated with his behavior himself, Alex sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Okay then, in the truck with you.”

“Finally!” He scampers off to the Ford and Alex follows along after sweeping his cell and keys off their place on the kitchen counter.

They’re halfway to the apartment complex where Logan and Elizabeth live before either of them says anything else. “You excited about tonight?”

Swallowing, Scott nods and then shoots him a sideways glance.

After waiting expectantly for a while, Alex tells him, “Spit it out, kiddo. I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.”

“Is it... I mean. Do you think it’s weird to be nervous about it?”

No wonder Scott was so irritable about Alex’s irrational bout of nerves - when either of them feels anxious about something, they react to it with or without realizing they are, and then they feed off of each other’s emotions. It was like that when Scott was a baby, too. Any time Alex was unhappy about something, Scott’s little face would scrunch up and he’d whimper a bit, and when Scott needed something and became frustrated by his inability to explain, Alex would become antsy. “About sleeping in a different place, or about your first sleepover?”

“I don’t know - both?”

Alex glances at his brother out of the corner of his eye before refocusing on the road. “I don’t think it’s weird. Would it help if I told you I’m a bit nervous about it, too?”

“You’re nervous? You don’t get nervous.” Oh, kiddo. If only that were true. Still, it’s cool - and completely terrifying, truth be told - to have someone think Alex is so brave and unaffected by the rest of the world.

“I do when something has to do with you.”

“Why?” Because you’re the only blood I have left. Because I love you more than my own life. Because a thousand things, really.

“That’s just what big brothers do,” is what he ultimately settles on, since everything else seems too weighty to share with his kid brother.

A few minutes later, they pull up to the gated entrance to the apartments, and Elizabeth and Logan are there to greet them. Logan takes it upon himself to relieve Scott of his sleeping bag and his duffel, which makes Scott’s cheeks turn pink and both the adults grin at each other above their heads.

Elizabeth must see something in Alex’s expression, because her grin softens and she assures him, “We’ll take good care of him. Logan made sure I taped that list you sent Scott to school with yesterday with all his allergies to our fridge, and there’s not a single strawberry in sight.”

“Thank you,” he tacks on a “ma’am,” at the end, just to make her laugh, and feels immensely accomplished when it works. Then he turns to look at his brother and he holds his arms open. Scott checks to make sure Logan isn’t in any danger of teasing him over a bit of brotherly PDA, then launches forward and buries his face in Alex’s middle. Smoothing his hand through Scott’s dark waves, Alex tells him, “You have fun, okay?” and feels his nod against his stomach.

He hears a mumbled “‘Kay,” and then Scott pulls away, going to stand by Logan.

Hopping back into the truck, Alex wishes Logan a happy birthday and then waves to the three of them.

Back on the road, he flips on the radio and taps his thumbs along the steering wheel all the way home. What to do with himself now that he’s all alone? He could call Charles, but Raven might be home, and he doesn’t feel like having a battle of the wits with her right now, or being goaded about his occasional mother-hen tendencies. He could read through his Sociology notes again, but that only takes so long, and he knows all the material anyway. In the end, he winds up parking and then heading next door.

He sends Hank a text in case he is too far inside the house to hear him knocking. Shortly after that, Hank opens his door sans lab coat. “I believe we should consider procuring you a spare key. It seems only fair, given that I now have one for your house.” Peering at him, he asks, “Are you alright?”

“No, yeah, I’m fine. I just,” feel really stupid right now, “do you mind if I spend the night here? It’s just that, Scott’s sleeping over at a friend’s house, and it’s kind of weird, you know?” He takes a deep breath and meets the pair of eyes he has been avoiding for the past few minutes, embarrassed, but trying hard to ignore it.

Hank nods and lets Alex inside. “Have you eaten?”

“Oh - um. Actually, no. Scott’s having pizza there, and I guess I kind of forgot about doing something for me, since he’s not home.” Now that food has come up, his stomach decides to make its desires known, grumbling about the fact that it’s been several hours since he had lunch with Darwin (another without Angel, but she never actually said she wouldn’t join them ever again, so he’s going to continue hoping for her to change her mind).

“That’s rather fortuitous, actually - I was about to make dinner when you texted me.” He leads Alex into the kitchen, where various ingredients cover the counter.

“You don’t mind?”

Shaking his head, Hank tells him, “There is more than enough for us both. I’m making lasagna. Normally I send the leftovers to Sean, since he eats as though he is still a teenager in high school. Eventually his metabolism will slow - I believe he will be rather unbearable for a while once he realizes he can no longer consume an entire deep dish pizza, a gallon of ice cream, and a roll of cookie dough in one setting.

Alex feels his eyes widening and his stomach turning. “The guy’s a bean pole. How does he keep all of that down?”

“I have ample reason to suspect he is not entirely human.”

They settle easily into the roles they assign themselves in the kitchen, working together to make the lasagna. It feels different, preparing a pasta dish for fun, and not because Alex has checked his account for the third time today and seen again how low the grocery fund is. Aside from that, the conversation is calm and relaxing, and the perfect distraction from wondering how his little brother is doing every minute of the night. They take turns insisting that they simply must kiss the cook, and when everything is in place, they pop the lasagna in the oven, set the timer, and wind up on the couch in the living room. It’s a little odd, snuggling on a couch that is so much smaller than the one in 405, but it’s also rather convenient, because they have to arrange their bodies even tighter than normal, Hank on his back and Alex draped across his front.

“I’m glad you came over,” Hank’s voice rumbles through his chest, his breath ruffling Alex’s hair and warming the skin of his ears and neck.

“Yeah, me too. It’s not so bad - having a night to ourselves. Kinda nice, actually.” It is especially nice since Alex has had a long two days getting back into his regular work routine, and he can almost feel himself falling asleep, completely comfortable and safe.

