Forget Everything I Told You

by Alestar

"I want to pretend, in short, that the last few years of the comics don't even exist.
Forget everything I told you about GayWolverineHank."
~ Poi

The proposition on Hank's answering machine was simple.

"Hank, hey, this is Becky. I don't know if you remember me. Becky Thomas. I'm your publicist. You pay my firm on an annual basis so that I will serve as a liaison between you and the media. As such, I usually get the drop on, say, sudden gayness in my clients before the media do. Imagine my surprise when I heard otherwise from CNN.com this morning.

"I'll tell you what, Elton-- you call me back in the next three hours and I might not resign. Meet that NYU guy for the interview he's been begging to do for months, and I might not break your legs. Sound fair to you?

"and don't give me that you don't need my approval bullshit, okay, because you do, Hank! you do! you need my approval!!"

So Hank called Becky at four o'clock on Tuesday and arranged to meet Michael Dierstrom on Friday for drinks at Forty Nights, to discuss-- "anything," Becky said, "whatever he wants, mutants, bacon, nihilism, I don't care."

She called ahead to the restaurant so that when Hank arrived he was met at the door by a host and escorted to a tastefully lit table in the back corner. Hank was wearing a business jacket; but the fur at the backs of his shoulders and elbows had been thickening steadily over the last six weeks, and the jacket was snug; so he pulled it off and draped it over the back of his seat. He checked his watch, then cast his leonine eyes over the drink list.

Dierstrom arrived fifteen minutes late with a backpack thrown over his shoulder. He shook Hank's large hand and sat.  His eyes were wide and his smile almost split his face.

"It's such an honor, really, I've been trying to meet with you for months now."

Hank smiled. "Yes, I apologize, I've been--"

"oh, yes, yes, secondary mutations, I read your last paper in the Journal, it's so fascinating."

A waiter sidled up to their table with an immobile sort of smile and looked between Hank and Dierstrom in strict intervals, as though she were struggling to decide between staring at Hank and not looking at him at all. Dierstrom ordered a beer-- Hank, a Jack and coke.

Dierstrom explained his position in the NYU faculty, teaching a few science classes, and that he wrote a monthly column for their paper. He'd lived in New York City all his life, he said, and he'd followed Hank's work from day one.

"Well, not day one," Dierstrom laughed, and then his cellphone rang. He smiled apologetically and held up a finger. "Hold that thought." He flipped his phone expertly from his sports jacket pocket.

"hello?" he said. "Yeah, hey. Actually, I'm--" He turned his head away from the table. "I'm in the middle of an interview for, for the school. Forty Nights, in the Bowery. you-- oh, okay, yeah. Hold on." He turned back to Hank and smiled, pressing his fingers against the phone's speaker.

"I'm, uh, I'm supposed to meet this guy for sushi later but his friends dropped him off early, he's at Grand Central. Is it okay if he drops by and hangs out with us? He's a quiet guy. and he's not hard to look at," he added, his smile broadening.

"It's certainly all right with me."

"Yeah," said Dierstrom, "yeah, I heard . . . well," he turned back to his phone. "Hey, he says it's all right with him. Yeah. I'll see you soon, bye."

He shut his phone and smiled at Hank.

The waiter brought the drinks and they discussed artificial mutation theory for half an hour. Hank was just mentioning the work of Dr. Urmi Patil when Dierstrom's gaze floated over his shoulder toward the entrance. He smiled and held up his hand. Hank turned, and the approaching man met his gaze and stopped.

Dierstrom waved. "Over here!" he said.

When the man got to the table, he looked away from Hank to Dierstrom. He was wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket. "hey," he said.

Dierstrom tugged out the chair beside him and beamed at Hank.

"Hank, this is my friend, Bobby Drake. Bobby, this is Dr. Henry McCoy, he's a brilliant scientist. I'm interviewing him for the school."

Bobby sat in the chair. He put his hands on the table and looked at them.

Dierstrom laughed. "Bobby's really quiet," he told Hank. He waved over the waiter and then leaned toward Bobby, with his hand on Bobby's back. "Do you want a beer, baby?"

Bobby brought a hand up to the bridge of his sunglasses. "uh, Stoli and Sprite."

Dierstrom and the waiter smiled at each other. Hank folded his hands on the table and looked down at them.

