Disclaimer: The X-Men belong to Marvel.
Summary: Beast, Iceman. Strong language, disturbing
situation. When Bobby needs help, he seeks out his best friend in his own way.
But can the prankster find a way to ask his friend for what he really needs?
This is an attempt at the Blow Kaylee Away challenge.
Archive: Please. As often as possible, and
wherever you like.
You don't know what it's
like. If you did, I wouldn't have to explain. If you did, then maybe someone
would be able to hear me screaming.
Do you know? Could you
possibly know what it's like when the pain of every movement, every breath
drives you further into insanity? What the pain of crying is like when no one
can hear you, and even if maybe, maybe perhaps they were to hear you, no one would
care? And the gulping sobs *hurt* and the tears hurt, but most of all it hurts
that you're crying and there's no one to hear and it doesn't matter it never
mattered never will matter... you don't matter never matter never will matter.
And then it's simple, it's easy to think about dying. To think about actions,
simple actions, that will lead to the consciousness that is you -- not being.
So simple.
Use the cold on your brain.
Deliberately freeze some cells, cells that only you could bring down to the necessary
temperature to outdo your mutant physiology. And then, not be.
So simple.
"Robert? Can you hear
me?"
*Damn.* "Yes, Hank. I
hear you just fine. I can also tell you've been snacking a bit hard on the
jelly doughnuts." Bobby Drake tried to sit up and was restrained by a
furry blue paw.
"Is everything all
right, Bobby?"
It was a loaded question.
Bobby remembered. Remembered everything. His eyes grew hot, but he did not cry,
could not cry. "Everything seems to be working properly." *Not that I
care. Not that I could do anything with my body and my powers on my very best
day. Can't even kill myself properly.*
"I'm overjoyed to hear
that," Hank replied in grave tones. His paw moved from Bobby's chest.
Bobby promptly sat up, just
to see if he could. He felt nothing out of the ordinary, no headache, no dizzy
spell. Had he managed to do anything to himself other than fall unconscious? He
turned to the side, and swung his feet over the edge of the table. Hank had
apparently not had the time to strip him naked and stuff him into a revealing
little hospital gown, yet another sign that his condition was not all that
serious.
It was time to go. Depart
the MedLab. Leave Hank to his own extremely important job -- finding a cure to
the Legacy virus. Time and past time for the useless and immature member of the
team to leave the hard-working and overworked scientist to go back to something
important. "So sorry to have troubled you, Hank," Bobby burbled, suddenly
half-hysterical in his own manic morbid dementia. "Didn't mean to take up
your time with having to care ab-- for someone like me."
"It was no
trouble."
Of course not. Not for
someone as capable, competent and downright decent like Dr. Henry McCoy. Of
course not. "Thank you anyway, then. I'll just show myself out. I know the
way. I think."
He wavered for a moment,
not yet jumping down from the table. Could he? Could he possibly ask Hank for
the favor, for the thing he wanted most of all right now?
*The truth of the matter
is,* he thought, *while it's hard to ask someone for a favor -- hard to expose
your vulnerability to them, thus giving them the chance, nay, _begging_ for
them to hurt you -- it's even harder to refuse someone who asks you for a
favor. Ask, and you shall receive. Not just a phrase, but frequently, fact.* If
Bobby asked Hank, Hank would say 'yes'. Only a hard-hearted bastard would say
no, or possibly someone completely clueless, immature and thoughtless. Like
Bobby himself.
But comfort was something
that didn't come easily. You'd think it should. When your life included
routinely getting your butt kicked, near-death and death experiences, and the
constant threat of losing everything and everyone you held dear to the
Psychotic Madman of the Week, you'd think that comfort would not only be
essential but easy to obtain.
Nope, nope, nope. Not like
that. Not like that at all.
Because no one understands.
No one stands in the middle of the pain, hears the howling that is your self's
own voice crying out, telling you everything you've done wrong, everything you
will ever do wrong and how nothing and nobody can ever change how wrong you are
and have been and will be.
Nothing and no one. If it
were an injury, then people would understand. If someone had died, and you had
to cry, then people would understand.
