"Ah, our parking garage," Cassie commented, as Hank's little red sportster nipped to a halt millimeters from the concrete retaining wall. The cocktail party and awards ceremony being thrown by her publisher was, as could be expected, at the same hotel where they had put her up.
"Isn't it romantic?" Hank said, playing along by batting his eyelashes and simpering as he clasped his clutched hands to his chest.
Cassie heaved a theatrical sigh, and hugged herself to his brawny upper arm, the body part a chaste star of an old movie musical would have had to content herself with. "It's heavenly," she cooed. "The exhaust fumes, the old crumbling grey mortar--it hasn't changed a bit!" This caused Hank to splutter out of character into laughter. He gave her a hearty squeeze with his remaining free arm and a kiss on the top of her head before he began to extricate himself from the vehicle.
Strange as it might seem, Cassie considered as she also exited the car, Hank was the most romantic thing to happen to her in years. Maybe in her whole life. Bob[1] had been...intense, but not really romantic, while they were courting. The fact that she and Hank could so easily make each other laugh had a great deal to do with it. Perhaps this was the reason her ideas of romance were considered eccentric among her writing peers.
As they made their way into the hotel proper, Hank inquired, "By the way, is it absolutely imperative that you return to Denver tonight?"
The way he so very casually brought the question more or less out of nowhere warmed Cassie's heart--it sounded highly rehearsed, as if he had had it on his mind for some time. As she had. This answered her question of whether he was planning to bring their time together to a natural, graceful end by merely driving her to the airport and bidding her adieu, with no other possibilities mentioned. "I'm afraid it is. I'm committed to teaching the afternoon half of a writing workshop there tomorrow."
"Oh, I see." Another hope dashed. Hank knew he couldn't honorably try to argue her out of a professional engagement--but could that be the reason she selected exactly that story? She had already expressed reservations about their future together....
"I wish I didn't have to," she murmured regretfully, taking his hand, and the future brightened again. "But a promise is a promise."
"I am glad to know you are the sort of person who takes promises seriously," Hank told her, and kissed the knuckles of her hand before they dropped into decorous behavior more appropriate for the highly populated grand ballroom.
Cassie put her hand through the crook of Hank's elbow, which he now knew meant she was using him as a sort of towering security blanket to help her deal with the throngs of people present. He was still not sure that not wearing the image inducer was a good idea, but there had turned out to be no time to attempt reassembly. 'And whose fault is that, my boy?' he asked himself, with a mental grin at the extremely satisfactory recollection of what had taken up most of their afternoon. Ah, well, so long as no one upset Cassie. He was quite used to putting up a shield in social situations by deciding to make all stares and whispers beneath his notice.
"Cassie, there you are!" A stout, buxom woman in a bright red blazer had hailed them, and was now bearing determinedly through the crowd, cutting a swathe between the billows of business suits and evening dresses.
"Oh, hi, Wendy," Cassie replied, coming to a halt. "We just got here--I was looking for you."
Wendy patently examined the couple from head to toe, with most of her emphasis on Hank. "Nice dress, dear," she commented absently, referring to the little black number they had 'fluffed up', (as Cassie put it), that afternoon in the mansion's laundry room.
Hank patched an expression of amiable expectation on his face, and endured the white-haired woman's study with equanimity. "Now I see why it's taken you so long to start dating again," Wendy finally said to Cassie, with a grin that could easily be described as salacious. "You were hunting one that was trophy size!"
"Wendy!" Cassie protested, aghast at her agent/friend's lack of diplomacy.
Hank only snorted in surprised amusement. He tentatively assumed he had passed muster of some sort. "I believe I spoke to you on the phone this morning? I'm Hank McCoy, Cassie's...ah..." oh, this could be a little tricky, "...escort."
Wendy stretched forth her hand. "You make a lovely couple," she said in her cigarette-husked voice. "Have you been taking good care of my girl?" Her tone was bantering, but those sharp eyes held reservations. Apparently Cassie aroused protective instincts in others besides him.
"Very good care, Wendy," Cassie assured her firmly, closing the door on that subject.
