"The Wisdom to Know the Difference," Chapter 3/11
"The Wisdom to Know the Difference," a Spider-Man/X-Men/Daredevil crossover novella, continued.
[ Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10 || Chapter 11 || Notes ]
"The Wisdom to Know the Difference"
Chapter 3: Drip, Drip
Peter guessed classes were still in session when he pulled to a stop in the mansion's driveway. Though there were lights on inside, the grounds looked deserted. He glanced at Hank, who had practically gone rigid when Xavier's came into sight. “You okay?” Peter asked, setting a hand on his shoulder.
Hank flinched and pulled away as best he could, given that his other shoulder was nearly touching the window. “Get Scott,” he growled tersely.
“You're not going to come in?”
“Would frighten small, tasty---rrargh!” Hank broke off with an anguished roar and covered his face with both hands. Peter jumped.
“Oh, God. Okay,” he stammered, half out of the car. His McDonald's cup rolled off somewhere, but Peter was already sprinting for the door.
The mansion was unlocked, and Peter tore through the foyer, remembering vaguely that classrooms were here on the main floor. He rounded a corner into a hall and was about to start throwing doors open at random when he remembered that Professor Xavier was supposed to be a really powerful mind-reader. So, he stopped.
“PROFESSOR XAVIER! THIS IS PETER PARKER!” he thought loudly. If thoughts could be loud, that is. At any rate, he tried to think big. “I NEED SCOTT SUMMERS RIGHT NOW.”
“Third door on the left,” the professor replied immediately, in his head. And that itself was very weird, but Peter figured he'd deal with it later. “Should I ask him to meet you in the foyer?”
“Please,” Peter thought. He went back around the corner and crossed his arms tightly and tried not to pace. He didn't have long to wait, though. Within a minute, Scott strode into the room, looking as tense as Peter felt.
“What's wrong?”
“It's Hank,” Peter explained on the way out the door. “He...changed. Into something. Like, an animal? And he's okay mentally, sort of, but--”
He broke off and trotted to catch up, trying not to be jealous of the fact that Scott didn't seem to be freaked out. Peter thought he heard him mutter, “Holy shit,” under his breath when they got close enough to see inside the car, but he didn't act afraid. Just opened the door and bent so that he was eye-to-sunglasses with Hank.
“Hey,” Scott said quietly, “let's get you inside, Be--” His Adam's apple jumped as he swallowed the rest of that word. “--before this period gets over. Getting downstairs will be a nightmare, otherwise.”
Hank nodded and climbed out with halting, careful movements, as if he hurt down to his bones. And yeah, he probably did, given that his bones had to have grown a couple inches each in the past few hours. He stood there with his shoulders slumped, looking at his feet. Looking like he didn't really know what to do with himself.
Peter met the red lenses of Scott's sunglasses and wished he could read his expression. The rest of Scott's face sure didn't give him any clues as to what he was thinking.
After a second, Scott turned back to Hank. “Come on,” he said, taking one of Hank's elbows. Hank hunched away and growled, deep in his throat, and Peter jumped. Scott just looked puzzled. “Hank?”
“Not lead,” Hank snarled. “Not touch. Not now.”
“Right,” Scott said. He took a step back and spread his hands. “Okay. Not leading. I'm asking. Will you please come inside?”
Peter waited until they were a few steps away before going to shut the Bug's door. He was just leaning in to grab the keys when he saw a glint on the floor, half-hidden under the passenger's seat. With a sick feeling in his gut, he tugged on the Columbia keychain, freeing the key from the ignition, then bent to pick up Hank's glasses. He locked the car and stood there for a minute, hand curled around the wire frames. One lens was cracked; the seam was hair-thin and straight under a fingertip.
Peter's glasses had broken once, back in junior high. He'd been playing baseball, even more of a klutz at twelve than he'd been at sixteen. Back then, his knees and hands and feet (and ears) seemed to grow before the rest of him did, which had ended up with him fumbling or dropping or tripping over practically everything, including his own shoes. And all it took was a missed step, running in from deep right field to try to catch the ball, and he'd belly-flopped onto the grass and gotten the wind knocked out of him. His glasses had flown off in another direction, and thick blue plastic frames just weren't meant to handle the weight of your average Little Leaguer, as Peter discovered when Nicky Brown, the center fielder, came over to see if he was okay.