*But who could understand a
perfectly healthy person with no reason for grief and every reason for
happiness, or at the very least, contentment, crying? I don't understand. I
don't understand why it isn't enough that I have my friends here, and they're
alive, and I'm alive. In our circumstances, that should be plenty to be happy
about. I don't understand why it seems to matter so much that I have no useful
job, no profession other than X-Man Second Class, when I live in a beautiful
place and never have to worry about money. I don't understand why it should
matter so much that I feel alone when I'm constantly surrounded by people, why
I should feel so unloved when I am constantly surrounded by friends.
*But if I am surrounded by
friends, then why does no one _see_?
*Maybe laughter and humor
and jokes look like truth, instead of the shield that they are to cover the
emptiness underneath, to keep the lack of a net from distracting me from the
tightrope I have to walk. Hank understands that much, at least, and I
understand his own humor in return. Who said that -- we laugh so that we might
not cry? It sounds familiar. Probably something Hank said once. If anyone could
understand, maybe he could.*
"Do you feel well?"
Hank asked.
Bobby startled, pulled out
of his thoughts, then returned to reflex responses to keep himself going, to
keep the hotness at the back of his eyes from spilling out and thickening his
voice. "Don't I have feelings just the same as anyone else? 'If you prick
him, doth he not scream like a weenie?'"
Hank's eyebrow raised.
"I think you're butchering the quotation."
"Whatever. It'd be
more out of character for me to get it right. To admit to having paid attention
in English Literature at college. To admit to the sin of actually possessing a
brain." The lightness came easily to him. It slathered black grease over
the exposed parts of himself, concealing and congealing.
"I didn't realize it
was a sin," Hank remarked mildly.
"Well, for you, it's
not, of course. I mean, you've actually got one, so you don't have to admit to
it. Besides, it's only a sin if *I* have a brain. You're supposed to have a
brain. I'm supposed to have had mine surgically removed in junior high."
"What does that have
to do with your feelings?"
Bobby cringed. Hank was
smart enough to see through his diversions. "Ouch. Direct and to the point
I'm trying so hard to wander away from. See? You've got a brain. You've just
used it."
"I never doubted that,
Robert."
"Ah, so now he's
calling me Robert," Bobby said to no one in particular. "I'm in
trouble. Better belly up to the bar and confess. Of course, I'm doing an
admirable job of *not* confessing, which is more my style anyway. To say
outright that I'm scared to death of Rogue, am the only male in this place who
*doesn't* have designs on Jean, and by the way, Hank, I'm depressed and I want
you to give a damn about me -- it's just not *me*, y'know? Can you see me
saying something like that? Can you see anyone taking me seriously if I did?"
Truth came out of his mouth even when he was doing his best to stop it. He
needed to leave, needed to change the subject, needed to turn into an
ornamental plant. At least then he'd be useful.
Beast raised an eyebrow
behind his glasses. "Your lighthearted tone does work against you. Also,
your propensity for sarcasm, and enjoyment of low humor."
Bobby put a hand to his
chest, and staggered back, miming a mortal wound. "I thought you *liked*
my sense of humor! Now I suppose you're going to tell me that you don't find my
accent cute and charming."
"Bobby, you don't have
an accent."
"There you go again.
My moral certainty has been wounded. I can't continue living any longer. Time
to go get some marshmallows and sit in front of the fire with a pointed stick
until the Iceman melts into a puddle."
"I'd be pleased to
join you if you mean that."
"Ah," Bobby said,
making a pushing motion, as if to dismiss Hank's offer, "You just want to
see me burning my marshmallows so that you can give me that lecture on
Carthaginians again."
"Carcinogens."
"Same thing. Anything
to get my mind off of my completely kick-butt performance with the Marauders. I
keep up that kind of performance, and I'm going to get a swelled ego." His
mouth was running away from him. More of the terrible truth spilling out. He
tried to stop it, but his mouth seemed to be on automatic. "Think about it
-- I got iced by Prism. Somebody shoot mee. Oh, wait. Scalphunter already did
that."
"But not for making
that terrible pun."
"What pun?"
Hank rolled his eyes.
"You were 'iced' by Prism, remember?"
"That wasn't a pun.
That was a perfectly good off-hand remark that my messed-up brain twisted into
something else. If it'd been a pun, I would have said it on purpose."
"You didn't?"