"Aaaand that's why you don't have a corrected manuscript under your arm for me?" Wendy inquired further, provoking Cassie's blushing reflex. She looked the pair of them up and down again, and nodded to herself. "That's all right, dear. You know that almost nothing in the world is more important to me than your happiness...."
"Yes, Mother," Cassie retorted, but smilingly.
"Then you two dears have fun, but remember--I will not listen to even one-tenth of an excuse if that corrected manuscript is not on my desk by Friday!"
"I'll finish it on the plane and FedEx it to you tomorrow," Cassie promised hastily.
"That will be fine," Wendy said. "Better go check in and get your ID. I'm going to work the room, since you already have...an escort." She feasted her eyes on Hank, who was looking quite elegant in a semi- formal evening jacket, one more time, then excused herself to go mingle, trailing a "Hmmm-mmmm-mmmm" of admiration at Cassie's taste and luck.
"Do you know, I believe she liked me," Hank said mildly.
"If she didn't, we'd both know it," Cassie assured him. Her eyes were aglow, and so he understood this had been an important encounter, and he had come through it to advantage. "Let's go sign in."
Hank was offered his choice between a stickyback lapel label and the kind with a plastic cover and an actual pin. He opted for the sticky one, as less potentially damaging to his best jacket, and in a fit of mischief wrote 'Dr. Henry McCoy' upon it with an austere calligraphic flair. Cassie, at least, was impressed.
As a guest writer, her label turned out to be swathed within a corsage of miniature white rosebuds, with her name written in gold ink and the whole thing covered in opalescent glitter. With aplomb, Hank took over the tricky task of securing the delicate thing to the bodice of her dress. Someone in the crowd took this as the perfect photo opportunity, but he only smiled reassuringly at Cassie's worried glance in that direction. "Not a problem, my dear, that's my good side, and you don't have a bad side!" She seemed to grasp his underlying meaning, that the publicity promoters didn't trouble him, and relaxed.
With Cassie on his arm again, they walked through the crowd, occasionally stopping so Cassie could introduce him to someone, or so she could be introduced to someone. She had explained there were about a dozen writers present, all up for various awards, and representatives of trade magazines and booksellers and executives from the publishing house, and even twenty-five women who had won a contest to get to be here tonight; the grand ballroom was fairly full. A string quartet played in one corner, and one wall was devoted to refreshments. Sadly, they were all delicate morsels of this and that--he hoped there would be time to stop for a real dinner somewhere before heading to the airport.
The people attending managed to surprise him. Although he and Cassie did reap some startled looks, the percentage of appalled ones was gratifyingly low. Each time Cassie stopped to talk, Hank was made to feel free to take part in the conversation. The only trouble was that he was in one of the few venues on earth where he had no clue on how to do so. The romance, writing and publishing shop talk was absolutely alien to his life experience thus far, forcing him to be content to listen and nod, and occasionally beam proudly at Cassie. At least he was good at that.
Cassie did get a chance to explain a semi-useful hierarchy to him, one Wendy had developed. "Regular--that's a plain paperback. Then there's foil-cover, where they turn the art department's imagination loose on your book cover design. Next is big books, the really fat ones, and top of the line is fat foilcovers. Well, top except for hardback...."
"And where do you fall in this spectrum?"
"Foil," Cassie smiled. "I haven't managed big because I run out of story too soon--I drive Wendy crazy, you know."
"Something must have," Hank mused, but kindly. He had rather liked Wendy.
"But...she thinks I could just jump right to hardback, one of these days. Especially if I get the Readers' Choice award tonight." She gave his arm a hard squeeze. "Thanks to you, I haven't have time to dwell on it, but now that it's almost time, I'm nervous."
"I hope you get it, my dear," was all he could say. Ironic, that he felt such a strong urge to give her anything in the world she wanted, and that what she wanted was something he hadn't the slightest power to help her attain.
A small voice behind them interrupted their conversation. "Excuse me? Ms. Cantrell?" They turned to find a short, plump woman with glasses, nervously clutching a small object, which she first thrust out at Cassie, then pulled back in to her chest. "I wondered...if it's permitted tonight...do you...do autographs?" She seemed so pathologically self-effacing that, in contrast, Cassie would come across as brash as...Wendy, Hank thought. And wasn't it odd how the words 'brash' and 'Wendy' seemed to go together in a sentence?