“You would still prefer to have Scott with us, though,” his human mattress observes.

Alex sighs softly. “Does that bother you?”

“Not at all.”

Raising his head, Alex scrutinizes him before asking, “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Running his tongue over his lips, Hank is silent for a moment, but then he says, “There is some truth to the epithet you’ve given me - I am, in many ways, a hermit - though that does not mean you may use it whenever you wish.” He pauses to raise his eyebrows at the mischievous smirk on Alex’s face and then continues on. “I cannot fully express what a gift it is having you and your brother in my life. Sean is a good person, but we rarely spend time together, as we have little in common outside of work.”

Alex lays his head back down and tries to get even closer - he’s not sure how much success he has, considering they’ve practically melded into one being already, but it’s the idea of it, of maybe crawling inside of Hank and staying there, that drives his attempt. They lay like that, HankandAlex, rather than Hank and Alex, until the oven timer goes off and Alex removes the aluminum foil from the lasagna so that the cheese can bubble and brown a little while Hank makes a salad and he makes garlic toast.

Once their stomachs are pleasantly full and the still-plentiful leftovers are put away, Hank tells Alex rather apologetically that there is an experiment in the lab he needs to check on, grabbing one of his lab coats from its place in the hall closet, and inviting him to stay in the living room and watch television or possibly read a book. Alex surprises him, asking to join him in his lab. Ever a supporter of sharing knowledge, Hank explains what he is doing and why as he works, occasionally stopping to type notes into a tablet made by a company Alex doesn’t recognize. When asked, he discovers that Hank designed and created it himself. It leaves him wondering why he hadn’t guessed that on his own, but perhaps that is the difference between knowing that Hank is a genius and seeing physical evidence of that fact.

Demands of scientific inquiry satisfied, Hank asks what Alex would like to do. Still exhausted, Alex suggests watching Princess Bride, feeling gratified when he sees Hank’s amusement at being called out for being such a sap, especially when he tells him dutifully, “As you wish.”

Their intentions are so pure in the beginning, and he’s so incredibly tired. But the increasing darkness in the living room, their close proximity, the kisses they cannot resist trading... After a while, Alex isn’t tired anymore. Instead, he is suffused in heat and a deep hunger, though his belly is still full. Hank stills, running his thumb over Alex’s cheek. “We can stop. I can get the spare sheets and get the couch ready, and you can go sleep in my room, right now. As much as I would like to, we don’t have to go any further than this.”

Alex stares down at him, thinking about it as carefully as possible, given his present condition. He thinks about all the little things, like chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies, eating chicken noodle soup together on the grey monster, having mustard wiped off his nose. He thinks about all the big things, too, like knowing someone was with Scott at the hospital, even though Alex wasn’t, and making sure Scott got to school on time and taking care of them both while Alex had the flu. He thinks about the moment in Hank’s kitchen, when he first figured out how he really felt. He thinks about Hank telling him he loves him, and the fact that they’ve pretty much agreed on their future together. In the end, it’s easy to reach a decision, but his nerves make expressing that slightly more challenging. “No, I - I don’t want to. Stop.” He forces himself to relax and try again, because if he doesn’t, Hank will probably decide Alex is wrong and try to be a gentleman about the whole thing. “I don’t want to stop.”

“If you’re certain?” When Alex merely nods, Hank tells him, “Then we should probably move this to the bedroom. There is no way we are doing this on the couch for the first time.”

“No, yeah - that’s. You’re right.” Alex scrambles to get off of him and then holds out a hand, presumably to help Hank up, but mostly to keep himself from giving into his anxiety. Even though he wants it, he cannot help but feel rather shaky, almost as though he will jump out of his skin.

In an effort to hide it from Hank, Alex throws himself at him once they reach his room. Surprised, Hank goes along with it for a while before slowly pulling away and pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. “Slow down, Alex. This isn’t a race.”

Disoriented from desire and lack of air, Alex asks, “What is it, then?”

Hank smiles down at him and tells him softly, “It’s... just another way to dance.”

“Just so you know, I’ve never been very good at dancing with a partner,” Alex cautions, the thunder of his heart gradually slowing as they both catch their breath.

Two long and graceful hands, which not long ago worked effortlessly with delicate equipment in the lab, take his own and pull him gently toward the bed. “That’s why, this time, I’ll be the one to lead.”

Hours later, Alex wakes and sits up from where he has been lying with his head on Hank’s chest. Looking down, he tries to make out his partner’s features in the silvery darkness of a room lit only by pale strips of light slipping in through the shades of the bedroom window. He thinks this is the most beautiful he has seen Hank yet, face peaceful and free of the questions his mind pours over constantly whilst awake, body languid and loose, save for the hand which reaches for Alex even in slumber.

A memory comes to him then, of the first time he saw the interior of Hank’s house, and he decides to act upon the wish he had at the time. Threading his fingers through Hank’s hair, Alex watches him as he stirs, eyes opening slowly and alighting almost immediately upon his face. “Hey. Will you try something with me?”

“Always. What are we doing?” The first time, in the bed, was beautiful. The second time, on that deliciously soft blue carpet in the living room? Totally epic.

Chapter Text

Intermittent birdsong and a constant, deep breathing are punctuated by a relentless buzzing noise. The scent of salt and sweat and something bitter permeates the air. Firm cushion is interspersed with unbelievably soft carpet beneath and around him. He sees red, though not out of uncontrollable rage - his mind is far too muddled for such powerful emotions, at any rate. Inhaling slowly, his mind gradually works to piece together the series of events which led him here. It helps that after a moment, he is able to detect that indefinable something that to him will always mean Hank.