"Ha-ha," Bobby
said without humor. "I'm an idiot, my own fame is for cracking jokes, and
even my jokes are cracking." He let his hand freeze over, then cracked the
light skin of ice away by closing his fist. The pieces fell, shattering on the
floor. "Gone, all gone. It's all tears and sorrow anyway." His face
wrinkled. "Did I just use the word 'sorrow' in a sentence? I think I did.
God, I'm an idiot."
"I believe you already
said that."
"Well, if I hadn't, I
should have. It's obviously true." Bobby had jumped up from the bed and was
pacing now, unable to hold still.
Beast leaned back against
the wall, worried eyes watching his friend. "*Are* you all right?"
"Am I all right? All
right?!" Bobby looked up at the ceiling, and then down to Hank. "No.
Yes. No more wrong than always. How could anyone possibly be *all* right
anyway? Except for Scott, and he's probably faking it. No, I'm not. I'm
completely fucked up, I hate myself, I wish that the Earth would open up and
swallow me and that hitting something repeatedly could possibly make me feel
any better. 'Cause if it could, I'd just go pick a fight with Logan. He
wouldn't mind. *I* probably would, after he got done with me," Bobby
mused, "but he wouldn't mind." He stopped his frantic pacing, gaze
level with Hank's. "I feel terrible, and short of hitting things, I want
to crawl up against someone who gives a damn about me, and cry, and have them
make me feel that it's okay to be me and that someone really does care that I'm
here tomorrow. 'Cause right now, all I really want to do, beside the hitting
things business, is to get really drunk and forget who I am."
There was a long moment of
silence as Hank assimilated what Bobby had said.
He'd said too much. Far too
much. Bobby didn't want Hank to pretend to care because he felt obligated, and
sure as hell being a heated desert with random pools of lava, Bobby had just
done that. He shouldn't have stayed here so long. He should have retreated to
his room immediately. Stopped the flow of words, the pretense that there could
ever be intimacy, be some understanding for him, of him. If there were anything
of him worth understanding. Okay. Time to correct that now. He spun on his
heel, heading for the door. "Look, just forget I said anything,
okay?"
Hank cocked his head.
"I don't think I will easily forget."
"Well, do it anyway. I
was stupid to even think of talking to you about this. I never should have come
here. I should have just kept my big mouth shut, and then everything would be
all right. Okay, no, it wouldn't. I'd still be miserable. But at least I
wouldn't be miserable *and* humiliated."
"Bobby, we are
friends, are we not?"
Bobby paused in the
doorway. "I guess. You let me live when I put fleas in your bed, and I
tell you whenever Rogue's taking a shower and doesn't remember to pull the
shade over the window. I suppose that means we're friends."
Hank grimaced. "I'd
forgotten about the flea incident."
A grin, delivered in
smoothly automatic reply. "I haven't."
"Apparently. Remind me
to do something equally nice for you one day. The infestation was relatively
simple to clear from the room, but the flea powder smelled terrible."
A larger grin, making his
face ache. "You looked like someone had turned your hair white."
"I *know*," Hank
said, with monumental patience. "And we are still friends."
"For what it's
worth." Bobby shook his head. He was still there, babbling. Wanting to
stay, wanting something from Hank even though his head knew he wouldn't get it,
even though his heart was screaming that he wanted it. "Look, I'm going to
go find Gambit, or Logan, or somebody. Get really drunk, or maybe do a session
in the Danger Room. Something to wear me out so I'm not going nutso for the
rest of the night. It's not like I'm going to be able to sleep."
"Is that what you
really want?"
Bobby shook his head. God,
he could almost imagine... almost believe... No. He spoke quietly. "It's
what I can have. That's going to have to be enough."
"It doesn't have to
be." Hank stood up and walked over to where Bobby stood. "I can still
hear the obvious when it's said to me."
Bobby looked up at Hank,
and held out his hands. "Whoa, big guy. Let's not get too hasty here. I
didn't mean what you think I thought I was th... um... well, just don't jump to
conclusions, okay?"
A large blue paw was placed
on his shoulder. "It's all right, Bobby. I'm your friend, and I do care
about you. It's not wrong to need other people."
His eyes teared up for a
moment, hotness overflowing, and he wanted to let it go. To cry, and hope that
Hank could hear him, would hear him and respond. And not being able to bear
what it would be like if Hank, if the only friend he thought he might still be
able to count on, didn't hear. Bobby stepped back, further into the hall
outside the door. "Okay, okay, tender bonding moment over. The noble hero
is reassured of the rightness of his quest, and will go off to fight another
day, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera."