"I'd be happy to," Cassie said, taking the again proffered autograph book. "It's to...?"
"Oh!" Clearly the poor overcome woman hadn't even imagined the possibility of a personalized souvenir. Hank smiled benignly. She was certainly a living example of the popular stereotype of a romance reader. "To...Eleanor. Thank you so much." Cassie signed her name with a flourish.
The woman started to back away, then halted, looking at them both. "I just should say...although of course it's none of my business...." Hank's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he felt Cassie's hand tense on his arm. "I think it's wonderful the two of you are here like this."
At this totally unexpected sentiment, Hank could not help doubting his hearing for a moment. Several other women had drifted up, emboldened by the first one's success at gaining an audience. The shy one stammered on, "Little things are the most important. That's what I tell my students when we cover the history of civil rights in social studies."
"What grade do you teach, Eleanor?" Cassie inquired, charmed by this totally unexpected ally.
"Fifth grade. It's a good age--they are just starting to question what their place will be in the world." Some of the women standing by nodded and smiled. "I try to encourage all of my children to first of all, be fair. If that's the main thing they remember me for, I'll be happy." When talking about her students, it seemed she wasn't shy at all.
"It isn't fair, the way some people treat mutants," a younger woman interjected, cutting her eyes at Hank, but speaking to the group. There were more murmurs of agreement, and Cassie nodded briskly as well, beaming her appreciation at them all.
"A total stranger who we think was a mutant saved my sister's life," another one said, capturing Hank's undivided attention. "In Chicago."
"How was that, madam?" he asked, and the group gathered closer to hear. There were now a dozen of them in their little clique.
"She was in a wreck; a drunk driver ran a red light. The doors were jammed--none of the people on the spot could get them open, and there was gasoline spilled all over. And something made it light--" The horror of what might have happened could still be heard in her stark retelling. "But then a man ran out of the crowd, and touched the car door--and she says it turned into dust. And he touched the other things in the way, too, and just lifted her out of the fire. Then he disappeared." The group murmured its awe and approval. "My brother says no, the steering wheel and seat belts burned up in the fire. But the door couldn't have! Don't you think he must have been a mutant?" She might as well have been saying 'angel', from her reverent tone.
"It certainly sounds like it, from what you tell me," Hank answered gravely. Chicago? Interesting. The professor would like to hear about this. Come to think of it, he might benefit from hearing the whole of the current conversation....
The impromptu gathering rapidly turned into a combination of old home week and an autograph party, with Hank and Cassie cheerfully trading the signing of books as they chatted with their new friends. They only broke off, and then reluctantly, when the evening's master of ceremonies went to the podium and called for attention, so the festivities could commence.
Hank stared at his empty plate, struggling to maintain his equanimity. He had gotten his wish for dinner after the ceremony, although he was fairly certain he hadn't wished for Wendy to come along, too. "Well, I swear I'll come up with a strategy for next year," the agent promised Cassie yet again.
"It really is all right, Wendy, honestly," Cassie tried to explain, casting a worried glance at Hank's impassive facade. "It not like I thought it was a sure thing, and was counting on winning or something." Under the table she squeezed Hank's hand, and he returned the gesture.
"I guess you can't get that many more relatives by next year?" Wendy joked.
"If it's going to come down to people mobilizing relatives and...and buying votes by starting their own fan clubs--" Cassie leaned closer to Hank, who released her hand so he could put his arm around her shoulders. "I don't care if I get an award like that or not."
Wendy put her hand to her forehead and sighed dramatically. "Child, you are going to be the death of me!"
'Don't make it sound too tempting,' thought Hank, and at least a sliver of it was serious. The time he had left with Cassie could be reckoned in minutes and they were spending that time consoling Wendy, through the guise of supposedly consoling Cassie, in the hotel's dining lounge. At least they would soon have to leave, to reach the airport in time....