"So--" continued Dierstrom, "like I was saying, in order to support that theory, you'd have to completely ignore Carol Hamm's work . . "

He went on to explain about his last dissertation and its limited publication which was due to university politics. The waiter brought Bobby's drink and he drank from it sparingly, as Hank did from his. Ten minutes into the conversation, he looked over at Dierstrom, and then at Hank.

He shoved away from the table suddenly, making the drinks flutter in their glasses, and said tightly, "I'm going to the bathroom."

Hank turned to watch him walk toward the hallway where the restrooms were. Dierstrom cleared his throat.

"I, uh-- I'm sorry about that. Bobby doesn't really have much exposure to mutant issues, I don't think he knows what to make of you. I'm sure he just, it's not personal. He's just not familiar with your work. He doesn't read the Journal." He laughed nervously. "I mean, I don't think he'd know how to read a magazine without crossword puzzles."

Hank's gaze swiveled back to Dierstrom.

"yeah," said Dierstrom, grinning, "He's a little dim in the attic, it's kind of a shame. He makes up for it in other ways, though, do you know what I'm saying? He's a man of many talents." He winked. "You know?"

"I don't," Hank said flatly.

"Ohh, you know--" Dierstrom's cellphone rang and he held up a finger. "Hold that thought." He turned away with the phone and said, "hello?" Then, "What?" more loudly. "No, I can't, I'm at-- hold on--" He stood up and smiled at Hank. "I'm sorry, I have to take this. I'll be right back."

He shimmied around the tables, out to the lobby, pressing the phone to his ear.

Bobby came back to the table while Hank was draining the last of his drink. Bobby sat down; Hank dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand and set down the glass. He looked up at Bobby.

Bobby said, "Where's Michael?"

"He had a phone call," Hank said, mouth curling.

"Oh."  Bobby took a drink of his Stoli. He looked toward the bar and then the lobby. He took another drink.

"How do you know this Dierstrom guy?" Hank asked.

Bobby twirled the ice in his glass with a finger. He shrugged. "We met at a bar. He's, I don't know."

Hank looked over his shoulder, toward the lobby. "I don't like him."

"Thanks, Dad, I'll keep that in mind."

Hank turned to Bobby, who was frowning into his drink. Hank said, "Is there something wrong with your eyes?"

Bobby's voice flattened out, saying, "No."

"Why are you wearing sunglasses?"

Hank could see Bobby's eyes tighten beyond the glasses, the brows pull together.

"so I hear you're gay now."

Hank grimaced. "It's not. I didn't . . "

Bobby froze his drink and then thawed it, and watched Hank, then said, "Yes, that was very enlightening, thank you."

"It's a long story," said Hank.

"yeah," said Bobby. "I bet."

"Hey, guys!" Dierstrom said, jogging up to the table and leaning his palms against it. "I am so sorry! Something's come up at the school, I have to go, it's an emergency, I'm sorry."

"Is everything alright?" asked Bobby.

"yeah," Dierstrom glanced at Bobby, "but I'm sorry, honey, I've got to go-- I'll call you, we'll go for sushi next week, okay?" He stood and looked from Bobby to Hank, to Bobby. "uh--" He cleared his throat. "Bobby's an accountant, he enjoys horse-back riding and classic rock," he told Hank. "Okay, I'll see you guys later. Henry, we'll get together again soon, I'll call your secretary, it was great meeting you! Bye!"

He threw several looks back at their table as he made his way out, and waved as he disappeared from view.

Bobby looked slowly back at Hank. "I'm an accountant."

Hank's mouth twitched. "I'm a brilliant scientist." He arched an eyebrow. "'Honey'?"

Bobby's gaze flitted away and he shrugged. "Yeah, I dunno. He doesn't even know me that well. We've only been out a couple of times."

"That isn't the way he tells it," Hank said. He realized his arms were crossing themselves. He unfolded them.

"What do you mean?" asked Bobby.

"He made allusion to your 'many talents'."

A frown flickered over Bobby's brow; but Bobby leaned back in his chair and shrugged again; the leather bunched atop his shoulders. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. He's full of shit."

"Indeed," said Hank.

Bobby's mouth quirked. "I'm telling Becky you let some guy call her your secretary."

"Don't you dare. I'm already on probation for my little indiscretion with the reporters."

Bobby snorted. "Yeah, I heard about that."

"I suppose I should explain."

"No, remember, you already told me all about it. 'I'm not, it's not.' You explained the whole thing."

Hank forgot not to refold his arms and he leaned forward. "Why don't you take off your sunglasses, Robert? We're indoors, it's seven o'clock, and you're not Jack Nicholson."