Prying his eyes open, Alex can feel himself coming to full awareness, and with it comes the urgent need to follow the insistent sound of what he now knows to be his cell. He takes in the sight of their undeniably bare bodies and tells himself firmly that he will not give in to the desire to blush. After all, waking like this, entwined without a single stitch between them and the rest of the world, is entirely his fault. Ever-so-carefully, he extricates himself from the slumbering form of his companion and journeys toward his phone. His strides increase with every peal and buzz, and he barely manages to reach the object in question in time to prevent it going to voicemail.

“Hello?”

“Hi, darling. Did you manage to sleep for a while after I left?” It’s Moira’s voice alright, and when he pulls the phone away from his ear, the text on the screen confirms it, but she sounds off, and it immediately puts Alex on edge.

“Moira? What’s going on?”

“Yeah, I know - I didn’t want to interrupt our Saturday with work either, but my boss called me in. We have a bit of a trip ahead of us, but after that we should be able to take care of things fairly quickly.” Her boss? As in Sebastian Shaw, the bastard who originally placed Scott and Alex in separate foster homes?

He thinks back over what she’s been trying to tell him, and feels an icy ball of dread making its horrid home in his stomach. “He’s in the car with you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but I promise I’ll find a way to make it up to you, darling.” Alex has no idea how she plans to fix this. After all, if Shaw is getting involved in their case again, he probably decided to keep this little visit to himself until just this morning.

“How long do I have?” Hank must have heard Alex’s voice on from the living room, as a pair of arms wraps around his waist and pulls him back, a nose skimming along the back of his neck, gently urging him to let go of the tension that always settles there at the first sign of any sort of stress.

“We’ll be on the road for another hour at least - yes, it is a bit of a haul, isn’t it? But it’ll be over before we know it.” At this, Alex breathes out swiftly, relief prompting his limbs to relax against the torso pressed along his back.

“Thanks for the heads-up. We just have one problem - you remember how I told you Scott’s got himself a friend? He’s over at the kid’s house. They had a sleepover last night.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea. If we do that, do you think you might forgive me?” Underneath the playful tone, there is a genuine hint of concern, and while Alex appreciates it, he hopes she isn’t unintentionally tipping her boss off. More worrisome is the implication that it’s better for Scott to be absent during their imminent visit.

Still, there’s no way this is her fault, so he tells her, “Yeah, no - of course I will. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Thanks, darling - you’re a saint... Uh-huh, I love you, too. Bye.” It isn’t until he hits the ‘End,’ button that he realizes he’s shaking a bit.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” One of Hank’s hands moves soothingly along the expanse of Alex’s stomach and side, and he keeps his voice low.

Alex tells him everything. He tells him about Shaw, about the odd letter he received on Thursday in the mail, about Moira’s warning. Through it all, Hank is a strong and silent presence, supporting him with his body and his infinite patience. “... and I don’t care what Shaw says, they’re not taking my baby brother away from me. Not this time.”

“No, of course we won’t let that happen. I... am accompanying you, am I not?” He curses himself for allowing his own insecurities to make Hank even a little uncertain about how much Alex wants him there. It has never been about wanting or not wanting Hank to be involved.

To make up for it, he tells Hank frankly, “For as long as you want to.”

“I’ve never attempted to quantify the concept of ‘forever,’ but I would be willing to try.” He hopes Hank understands that the snort this prompts isn’t a rejection, but it’s just so earnest and corny, and right now Alex will take opportunities for levity wherever they crop up. Surely that’s a better way to deal with stress than punching a hole into one of Hank’s lovely beige walls.

The shower they take devolves into something else entirely, but this time is nothing like the others. There is an intensity to it, heightened by desperation on Alex’s part; a desperation Hank cannot help but try to assuage. Although nothing could entirely erase the fierce worry he feels, the lethargy that follows at least stops him from believing he will climb up the walls. Hank loans Alex a grey t-shirt that must have shrunk in the wash at some point, and there’s nothing wrong with the jeans he was wearing the night before. They have enough time to eat a quick breakfast before heading next door. Alex talks to Hank about whatever comes to mind, certain he will remember none of their discussion after this is all over, and busies himself by tidying up the clutter that inevitably accumulates when there is so much to do and so little time to get it done throughout the week, and shortly after admitting that there truly is nothing else to be done, he hears the doorbell.

As he moves to answer, he vaguely registers the sound of a cell phone alert, but there’s no vibration emanating from his pocket, so he puts it out of his mind. Taking in a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he opens the door. “Moira! Nice to see you. I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you for another few days.” He turns slightly, taking in the man standing beside her and sticks out his hand. “Mr. Shaw. Been a long time since I’ve seen you, sir.” Since a few months after the plane crash, in fact. At the time, he had no way to explain the sensation he got in the austere man’s presence. He thinks he has a better grasp of it, now that he’s older.

Sebastian Shaw does not feel real. When Alex first started dancing, he took as many dance classes as he could, and that often meant wearing tights and enough makeup to feel like a clown during performances. It was the greatest gift in the world when a performance ended and he could clean all the cosmetics off. Shaking Shaw’s hand, he feels the inexplicable desire to take a shower, to wash the remnants of the other man’s facade down the drain.

“Alexander Summers. When was the last time I shook your hand? Five years ago?” Shaw knows exactly how long it has been. Even at thirteen, Alex had understood the way the man worked. He observes all the social niceties, attempting to lure people into a false sense of security, and then he pounces, announcing his plans even as he carries them out, and by then it is far too late for anyone to do anything to stop him.

“Yes, sir. You two must be tired after the long drive - come on in.” He leads them in and then tells Hank, “Let’s sit at the kitchen table,” before introducing everyone.

There is a beat of silence as they file into the kitchen, then Shaw wants to know, “Where is your adorable little brother?” The polite tone of interest in his voice is belied by the blank look in his eyes, and it sends shivers up and down Alex’s spine. Alex angers easily, and there are times where he is not the nicest person in the world, but he rarely hates anyone. He positively loathes Sebastian Shaw.

