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They lay on opposite sides of the bed, sweaty, and staring at the ceiling. Although Hank took up most of the space, there was still enough room that their bodies didn't touch. He was acutely aware of that space, as he was the silence between them.
What was the protocol for such situations? Should he just come out and say, 'How was that for you?' or something equally clichéd? Maybe try to hold her? She didn't seem like the sort to cuddle. Why hadn't she said anything? Had he done something terribly wrong? Or had she changed her mind, realised she really wasn't that attracted to him after all and it was just saving-the-world adrenaline she had felt? He shouldn't have said yes to this.
“Hunh.” That wasn't him, that was her. True, it wasn't exactly words – more something between a sigh and a grunt – but it was something. He could work with something.
“You alright?” That was her again. How best to respond to the attractive, terrifying, woman lying in his bed? If she had changed mind and was about to leave then perhaps honesty would be best because this was unlikely to happen ag-
“McCoy!” The back of her hand smacked him on the bicep, the shock of it pulling him out of his thoughts. “If I'd known sex was the way to shut you up, I'd have suggested it sooner. Simple question: you alright? Yes or no?”
“I'm fine,” he replied but he could hear the tightness in his voice. From the way she tensed up, Brand had heard it too.
“No, I get it,” she said, sitting up and reaching for her discarded clothes. “I'll go.”
Hank averted his gaze as she pulled on her clothes. Given the amount of close contact he'd had with her naked body that night, it was a ridiculous gesture. To look, however, felt inappropriate, too intimate for whatever this was. When he glanced back, she was stood by the door staring at him.
“So we're clear: that was good. You were good. Doing that again would be really good. This bit: really weird.”
Whilst he may not hate her exactly, there were certainly a lot of things he disliked about her. Yet, for some reason, he was disinclined to let her leave.
“Abigail.” Her name felt heavy and unfamiliar in his mouth. “Would you – would you like to go for breakfast? I'll pay of course.”
She paused just long enough to make him uncomfortable, as though considering her reply, then said with a smirk, “I'll put it on my expenses. Think I can get away with calling it a 'breakfast meeting with a consultant'.”
“And if you can't?”
“Then my accounts department aren't scared enough of me.”
***
“Girlfriend, huh?” she mused.
They were in Hank's quarters at the new San Francisco base. From where she lay on her front, head propped on one hand, Abigail surveyed his room. In some ways, it seemed like an extension of his lab – notebooks left here and there, a neat stack of scientific journals set on a side table, Twinkie wrapper in the waste paper bin – but in others, it was a more like a private library. Earlier in the evening, Hank's collection of well loved books had been organised in a system she didn't recognise. The contents of one of the bookcases was now all over the floor. They'd been given the evening off to play so they'd played – hard.
“Problem?” Hank smiled up at her, sleepily, from his pillow.
“Only if it means I have to be nice to your friends. Especially if it means I have to be nice to Summers.”
“Abigail, if you started being nice to Scott, I would immediately have to check you weren't an imposter.”
“Hey, I resent that, furball. I can do nice.”
“Of course you can, my dear.”
“It's not my fault Summers is an idiot,” she huffed. “You know nothing about Ghost Boxes. This is all gunna go to hell and my job is far too hectic to find a replacement for you.”
Hank looked amused. “Was that an admission you'd miss me?”
She snorted. “No. I'd miss the sex.” Under his gaze, she looked away. “Might do. That's the sort of thing girlfriend's do, right?”
He was smirking, she knew without even looking. She didn't want to ruin their fun by getting all serious on him but knew she had to. “You know I can't afford to hesitate, right?” she said, her eyes focused on the mess of books rather than him. “If I'm your... girlfriend and I have to make a choice, then... regardless of my feelings...”
“Abby.” His voice was as gentle as the kiss he placed to the back of her neck. “I know.”
That kiss became the first of a string heading southwards which ended with claw marks on her thighs and a possibly several broken slats in the bed frame. When he thought Abigail was asleep, Hank murmured,
“I think I'd miss you too.”
***
The only real sign that the San Fran hotel room's current occupant was Hank McCoy were the few items on the night stand. His hairbrush took up most of the space, with its broad wooden head and coarse pale bristles. Caught in it were a few blue hairs that had gotten left behind the last time the brush had been cleaned out. They reminded Abigail of transport routes snaking between buildings on an alien world she'd visited months ago. Sat next to it were his reading glasses, the round lenses ridiculously out of proportion to the long wire arms needed to reach his ears.
