Chapter Text
The people behind you chitter and tweet, laughing to themselves like harpies. Beastly heads sit on beautiful bodies. The soft glow from the stage gives you a perfect view of their contorted faces when you look at them. They don’t see your indignant glare.
You turn to your right, Hank is closer to them. For a moment, you feel terrible. This was supposed to be a smooth first date, just he and you. He appreciates a good symphony, you thought it the best way to make him happy. Is he happy?
Studying his face, your eyes dart away when you realize he’s onto you. His eyes are hidden behind his half-moon glasses, but they drop a fraction to yours before you can look away. Flushing, you watch the conductor stand pin-straight and draw from his musicians an effortless talent.
“They’re not bothering me.” he says, so quietly you have to wonder if he said anything at all. Hank is a contradiction the moment he opens his mouth, and you repress that twisting feeling in your chest at the thought of him lying to you.
“It’s rude.” you hiss. He nods in agreement. You put your arm around his, sometimes that can help. His shoulders straighten and he keeps his eyes forward. His anatomy is an exaggeration, a question of the limits a human body can reach. If he were less of a gentlemen, the women behind you would be dead. You smile at that thought.
It would be unprofessional to lean your head against his shoulder, but the night’s taken such a turn for the distasteful that you nearly consider it. As much as you’d like very much to be close to him, it seems Hank is determined not to be embarrassed, you’re all for that.
“I’ll make it up to you.” you sigh, tilting your head up just enough. Your lips are nowhere near his ear, so tall is he but the thought seems to count. His smile is like a corkscrew, warm and wide and compressed into a thin line too soon. He shakes his head minutely and finally glances down at you.
“Not necessary. I’m having a lovely time.” he replies, conscious of the people beside him. Hank has a good heart, you remind yourself, never one to ruin someone else’s experience.
You pat his hand instead of a verbal response and he seems to appreciate that. He returns to listening to the music, watching the solo violinist pour her heart out on stage. He closes his eyes, lets himself he transported somewhere better. His brow furrows just slightly as the volume behind the two of you increases. A laugh that sounds like a cackle has him opening his eyes again and exhaling.
There’s still music bumping around your head as the lights come back up. You resist the urge to stretch as you stand, aware of your surroundings. That doesn’t stop you from picking up your handbag and taking Hanks arm as soon as your able. You wonder if he can see you desperately trying to find the quickest exit.
One sits near the bottom of the stairs, leading upwards to the lobby while the other is at the back of the theatre. Turning, you see the women are watching you like hawks from a perch.
No, not exactly. They’re not watching you, their eyes don’t leave Hank. Feeling something close to a protective instinct rise in your chest, you press it back into the spaces between your ribs. He can look out for himself, has been since before you were even a thought. You glance at him all the same and he attempts to ease your look of concern with one of reassurance. It half-works.
Side-stepping your way towards the aisle, you lace your fingers through his and gently tug Hank along. You decide that the exit by the stage is the safest option. You make it four steps before it dawns on you that the chattering voices are staying at exactly the same volume as before. Hank doesn’t turn, but you do and to your horror, the women are following.
A large, blue hand on your shoulder prompts you to keep walking. Hank’s face is an unreadable mask of blasé displeasure but he doesn’t appear worried. It seems he had the right idea, the women follow at a short distance but never extend their gossip to include either of you.
Safe out on the busy, windy street, you set off together in search of a taxi. Now free of the societal expectation to be silent during a performance —some people evidently didn’t get the memo— his voice is slightly raised above the din of the city.
“Some people just want to look.” he assures you, but it doesn’t change the slightly sick feeling in your stomach. “But let’s not talk about that. Did you enjoy the music?”
“I should be asking you that,” you respond, choosing not to comment on his earlier observation. Everything in his tone told you to drop it, and you’re nothing if not keen to respect his wishes. “I loved it.”