Peter remembered the sick, dizzy feeling that had been in his stomach when he walked to the dugout, squinting into the sunlight under the brim of his baseball cap and flinching at everything. He'd felt weirdly vulnerable, and his fingers tightened around Hank's glasses now. He swallowed and headed for the mansion with his head bowed. Hank without his shirt was okay, even blue. Hank without his glasses, not so much.
This class period was apparently not over yet, since the foyer and hallways were still empty. Even so, Peter hurried for the elevator. To his surprise, Scott was waiting for him downstairs, arms folded tightly over his black turtleneck. “What took you so long? He's with Jean in the infirmary,” he added, without waiting for an answer.
Peter nodded. “Can we...?”
“Give 'em a minute. She's his doctor, but you're still his student, Peter. There might be something--”
“Right.” Peter blew out a breath and felt a little of the tension in his shoulders loosen. Hank was with a doctor, now. The worst had to be over.
Scott jerked his head in the direction of the conference room. “You want to sit down?”
“No, thanks. This is fine.”
Scott nodded, and they were uncomfortably quiet for a minute. Then, “How about a dry shirt? We've got some extra training sweats.”
Peter was about to refuse again, but then he studied Scott's face and saw the rigid line of his jaw and realized that it might actually be a kindness if he let Scott do something. So, he nodded. “Yeah, sure. A shirt would be great. Thanks.”
The gray sweatshirt Scott brought back was too big, but Peter did feel a lot warmer once he'd stripped off his wet hoodie and damp Legend of Zelda t-shirt and put it on. The fleecy inside hadn't yet gotten all pilled up and rough from the washing machine, and Peter wondered if this wasn't just a spare but actually was brand new. He didn't ask. Just gave Scott a small, tight smile. “This mean I can join the team?”
Scott looked at the closed infirmary door instead of answering. “What happened?” he asked abruptly.
“I don't know,” Peter said, his smile fading. “Hank said he didn't feel good this morning, then didn't show up for class. I went looking for him, and just...found him. Like this.”
Well, maybe not 'just found,' exactly. More like, 'found and tried to beat up.' The shame still threatened to make Peter sick, and he was really glad, for once, that he couldn't meet Scott's eyes if he wanted to.
“Hey, you okay?” Peter asked, when a few minutes had passed and Scott had just stood there silently.
“Talking to the Professor,” Scott replied, and Peter realized all over again how weird--but cool--it would be to live with mind-readers. “I'm not now, though,” Scott added after a second. “He says thank you. For bringing Hank, and for having the presence of mind not to scare the kids.”
Peter nodded, then turned abruptly when the infirmary door opened. “How's Hank?”
“Is he all right?” Scott asked in the same instant. “What's happening?”
Jean shut the door behind her before she turned to face them. There were deep, troubled creases between her eyebrows, right above the nosepiece of her glasses. Peter hadn't known she wore glasses, he thought randomly. The florescent light made her skin look scarily pale.
“He's all right,” Jean said, sounding a lot calmer than she looked. She put her hand on Scott's forearm. “He's going to be okay. Really.”
Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “Did you--I mean, is this fixable? Can you change him back?”
Scott turned to him abruptly, though whether he was giving Peter a disgusted look or had just been about to ask the same thing, Peter couldn't tell. It didn't matter, though, because Jean shook her head.
“Peter, he's mutating. Mutated, I should say, since it looks like he's done changing; just adjusting, now.” Jean lifted her free hand in a helpless, tiny shrug. “This looks like textbook manifestation of mutant powers.”
“Except that he's not a teenager, and it doesn't make sense for Hank to manifest late, since his physical mutation was present at birth,” Scott said. “Secondary mutation?”
Jean shook her head again. “Like you said, that doesn't make sense. If he had one, it would've shown itself long before now.” With a sigh, she burrowed her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. “Hank's theory--and I think he's right--is that this has something to do with his accident a few months ago, when he injected himself with the drug we gave Mallory Garrett."
"Shit!" Scott said, under his breath. "We caused this?"