“He’s sleeping over at a friend’s house. Don’t worry - I’ll let him know he was missed.” When hell freezes over. If there is any way to prevent Scott from finding out about this visit, then Alex is going to take it and hold on with both hands, because the kid has enough problems to deal with.

If there is something creepier than seeing someone smile without a hint of true emotion, Alex hasn’t found it, and he’s pretty sure he will run screaming in the other direction if he ever does. “I’m sure I’ll be able to see him soon enough.”

“Why would that be, exactly?” His fists are clenched as tightly as possible against his thighs, and while it hurts, it is infinitely better than flying across the table and removing what every cell in his body screams at him is a threat. Still, it helps far more when Hank discretely urges one of his hands open and coaxes it into his own, smoothing his thumb over the abused flesh.

“After hearing about the incident you became involved in a few weeks ago, it was decided that the burden of looking after your brother was placed upon your shoulders a few years too soon. Not to worry - we’ll be able to find a better situation.”

“What are you saying? That possibly saving a friend’s life means I won’t be Scott’s guardian anymore?” How incredibly messed up can life get? He glances over at Moira, who looks as though she is fighting tears beneath the flimsy mask of stoicism. There are people in CPS who aren’t completely evil. So how is it that the ones who are seem to call all the shots in his brother’s life?

“Yes, I’m afraid we feel you’re still a little too quick to place yourself in harm’s way. Please, let’s not make this any harder than it has to be. If you let us do this the easy way, we’ll review your case in a few years.”

Everyone turns to Hank when he interjects quietly, “I apologize, but there seems to be a bit of confusion here. You see, it would be quite impossible for the state to remove Scott from our care.”

Bemused, Shaw asks, “And why would you say that, Mr... McCoy?”

“The papers for his adoption were approved last night. If you wish to review the copies of the papers, my attorney emailed them to me a few minutes before you arrived.” For a moment, no one at the table moves. Shaw, especially, is frozen in an intimation of steely politeness.

Alex would find it more amusing if he wasn’t equally stunned, because what the everloving hell?

Hank blinks at Shaw innocently, completely and utterly full of it. Who knew he could act so well? “You weren’t aware of this?”

Recovering, Shaw blinks back. “I can’t say that I was. Ms. McTaggart, did you know about this?”

“It must have slipped my mind, sir. Alex does such a fine job with Scott, I rarely have to worry about their care these days.” Her delivery is flawless - slightly contrite and embarrassed. Apparently Alex is surrounded by thespians - he should tell Raven. Maybe they could start their own troupe. As soon as reality stops tilting on its axis.

“Uh, would you two like some tea or something? It’s just, I would hate for you to come all this way for nothing. I wish you would have called ahead - we could have told you it was pointless.” Hank squeezes his hand under the table, warning him not to lay it on too thick, but victory is so sweet, and the vein throbbing at Shaw’s temple is so worth it.

“No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you for your time, Mr. Summers.” Alex takes immense pleasure in showing Sebastian Shaw the door.

As Moira is about to follow her boss, she stops and gives Alex a hug. Though he’s surprised at first, he is quick to hug back: she’s been such a constant in his life since the crash, always at the periphery. It’s going to be odd not hearing from her anymore. Although, he has a feeling she’ll still check in every once in awhile, adoption or no. She takes the opportunity to whisper in his ear, “Congratulations, but please don’t tell me how you did it - I don’t want to know.”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” She pulls back and raises her eyebrows, glancing off to the side where Hank stands cleaning his glasses and trying to blend in with the furniture. Nodding, Alex tells her, “Bye,” and lets her go. It feels a little like watching the close of a chapter in his life, though not necessarily in a bad way. After closing and locking the door, he leans against it and stares keenly at the figure still trying not to be seen - an impossible feat, given his stature, and the fact that Alex would be able to find Hank whilst blindfolded. “So, if this is the part where you reveal that you’re secretly psychic or something...”

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Hank shakes his head. “Nothing quite so chimerical. If you’ll recall, I received a text message as the doorbell was ringing. It appears I owe Sean a great deal of thanks, and possibly a raise in pay.”

“What did he do?”

“If I surmise correctly from the data I have at present, he has been monitoring your brother’s case since shortly after you moved here. He is, among other things, a highly accomplished forger. When he realized what Shaw wanted, he altered Scott’s records.” Hank stares down at the carpet then, asking, “How much groveling do I need to do?”

Stumped, Alex furrows his brow. “What?”

“Though it was unintentional, I have, again, stepped in to help you without your knowledge or consent.” That’s what this is about?

Alex crosses the room and places his hands on Hank’s slumped shoulders. “Do I look mad to you?”

“Not as such, no,” Hank replies, sounding confused and still rather anxious as he examines Alex’s expression.

“When I asked you not to help us, I meant that I didn’t want you to help us financially, not that I didn’t want you to be involved. I’ll admit, I’m a little surprised,” make that a lot, “but it’s not like you planned this, and Hank - I know you. You would never try to take Scott away from me. How could I be mad about this, when it means I never have to worry about losing my little brother?”

“When phrased that way...” Hank stops and then asks, “What are we going to tell Scott?”

Gambling a little, but fairly certain it will pay off, Alex suggests, “I’d really like to keep CPS out of that conversation. Why don’t we just say we’re getting married?”

Hank bites his lip before telling him, “I was actually planning to propose properly first.”

“Yeah?” Alex leans into Hank, prompting him to wrap his arms around his waist. “How were you going to do it?”

“Well, I’ve heard that going down on one knee is fairly standard.” Hank’s going for wry, but really only manages to sound rather breathless. Alex decides he likes having this sort of power.

He will try to use it judiciously.