"You know, Cassie, we'd better get going if we want to make the airport on time," Wendy said, to Hank's incredulous dismay.
"Oh--but...Hank was planning on driving me," Cassie explained, with a haste that calmed his racing heart rate at least a little.
"Oh, he was? Why on earth didn't you say so, dear? I would have come in a cab, instead of my car!" Wendy started gathering her things. "Are you sure this isn't putting you out, Hank? I can drive her; it's no problem."
Hank managed to say, very calmly, that it was an honor and a privilege and no trouble at all to convey Cassie to the airport, all the while cursing the loss of private time together this misunderstanding had cost them. Wendy followed them all the way to his car, with her parting words being a reminder to send the manuscript tomorrow! Hank popped the clutch a little quicker than was his normal habit, and they escaped with a small shriek from the tires.
Cassie slumped in the seat like an exhausted rag doll, almost hanging herself in the shoulder harness in the process. "Alone at last," she groaned. "I love Wendy, but sometimes--sometimes she makes me as crazy as I make her."
"I would rather have been alone with you," was all Hank would permit himself to say. The understatement of the millennium.
"Same here." She smiled at him, and sat up straighter in the seat.
"Are you overly disappointed about the award going to someone else?"
"No, not if what Wendy found out about the demographics was true," Cassie assured him. "The publishing house will have the data about who and where the votes came from--if a lot of hers really were relatives...it doesn't matter, anyway. Not if Wendy's going to auction me off after my contract expires."
This was one of the many new things Hank had learned this evening--a threat to change publishers by opening up the field to better offers. "Can I bid on you too?" he inquired lightly. If only life could be so simple.
Cassie turned so she could see his profile in the light from the dash. "You want something written?" She was ready to laugh, if he was making a joke.
"How about my biography?" he suggested.
"Sounds like an interesting project. I might like a change of pace like that--if I thought I could do it justice." Hank glanced at her, because he couldn't quite read her reaction from her tone. Didn't help--she just looked lost in thought.
"We'll have to talk about it sometime." Sometime outside this last hour before your plane leaves. Some future time. And how do I ensure that? "We need to be sure to trade phone numbers."
"Yes." Cassie looked forward again, outlined by the glare of the sodium lights they were whipping past, reminding him strangely of the figurehead on an old time sailing ship. "The pacing is all wrong on this," she said abruptly. "I'm not ready to go home yet."
"We've tangled someone's plot thread," Hank said, laughing because there was no other option for him. "You can't stay; I can't go along...." He somehow knew by the way she threw her head back, and turned away abruptly to stare out the side window, that he had touched the heart of the matter, and it pained her as deeply as it did him. Which was, in a perverse way, comforting. "Ah, don't worry, Cassie," he told her, putting a hand on her knee. "We'll work it out." She didn't turn to him, but gripped his hand and held it like a lifeline as they flew down the highway in the dark, towards an unknown future.
"Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke." Lynda Barry
[1] Bob is oh so coincidentally my first ex-husband's name. He IS actually not all that sane these days, but not in a murderous way, so no worries.
I'm getting a lot written on this for supposedly working on another story, huh? Looking for a good pausing place, actually...Marvel characters copyright to them, and all like that....
Cool air drifting off the lake carried the scent of green things growing, the promise of lush summer just around the corner. But Hank McCoy was all but oblivious to it as he walked up the path from the garage towards the X-mansion. A whisper from the sky made him stop and look up at the blinking lights of a plane traversing the brilliant starfield above. He felt utterly silly staring at it, knowing it was full of strangers he would never meet, yet not being able to look away until it disappeared...in the west.
"She's gone home, eh?" The voice came from the deepest shadows behind the house, and Hank stopped, recognizing it and the telltale glow of the end of a cigar.
"Yes." He stood in place, head down, trying to summon up interest in engaging in social niceties, even the minimal ones that would suffice with Wolverine.
"She comin' back?"
Now, there was a question. "I...hope so, Logan."
"Seemed like a nice girl."
There was no force on earth that could induce Logan to use anyone's choice of words but his own, so Hank refrained from pointing out that in politically correct terms Cassie was a person. "Yes." 'And I'm a nice guy, so doesn't one of us have to finish last?' "It's been a long day, Logan. Excuse me for not lingering to chat, but I think I'll go get some sleep."