Peter couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't really deal with this right now. All he could do was remember Hank pulling that needle out of his forearm. Could still see--vividly--the stricken, scared look on Hank's face when he'd noticed it.
Jean took a step closer to Scott and let him wrap his arm around her shoulders. "We didn't cause it," she said quietly, sounding like she was trying to convince herself as much as them. "Hank didn't cause it. Mallory didn't cause it, even if her blood being on the needle had something to do with this. It was just an accident."
"Even so. Shit." Scott shook his head. "Does he think--"
“Jean?” Peter interrupted. “Is it okay if I go in?” He trusted Jean that Hank was okay, of course, but...this sort of stuff wasn't normal, for him. He couldn't just stand here and talk about it. Even in Spider-Man's world, your friends (or students, whatever) didn't just randomly sprout wings or start breathing fire. Actually seeing that Hank was all right seemed absolutely necessary.
Jean seemed to understand, and gave him a small smile. “Sure, that's fine. He might not still be awake, though, or if he is, he's probably out of it. He asked me to sedate him.”
Peter nodded, hating the tiny part of himself that thought that was a really good idea.
Stretched out on the bed, Hank somehow looked bigger and smaller than he had before. Or maybe 'smaller' wasn't right. Less threatening, maybe, without the new fangs bared or any looming. Bigger like in the Volkswagen; how many people made a regular bed look like a camp cot?
With the overhead lights dimmed and all that dark fur, Peter couldn't clearly see his face. “Hank?” he asked softly. “You awake?”
“Hmm?” Very deep, very mellow, almost a purr.
Peter took a hesitant step closer. “Uh. That's a yes, right?”
“'m not gonna bite you, Peter.”
Despite the situation, Peter smiled. Partly because Hank sounded so high, which was so wrong, but a little bit funny. Mostly with relief, though. Even with the mellow slurriness, Hank sounded like Hank again. “So, you're...okay, now?” he asked as he came to stand by the bed.
Hank cracked open one eye. “Don' hurt anymore. Thass good.”
“Hey, yeah, it is,” Peter said. His throat was all tight and rough again, and he wished there was room to sit on the edge of the bed. He stuck his hands in his pockets instead. “You sound better, too. Like you're getting all that stuff under control?”
“Said 'm not gonna...” Hank faded out and nodded against the pillow.
“I know.”
For a minute, Peter thought Hank had drifted off, but then he waved one paw vaguely. The IV tube swayed. “Can shit here, if y'want,” Hank murmured.
Peter blinked. “Wha--? Oh.” Right. Sit. On the floor, he guessed Hank meant. He sank down and pulled his knees up. The metal was cold through his still-damp jeans. Peter sat with his head bowed and felt his chest cave inwards as he sighed. He could sense Hank's arm lying on the mattress behind him, a hairsbreadth from his neck. Close enough to make his skin prickle. Peter shivered.
Maybe it was something about the fur, but the weird thing was, he had the idea that if one of them just closed the distance--if he reached back, or if Hank moved just a fraction of an inch and laid his hand on Peter's head or shoulder, everything would be okay.
Okay, maybe not everything, but it sure might make him feel better. As it was, neither of them moved. Peter just sat there, staring at his knees and listening as Hank's breathing became deep and regular.
After awhile, a slice of bright light coming in the room made Peter look up. Jean did something over by Hank's IV pole, then came to crouch beside Peter. "He's fine," she whispered, "just knocked out. Want to come out in the hall, for a minute?"
Peter nodded and followed her out. "What's going on?" he asked once the door was shut.
Jean shrugged. "I just wanted to let you know that Hank probably won't be awake until tomorrow morning at the earliest. He's stable, he's done mutating, and at this point, I think he just needs to rest." She gave him a lopsided smile. "In other words, there's really nothing you--or I, or anyone--can do, right now."
"Except be here when he wakes up."
Jean's lips pressed together. "Peter… Hank has just been through a pretty traumatic change. It's possible that, when he wakes up, he won't remember what happened today. And he might--he might want a little time alone to deal with it," she said gently. "You understand, don't you?"
Peter looked at his sneakers and thought about reminding her that he was a junior in college, not one of the prepubescent junior high kids here. Instead, he just nodded.