Bobby leaned farther back in his seat. "Why don't you fuck off?"

Hank held up a hand; he looked away then back again. "Fine," he said. He pushed away from the table and stood. "Let's go, then."

"My friends aren't picking me up till ten."

Hank looked down at him, his face pinching. "Your friends."

Bobby's cheeks colored a little. "Jean and Ororo are picking me up."

"It would be a simple matter to call Ororo's phone and tell her you'll be riding with me."

From the angle at which he now stood, the light glinted off the sunglasses which covered Bobby's eyes completely; so it was they that blinked up at Hank and a foreign hard line of a mouth that said, "I'm not riding with you."

Hank shook his shaggy head. "fine," he said again. He turned; from across the room the host started toward him, but Hank held up a hand and brushed by the tables out to the lobby. The evening air wafting in from the glass doors didn't chill him through his furred skin-- but he stopped, rolled his eyes, and moved back toward the dining room.

Bobby was slumped in his chair, scowling at the table with his hand back in his Sprite glass, absently poking at the ice. He looked up as Hank approached, and sat up straighter.

"I forgot my jacket."

Bobby looked at the jacket slung over the back of Hank's chair. "Yeah."

"Robert," Hank said, without touching the chair, instead sliding his hands into his slacks pockets.

"Yeah."

"Trish and I have parted ways."

Bobby blinked. "--okay."

"We had lunch last week and fought. She said certain things--" Hank squinted and shook his head. "The whole matter is confusing. I responded angrily by saying that I thought I might be gay. sarcastically."

Bobby gazed up at Hank through the glasses. "Yeah, that was pretty funny."

"Bobby--"

"So what are you gonna do now? Hire some Calvin Klein underwear model to be your boyfriend and lean on your arm at all the fancy scientist parties? Fake your death?"

Hank's chin dipped. After a moment, he said, "I don't know what I'm going to do."

Bobby looked down at his glass, his hands cupped around it, then pushed it away from him. "Look," he said quietly. "I'm gonna get another drink. Just sit down, okay."

Hank took his hands from his pockets and slid out his chair. "Do you want anything?" Bobby asked. He added, "You might as well get something, you're paying."

"Another Jack and coke, then." Hank sat down.

Bobby went to the bar and came back minutes later with two drinks; he nudged one over to Hank and pressed his sunglasses more squarely against his nose.

"Nevermind about paying," he said as he sat, "It's on the house. I gave the bartender my number."

Hank cocked an eyebrow. "Perhaps you could tone down the Gambit for a mere half-hour, Robert."

Bobby snorted. "Oh, you're one to talk, Mr. Big Gay Wolverine."

Hank paused with his drink lifted. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about." Bobby gestured at Hank. "You've copped his whole act. 'Hey, I'm animaly but not in a sexy way! I do shit that doesn't make sense and call it spiritual! I'm crrrrazy! Hey hey!'"

He set down his glass. "What I did with the reporters was perhaps rash, but I in no way consider it to have been spiritual." He raised the glass again. "And I still deem myself to be animaly in a sexy way."

Bobby scowled. "Not as sexy."

Hank set his glass down again. He touched a hand to the bridge of his nose. "This whole matter is confusing."

"It's your fault."

"Yes, Robert," Hank said behind his hand, "we've covered that." After a moment, he dropped his hand to the table, kept his gaze on it. "When interviewers called me later to confirm Trish's report . . I don't know why I didn't contradict what she'd said. I suppose I was insulted by their incredulity. I mean--" He looked up. "Why wouldn't Dr. Henry McCoy be gay?"

"Because he's not?" Bobby said, looking at this glass.

Hank grimaced and took a drink. "What he is isn't anyone's business."

"Inquiring minds . . "

"Can kiss my furry blue ass."

Bobby laughed.

"So what are you going to do?"

Hank sighed and shook his head again. "I don't know."

"You could join the Church of Scientology. You can say they cured you and then you can marry a nice girl for cooking and babies."

"Nice girls don't cook babies."

"point."

They drank in silence for a few minutes. Then Bobby set down his half-empty glass. He said, "I can't take off my glasses because my eyes are iced over."

Hank frowned. "What? Are you wounded?"

"No. I think it's my, it's got something to do with my secondary mutation."

The frown deepened sharply and Hank leaned forward. "You're undergoing a secondary mutation? Why didn't you tell me?"