Hank nods, that smile returning like a blinding light as he shows his pointed canines. You put your arm around him again, somewhat shocked by the sudden drop in temperature. Your heels clack against the pavement, animated discussion about conducting techniques and the flawless flute section charging the air between you.
“My apartment isn’t far, we could just walk. I’m fond of the conversation.” you say, your smile matching his in enthusiasm. You were worried, palpably so that prior events might ruin your date. Hank appears more than willing to forget it ever happened, bless him.
His laugh is a quiet thunderclap, a miniature storm that sizzles the atmosphere. He puts his hand on your lower back and you lean in towards his shoulder.
“I’m flattered. Are you sure the weather permits that?” he asks, amusement crossed with slight bemusement evident on his face. You shrug.
“I’m not cold.” you say. He lifts an eyebrow.
“I sense a lie.” he quips and you flash him a look that’s a bridge between flirtatious and annoyed. If you were an outsider looking in, you’d find the banter between you repulsive, but you’re not. A feeling similar to bubbling joy rises as he stops and unbuttons his overcoat.
He puts it around your shoulders and the hem, on you, nearly brushes the ground. You slip your arms through the sleeves and he begins to walk again.
“Thank you,” you say, slightly dazed, “I won’t forget mine next time.” he shakes his head as if it’s of little consequence.
“If you’re warm enough, then I am more than happy.” you nod. Hank lifts his head, inhales the smell of exhaust and gasoline but catches a hint of your perfume on the wind. “The theatre was stifling.” he admits. “I’m grateful for the fresh air.”
“Then we should walk,” you say. “You can tell me about the symphony you saw with Mister Wagner and your students two weeks ago.” Hank’s eyes light up and you’re quite pleased with yourself. His passion is a particular brand of soft-spoken, but the interest in his voice speaks volumes.
The two of you choose not to notice the people staring as the only time you look away from Hank is to see what’s directly in front of you.
Pulling on his arm again, you tug him into the lobby of your apartment building. Fishing your keys from your handbag, his coat slips down your shoulder. Slightly windswept and with cold cheeks, you start off towards the elevator.
“I look frightful,” you say after pressing the button for the fourteenth floor. The three-quarter mirror on the opposing wall of the elevator really is a curse. With a ferocity, you attack your mussed hair. Hank puts a hand on your arm and his smile is somewhat dulled.
“You look—” he begins, your head tilting to the side. “fine, just fine.” he finishes. A blush you can’t fight creeps up your neck.
“If you say so,” you mumble, surrendering the fight. Your hands fall to your sides. The rest of the ride is spent in comfortable silence, you leaning with your cheek pressed to his suit-jacket-clad bicep.
You let out a huff when the elevator dings and the doors slide open, almost annoyed at being interrupted. Hank lets you step out first and you wait for him before walking off down the hallway. Your keys are at the ready when you reach your door and the rush of warmth as you step inside is most welcome.
Rather carelessly, you take off your high heels. Pretty things though they were, your toes are tired of being pinched. His coat, however, is treated far more gently. You hang it up for him, motioning with your head for him to explore your apartment while you lock up.
Following slightly behind, he takes in your living room and—
“Would you look at that view.” he remarks like clockwork. You feel pride swell in your chest.
“I’d better, or I’m paying buckets of rent for nothing.” he laughs and again, your heart soars. “Have a seat, Hank. Would you like a glass of wine?” he nods but doesn’t sit, instead peers over your shoulder as you retrieve the bottle. If he’s impressed, you can’t tell.
He occupies the mismatched armchair, somewhat distant from the couch you sink into. Looking at him across the room, you smirk and take a sip from your glass.
“I noticed something when we were walking here, Hank,” you say. Your gaze out the window is sharply called to him when he sputters. Your eyes widen.
“What were you going to say?” he asks, coughing gently and looking visibly embarrassed. You offer up a smile.
“You told me more about your students than you did the symphony,” you tell him, as innocuous as you please. You don’t want to ask, you don’t. “but that isn’t what you thought I would say is it?”