"You're welcome to stay, though," Jean added. "For dinner--I think the Professor is letting the kids order pizza--or stay the night and see how Hank is tomorrow, whatever you want. Or I'm sure Scott would be happy to drive you home."
The thought of staying the night would have been tempting, except that the one X-Man Peter really knew and wanted to be with was the one he wasn't supposed to sit with. He met Jean's eyes.
"There's really nothing we can do?" he asked. "Not in Hank's lab? I mean, I don't know a ton, but I helped Hank with that girl, Mallory, and you're a doctor. Don't you think we could do…I don't know, something to change him back?"
For the first time since he'd met her, Peter was afraid Jean was going to start crying. Her face sort of half-crumpled, and she shook her head. "Even if we could, which I think is highly unlikely, do you really think Hank would want us to use his equipment, build on his research, to reverse a mutation?" she asked quietly. "It was one thing to help Mallory control her powers, but Peter, what you're talking about, that's--"
Peter sighed. "I didn't mean it that way."
"I know you didn't." To Peter's surprise, Jean put one arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick hug. "Come on, let's go upstairs. Are you up for pizza?"
"I'd like to, but I think I'd better go home," he replied, trying to smile. "I work the night shift, you know?"
"All right. I'll tell Scott."
Peter shook his head and pushed the elevator button. "Actually, do you think it'd be okay if I borrowed Hank's car? I kind of just want to be alone for awhile."
"I think that'd be fine."
Once Jean had walked him to the door and promised she'd call if anything changed, Peter just sat in Hank's car for a minute, looking at the mansion. With so many lights on, and with the rain outside, the place looked really warm and homey, despite its size. It was so easy to imagine having pizza for dinner later, or maybe making hot cocoa and reading, or playing a board game in front of the fireplace.
And it was easy to imagine (well, know from experience) what the Spidey suit felt like when it was wet and cold out, and how the radiator in his apartment either didn't work at all, so the room was freezing, or ran at full-blast, boiling hot, and smelled like someone's cat had peed on it.
With a sigh, Peter turned the key, started the wipers running, and headed for home.
[Chapter 4 is here.]
[ Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10 || Chapter 11 || Notes ]
"The Wisdom to Know the Difference"
Chapter 3: Drip, Drip
Peter guessed classes were still in session when he pulled to a stop in the mansion's driveway. Though there were lights on inside, the grounds looked deserted. He glanced at Hank, who had practically gone rigid when Xavier's came into sight. “You okay?” Peter asked, setting a hand on his shoulder.
Hank flinched and pulled away as best he could, given that his other shoulder was nearly touching the window. “Get Scott,” he growled tersely.
“You're not going to come in?”
“Would frighten small, tasty---rrargh!” Hank broke off with an anguished roar and covered his face with both hands. Peter jumped.
“Oh, God. Okay,” he stammered, half out of the car. His McDonald's cup rolled off somewhere, but Peter was already sprinting for the door.
The mansion was unlocked, and Peter tore through the foyer, remembering vaguely that classrooms were here on the main floor. He rounded a corner into a hall and was about to start throwing doors open at random when he remembered that Professor Xavier was supposed to be a really powerful mind-reader. So, he stopped.
“PROFESSOR XAVIER! THIS IS PETER PARKER!” he thought loudly. If thoughts could be loud, that is. At any rate, he tried to think big. “I NEED SCOTT SUMMERS RIGHT NOW.”
“Third door on the left,” the professor replied immediately, in his head. And that itself was very weird, but Peter figured he'd deal with it later. “Should I ask him to meet you in the foyer?”
“Please,” Peter thought. He went back around the corner and crossed his arms tightly and tried not to pace. He didn't have long to wait, though. Within a minute, Scott strode into the room, looking as tense as Peter felt.
“What's wrong?”
“It's Hank,” Peter explained on the way out the door. “He...changed. Into something. Like, an animal? And he's okay mentally, sort of, but--”
He broke off and trotted to catch up, trying not to be jealous of the fact that Scott didn't seem to be freaked out. Peter thought he heard him mutter, “Holy shit,” under his breath when they got close enough to see inside the car, but he didn't act afraid. Just opened the door and bent so that he was eye-to-sunglasses with Hank.
