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Writing! Fic! From me!
Since I recently lost my mind to my comics collection, it was inevitable that something was going to crawl out of it...
Bobby finds Hank in the lab, silver spiky glove on one hand to poke at bio-whoiswhatsit equipment, and his other arm in a sling. “What happened to you?”
“Students. Ones who don’t think ‘Don’t put boiling chips in hot ether’ applies to them.” Hank has his ears pinned back, a supremely peeved look on his face.
“Ah, right.” Bobby remembers just enough chemistry to imagine a flashover and a fire in the lab class. “How bad is it?” he peers over the lab bench to look at the bandaged arm.
“I’ll live.” Hank growls, then sighs. “It will be okay. I’ll probably take the sling off tonight; it just aches now. I heal, you know.”
Bobby knows. If not as freakishly quick healing as Logan, Hank doesn’t stay hurt for long. But his arm looks naked and deformed in the sling; it takes Bobby a moment to realize that it is because with all the hair has singed off, the exposed skin is an angry pink, soft, and spattered with faint freckles. He hasn’t seen Hank’s actual skin for years, and he’s faintly surprised at the color.
“Yeah, and you eat like a pig while you do. Had lunch yet?” He doesn’t even wait for Hank to shake his head, just tugs on his friend’s good hand, “Didn’t think so. C’mon, you can play with your toy later.”
Hank gives him a look, but shoves the spiky glove into his pocket and stands up.
There are no kids in the kitchen, because it is still the domain of the adults, so Bobby waves Hank off to the battered table, and digs deli slices out of the fridge for sandwiches. It’s horseradish and roast beef on wheat, cold potato salad, funky homemade pickles (Kitty's work, maybe?), and a bottle of microbrew each. Scott will probably complain about the beer if he shows up, but Hank was set on fire by his chemistry class today, and Bobby will frost Scott’s shorts for him if he’s that much of an ass.
Bobby dumps the plates in front of Hank, and smiles as Hank looks pointedly at the two sandwiches on Bobby’s plate, and the five on his own. Bobby just smiles harder, until Hank sighs and starts eating. He weighs almost three times what Bobby does, keeps insanely long hours, and he still forgets to eat regularly. No wonder he looks particularly droopy right now; tired, hurt, and hungry, and he probably doesn’t know it for anything beyond hurt.
The five sandwiches disappear before Bobby is halfway through his first, so he hands over his second when confronted with Hank’s Puss-in-Boots cutesy eyes of doom look. It’s gone in three bites, and Hank is staring at the fridge speculatively. Time to make more sandwiches, obviously.
When he heads towards the fridge, Hank goes over the table to push him out of the way with a careful foot – Bobby feels the toes grip his wrist and press him away - and starts unpacking food with his good hand. He bounces the packaged meat and pudding cups and any assortment of high calorie, high fat gooeyness out of the fridge and onto the countertop with his feet, like one of the kids playing hackeysack.
“You know, that’s supposed to be four servings?” Bobby says as Hank digs into a bowl of pudding with a serving spoon.
“I’m hungry,” Hank growls, pulling the bowl closer with a foot as his ears go flat again. As if Bobby would try to take food away from him right now. He’s hungry and growly, and he’s six hundred pound of clawed, fanged muscle; it’s kind of a scary mix, just at the moment.
“You’re going to eat yourself into a coma, and then who is going to teach this afternoon?”
“I canceled the rest of my classes for today.”
“You did?”
“I did. Canceled on account of not wanting anything *else* burned off.”
“Hey, you don’t want lab accidents, you can teach the life skills class.”
Hank snickers, “But you’re so good at that.”
“I didn’t get my CPA to teach teenagers how to balance a checkbook.”
"Somebody has to, and I took the sex-ed class."
"You're a doctor," Bobby counters. "What, we were going to let Logan do it?"
They both pause to look at each, appalled at the thought.
This is mostly the fault of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gblvr and sanj, because I've actually been able to hand them X-men First Class to read, and then discuss later. I am heavily pimping the awesome of Hank&Bobby (or Hank/Bobby) at them.