“Kneeling is good, I like it. Keep going,” except that he’s standing on the balls of his feet, and Hank is licking his lips and leaning down and... well. There’s an awful lot to celebrate this morning, and because Shaw apparently has a fondness for dropping in on people before 8:00, they still have several hours before Alex needs to pick up Scott.

They make the most of it.

Chapter Text

Wind blows through the open windows of the Ford, helping to dry his hair. He would feel guilty about taking two showers in one day, but technically he conserved water, since he wasn’t alone... Okay, so his rationalization could use a little work. He finds it hard to get terribly worked up over the whole thing, especially when the sky is such a pure, unending blue, the radio has played several good songs in a row, and he’s about to pick up his little brother.

Remembering the few sleepovers he went to as a kid, he wonders how Scott will be this morning. Will he be tired and cranky, or jittery and excitable? He’s a Summers, so Alex’s bet is on tired and cranky, but who knows? This is new territory - in fact, there’s quite a lot of new territory in their lives at the moment.

As he approaches the gate of the apartment complex, he has to fight down a laugh. Scott, the poor little guy, has the worst case of bedhead, and a little furrow along his forehead. Underneath it all, he seems happy, but Alex can tell he’s going to be irascible until he goes to bed tonight. Beside him, Logan is as surly as ever, but Alex never expected anything different. Hopping out, Alex greets an exhausted yet pleased Elizabeth with a sunny, “Good morning, ma’am.”

She eyes his still-damp hair and raises an eyebrow even as she grins at the gentle jibe. “Good morning to you, too. Late start this morning?”

“Early, actually.” Glancing at the small beings observing their respective adults, he tells her, “I’ll explain later.”

Scott wrinkles his nose. “Alex, if that was supposed to be like, subtle, or something... it totally wasn’t.”

“Hello to you, too, Grumpy. Why don’t you thank Mrs. Howlett for having you over and tell the birthday boy goodbye?” He watches Scott heave a put-upon sigh and proceed to do exactly that, and Elizabeth sends him this indulgent look that brings a little heat to his cheeks. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to hold onto his badass reputation with so many people quietly calling him on his bullcrap.

Once they’ve driven off, Alex breaks the silence, asking, “So, did you have fun?”

He gets a mumbled “Yeah,” for his efforts.

“Too much fun?” Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Scott staring at him quizzically. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep any second, kiddo. How late did you two stay up last night?” He knows if he checks, he will see small shoulders shrugging, but they’re at an intersection, so he resists the urge. “You want me to guess?”

“Not really.”

“If we take a detour, will your overheated brain explode?”

That gets a reaction. “What?” It comes out in this groggily offended tone, as though he cannot believe the level of illogic Alex has reached this time.

“You’re yawning your head off, Squirt. Didn’t you know that when you yawn, it’s because your brain is too hot?” At least, that’s what he’s heard. He’s not quite sure how to go about testing that theory.

The glare Scott sends him would probably burn holes in the side of his face if all the sci-fi movies they watched were actually real. “Don’t call me that. And spouting the fake science stuff Yahoo posts does not make you cool.”

“Ouch. You didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?”

It’s quiet for a little while, and then the kid admits, “We played video games on ‘mute’ all night.”

“Were there zombies? Tell me there were zombies. Right now, you look like a zombie.”

“Um. Yeah?” The lack of a rebuttal in regards to the zombie comment leaves Alex a little confused, but he’ll take it.

“Next time, try to wrap things up around 2:00 at the latest, okay?”

“You mean... I can do this again?” Ahah! The last of Scott’s irritability disappears, taking Alex’s confusion with it.

Grinning and gleeful, Alex teases, “You like spending time with Logan. You want to do it again. You just can’t wait to have another sleepover with your best friend forever, Logan Howlett.”

Scott lets his forehead fall into the palm of his hand and sighs, “There’s something seriously wrong with me being the mature one in this relationship.”

“I’m sure you’ll get over it eventually.” He pulls into the parking lot of the park located several blocks away from their house. As old as it is, it actually has swings without the plastic coverings on the chains, and everything squeaks. Alex loves it, because it reminds him of the park his mother took him to when he was little, surrounded by massive, grandfather-like trees, so that if feels more like a green haven than a modern construct. They have only come here a handful of times since moving to this town, but he wants to have this conversation somewhere they’re both comfortable.

“Why are we here?”

“Mostly, we’re here to swing.” He examines his little brother once more and says, “I’ll push, you zombie-child.”

Though there are a few families already having picnics in the park, they all have children too young to use the big kid swings. One mother shoots Alex a thoroughly disapproving look, but he shrugs it off. So Scott’s hair hasn’t been brushed. He’s going to live.

After settling into a rhythm, making sure not to push too hard, since it’s likely Scott would lose his grip on the chains if he went too high too quickly, Alex asks, “So, how would you feel about making Hank part of our family permanently?”

“Um. Isn’t he already?”

“No, yeah, I mean... basically. But I meant in a legal, on-paper kind of way.”

There’s more pushing and swinging, and then Scott sighs, “Alex, I’m too tired to figure you out when you’re being weird. Which you are.”

“We’re getting married.” There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Except now he’s kind of cringing, waiting to see how Scott will take it. If he hates the idea...

Scott sticks his foot out and scuffs it, twisting around when his swing slows to a stop. “Well, yeah. We talked about this already, remember?”

“Yeah, but like - soon. We’re doing it soon.” He’s floundering a bit, trying to explain why this feels like such a big deal. How is it he’s the only one freaking out about this? In a manful, perfectly justifiable way. You are such a liar, Summers.

“I’m not the one you have to talk to about this. You should be way more afraid of what Aunt Raven is going to say. Erik will just glare a lot, and Charles will be really happy.” Hell. The kid is right.

Even as he suggests, “Think it’s too late to take a trip to Vegas?” he knows the idea will be shot down, and with good reason.

Staring up at him solemnly, Scott shakes his head. “She would kill you. Like a lot.”