“Hey,” Scott said quietly, “let's get you inside, Be--” His Adam's apple jumped as he swallowed the rest of that word. “--before this period gets over. Getting downstairs will be a nightmare, otherwise.”
Hank nodded and climbed out with halting, careful movements, as if he hurt down to his bones. And yeah, he probably did, given that his bones had to have grown a couple inches each in the past few hours. He stood there with his shoulders slumped, looking at his feet. Looking like he didn't really know what to do with himself.
Peter met the red lenses of Scott's sunglasses and wished he could read his expression. The rest of Scott's face sure didn't give him any clues as to what he was thinking.
After a second, Scott turned back to Hank. “Come on,” he said, taking one of Hank's elbows. Hank hunched away and growled, deep in his throat, and Peter jumped. Scott just looked puzzled. “Hank?”
“Not lead,” Hank snarled. “Not touch. Not now.”
“Right,” Scott said. He took a step back and spread his hands. “Okay. Not leading. I'm asking. Will you please come inside?”
Peter waited until they were a few steps away before going to shut the Bug's door. He was just leaning in to grab the keys when he saw a glint on the floor, half-hidden under the passenger's seat. With a sick feeling in his gut, he tugged on the Columbia keychain, freeing the key from the ignition, then bent to pick up Hank's glasses. He locked the car and stood there for a minute, hand curled around the wire frames. One lens was cracked; the seam was hair-thin and straight under a fingertip.
Peter's glasses had broken once, back in junior high. He'd been playing baseball, even more of a klutz at twelve than he'd been at sixteen. Back then, his knees and hands and feet (and ears) seemed to grow before the rest of him did, which had ended up with him fumbling or dropping or tripping over practically everything, including his own shoes. And all it took was a missed step, running in from deep right field to try to catch the ball, and he'd belly-flopped onto the grass and gotten the wind knocked out of him. His glasses had flown off in another direction, and thick blue plastic frames just weren't meant to handle the weight of your average Little Leaguer, as Peter discovered when Nicky Brown, the center fielder, came over to see if he was okay.
Peter remembered the sick, dizzy feeling that had been in his stomach when he walked to the dugout, squinting into the sunlight under the brim of his baseball cap and flinching at everything. He'd felt weirdly vulnerable, and his fingers tightened around Hank's glasses now. He swallowed and headed for the mansion with his head bowed. Hank without his shirt was okay, even blue. Hank without his glasses, not so much.
This class period was apparently not over yet, since the foyer and hallways were still empty. Even so, Peter hurried for the elevator. To his surprise, Scott was waiting for him downstairs, arms folded tightly over his black turtleneck. “What took you so long? He's with Jean in the infirmary,” he added, without waiting for an answer.
Peter nodded. “Can we...?”
“Give 'em a minute. She's his doctor, but you're still his student, Peter. There might be something--”
“Right.” Peter blew out a breath and felt a little of the tension in his shoulders loosen. Hank was with a doctor, now. The worst had to be over.
Scott jerked his head in the direction of the conference room. “You want to sit down?”
“No, thanks. This is fine.”
Scott nodded, and they were uncomfortably quiet for a minute. Then, “How about a dry shirt? We've got some extra training sweats.”
Peter was about to refuse again, but then he studied Scott's face and saw the rigid line of his jaw and realized that it might actually be a kindness if he let Scott do something. So, he nodded. “Yeah, sure. A shirt would be great. Thanks.”
The gray sweatshirt Scott brought back was too big, but Peter did feel a lot warmer once he'd stripped off his wet hoodie and damp Legend of Zelda t-shirt and put it on. The fleecy inside hadn't yet gotten all pilled up and rough from the washing machine, and Peter wondered if this wasn't just a spare but actually was brand new. He didn't ask. Just gave Scott a small, tight smile. “This mean I can join the team?”
Scott looked at the closed infirmary door instead of answering. “What happened?” he asked abruptly.
“I don't know,” Peter said, his smile fading. “Hank said he didn't feel good this morning, then didn't show up for class. I went looking for him, and just...found him. Like this.”