"My lord, Bobby, do
you really think it wouldn't matter to me if you killed yourself?"
He froze. "Why would
you say that? I'm fine, really. I only schemed to get brought down here because
I have a secret fetish for blue teddy bears. Honest."
"Why are you
pretending so hard?" Hank asked. "I know what you tried to do. I can
*smell* the tears you're trying not to shed. I can *hear* the catch in your breathing.
I've listened to you all but tell me that you are desperately depressed and
need help. Do you think I don't *care*?"
Oh God. His heart hammered
in his throat, the pulse pounding loudly there. He was being listened to. He
didn't know what to do. Honestly, he replied, "Yes. I don't see why you
should. Why anyone should."
Saying it and meaning it
made the tears real, and they washed down his face, blurring his vision, not
that he needed his vision in order to turn and head for the stairs, for any
escape.
But there was no escape.
Hank reached out, snaring him and wrapped him in a close embrace.
It was too much. Bobby
cried openly now, the slow, single tears interfering with his concentration.
"Hank, please. I can't stand it. You can't care. Nobody can care, because
there's nothing to care about."
But Hank didn't let go. He
squeezed harder, hard enough to hurt, and as Bobby exhaled, the sobs started.
Hank wasn't letting go. He'd heard, and he wasn't going to abandon him.
*Please, God. Let him mean
this. Let him be doing this because he really does care about me.* His fingers
dug into Hank's fur, clutching tightly to his only source of comfort. *Please
let this be real.*
He was scooped up and
carried until abruptly he was sitting on Hank's lap on the room's only couch,
still crying. Embarrassment brought the tears to a halt, and Bobby wiped his
face on his sleeve. "Sorry. Don't know what came over me." He moved
to get off of Beast's lap, but Hank only let him get so far.
"Bobby, I am not about
to allow you to leave at this juncture."
"Hey, I'm fine. Just
fine."
"Just about as fine as
a stockbroker about to jump out a window," Hank said dryly.
"Yeah. Except here,
somebody would probably catch me before I hit the ground. Even if the house
wasn't only three stories at the highest part." He'd thought about it.
He'd thought about a lot of things.
"That's what I
surmised. How much objection will you raise to taking medication?"
"Why? You think I need
like sedatives or something? Maybe some anti-rabies shots?"
Hank rolled his eyes, then
studied Bobby solemnly. "How many times have you tried to commit suicide,
Robert?"
"Um... counting
today?"
"Yes, counting
today," Hank said patiently.
"Three, I think. I'm
pretty sure I let Prism catch me, with the Marauders. Stupid, I know. If I'd
been thinking straight, I'd have let Riptide get me. That'd've been more
practical. Bet Scott would have thought of that one."
"Have you considered
that you might be depressed?"
"Is Wolverine hairy?
It's not news. There's nothing that can be done. If pep talks helped, Scott
would have made me better years ago. If bright thinking and cheeriness helped,
Jubilee would have made me feel better. If self-discipline helped, then we go
back to Scott. Although I think, more properly, the blame is on me for that
one, because, well, we all know I'm a failure in the willpower department.
Cheer up, campers. Bright sunshiny days ahead, ahoy on the starboard bow."
He smiled at Hank, a wide, sad smile. "Gee, I think I'm cured now, Dr.
McCoy. I promise I'll never be unhappy again. I hope you're looking forward to
more fleas in your bedspread because Bobby the prankster is back, back,
back."
"It's all right,"
Hank said, taking Bobby's hand and folding it into one broad blue paw. Bobby
felt desperately angry at how much that deliberate contact meant to him.
"Please don't feel you have to pretend for me. I know that this is not
your fault. You are, I believe, clinically depressed. It is not something you
could cure by attempting to be happy, and not a failure on your part that you
are unhappy. Or even a failure of our talented telepaths whom, I suspect should
have and would have tried to counsel you on this."
"Nothing to counsel me
about. I don't have dark feelings. Remember me, bright-and-cheery Bobby?"
Hank regarded him with a
long stare.
*There never is any use in
pretending with Hank. He lets me often enough, but he never believes it.