'Doubt it,' Logan thought, 'from the look of ya.' But aloud all he said was, "'Night, then." And he was soon alone again in the green- scented darkness.
Upstairs in his room, Hank began divesting his coat and pants of loose items before putting them away. The piece of paper with Cassie's number, a bank deposit slip, he tucked firmly under the cut glass dish that held his loose change. Then he picked it up again. Knowing he was indulging in moody sentimentality, and not caring, he took his phone in hand and punched in the number.
Four rings later, there was a click and then a recording of Cassie's voice said brightly, "Hi! Sorry I missed your call. Why don't you leave your name and number so I can return it, and you can not be home and miss mine?"
Hank smiled into the receiver, eyes tightly shut, picturing Cassie recording that message with an impish grin on her face. "Hello, Cassie, it's Hank," he found himself saying at the tone. "I hope you had a pleasant flight home. Sleep well, and I will try to reach you later." He hung up before he could get any sillier, wondering too late if Cassie would think he was pressuring her, or suspecting her of not really giving him her real address, or a dozen other ridiculously worrying possibilities. Growling in exasperation at himself, he yanked off his clothes and tumbled into bed.
Habit brought Hank awake at 6am, feeling unrested and out of sorts even before he remembered what else was wrong with his world today. He toyed with the idea of rolling over and trying to go back to sleep, but decided that would only result in him feeling depressed in a more comfortable position. Much better to try to distract himself by working.
He pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants and wandered down to the kitchen. Looking at the clock brought the stray thought that it was a little after 4am, in Colorado. Much, much too early to be phoning anyone just to chat.
After brief consideration, he took a large bowl out of a cupboard and found an acceptable variety of breakfast cereal to fill it with. He leaned against the counter and ate it with morose steadiness, while he considered what to begin working on first down in the lab. Maybe that glitching secondary control panel on the Blackbird the professor had suddenly gotten antsy about yesterday....
When he went to put his bowl in the dishwasher, he was dourly amazed to find someone had actually turned the machine on the evening before. Now, however, he would have to unload it before he could put his own used dish and spoon inside. Sighing, he proceeded to do so, while making uncharitable calculations concerning the number of people in this household and the number of times per week he seemed to be the one who either started the dishwasher, or unloaded it, or both.
Deciding that cereal was not quite enough to hold him until lunch, Hank investigated the huge refrigerator, and chose four pre-cooked pastries from the freezer. He inserted them in the toaster over, closed the door, and resumed his brooding as he waited for them to heat.
He had tentatively decided that someone with, say, a noon appointment could reasonably be expected to be up by about 9, or at least 10, when a whiff of smoke brought him sharply back to reality. He jumped towards the toaster oven, which now contained four merrily flaming blueberry turnovers oozing boiling filling. Opening the door turned out to be a mistake--the smoke alarm instantly began its piercing squeal. Hank snapped the door shut again. There was a sudden shower of sparks and a loud pop as something electrical gave up the ghost inside the oven. Gritting his teeth in hopes the cord wasn't frayed anywhere along its length, he yanked it out of the wall socket. After only a moment's more thought, he dashed to open the kitchen door, then grabbed the scorching side handles of the unfortunate appliance and threw its smoking body out onto the flagstone patio.
Logan was the first X-man to make it down to the kitchen, where he found Hank flapping a dishtowel, trying to blow the smoke away from the sensor and out the door. "No harm, Charlie," he said aloud, presumably in response to a mental query. "Just Beast, cookin'."
Storm stepped in a moment later, wrapped in a rich green brocade robe that brought an appreciative whistle from Logan. Without comment, she created a brisk breeze that silenced the infernal shriek of the alarm by removing the distressing smoke. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything but the toaster oven," Hank replied gloomily. Wolverine had walked out to the patio. He lifted it by the cord, and it hung from his hand like a dead animal. The door opened and four blackened objects fell out to bounce on the ground. "Maybe I should go back to bed, and start this day over."
