FIC: By Any Other Name
Jan. 17th, 2009 11:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ficwizeTitle: By Any Other Name
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wizefics
Fandom: X-Men Movieverse
Characters: Hank
Prompt: 130. Administer at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tamingthemuse
Rating: Gen
Warnings: Spoilers for X-3 (Is this still a warning?).
Summary: Mirror, mirror on the wall...
Disclaimer: I don't own X-men (but I wish I did) and I don't make money doing this (but I wish I did).
A/N: Thanks tohandyhunter and musesinspire for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!
***************
Beast. Noun. An animal other than a human. A brutal, contemptible person.
Beast. Alias. Nickname. Dr. Henry Philip "Hank" McCoy, MD., Ph.D., Ph.D.
Hank stared at himself in the mirror. One of the light bulbs had burned out, casting strange shadows through the room. The sink was dripping and the steady clinking noise of water on metal echoed harshly in Hank's ears. He ignored everything, turning slowly side to side and studying his face closely. Grinning, he revealed sharp canine teeth, wickedly pointed and startling white. He growled and felt prickles creep up his neck. He leaned closer to the mirror, watching his eyes dilate more like a cat's eyes than a man's. His breath fogged the mirror and he leaned back, reaching out to wipe away the condensation.
Behind him, his uniform lay discarded on the floor, torn, filthy, and covered in blood not his own. Hank took a deep breath, and the smells of sweat, blood and death flooded his nose, almost choking him in their cloying strength. He kicked it aside and looked back to the mirror, turning slightly to the right and the slowly to the left. His whole body was covered in soft blue fur. It was matted in places from his own sweat and other fluids he tried not to think about. Lifting his right arm, he stared at it. He knew the bones and how they fit together. Humerus. Radius. Ulna. He flexed and watched the muscles move. Deltoid. Pectoralis. Biceps. Triceps. Veins and arteries - Basilic. Brachial. Cephalic. Radial. Ulnar. He knew every part of his body, its function, how it worked.
Extending his fingers, he looked at the long tapered fingers at the end. Too long to be human. He had realized that when he was eleven years old. Mutant.
Dropping his arm, he looked back in the mirror. The fur over his chest hid the muscles there from his view, but he could see the hairs shaking slightly in time with his heartbeat. It thudded against his ribs painfully, belying the fact that Hank was pretty sure it was broken and might never beat true again. He looked lower, seeing a slight gut that he kept meaning to lose, but hours spent in endless meetings meant less time for working out, more rushed meals, fewer healthy choices. Holding his breath, he pulled it in and turned to study his profile. In a suit, he was an imposing figure. He wondered if so many people in Washington would recognize him without his mutation.
Blue boxers hid the blue fur that covered him, even there. The fabric was a few shades darker than his fur and it molded to him, proving that he was male, even if he wasn't completely sure he was human. His legs were slightly spread, offering him the best balance even as he swayed slightly in exhaustion. They were strong, nimble, and had carried him down football fields, through classrooms, down marbled hallways in the White House, and off of fields of battle. His feet, like his hands, were too big. His mother had been forced to have shoes specially made for him, and Hank continued that practice.
Slowly, Hank looked back into the mirror. His eyes were brown, the same brown they had been before puberty, the same brown they'd been before he'd triggered his secondary mutation. Leaning forward, Hank saw flecks of darker and lighter color in them. They looked like melted chocolate. His glasses, unnecessary most of the time, lay on the sink rim. He stared, unblinking, until his eyes stung. He stared until they watered, tears overflowing and dampening the fur on his cheeks.
He didn't recognize himself anymore.
Five hours prior, he, Dr. Henry Philip "Hank" McCoy, MD., Ph.D., Ph.D., had crossed a line he had thought he would never cross. He had forced a fellow mutant, a living breathing being, to take the so-called Cure. With a muffled breath, the flick of a wrist, and a flash of battle lust, he had administered a drug to take away another's birthright, becoming, in effect, the very thing Magneto feared most.
Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.
He was a doctor, sworn to do no harm, sworn to protect life, sworn to not play God.
He was an X-men, sworn to assist his fellow mutants, sworn to use his abilities for the benefit and aid of those who needed his help.
He was a student who had just betrayed a former teacher, a former colleague, a former friend.
He was a vigilante, fighting battles that the government believed he had no place in, leading teenagers into bloodbaths and praying to a God he often ignored that they walked away again, even if he did not.
Bobby. Kitty. Logan. Ororo. Piotr.
Jean. Scott. Erik. Charles.
There were reasons for Hank's actions, justifications, excuses.
Only, when Dr. Henry Philip "Hank" McCoy, MD., Ph.D., Ph.D. looked in the mirror, he didn't recognize himself anymore.