However, the reason she was so familiar with Henry's bedside table was that she'd been staring at it for several minutes, his head on her chest, wondering what the fuck had gone wrong.
Three days ago, she'd received a message from the Peak informing her Dr McCoy had been in contact. Unfortunately, she had been half a dozen galaxies over on what her junior agents affectionately called a 'directorial diplomatic mission'; when all other diplomacy failed, they sent her. The moment she'd returned to base, she'd checked her messages. She had delegated as many as she could and had dealt with the rest as swiftly as possible (she had even managed to limit the number of four letter words in her replies), before she'd turned her attention to Hank's message. It had been brief: a request to see her, a hotel address and suite number, along with an aside informing her that he would be there for at least the next fortnight. She'd changed in to civvies – tank top and combats – grabbed the next available craft and was on Earth within the hour.
When he'd opened the door, he was wearing nothing but loose pyjama bottoms, with his fur sticking up at odd angles so that his entire body had a bed head look to it. In retrospect, that probably should have been her first clue that something was amiss but, seeing her normally so well kempt scientist looking so dishevelled, did something to her. After all, it had been weeks – she had needs – and he looked unfairly gorgeous like that.
She had pounced, arms going to his neck, legs locking around his hips, mouth going wherever it could reach, determined to muss up his fur even more. When she had felt his arms around her, holding her close and supporting her weight, she'd begun tearing at her clothes, desperate to feel him against her skin.
It had taken her a moment to register that he wasn't returning her frenzied kisses. Instead, his thumb had been gently rubbing a small arc on her lower back. What had stopped her dead, though, was his voice. That deep, confident voice – the one that could make a casual observations sound humourous and scientific theorems she couldn't even begin to understand sound sexy, all whilst using words with too many syllables – that could be as big as he was or as soft as his fur, was missing. In its place was a small, broken rasp of a thing and it had been saying her name, over and over,
“Abigail, please. Stop. Abigail, stop. Please. Abby.”
Something was terribly wrong with her Hank. Something had made him sound like that. She wanted to find that something, put a gun to its head, threaten it until it was as broken as Hank sounded, then throw it in a cell where she could make sure it stayed broken and could never make him sound like that again. First of all, however, she wanted him to stop sounding like that.
Briefly, she'd considered trying to initiate sex again – as way to make him feel better and to express that she did care. You can't fix him with sex, you can't fuck this away, she'd thought to herself. Nut up Director, he wanted you here. Feelings are not the enemy, you can do this. She would have to show him that she could be here for him in another way.
When she'd stilled, he'd pressed his face to her collarbone. That meant her mouth had been able to reach one of her favourite parts of him – his sensitive ears. She'd pressed a kiss to the soft, delicate fur at the base of the nearest one and murmured,
“Hi.”
He hadn't said anything, just nestled his nose a little closer to her neck and held her tighter.
“Work aren't expecting me back for a few days,” she went on. “So I'm all yours 'til you get bored with me.” His grip had relaxed a little but he still kept her close.
They'd stayed that way, pressed together, for a while before she'd realised that, as warm as she was in his arms, she was only clothed from the waist down. Abigail Brand might be many things but someone who did things by halves she was not one of them.
“Put me down, Hank.”
He'd set her down on the bed where she'd kicked off her boots and socks and shimmied out of combats. Feelings are not the enemy, she'd repeated to herself. Nut up, Director. He'd wanted her here and, from how tight he'd held her, she'd thought she might know what he needed.
She'd stretched out on her back and, without prompting, he'd simply pressed his body along her side, one arm across her waist. His head, he'd placed on the sensitive area between her breasts; just above her heart. She'd heated her hands just enough to be comfortable, set about smoothing down his coat and wondered what the fuck had gone so badly wrong as to leave him like this. As she'd run her fingers down his back, whenever she found a patch that wouldn't sit flat, she'd bury her fingers underneath the top layer and gently tease the softer lower fur until it would separate neatly. Hank was quiet, apart from the odd grunt when she wasn't gentle enough with a tangle.
Eventually, he said, “I think I need a job.”
“Why, Summers cut your allowance?” she quipped. From the way he tensed, it was the wrong thing to say. She kept her heated hand moving down his back.
When he relaxed again she said, “The S.W.O.R.D. job's still there. If you want more work, you just have to ask.”