Well, maybe not 'just found,' exactly. More like, 'found and tried to beat up.' The shame still threatened to make Peter sick, and he was really glad, for once, that he couldn't meet Scott's eyes if he wanted to.
“Hey, you okay?” Peter asked, when a few minutes had passed and Scott had just stood there silently.
“Talking to the Professor,” Scott replied, and Peter realized all over again how weird--but cool--it would be to live with mind-readers. “I'm not now, though,” Scott added after a second. “He says thank you. For bringing Hank, and for having the presence of mind not to scare the kids.”
Peter nodded, then turned abruptly when the infirmary door opened. “How's Hank?”
“Is he all right?” Scott asked in the same instant. “What's happening?”
Jean shut the door behind her before she turned to face them. There were deep, troubled creases between her eyebrows, right above the nosepiece of her glasses. Peter hadn't known she wore glasses, he thought randomly. The florescent light made her skin look scarily pale.
“He's all right,” Jean said, sounding a lot calmer than she looked. She put her hand on Scott's forearm. “He's going to be okay. Really.”
Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “Did you--I mean, is this fixable? Can you change him back?”
Scott turned to him abruptly, though whether he was giving Peter a disgusted look or had just been about to ask the same thing, Peter couldn't tell. It didn't matter, though, because Jean shook her head.
“Peter, he's mutating. Mutated, I should say, since it looks like he's done changing; just adjusting, now.” Jean lifted her free hand in a helpless, tiny shrug. “This looks like textbook manifestation of mutant powers.”
“Except that he's not a teenager, and it doesn't make sense for Hank to manifest late, since his physical mutation was present at birth,” Scott said. “Secondary mutation?”
Jean shook her head again. “Like you said, that doesn't make sense. If he had one, it would've shown itself long before now.” With a sigh, she burrowed her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. “Hank's theory--and I think he's right--is that this has something to do with his accident a few months ago, when he injected himself with the drug we gave Mallory Garrett."
"Shit!" Scott said, under his breath. "We caused this?"
Peter couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't really deal with this right now. All he could do was remember Hank pulling that needle out of his forearm. Could still see--vividly--the stricken, scared look on Hank's face when he'd noticed it.
Jean took a step closer to Scott and let him wrap his arm around her shoulders. "We didn't cause it," she said quietly, sounding like she was trying to convince herself as much as them. "Hank didn't cause it. Mallory didn't cause it, even if her blood being on the needle had something to do with this. It was just an accident."
"Even so. Shit." Scott shook his head. "Does he think--"
“Jean?” Peter interrupted. “Is it okay if I go in?” He trusted Jean that Hank was okay, of course, but...this sort of stuff wasn't normal, for him. He couldn't just stand here and talk about it. Even in Spider-Man's world, your friends (or students, whatever) didn't just randomly sprout wings or start breathing fire. Actually seeing that Hank was all right seemed absolutely necessary.
Jean seemed to understand, and gave him a small smile. “Sure, that's fine. He might not still be awake, though, or if he is, he's probably out of it. He asked me to sedate him.”
Peter nodded, hating the tiny part of himself that thought that was a really good idea.
Stretched out on the bed, Hank somehow looked bigger and smaller than he had before. Or maybe 'smaller' wasn't right. Less threatening, maybe, without the new fangs bared or any looming. Bigger like in the Volkswagen; how many people made a regular bed look like a camp cot?
With the overhead lights dimmed and all that dark fur, Peter couldn't clearly see his face. “Hank?” he asked softly. “You awake?”
“Hmm?” Very deep, very mellow, almost a purr.
Peter took a hesitant step closer. “Uh. That's a yes, right?”
“'m not gonna bite you, Peter.”
Despite the situation, Peter smiled. Partly because Hank sounded so high, which was so wrong, but a little bit funny. Mostly with relief, though. Even with the mellow slurriness, Hank sounded like Hank again. “So, you're...okay, now?” he asked as he came to stand by the bed.
Hank cracked open one eye. “Don' hurt anymore. Thass good.”
“Hey, yeah, it is,” Peter said. His throat was all tight and rough again, and he wished there was room to sit on the edge of the bed. He stuck his hands in his pockets instead. “You sound better, too. Like you're getting all that stuff under control?”