Sometimes I really like the big guy.* "Jean tried to talk to me. And the
Professor. Jean gave me the 'buck up, little camper' speech, and I promised to
do my best to be a happy bunny, and Xavier... " he frowned. "He... He
talked to me. With me. There isn't anything *wrong* with me, y'know? There
isn't any *reason* for me to feel bad. Not that he'd say it right out like that,
but hell, I know truth when I think it -- I'm just being depressed because I'm
too stupid and... and whatever-it-is to feel all happy-happy-joy-joy like I
should be feeling. Like everyone else gets to feel. Otherwise dredging up all
that stuff about my dad, and being the youngest X-Man, and my unimportant
powers and jealousy of Emma and everything else -- otherwise that'd've done
some good, y'know? But it didn't. You can't help someone like me. I just gotta
do better on my own. Gotta learn how to be like everyone else."
"Bobby." Hank
sighed deeply, then hugged him hard.
"Oof. What's that
for?"
"Stay right
there." Hank hopped off of the couch and went to his computer, beginning
to type rapidly, screens scrolling by under his touch.
Bobby studied him. He
actually did feel better. Better than he had in days. And Hank had done
nothing, just listened. He didn't know why he felt better, but it felt good to
be temporarily free of the dark misery that came swelling up from inside him
like an insidious cancer eating him alive. It would come back, he was sure of
that. It always came back.
"Ah, yes. I think this
would be the most auspicious choice. Bobby, my friend, how do you feel about
ingesting a regular dose of Paroxetine?"
"Why, thanks, but I
already had a Twinkie today."
"No, no. Paroxetine is
a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor." Bobby looked blank. "An
anti-depressant." Bobby continued to look blank. "A little pill which
may make you feel less unhappy."
"Uh, Hank -- I hate to
tell you this, but there are no little magic happy pills. If there were, we'd
all be taking them."
"I still believe
Prozac in the public water supply would be a very good idea, but no, that is
not what I'm trying to tell you. You may have a chemical imbalance in your
brain that causes you to feel the way you do. If so, this medication will help
to readjust that chemical imbalance over the course of some time, allowing your
emotional and mental state to stabilize to something approximating the current
definition of normal." Bobby stared blankly at him. Hank sighed.
"It's a magic happy pill."
"And you want me to
take it?"
"Regularly."
Bobby began to feel the
smallest beginnings of hope. Hank was the medical genius. If he said there was
a cure for something, then there was. The hollowness was receding. Hope. So
that was what it felt like. He'd forgotten. He closed his eyes, thanking all
the gods and goddesses he knew of for that. "Uh, can I ask you a
favor?"
"Of course."
*I don't want to be alone,
and please, don't leave me alone now that I can finally almost believe that
someone cares. Don't break my illusion now.* Bobby cleared his throat, thinking
fast. "I... I've got 'Buffy, the Vampire Slayer' on tape -- six episodes
from the first season -- missed them before. Wanna watch the tapes with me? If
you're not too busy. Because I know, I mean, your research is important, and I
don't want you to think that I'm asking you to ignore it... oh, hell. Never
mind. I know you wouldn't want to. I just..."
"Bobby, I would be
delighted to watch 'Buffy' with you."
He smiled, a small, real
smile. "Thanks, Hank."
It was late when they
started watching the episodes -- it had already been evening, and their talk
had taken some time. Later still before they were even halfway through the videos.
Bobby looked over at his
friend, occupying most of the couch, and yawned. He wanted nothing more than to
stay right there. To have Hank there... for some reason, he found he suddenly
couldn't bear the idea of leaving, or of Hank leaving. Of being abandoned by
the one true friend he had. But he was tired. Very tired. "Hey,
Hank?"
"Yes?"
"Mind if I go to sleep
right here?"
"Not in the
slightest."
Bobby curled up on the
small part of the couch belonging to him, then, on impulse, laid his head
against Hank's arm. Without a word, Hank wrapped his arm around him, and
Bobby's head was pillowed against his friend's chest.
"Hank?"
"Yes?"
"Please..." his
voice caught on the tears that never seemed too far away today. "Please
don't leave."
"I won't. Good night,
Bobby."
"Good night,
Hank."
It was going to be all
right. Or at least better. Bobby fell asleep like that, head cushioned against
Beast, feeling safe in the no longer threatening darkness.
Hank just kept watching the
television.
-the end-