He was quiet again for some time and Abigail moved on to smoothing out the fur on the arm across her stomach. She'd gotten it almost perfect before he said, “If I were to tell you you'd gone too far, what would you do?”
She thought for a moment before answering honestly, “I don't know. Try and make amends, I suppose. If I've had to make a tough call then, whatever happens, there are always shitty consequences, you know that. So, yeah, deal with the fallout, fix it as best I can. Because if you've told me something's too far, then it probably is.”
Her fingers moved to the back of his head. The fur was longer there, more mane-like and more prone to knots, but he gave no objections to her warm hands moving through it. He was so still and so quiet, eyes closed, for so long that Abigail thought he was asleep.
“I left them,” he confessed. “I walked out. Walked out on my... family, left them to their damned island. I've done it before but... never like this, never...”
The most articulate man she knew was struggling to find the words for what had happened. She knew what that meant. The one time he'd asked her about her tattoos she'd told him that he could ask her anything but there were a lot of things that she couldn't tell him, for operational reasons. Then, she'd explained, there some things she just didn't have words for; Anna and Grace were the latter.
He took a deep breath then said, “Scott went too far. I got...hurt. Badly.”
Abigail felt her insides hollow and in to that empty space flooded a dark cloud of rage.
“Would shooting him be too far?” she growled.
A spasm of breath that left his body was almost a chuckle. “Yes, we're an endangered species, after all.” He leaned up and kissed her. “Thank you for being angry on my behalf. No one else has been.”
“Angry is easy,” she shrugged. “I'm good at angry. And I can do this.” She waved her free hand in gesture that took in the two of them.“Don't expect me to start talking about my feelings but if-”
He kissed away the end of her sentence, before sitting up.
“I'm sorry.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “My life has changed very suddenly and it's... How do you feel about food?”
She let him change the subject, knowing that if he wanted to tell her more, he would. “I've been on freeze-dried rations for the last week and a half,” she told him. “I want steak. And we're getting room service because I am not putting my bra back on.”
“Am I correct in thinking this dinner will be clothing optional, then?” There is was, that humorous lilt and the teasing twinkle. He might have been knocked down but he was getting back up.
“Get cream on the side with dessert and the answer is definitely yes.”
Alright Director, she thought. Maybe we can do feelings, after all.
***
Abigail was lying on top of him, head tucked under his chin and feet tangled with his. She was blissed out on oxytocin and not within arm's reach of a weapon. Hank reasoned now would be as good a time to tell her as any.
“I'm going to need to cut back on my S.W.O.R.D. workload. I've been, well, head-hunted.”
“And by head-hunted, you do mean the stuffed and hanging on a wall kind, right?” she murmured sleepily. “Not the leaving kind – which would result in your head stuffed and hanging on my wall.”
“Have I told you how divine you are when you're naked and threatening me with violence, my love?”
“Frequently. Now where are you going?”
“I'm not at liberty to divulge that.” He tightened the arms around her waist and whispered in her ear, playfully, “It's a secret.”
“This isn't because of what I said about your conditioner collection is it?” Her voice was wary.
Ah, he thought. Well done, Hank, she thinks you're leaving her. Lightly, he traced complex patterns on her naked body with his claws, making her shiver.
“An old friend asked me to help him make the world a safer place and I'm inclined to say yes. My conditioner collection will, of course, have to stay here – you know how the air filtration dries out my coat – for when I'm back. Which will be every chance I can get.”
“Yeah?”
“One of your agents – who shall remain nameless – did request that I maintain my association with S.W.O.R.D. for as long as possible. As they put it, 'Ssshe'sssss much easssier to work with when ssshe'sssss getting ssssome regularly.' Now, how could I possibly abandon such excellent agents to a difficult work environment?”
“Fine. But if you wind up dead-”
“I know, darling, I know. Creative and unnecessarily cruel punishment upon those responsible. I won't even warn Steve it's coming.”
Nestled on top of him, Abigail then proved – for the third time that night – just how gifted her tongue could be. The words that spilled forth held an unearthly beauty; had he not heard them himself Hank would have sworn it was impossible for any language to incorporate sounds like that of rain on glass.
“What was that?” he breathed.
“You heard me, hearthrug,” she replied, gruffly.
He couldn't be certain but his instincts said that it might translate one of two ways. Either, she'd directed a particularly creative insult his way or finally managed to say, 'I love you'.
“Love you too, Abby,” he murmured.
From the way she huffed contentedly, he was sure he'd made the right call.