“Said 'm not gonna...” Hank faded out and nodded against the pillow.
“I know.”
For a minute, Peter thought Hank had drifted off, but then he waved one paw vaguely. The IV tube swayed. “Can shit here, if y'want,” Hank murmured.
Peter blinked. “Wha--? Oh.” Right. Sit. On the floor, he guessed Hank meant. He sank down and pulled his knees up. The metal was cold through his still-damp jeans. Peter sat with his head bowed and felt his chest cave inwards as he sighed. He could sense Hank's arm lying on the mattress behind him, a hairsbreadth from his neck. Close enough to make his skin prickle. Peter shivered.
Maybe it was something about the fur, but the weird thing was, he had the idea that if one of them just closed the distance--if he reached back, or if Hank moved just a fraction of an inch and laid his hand on Peter's head or shoulder, everything would be okay.
Okay, maybe not everything, but it sure might make him feel better. As it was, neither of them moved. Peter just sat there, staring at his knees and listening as Hank's breathing became deep and regular.
After awhile, a slice of bright light coming in the room made Peter look up. Jean did something over by Hank's IV pole, then came to crouch beside Peter. "He's fine," she whispered, "just knocked out. Want to come out in the hall, for a minute?"
Peter nodded and followed her out. "What's going on?" he asked once the door was shut.
Jean shrugged. "I just wanted to let you know that Hank probably won't be awake until tomorrow morning at the earliest. He's stable, he's done mutating, and at this point, I think he just needs to rest." She gave him a lopsided smile. "In other words, there's really nothing you--or I, or anyone--can do, right now."
"Except be here when he wakes up."
Jean's lips pressed together. "Peter… Hank has just been through a pretty traumatic change. It's possible that, when he wakes up, he won't remember what happened today. And he might--he might want a little time alone to deal with it," she said gently. "You understand, don't you?"
Peter looked at his sneakers and thought about reminding her that he was a junior in college, not one of the prepubescent junior high kids here. Instead, he just nodded.
"You're welcome to stay, though," Jean added. "For dinner--I think the Professor is letting the kids order pizza--or stay the night and see how Hank is tomorrow, whatever you want. Or I'm sure Scott would be happy to drive you home."
The thought of staying the night would have been tempting, except that the one X-Man Peter really knew and wanted to be with was the one he wasn't supposed to sit with. He met Jean's eyes.
"There's really nothing we can do?" he asked. "Not in Hank's lab? I mean, I don't know a ton, but I helped Hank with that girl, Mallory, and you're a doctor. Don't you think we could do…I don't know, something to change him back?"
For the first time since he'd met her, Peter was afraid Jean was going to start crying. Her face sort of half-crumpled, and she shook her head. "Even if we could, which I think is highly unlikely, do you really think Hank would want us to use his equipment, build on his research, to reverse a mutation?" she asked quietly. "It was one thing to help Mallory control her powers, but Peter, what you're talking about, that's--"
Peter sighed. "I didn't mean it that way."
"I know you didn't." To Peter's surprise, Jean put one arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick hug. "Come on, let's go upstairs. Are you up for pizza?"
"I'd like to, but I think I'd better go home," he replied, trying to smile. "I work the night shift, you know?"
"All right. I'll tell Scott."
Peter shook his head and pushed the elevator button. "Actually, do you think it'd be okay if I borrowed Hank's car? I kind of just want to be alone for awhile."
"I think that'd be fine."
Once Jean had walked him to the door and promised she'd call if anything changed, Peter just sat in Hank's car for a minute, looking at the mansion. With so many lights on, and with the rain outside, the place looked really warm and homey, despite its size. It was so easy to imagine having pizza for dinner later, or maybe making hot cocoa and reading, or playing a board game in front of the fireplace.
And it was easy to imagine (well, know from experience) what the Spidey suit felt like when it was wet and cold out, and how the radiator in his apartment either didn't work at all, so the room was freezing, or ran at full-blast, boiling hot, and smelled like someone's cat had peed on it.
With a sigh, Peter turned the key, started the wipers running, and headed for home.
[Chapter 4 is here.]