Bobby finds Hank in the lab, silver spiky glove on one hand to poke at bio-whoiswhatsit equipment, and his other arm in a sling. “What happened to you?”
“Students. Ones who don’t think ‘Don’t put boiling chips in hot ether’ applies to them.” Hank has his ears pinned back, a supremely peeved look on his face.
“Ah, right.” Bobby remembers just enough chemistry to imagine a flashover and a fire in the lab class. “How bad is it?” he peers over the lab bench to look at the bandaged arm.
“I’ll live.” Hank growls, then sighs. “It will be okay. I’ll probably take the sling off tonight; it just aches now. I heal, you know.”
Bobby knows. If not as freakishly quick healing as Logan, Hank doesn’t stay hurt for long. But his arm looks naked and deformed in the sling; it takes Bobby a moment to realize that it is because with all the hair has singed off, the exposed skin is an angry pink, soft, and spattered with faint freckles. He hasn’t seen Hank’s actual skin for years, and he’s faintly surprised at the color.
“Yeah, and you eat like a pig while you do. Had lunch yet?” He doesn’t even wait for Hank to shake his head, just tugs on his friend’s good hand, “Didn’t think so. C’mon, you can play with your toy later.”
Hank gives him a look, but shoves the spiky glove into his pocket and stands up.
There are no kids in the kitchen, because it is still the domain of the adults, so Bobby waves Hank off to the battered table, and digs deli slices out of the fridge for sandwiches. It’s horseradish and roast beef on wheat, cold potato salad, funky homemade pickles (Kitty's work, maybe?), and a bottle of microbrew each. Scott will probably complain about the beer if he shows up, but Hank was set on fire by his chemistry class today, and Bobby will frost Scott’s shorts for him if he’s that much of an ass.
Bobby dumps the plates in front of Hank, and smiles as Hank looks pointedly at the two sandwiches on Bobby’s plate, and the five on his own. Bobby just smiles harder, until Hank sighs and starts eating. He weighs almost three times what Bobby does, keeps insanely long hours, and he still forgets to eat regularly. No wonder he looks particularly droopy right now; tired, hurt, and hungry, and he probably doesn’t know it for anything beyond hurt.
The five sandwiches disappear before Bobby is halfway through his first, so he hands over his second when confronted with Hank’s Puss-in-Boots cutesy eyes of doom look. It’s gone in three bites, and Hank is staring at the fridge speculatively. Time to make more sandwiches, obviously.
When he heads towards the fridge, Hank goes over the table to push him out of the way with a careful foot – Bobby feels the toes grip his wrist and press him away - and starts unpacking food with his good hand. He bounces the packaged meat and pudding cups and any assortment of high calorie, high fat gooeyness out of the fridge and onto the countertop with his feet, like one of the kids playing hackeysack.
“You know, that’s supposed to be four servings?” Bobby says as Hank digs into a bowl of pudding with a serving spoon.
“I’m hungry,” Hank growls, pulling the bowl closer with a foot as his ears go flat again. As if Bobby would try to take food away from him right now. He’s hungry and growly, and he’s six hundred pound of clawed, fanged muscle; it’s kind of a scary mix, just at the moment.
“You’re going to eat yourself into a coma, and then who is going to teach this afternoon?”
“I canceled the rest of my classes for today.”
“You did?”
“I did. Canceled on account of not wanting anything *else* burned off.”
“Hey, you don’t want lab accidents, you can teach the life skills class.”
Hank snickers, “But you’re so good at that.”
“I didn’t get my CPA to teach teenagers how to balance a checkbook.”
"Somebody has to, and I took the sex-ed class."
"You're a doctor," Bobby counters. "What, we were going to let Logan do it?"
They both pause to look at each, appalled at the thought.
This is mostly the fault of
gblvr and sanj, because I've actually been able to hand them X-men First Class to read, and then discuss later. I am heavily pimping the awesome of Hank&Bobby (or Hank/Bobby) at them.
no subject
no subject
Logan would be a terrible teacher, possibly by giving WAY too much information to people.
I didn't even get the boys to flirt, though. :( Sorry.