“No, yeah, you’re right. We should probably go get this over with.”

Hopping off the swing entirely, Scott scoffs, “We? No way, Alex. This is your mess.”

“Traitor.” At least he can count on Hank to be there.

“...I sincerely apologize, but I have an experiment that requires my urgent attention.” The echo of the laboratory tiles comes through the phone, supporting Hank’s claim. Still, it feels grossly unfair being left to break the news on his own.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Alex gripes, “You owe me so much for this. I mean, backrubs, cookies, the whole shebang.”

“You left out cuddling,” Hank informs him helpfully.

“Let me have at least a shred of my manliness, alright? But yeah, that’s definitely on the list. We’ll call it... I don’t know. Let’s not call it anything, okay?”

He receives an amicable, “As you wish. I truly am sorry, but I need to hang up the phone now.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you later?”

“I could bring over the leftover lasagna for dinner, if you wish.”

Not cooking tonight sounds awesome, actually. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

“Certainly. I love you.” And this, this is why he is about to brave his insane family.

“Love you, too. Bye.” He hangs up before things can get too sappy - he’s seen some of his students having conversations with their significant others, and he refuses to stoop to their level. If he’s going to be the only one looking after his dignity, then he has his work cut out for him.

Especially when his family is so determined to thwart him. “I’m thinking a blue and white wedding. You’re going to look so pretty in your dress, Alex.” She bats her evil eyelashes at him, and he feels his blood-pressure rising. It’s probably a good thing they’re separated by a considerable amount of miles and their laptop screens, though throttling her would be amazing right about now.

Glowering, he promises darkly, “Over my dead body, harpy.”

“Why?” she asks, feigning innocence. He wonders how long she spent working on that one in the mirror. “It’s not like you won’t be able to wear the color.”

“You wanna bet?” Watching Raven’s jaw drop is immensely satisfying.

“Ah, there is such a thing as sharing too much information, darling.” Poor Charles. Although...

“If Raven can get away with gloating about her Russian guy...” along with all the others, “then how is my one comment too much information?”

“What I would like to know is why you two are in such a rush.” Trust Erik to be the one to poke a hole in Alex’s attempt to keep everything quiet. There’s simply no point in getting everyone upset about Shaw, not now that everything has been taken care of.

Still, arguing with that stoic and patient expression is nearly impossible - many have tried, only Charles has succeeded, and the tactics he employed were rather... unorthodox, and not something anyone should ever attempt to replicate if they value their lives. “Some stuff happened this morning, and um. Yeah.”

Erik raises his eyebrows, and the entire story sort of tumbles out of Alex’s mouth, and he’s so freaking glad Scott decided to go watch more old Star Trek episodes at Hank’s house for this, after agreeing several times not to go see what was going on in the lab. Alex has no idea what Hank is doing, but there’s a slight chance whatever it is will explode, so why take the risk?

“So, basically what you’re saying is that Hank knocked you up, and you need to have a shotgun wedding?”

“What?” He isn’t even sure where to begin with that, and so he just stares at Raven with this dumbfounded expression on his face. At least Charles and Erik seem equally as stunned, although Erik manages to weather it with only a minute twitch of his mouth.

“The two of you had some “quality time” last night. Hank is taking responsibility for your kid. You’re trying to cover the entire thing up by getting married.” Somehow, she manages to keep a straight face throughout the whole explanation, and it leaves Alex extremely unsettled. He should be used to Raven pulling this kind of thing, but perhaps being so far away for such an extended period of time has undone his previous desensitization?

“What Raven is... trying to say is that we are incredibly happy to welcome Hank into the family.” Everyone turns to look at Charles skeptically, and he sighs, amending, “Alright, I am incredibly happy to welcome Hank into the family.”

“Thank you.” Although he addresses Charles, he’s staring pointedly at Raven, who is gazing defiantly back at him.

Rolling her eyes after the silence becomes too irritating for her, she tells him, “Fine. I’m happy for you, too. Mutant.”

“I’ll take that.” Mostly because that’s as good as he’s going to get from her.

“I think this is the part where I’m supposed to promise to kill him slowly and painfully if he ever hurts you.” Is that - hope in Erik’s voice? Seriously?

“Yeah, no, I think we’re done here.” He shuts off the connection before anyone can say otherwise and then rubs the tips of his fingers over the ridges above his eyes, trying to stave off the headache he always seems to get after spending too much time talking to his family. Well, really it’s after spending too much time talking to Raven, but since everyone has given up trying to rein her in, they’re all complicit in his opinion.

Glancing around the living room, he decides there’s a very real chance that he will go stir crazy if he stays in the house any longer, and so he makes the short trip next door, biting his lip at the sight that greets him. He’s never cooed at anything before, but that could easily change, and he really, really doesn’t want that. Hank must have finished with his experiment some time ago, because he’s sitting on the couch with Scott snuggled up against his side, and they’re both fast asleep. Turning down the volume on the television, Alex searches for the linen closet and finds a blanket to drape over them and then grabs a well-loved, yet still relatively spotless copy of The Hobbit to read.

He drifts off as Gandalf introduces Bilbo Baggins to the dwarves he will soon accompany on the quest that will change his life and eventually the fate of his young cousin, Frodo.

Chapter Text

“So, I thought when you said you’d iron my shirt, you meant you would iron it - as in, you would iron it and not burn a hole through it.” Scott holds up the evidence of Alex’s latest parenting fail and shakes his little head at him in world-weary disappointment, which looks incredibly out of place on such a little person.

Fingering the offending article of clothing, Alex shrugs and says, “I guess you should have had Hank do it.”

“He’s making breakfast, and you told him you had it under control.” The childish scorn in those two words is undeniable.