About 11:30, Hank took a break from his work on the recalcitrant Blackbird module, returning to his room with the first hint of eagerness he had felt all day tentatively glowing inside him. He dialed the number on the paper on his dresser. But this time the phone just rang and rang, until he gave it up to dial again, with the same result. Troubled, he tried to think of an explanation. Perhaps she had unplugged the phone and turned off the machine so she could sleep in. Perhaps she had turned it off and forgotten to turn it back on. Perhaps she had turned it off because she didn't want any more stupid messages--
'Now you're being paranoid,' he castigated himself. Resolving to try again later, he relegated himself to the lab, for a change of pace. It had occurred to him while working on the Blackbird that his image inducer's static problem might be being caused by something so simple as a cracked chip, and he had a boxful of spares stored away somewhere. He might as well, he also supposed, just take his portable phone downstairs with him....
But calls every half hour failed to produce any other result than the unceasing ringing. A request to the operator to check the line for defects showed it as working properly. By 2, he admitted he was not going to reach Cassie before her afternoon engagement, and stalked upstairs in search of food, preferably something he was not at risk of setting on fire.
No one seemed to be around, which suited his mood very well. He made several thick ham and cheese sandwiches and commandeered the last of some fruit salad they'd had a few days ago. For convenience' sake, he sat down at the kitchen table, which was where Gambit found him.
"So," said the Cajun, reversing a chair and sitting on it, with his forearms crossed over the back. "Tell Gambit ev'ryt'ing."
"About?" Hank said neutrally, although he had a very good idea what about.
"W'ere is de petite fille t'day?" Gambit's dancing eyes invited Hank to expound at will on tales of romance and intrigue.
Well, the man was direct, you had to give him that. "Home. She flew back last night."
Remorse blanked the gleam in Gambit's eyes. "No!" Hank just nodded, chewing. "Did she tell you why?"
"She had something she was supposed to do there today." He didn't really want to discuss this with Gambit, or anyone, and yet...he did. "Otherwise, I think she would have extended her stay a few days." At least, he had thought that last night. Now he was not sure what to think.
"Why don' you fly out an' see her, den?" Gambit slipped his deck of cards out of his pocket and began shuffling them, his version of talking with his hands.
Hank watched the cards snick in and out, generating random patterns with almost hypnotic speed. "Because that would be...." Silly? Too spontaneous? Frowned upon by the professor? All of the above? "Maybe that would be too...presumptuous?"
"You t'ink she wouldn' like dat? You be way wrong," Gambit smiled a knowing smile. "Ladies love de gran' gestures, take my word."
Fly out there? The seed Gambit had planted was taking root in his imagination, and producing some interesting fruit. "Welll...."
"You can take a beeper," Gambit pointed out. "'f somet'ing happen we need you fo', Blackbird get out dere in an hour."
"More or less," Hank agreed, a bit dazzled by the sudden possibilities opening up here.
"W'en your luck is in, stick wit' it," Gambit advised him seriously. "'f Gambit was you, he'd be on a plane right now, sure." He considered his friend carefully. "You plannin' to eat all dat fruit salad y'self?"
Steady searching led Hank to find his quarry, at last, in the library. "Do you have a moment, Professor?"
"Certainly." Xavier closed the book in his lap and laid it aside. He moved away from the window, where the warm afternoon sun was pouring in, to position himself in front of a good solid armchair suitable for Hank, who took the hint and sat down. "What it is?"
"I was wondering if you thought you could spare me, for a day...or ten." He pulled a sheepish smile at the supposed exaggeration, which was actually a serious possibility.
"Ten?" Xavier asked sharply.
"I feel the need of a bit of vacation," Hank explained with faux innocence.
"In Colorado, I presume." The professor was now tapping his fingers on the arm of his hover-chair, and his expression was anything but tranquil.
"That's my first choice." Without further explaining--Xavier clearly didn't need telepathy to determine Hank's intentions--Hank sank back in his chair and awaited his mentor's next pronouncement.
The professor leaned back in his chair as well, frowning as he sought his next words. "I don't want you to take this wrong, Hank...but are you sure you know what you're doing?"