“No, but I’m glad for the surprise.” he says with a note of finality to his voice. He sits back, seems to relax a little bit. “There is a play called Man and Superman famous for the line; he who can, does. He who cannot, teaches.” you lift an eyebrow. “Truthfully, I’ve found teaching to be one of the most rewarding occupations there is.”
You’re aware that there is something deep-rooted burning just beneath the surface of Hank’s sociable conversation. He was expecting you to comment on the people staring. Your heart sinks, but he unconsciously does not allow for it to fall too much. His feelings about teaching, his respect for young talent is difficult to be upset around. Tucking your knees up under you, you’re content to listen to him speak.
“It sounds like a remarkable place,” you offer up, leaning against the back of the couch. “goodness knows that mutant children need someone to look up to.”
“You really are a flatterer.” he says, giving you a look that’s nevertheless affectionate. Shrugging, you stand up and offer to top up his glass. He takes it.
“Hank,” you say after a moment. Placing your hand on the upholstery, you motion for him to move. “come sit with me.” it’s a moment before he does as you ask.
He sits between you and your view of the city, taking up a good portion of half of the sofa. Your arm rests along the back of it, parallel to his shoulder but not touching him.
“I had a really nice time tonight,” you say. “I hope that you—”
“Believe me, I did.” he says. “thank you for being patient.” your face contorts just slightly. “I don’t suppose it’s easy—”
“May I kiss you?” you ask him before you can bite your tongue. He looks somewhat stunned. Your flush burns your cheeks. “the only thing that hasn’t been easy is waiting to ask if I could. You happen to be very handsome.”
For a moment, you wonder if you might end up watching Hank McCoy flounder. Instead, he just nods. You set your wine glass on the coffee table and turn so you’re kneeling on the cushion, facing him.
The height issue is less pronounced at this angle, and you need only lift your chin a bit to kiss him as you asked if you might. Your eyes close, your hands resting on the expanse of his shoulders. Despite the chill outside, he’s warm as the sun in July.
You sit back, having only asked for one kiss. His instinct is to lean in again, closer to you than before. Your hands, which remain on his shoulders prevent his embarrassed retreat.
“May I?” he asks in kind. It’s your turn to nod.
He minds his claws as he places a hand under your chin. Tilting your head manually, he kisses you again. Your arms wrap around his neck out of instinct, pulling him closer— even when his chest is firmly pressed against yours.
The thundering of your heart is bared to him, but his own sensibilities are a mystery to you. He pulls away, inhaling as if he forgot to breath for a moment. Hank looks down between the two of you and your arms slip back to your sides.
“I should be going, now.” he says. “thank you for the drink.” he stands, his back impressive and tense. Your eyes follow him.
Ask him to stay, you think. It’s the first date, you remind yourself. Still, ask him to stay, he’s leaving! You stand as well, following him as he moves towards your front cupboard.
“We’ll do this again sometime?” you mean to insist, it sounds more along the lines of a weak plea. Perhaps you misinterpreted some sign, perhaps he simply is trying to spare your feelings. Foolish, you chastise yourself.
“Oh, absolutely,” he says with an enthusiasm that surprises you. “next Saturday, provided you’ve no plans?” somewhat dazed, you nod.
“Yes, I’d love to—” there’s a sense, you realize, of him wanting tonight to stay exactly as it is. He shrugs his coat on and you move to grab his arm instead of immediately unlocking the door.
Your third kiss is as soft as the last two, bordering on chaste. You feel his canines press into your lower lip but couldn’t feel fear if you tried. Hank looks practically dizzy when you break the kiss and unlock the door.
For all his quotes and your attempts to match him in refinement, the two of you are still limited to the extents of your vocabularies. You would deeply like to pry his hand from the door and mutter something Shakespearian to convince him not to leave. He would like very much to stay as well.
Instead, Hank nods at you once before saying his goodbyes and heading for the elevator.
But tonight, for all its faults, has been very good. Disappointment, some might argue, is an essential element to the human condition but neither of you feel anywhere close to it.