“Go pick out a different shirt. I never liked this one anyway.” It’s a swotty shirt that reminds him a little of the button down things that had been so popular in the late nineties - Raven bought it and Scott wore it on occasion, purely out of love for her. Now, Alex doesn’t have to see it, and Scott doesn’t have to wear it. It’s a total win-win in Alex’s eyes.

Scrutinizing him, Scott asks, “Did you do this on purpose?”

“Yeah, no. You think I’d tick the harpy off intentionally?” It really isn’t his fault the shirt burned - that thin shimmery material just doesn’t like to go near sources of heat. “Anyway, aren’t you the one who’s worried about being late this morning? Shirt, now.”

He watches Scott’s eyes widen in remembrance and then his curly head disappears into his room. Today would be much easier if Hunt Elementary hadn’t insisted upon having an award ceremony for its students, but apparently it’s an annual thing for all the elementary schools in the district. Thankfully, Darwin had understood when Alex explained why he needed to take off for the afternoon, having gone through the elementary schools here himself. Working in the garage is more of a favor to Darwin now than an obligation anyway. Hank’s income could take care of the three of them along with the population of one of the islands in the Caribbean, but Alex likes to keep busy, and his friendship with Darwin is too good to give up, so every Thursday and Friday, he goes into the garage after finishing up at the dance academy.

An arm wraps around his shoulders, and he glances up and to the side, meeting thick glasses and wide blue eyes. “I take it the distinct odor of ozone indicates the tragic end of Scott’s shirt?”

“Yep.” He sounds a little too happy about the fate of the shirt, but Hank already knows how he feels about it, so why bother with trying to hide it?

“I had intended to inform Scott his breakfast was ready, but I suppose he’s rather preoccupied at present.” Alex glances at the ironing board and then toward the kitchen, indecisive. Seeing his dilemma, Hank tells him, “Why not let me handle ironing duties for the rest of the morning?”

Alex eyes the darkened spot where the shirt burning occurred and snorts. “Yeah, I probably should. Scott would pout for the rest of his life if I managed to burn down this house with my mad ironing skills.” As odd as the vibrantly colored house seemed when they first moved in, Alex didn’t have the heart to sell it after the wedding. The arrangement they have now actually works pretty well. Hank uses 403 for all his experiments and his research, and they live in 405. Every once in awhile, if the twins Charles and Erik have adopted are having a particularly tough time with teething, Raven comes to visit, choosing to stay in 403 and let their little family of three have some privacy.

Thankfully, she isn’t here now, and it will be awhile yet before she discovers the destruction of Scott’s shirt.

Leaning up, Alex lands a swift kiss on Hank’s lips and thanks him for fixing breakfast and for saving him from ironing duty before following the scent of pancakes. Though the rest of the morning will undoubtedly be a blur, he takes his time with his pancakes, savoring the flavor of the maple syrup. After that everything revolves around ensuring that Scott is ready to go. As the two of them rush out the door, Alex calls, “See you in a few hours - try not to blow anything up, okay? Love you, bye!” over his shoulder, faintly hearing Hank’s answering laugh as the door shuts behind them.

Alex may or may not ignore a few school zone signs on the way to Hunt Elementary. He pointedly ignores Scott’s disapproving stare, asking, “So, are you and Logan definitely hanging out after school lets out later?”

“Yeah - which I told you earlier, before you burned my shirt.”

“I did not burn it - I scorched it. A little.”

Scott’s voice brooks no compromise when he avers, “It was burnt, Alex.”

“Yeah, whatever. Do I need to give you money for pizza? Elizabeth covered it last time.”

A little hand fishes into a jean pocket and pulls out a twenty dollar bill. “Way ahead of you.”

Raising his eyebrows, Alex asks, “When did Hank give you that?”

“When he finished ironing my shirt - you know, the one that didn’t get burned this morning.”

It’s at this point they reach the school parking lot, and so Alex feels entirely justified in unlocking the truck doors and telling Scott, “Out, Squirt.”

Predictably, Scott orders him, “Don’t call me that!” and glares even as he gathers up his Captain America lunchbox and backpack.

“I’ll stop calling you ‘Squirt’ if you stop griping about that shirt - which you didn’t even like, I might add.”

Completely ignoring the pointed reminder, Scott asks, “What, like - permanently?”

“Yeah, no. For the next twenty-four hours.”

Pursing his lips, Scott tells him, “No deal,” before high-tailing it into the building.

Grinning, Alex drives off.

Mornings in the academy parking lot are now spent studying together in Alex’s truck, occasionally trading gossip - especially about Darwin, for which Alex feels incredibly proud. He finally convinced Angel to try dating Darwin two months ago, and although she’s wary about the whole thing, she seems happier, like a burden has been lifted. As she climbs into the passenger seat, she demands suspiciously, “What are you so smug about, Summers?”

“Unexpected wish fulfillment.”

After staring at him for a few moments, she gives up trying to figure it out, asking instead, “Does Hank know about whatever it is?” For whatever reason, everyone seems to believe that if Hank knows, then whatever stunts Alex decides to pull must be safe. Alex would disillusion them, but he kind of likes that at least one of them can keep people from eying them with nervous, speculative expressions.

“It received the Hank McCoy seal of approval, yes.”

“If you’re lying...”

Using his most exasperated expression, Alex assures her, “I swear I’m not. You can even ask him at the thing this afternoon.”

“Don’t tell me you got guilted into going?” She’s sending him this simultaneously pitying and amused look, as though she truly cannot believe he allowed himself to be talked into an award ceremony for second graders. Come to think of it, neither can he. Ms. Monroe had spoken to him the other day when he picked Scott up, and all of a sudden, he was agreeing to attend the award thing - which apparently has a name, but Alex can never be bothered to remember it, because naming an award ceremony for elementary school students purely so that they can celebrate another school year closing is completely lame, and therefore not worth the wasted memory space.