Bobby shrugged; the jacket bunched. "I haven't really told anybody. I told Annie. The new nurse at the school."

"The new nurse, you told; I can't believe you didn't tell me."

Bobby's mouth twisted. "Yeah, well, you didn't exactly ask, did you?"

"Why would I ask that, Bobby? Why would anyone ask that? You can't--"

Bobby held up a hand. "No, you know what, I can-- I'm allowed to. I'm allowed to be pissed. You're not 'anyone', you're my best friend and you haven't been around in, like, two years, so I'm forced to fucking commune with Warren-- and you're suddenly having some kind of, new gay thing happening without me, and I don't know anything about it, and I'm having this scary secondary mutation thing, and you don't know anything about it-- and I'm allowed to be pissed at you and me and the whole situation, so I am, okay?"

Hank pulled back into his seat and folded his hands, still frowning deeply. "Okay," he said. Then he added, "Can you tell me about it now?"

Bobby touched a hand to the glasses. "Parts of my body ice up without me telling them to. Mostly I can thaw out after a little time has passed, usually an hour or two, but there are some--" Bobby dipped his thumb into his glass, then brought the glass to his mouth for a sip. "Some places on me I can't get back to normal. The right side of my chest has been iced for two weeks."

"Are you in pain?" Hank asked softly.

"No, it feels like regular icing up. It's just that I never know when it's going to happen, so I keep the glasses on."

"Bobby--" Bobby waited. Hank sighed. "I may not have been around, but I've been available. Why didn't you tell me?"

Bobby drained the rest of his drink. He tipped an ice cube into his palm and made it round, then smaller, then flat. He dropped it back into his glass. "Things have . . been so weird the last few years, everything has. Gambit's leading the team; the Professor's got an evil twin; then nobody's leading the team; then kind of-reincarnated young Scott, except he's a lot hotter than when he was really that age; then nobody again; and the nurse is in love with Havok in a coma; we've got a hooker on the team; and we're trying to have students again but they're all crazy and nobody knows what's going on. And somewhere in all that I came out to you over the phone and you came out in the tabloids. And you-- I mean," Bobby looked up at Hank, his expression hidden behind the glasses, behind subdued resentment and something else. "you've really changed, Hank. And I've really changed. Everything has. And it's just. It's like we're strangers."

Hank looked down into the glittery brown of his drink. Bobby looked down. Then Hank pushed a hand across the table, palm up, and said, "I'm a brilliant scientist."

Bobby slowly moved his hand to Hank's. "I'm an accountant," he said. "But I don't like horse-back riding, I don't know where he got that."

"I assumed he was being sleazy."

Bobby grinned. "You have a dirty mind."

Hank returned the grin. "See, we're not strangers."

They shook hands and then let them rest on the table without pulling them apart.

"Do you wanna get out of here?" Bobby asked eventually.

"Yes," said Hank, draining the remainder of his drink with his free hand.

Bobby waved to the bartender on the way out; and he and Hank walked out to the valet parking side by side. Hank's jacket was draped over his arm.

"What was your name again?" Bobby said, looking sideways at him.

Hank smiled. "Dr. Henry P. McCoy."

"A doctor, wow. I think I read about you. You're gay, right?"

"I am certainly cheerful."

"Yeah, I could tell that about you." Bobby bumped against him. "You've got a bounce in your step."

The valet attendant handed over the keys to Hank's car with wide eyes and pointed them toward a back lot of the garage. When they reached the car, Hank unlocked the passenger-side first; but Bobby stood next to the driver-side door with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"I, uh," he said. "I didn't mean what I said earlier. about you not being as sexy."

Hank grinned and leaned against the car next to Bobby. He put a hand near Bobby's face and, when Bobby made no protest, drew the sunglasses away, and they looked at each other: Hank through amber-colored eyes slit through the middle with dark vertical irises, and Bobby through sculpted white ice.

"We're so different now," Bobby whispered.

"We're not," Hank said. "We're really not."

Bobby let out a deep breath and stepped forward and curled an arm around Hank's broad neck. He lay his forehead against Hank's cheek. "Dr. Henry P. McCoy," he breathed lowly, "just so you know. If this is all sarcasm, I'm going to bite your ear off."

Hank's chuckle rumbled against Bobby's torso. "Now who's the big gay Wolverine?"

Bobby laughed into Hank's collar, where the fur was thicker than he remembered, but still soft.

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