Author:
wizeficsFandom: X-Men Movieverse
Characters: Hank
Prompt: 130. Administer at
tamingthemuseRating: Gen
Warnings: Spoilers for X-3 (Is this still a warning?).
Summary: Mirror, mirror on the wall...
Disclaimer: I don't own X-men (but I wish I did) and I don't make money doing this (but I wish I did).
A/N: Thanks to
handyhunter and musesinspire for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!
***************
Beast. Noun. An animal other than a human. A brutal, contemptible person.
Beast. Alias. Nickname. Dr. Henry Philip "Hank" McCoy, MD., Ph.D., Ph.D.
Hank stared at himself in the mirror. One of the light bulbs had burned out, casting strange shadows through the room. The sink was dripping and the steady clinking noise of water on metal echoed harshly in Hank's ears. He ignored everything, turning slowly side to side and studying his face closely. Grinning, he revealed sharp canine teeth, wickedly pointed and startling white. He growled and felt prickles creep up his neck. He leaned closer to the mirror, watching his eyes dilate more like a cat's eyes than a man's. His breath fogged the mirror and he leaned back, reaching out to wipe away the condensation.
Behind him, his uniform lay discarded on the floor, torn, filthy, and covered in blood not his own. Hank took a deep breath, and the smells of sweat, blood and death flooded his nose, almost choking him in their cloying strength. He kicked it aside and looked back to the mirror, turning slightly to the right and the slowly to the left. His whole body was covered in soft blue fur. It was matted in places from his own sweat and other fluids he tried not to think about. Lifting his right arm, he stared at it. He knew the bones and how they fit together. Humerus. Radius. Ulna. He flexed and watched the muscles move. Deltoid. Pectoralis. Biceps. Triceps. Veins and arteries - Basilic. Brachial. Cephalic. Radial. Ulnar. He knew every part of his body, its function, how it worked.
Extending his fingers, he looked at the long tapered fingers at the end. Too long to be human. He had realized that when he was eleven years old. Mutant.
Dropping his arm, he looked back in the mirror. The fur over his chest hid the muscles there from his view, but he could see the hairs shaking slightly in time with his heartbeat. It thudded against his ribs painfully, belying the fact that Hank was pretty sure it was broken and might never beat true again. He looked lower, seeing a slight gut that he kept meaning to lose, but hours spent in endless meetings meant less time for working out, more rushed meals, fewer healthy choices. Holding his breath, he pulled it in and turned to study his profile. In a suit, he was an imposing figure. He wondered if so many people in Washington would recognize him without his mutation.
Blue boxers hid the blue fur that covered him, even there. The fabric was a few shades darker than his fur and it molded to him, proving that he was male, even if he wasn't completely sure he was human. His legs were slightly spread, offering him the best balance even as he swayed slightly in exhaustion. They were strong, nimble, and had carried him down football fields, through classrooms, down marbled hallways in the White House, and off of fields of battle. His feet, like his hands, were too big. His mother had been forced to have shoes specially made for him, and Hank continued that practice.
Slowly, Hank looked back into the mirror. His eyes were brown, the same brown they had been before puberty, the same brown they'd been before he'd triggered his secondary mutation. Leaning forward, Hank saw flecks of darker and lighter color in them. They looked like melted chocolate. His glasses, unnecessary most of the time, lay on the sink rim. He stared, unblinking, until his eyes stung. He stared until they watered, tears overflowing and dampening the fur on his cheeks.
He didn't recognize himself anymore.
Five hours prior, he, Dr. Henry Philip "Hank" McCoy, MD., Ph.D., Ph.D., had crossed a line he had thought he would never cross. He had forced a fellow mutant, a living breathing being, to take the so-called Cure. With a muffled breath, the flick of a wrist, and a flash of battle lust, he had administered a drug to take away another's birthright, becoming, in effect, the very thing Magneto feared most.
Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.
He was a doctor, sworn to do no harm, sworn to protect life, sworn to not play God.
He was an X-men, sworn to assist his fellow mutants, sworn to use his abilities for the benefit and aid of those who needed his help.
He was a student who had just betrayed a former teacher, a former colleague, a former friend.
He was a vigilante, fighting battles that the government believed he had no place in, leading teenagers into bloodbaths and praying to a God he often ignored that they walked away again, even if he did not.
Bobby. Kitty. Logan. Ororo. Piotr.
Jean. Scott. Erik. Charles.
There were reasons for Hank's actions, justifications, excuses.
Only, when Dr. Henry Philip "Hank" McCoy, MD., Ph.D., Ph.D. looked in the mirror, he didn't recognize himself anymore.