Taking a wild leap of logic, Alex asks, “Does that mean you’re not going? Even though Ms. Monroe called us all to make sure someone is there for the kids in her class?”

“Definitely not. If I go to one of them, I have to go to all of them - and Pryor would never let me take the day off for a bunch of elementary school award ceremonies. You know that.” She pats him on the shoulder and tells him brightly, “But you can tell me all about it tomorrow.” Oh, yeah - that double date is tomorrow - except for the fact that all their younger siblings, plus Logan Howlett, will be coming along, so it’s not really a date, so much as a disaster waiting to happen, considering there’s only so much they can do to control a group of excited children in a movie theater. Still, they promised to take everyone to see the Avengers, and there would be four adults present. How bad could it be? He shakes that thought off before he can jinx them all.

“About tomorrow - I was thinking of bringing tranquilizers, just in case.”

Snickering, she tells him, “I’m pretty sure that’s frowned upon, but you get points for trying.”

“I’ll think of something,” he promises, inwardly wondering how his life had changed so much in less than a year. When the school year started, Alex hadn’t even been sure that he could raise Scott on his own, but he’d been determined to try, and now he’s married and voluntarily watching over other people’s kids, too.

“While you’re at it, can you think of something to help me pass my Trig final?” Angel asks, pulling him out of his reverie.

Alex rolls his eyes, because they’ve been over this. “You’re not going to fail. You just have to remember to...” The rest of the time before they enter the academy is spent on Trigonometry. After that, he spends several hours trying to teach students whose minds are already absorbed in their plans for the summer, passing their own finals for their core subjects, and whatever the latest dating scandal is - Alex never actually bothers to find out, figuring it’ll either resolve itself in the next week, or it won’t, and then it won’t matter, since summer break starts on Wednesday anyway.

When the last pair of girls has walked out with heads bent together, still whispering furiously about something or other, Alex makes the attempt to look a little less sweaty and wrinkled, gratefully pulling on the jeans and navy blue button down shirt Hank must have snuck into his duffel bag this morning when he wasn’t looking. The shirt’s a little creased from being folded for so long, but it’s better than the t-shirt Alex has been planning on wearing, so he figures the other parents going to this thing will live through the horror.

Though he’s nearly late arriving in Hunt’s library, he spots Hank sitting in his white lab coat and carefully side-steps toward him until he can sink down into the empty seat at his right. Hank glances at him and whispers, “Did something happen?”

“No, but I had two students who wouldn’t shut up and get to lunch.”

Sending him an amused look, Hank concludes, “So, something did happen.”

Alex swats him on the thigh for that and then simply leaves his hand there, shrugging off the handful of disconcerted glances he receives for his troubles. What? Other couples are holding hands and all that jazz.

He looks around the library and spots the kids sitting in rows on the floor a little ways away from the hard metal chairs all the parents and teachers are sitting in. Searching for Scott, his eyes land upon a pair of dark curly heads, and he grins. Somehow, even though all the children are sitting in straight lines, Scott and Logan have found a way to scrunch together, putting a little bit of room between them and the rest of the kids.

Nodding in their direction, Alex asks, “You seeing this?”

Head turning to follow his gaze, Hank spots them and shakes his head, smiling. “They were sitting that way when I arrived ten minutes ago.”

A soft, purposeful cough draws their attention to the front of the room, and they see the principal standing there, ready to begin the award ceremony. Sighing, Alex sits back and prepares to be very, very bored. He manages to keep quiet through the first twenty minutes, but when every second grade student has received at least one award - some of which were for things like ‘participation’ for which his own students receive a passing grade, rather than a fancy piece of paper, which the principal had informed all the parents earlier were the perfect size for framing.

Fed up, Alex says, in what he thinks is a quiet tone, “Why don’t we just give out awards for breathing?” Every parent in the audience turns to glare at him. Embarrassed, but determined not to let it show, he defends, “What? Don’t tell me you weren’t all thinking the exact same thing.”

Someone stands up, and Alex has a moment to think oh, hello, Suit Guy, before the man in question suggests, “If you have a problem, buddy, why don’t you work it out with me outside?”

Holding up both hands, Alex tells him, “I’m good, thanks.”

“Yeah? Then why don’t you shut up? Some of us actually want to be supportive of our kids.”

Alex blinks and then raises his eyebrows. “I totally support Scott. He got all A’s - that’s awesome. I just feel like-” Hank claps one hand over his mouth, cutting him off, and grabs Alex’s arm with the other, tugging him out of his seat - good riddance; the things should be burned - and apologizes, “Sorry - he has hypoglycemia. Gets really cranky if he goes too long without eating anything,” and then yanks him toward the exit.

“Hypoglycemia, huh?” Alex asks around the hand covering his mouth.

Still walking swiftly, Hank removes that hand and admits, “It was the first thing that came to mind - and you have to admit, you do become rather confrontational when you haven’t eaten in a while.”

Alex would love to argue with that, but he really can’t. Some of his worst moments have stemmed from forgetting to eat on time. They arrive out in the deserted hallway and Hank reaches into one of the pockets of his lab coat, pulling  something out. “Henry Phillip McCoy, did you bring me a cookie?”

He did. In Hank’s hand is a chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookie, wrapped in blue cellophane. “I thought it would behoove me to come prepared, since this is technically supposed to be your lunch break.”

Pulling Hank down by his lab coat collar with one hand, he kisses him and plucks the offered snack from him with the other. Letting his husband go, he then tears into the cellophane, biting into the cookie Hank must have baked just this morning, probably right after Alex left to drive Scott to school. Mouth full of deliciousness, he sighs, “Best. Husband. Ever.”

Later, he will have to deal with Scott’s exasperation, and possibly with Ms. Monroe’s disappointed looks. For now, he just wants to enjoy his chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookie.