Work Text:
06/04/2018
After the third admonishment that morning, equally silent as unambiguous, this time in the shape of a lack of a coffee refill, the numerous unattended school-related e-mails, most of them marked with an accusatory exclamation mark in the inbox list, could no longer be ignored.
Reluctantly, Scott gave up on his attempt to decipher what Logan generously called handwriting on the latest Danger Room protocols and pushed aside the notes for the next simulation rotation before he could change his mind. A routine keyboard shortcut started his computer's voice command and dictation system, with the same two fingertips coming to rest on the record button instantly flashing up on his desk in addition to the permanently projected rows of letters and numbers.
“Recipients: back office. Text: Hint taken. After three subsequent days of unattended incoming mail, you officially have permission from now on to call me out over the speakers. Your plan has a weakness though. For getting administration instructions out of me, caffeine withdrawal is counterproductive.”
His hearing, well-trained thanks to certain mutation-related physical handicaps, promptly picked up laughter from two sides next door, the second a quick tap on the enter button had forwarded this first, not entirely serious order straight to his secretaries' monitors. Just a few seconds later, the familiar hum of the fully automatic machine there followed, which not least due to far more gentle maintenance hands produced much better quality than Scott's personal ancient coffee maker in its dusty corner.
“New calendar appointments: Tax evaluation next Thursday, ten a.m. at mine. Investor meeting next Thursday, two p.m., video conference. Standard e-mail invitation, include delay apology. Internal note: Meeting prep starts as soon as the quarterly figures from Worthington Labs, the Xavier Restoration Foundation, and Summers Upcycling have been filed.”
Scott released the record button when the door to the adjoining office opened and rubbed his eyes under his glasses, where a familiar burning sensation of frustration and impatience was already building only five minutes in. So many parts of his job would have been a lot less time-consuming if even half of his global partners would be working as reliably as his team in this building. “Any particular reason, the majority of European CEOs take their summer vacation in June already?“
”At least they take vacations.” The amused answer came, instead of from one of his two office fairies as expected, from a sonorous, always slightly rumbling voice into which mischief mixed when Scott startled, quickly pushing his glasses back into place to turn his head towards his uninvited visitor in irritation.
Hank knew exactly that on such busy days, Scott wouldn't have had the nerve for him again trying to baby him and wouldn't even have asked him inside voluntarily. So he'd gained access via the other room with the help of his charm, which was notoriously irresistible to certain employees. At least he was holding a steaming cup in his paw as an attempt at reconciliation.
Scott took it without a word and demonstratively turned back to his screen, while Hank, just as unfazed, pulled up a chair, his bag tucked under his arm. Since his old friend just couldn’t get it into his head that there was no room for neglectable procedures in Scott's packed everyday life, he would have to live with the fact that today, he would have to administer them without one of his lectures, at least if they weren’t to make their way into Scott's integrated screen microphone as well.
“Regarding date proposals for parent-teacher conference: Just carve out any evening during report card week. Cc notification to Mrs. LeBeau and Mrs. Munroe. Prepare participant invitation for video conference including last year's agenda; I'll update it personally. Personal attendance in special cases is optional.”
Hank was at least nice enough to wait until this message, too, had been moved to the “Done” folder before gently but firmly coaxing Scott to peel out of his shirt's right sleeve. Completely unimpressed by Scott's huff, he clicked the thin metal band of a tourniquet around his upper arm close and rummaged for a package of IV lines in his bag next. “Never mind me."
With gritted teeth, Scott focused on the message again which one of his assistants had marked with no less but three exclamation marks in the subject line in addition to the High Importance label. Which awarded these racist motherfuckers from the school district supervisory board with far more significance than they deserved.
A discreet tap on his elbow. Right.
Pumping his fist. Release. Pumping. Waiting. Pump.
"Regarding the PNW BOCES request for curriculum oversight: Postal reply, school's letterhead. Text modules: The District Office will be provided with the 2018/2019 theory subject-specific annual overview from the Xavier Institute in July, just like from every other educational institution in this State, and not a day earlier. The contents of mutation-specific subjects and practical power training, on the other hand, continue to be covered by the Discretion Guidelines of the Mutant Privacy Act 2002, version 33.III, paragraph 7, no. 2, last updated 7/2017, published by the Mutant Department and the White House Press Office. Attachment: excerpt of the corresponding law gazette. Yours sincerely.”
Too firm pressure of thick, fur-covered fingertips, encased in protective rubber, on the crook of his arm. A reluctant shake of his friend's head that Scott noticed from the corner of his eyes.
Keep pumping. Release. Wait. A steadily worse-growing tingling from protesting nerve endings.
"Regarding the invitation to the Bishop Publishing garden party: Postal acceptance for two, X-Men's letterhead, present for personal signature. Forward a copy to Mrs. Munroe. Appointment in Mrs. Munroe's calendar; note added from the Principal's office: Order, not a request. Have her bring one of the teenagers. Business casual, no uniforms.”
The sharp sting of disinfectant stung in Scott's nose. Another harsh tap on his increasingly numb arm. More headshaking.
Pumping. Waiting. Pumping.
"Internal back office note: I've seen your reminder regarding the monthly expense report. No need to mark it as unread again. Give me two hours on the weekend. Usual end-of-term madness. You know how this works, ladies. It's not been that long since you two went to this school yourselves."
Scott didn't even need to drop his scowl when he lowered his sight for a moment, towards where Hank was still busy with that damn needle.
His friend didn't even bat a lid but had the decency to wait until Scott had stopped the dictation once more before he deigned to explain himself. “After decades of abuse, even the most patient veins give in eventually, my young Captain. Wrist? Side of your neck? Thigh?”
Scott almost told Hank that he could just empty that IV bag in the sink as far as he was concerned, but then decided to rather obediently offer his friend his hand instead. The sooner they got this crap over with, the sooner he could get back to his work properly.
A barely audible hiss passed his lips when the damn needle finally slipped into its spot between two knuckles. Probably one of the last locations on his arms not yet fully scarred from this whole shit, and not exactly one of the most pleasant ones. He congratulated himself once more on making the decision right after his more or less voluntary promotion back then, to not bother with keyboards in the first place but to train a corresponding program to his voice so thoroughly that in case of emergency, he could work single-handedly, too. Hank had never been particularly considerate of overflowing inboxes.
“The coded message from the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters regarding assessment and registration updates for new internal students, I'll keep on resubmission myself. I'll handle this, don’t worry. Forget about it. If Director Fury's office does keep spamming you, send them a receipt of acknowledgment. If there's something in this letter that can't wait: Director Fury has my phone number.”
Two large bandaids instead of one fixed to the irritated reddened area on the back of his hand, so that Scott would not get tempted to give in to his impatience as he had a few times in the past and fuck around with the metal in his vein himself. The stinging in his muscles only worsened when the tourniquet finally snapped open.
Then a burning like lava under his skin when Hank connected the line to the IV and released the dial all the way without a warning, the first drops creeping into the overused channel.
Scott suppressed a treacherous groan on his lips, glad that to the attachment of the next email, he had to sacrifice at least a silent minute or two of reading before he could press the record button again with the hand that wasn't filled by an angry throb.
"The order lists are good to go, except for the garden center. No, we're still not buying llamas and Shetland ponies for garden maintenance, but tell the kids, nice try. The extra pool supplies are fine; summer weather forecast is pretty wild. Mr. and Mrs. LeBeau are planning their Halloween party again this year, so make sure we don't run out of candy and pumpkins. And remind the U.G.E.R. administration that they owe us two barrels of Kree-Ale for keeping S.H.I.E.L.D. off their backs in March."
That had been the last unattended message for the time being, as Scott noted with relief, at least the last one that couldn't wait a few more hours if he squinted. With a small grimace, he used his IV arm to send the full instruction list next door before leaning back in his chair, rubbing his reddened eyes again.
"I'm beginning to understand why Charles abused his telepathy for years to keep this place running. Certainly left a lot less of a headache.”
“Your headaches don't come from bureaucracy, my young Captain.“ Hank made no move to get up from his chair, though that bag of viscous fluid that he'd hung on the floor lamp behind Scott's desk as usual, would have drained just fine without him.
”Wanna bet?” Scott sighed, half amused, half annoyed, when his landline phone came to life with a shrill ring. It was the extension of one of his secretaries showing on the display, and the extension list revealed one of the mansion's three main lines lighting up red as well. Which meant an external request that Scott's two fairies hadn't managed to handle for some reason. Christ, how much he hated office days.
"Coffee was great, thank you. Had just a few hairs too many.”
“I got the Daily Bugle on line 2, Principal Summers. It's about the earthquake on the west coast. Jameson says that if you don't give him anything, he'll have to work with what he's found out himself.” Which was exactly nothing, and the suspicious tone of his office manager said, she knew that just as well as Scott did.
Jameson making headlines out of nothing never ended well for anyone involved.
And this time, the X-Men had been too fast for the press about picking up that little boy who had almost caused a tsunami last week and for Ororo to dissolve the latter before it could have even fully built. That done, this unpleasant little episode was no longer of any concern of the public. That would otherwise only have refueled discussions among normal people that had actually almost died down, not least thanks to the surprisingly mutant-friendly politics coming from Washington in the last few years.
“Tell him I'm in an important meeting with my Chief medical officer. If he wants to do his story himself so badly, have him send it to Mr. Murdock for approval first. Jameson should still have his e-mail address from the last time Murdock vaporized him in court for us. Thanks.”
A soft hiss escaped Scott's throat when he instinctively tried to hang up with the wrong hand. The receiver would almost have crashed on the desk with a loud bang if Hank hadn't caught it thanks to his good reflexes and put it down on the phone himself.
“How much longer do you think you can keep this up, Scott?“
”No idea. For when's the next apocalypse scheduled? Statistics say, it's my turn to bite it this time. Then at the latest, you'll be rid of me blocking your treatment calendar.” Shrugging, Scott turned to his coffee, which had long gone cold.
Hank rolled his eyes so hard that for a moment, nothing but the whites of his eyes could be seen in the deep sockets. “Just for the record, when we tell you to lighten up a little, we don't mean you're supposed to copy your wife's dark sense of humor.”
“You'll have to be more specific then, I guess. Anything else I can do for you? Otherwise, I'll be fine here now. How to pull needles, I know by now, thank you.” Scott tried demonstratively waving his right hand, without much success.
“If you want to hold classes again tomorrow with a bruise so big that the kids will worry, be my guest. Otherwise, sit back and stop fondling your damn computer for ten minutes.”
Scott's suppressed growl, unfortunately, wasn’t able to leave much impression on someone with a feral mutation; Hank even slowed down the trickle of those damn drugs, as if he'd sensed that Scott's blood vessels were particularly resentful today of another renewed assault with medication not originally intended for human systems.
"It's possible you could spare yourself all this, you know.”
“Can you stop about that?“ With a sigh, Scott leaned his head back against the backrest of his chair because the effects of the narcotics were gradually beginning to set in, albeit without the stuff achieving what it actually should.
”Actually, I'm just getting started. With a patient family on the list that's made up of three masochists, you get to practice stubbornness a lot.”
Scott bared his teeth. “Right. Because that's what I chose, obviously, falling out of an airplane as a teenager and ending up with irreversible brain damage.”
That dig also missed its mark by miles. “Not that, no. Your choice is ignoring that we might have a solution in our armory to control your mutation.”
“We don't have a solution,” Scott replied harshly. ”What we have is an 18-year-old enemy's weapon for which there's neither specifications nor any upgrades. I'm not even fulfilling my daughter's only birthday wish every year, to be able to look me in the eye at least once. What exactly makes you think that I'm hot on getting addicted to some unstable inhibitor ray because of a few headaches?”
“These few headaches, you'll die from in the field sooner or later.“ Hank put a heavy hand on his shoulder before he could make a move to turn away with his chair – not that with that damn stuff in his blood, his reaction time would have been good enough.
”An extraterrestrial force like your optic blasts can't be contained forever. These bouts are going to get worse by the year, and at some point, having U.G.E.R. supply you with Shi'ar painkillers simply won't cut it any longer. Not to mention, being addicted to this stuff isn't exactly healthy either ... What is it that you think will happen if a flash of pain brings you down in the middle of a physical conflict one day? If you're blinded by a migraine aura so badly that some psychotic mutant-hating special unit member or a Weapon X merc can put holes in you? What will you do then?“
”Make sure, no one else dies because of me and drag my ass out of there so that the others can finish the job,” Scott replied flatly.
Hank's claws dug into his shoulder, tightly enough to leave marks on his shirt that dry cleaning was very unlikely to be happy about tonight. “Oh really. Does your wife know that? Maybe you should let her in on your death wish before we run into someone like Mojo or Lady Deathstrike next time.”
“Tone it down, Henry.” Scott pushed Hank away reluctantly. ”I'm fine. We're talking about a headache here. A lot of people in this house live with far worse issues.”
His friend was obviously not done by a long shot, reopening wounds today. “And some of them would kill for any means that would give them even a little relief. Forget the reversal weapon for a moment. You didn't even ask the only person for help who knows exactly what you're dealing with.”
“My brother and my father didn't even bother telling me that they're alive and know exactly who and where I am until New York went up in flames,” Scott reminded him harshly. ”Alex sometimes even forgets to forge Christopher's signature on his Christmas and birthday cards. What exactly makes you think he's got any interest in working on my powers with me?“
”Assuming again, instead of asking. In some ways, you're more like Charles than you realize.”
If Hank saw the dangerous flash behind Scott's glasses at that last remark, he ignored it masterfully.
“If you insist, I'll be happy to smuggle a personal message into the next diplomatic requests for the Defenders of the Earth, hoping that they'll drop it at the nearest intergalactic post office and Christopher will pass by there sometime in the next ten years or so. It can only be a matter of months then before he finds out which dimension Alex is currently in.”
“Maybe these two would show up here more often if had a feeling, they're welcome.” Hank waved vaguely towards the painting of Christopher's current shuttle on the wall, which had been sent as a more or less subtle hint with said last Christmas card.
Not an invitation that Scott would have been even remotely interested in following. He couldn't even manage to go on a summer vacation with his wife, as he'd been promising her for years. His interest in spending his non-existent free time in space instead was below the average temperatures up there.
“For 20 years, these two made no effort of that kind in return. I'm not begging anyone to love me, Hank, and I certainly don't beg anyone for help. Especially not when I don't fucking need it.“
”Your wife and daughter would probably argue with that.”
“What was that about assumptions?” Scott was relieved to see that the damn IV bag was almost empty. He still wasn't feeling any effect, but at least he would no longer have to fend off any match points in a moment. ”You know really runs in our family? Caution about fucking around with mutations needlessly.”
Hank threw up his hands in exasperation. “And that's a surprise because …? After the example you've been setting for Cat and Sassy for years? How is one supposed to travel uncharted territory without an anchor, a lifeline?”
“Why do I get the feeling that you don't just keep coming here to turn me into a pincushion?” Scott demonstratively nodded down at the IV, through which fortunately there was nothing more coming.
Hank shrugged nonchalantly and grabbed a swab from his pocket. “Chain of command. Unfortunately, I can't order you to go lie down on your wife's couch. So I'll have to do the job myself.”
“If Katja and I ever feel like using that couch in her office, you can be pretty sure that's not gonna be for counseling."
Scott winced ruefully when Hank, as a punishment for the crude attempt of renewed deflection, pulled the needle from his hand with a little too much force, pressing down on the bleeding just as roughly.
“If you'd rather go back to ruining your stomach with pills until you can only get by on liquid food at some point, you can just tell me.”
“Nonsense.” Scott let himself sink back into his chair, clenching his fists a few times with a sigh of relief. This time, there was no burning. Some of that painful tension in his shoulders had also eased up, and for the first time in days, his neck didn't feel like his spine would break in two the moment he turned his head too far to the side. There was still a slight throbbing behind his forehead, but that was nothing he hadn't been able to ignore for decades. Better than nothing.
"You know there'd be something missing from my life without you kicking my ass at least once a week, Henry.”
Unlike him, Hank had not yet found his smile again. He packed his things remarkably quickly. “I'd probably feel better if I had a feeling that it was at least starting to help.”
On that subject, Scott couldn't grant his friend more than a slow shrug, at least today. “I'm trying.”
“I don't doubt that. You've just always been a really lousy student when it came to saving yourself. That's probably a disease one catches from that chair. Later, Principal Summers."
Hank left faster – this time through the front door just like it should be – than Scott could think of something to say to this last low blow.