Hank bit back several sharp retorts. "Actually, I find I am riddled with doubts," he admitted. "Part of the reason for this trip is to find answers for some of them."
"I see."
"I am...very strongly attracted to Cassie, and I wonder about it. Is it propinquity alone? Have I just been a little bored, a little lonely? Or is there indeed some special chemistry between us?"
"At least you haven't lost the ability to be honest with yourself." The professor's expression changed, and through years of experience Hank knew the reserved man was lowering his customary emotional shields, a rare occurrence. "I know I sometimes express it gruffly, Hank, but I worry about all of you. This is a difficult life we lead. Lonely, as you say. It's not strange that you'd reach out to someone who seemed compatible."
Was that 'seemed' meant as a subtle criticism of Cassie, or was it merely Xavier's own lack of trust in non-mutants speaking? "I guess I want to find out, about that compatibility. Whether it's only my imagination or not." Taking a guess at what might be truly troubling the professor, Hank added, "But I'll come back."
Xavier could see this was a losing battle. Hank was here seeking understanding, not permission. "I know you will. And I know you'll call in, while you're away." Hank nodded, and a smile started to creep onto his face. Observing it, Xavier was reminded of a small worry he'd had. "I'm sure you're...taking the appropriate precautions in this situation, as well? In regards to your friend, I mean...." Another rare event, the professor flustered and speaking in vague generalities....
The shock of suddenly finding himself having The Talk with Xavier almost floored Hank, and he would have burst out laughing, if not for a slightly guilty conscience in the matter. He hadn't followed up on the one brief statement Cassie had made which had indicated the possibility of pregnancy was not at issue, but instead had gone on as though it were an established fact, which was unlike him. "Not to worry; that's my standard operating procedure, sir." Every time but this time.... Not that it was really anyone's business but his own and Cassie's, he thought, trying to justify his evasion.
"And what about the control module on the Blackbird?" A more normal tone of asperity in the professor's voice signaled a return to business as usual.
"I started it this morning, sir, and I'll get it done before I go," Hank promised cheerfully. "In fact, I'll just get back to it right now!"
He succeeded before suppertime in finally getting an 'all clear' run on the test series. There was still no one answering at Cassie's, but he found a website from which to download departure schedules for Denver International Airport, and that minor progress buoyed him up through the meal.
On his 8 o'clock attempt, the phone was answered on the second ring. "Hello?" came a voice that sounded like it was trying not to sound overeager.
"Cassie!" Relief from the anxiety he had been denying washed over him in waves. "How are you?"
"Hank! Fine! I'm fine!" Perhaps he was exaggerating it to himself, but she sounded very glad to hear from him.
"I was...a trifle concerned. I tried to reach you earlier this morning, and...couldn't." He wasn't phrasing this well. "And your answering machine was turned off."
After a pause, she admitted sheepishly, "I broke it."
"Oh?" It had been working last night, he thought instantly.
"I...replayed the tape one time too many," she confessed. "It broke, and I didn't have any more."
[1] "You were replaying the answering machine tape?" Why would...? Then what she was implying began to dawn on him, and he started to grin.
"Yeah. There was...a message on it I...thought was kind of important." Hank could see her blushing, in his mind's eye. "I'm sorry I worried you."
"Well, if I had even a small part in breaking your machine, perhaps I should come out there to put it right?"
"Oh, no, it wasn't your--" Cassie broke off as the meaning of his words hit, and when she spoke again her voice was small and tight with suppressed emotion. "Come out? Come out here?"
"Only if it would be convenient, of course," Hank began to demur, thinking he had overstepped the bounds of her level of interest in him.
"Could you, Hank? Really?!" There was as much delighted awe in her voice as if he had proposed to make the flight sans plane, and the day's depression vanished without a trace. "When?"
"Tomorrow afternoon?" He began to share his findings about airline schedules with a heart made light with anticipation. And an hour later, he reluctantly ended his call, and immediately began to pack.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a cash advance.
[1] One of the little details that shows the story's age. I think most answering machines are either voicemail or digital these days, rather than teeny audiotape cassettes, yes?
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