ax_main | Simon and Hank

Simon, stressing out about Sinister, asks Hank for a refill on his anxiety meds, and attempts to dodge his mentor's questioning.

By the time the Right had been handled and Simon had spent the next few days taking care of Jean-Paul and helping Hank in the infirmary, he had run out of Xanax again, and wasn't relishing facing another day without it. Not with Warren still dealing with his family, nightmares of Sinister even more often than usual, and graduation looming. He didn't relish going to Hank again for a refill, but it seemed as though every day brought a new terror or struggle, and he didn't even want to think about Teddy and his family of aliens watching them all.

That's how Simon ended up down in the infirmary before most anyone was still up, knocking quietly on Hank's door. He was still in his running clothes, in need of a shower, but even more in need of something to calm his nerves before he began his day.

There was a muffled thump, and a sound of shuffling behind the door before it swung open to reveal an uncharacteristically-rumpled Hank McCoy. "Simon," he acknowledged blearily, straightening his glasses on the bridge of his nose and ignoring the rest of his general state of disorder--it was common knowledge that the good doctor had a tendency to spend the night in the MedLabs, particularly when he was working on something. And he had a great many concurrent projects running, just then.

He stepped aside to admit the teen, lab coat hanging awkwardly around his shoulders, unnoticed. "Please, come in. My apologies--I haven't had that first, revivifying cup of coffee for the morning. Give me a moment, and my faculties will be firing on all cylinders again. What can I do for you, at this unusual hour?"

Simon immediately felt a little guilty for dropping by at such an early hour, and motioned toward the door. "I can, ah - I can come back, if this is inconvenient?"

"Nonsense," Hank reassured him. "I've had a whole," he paused as he plucked his smartphone out of his pocket, squinting at it to note the time, "three-and-a-half hours of quality unconscious time. Asking more than that would be simply slothful, on my part. So!" he went on, good humored, as always. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this practically-pre-dawn visit?"

"I was wondering..." Simon trailed off for a moment, then reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "I was wondering if you could refill my prescription for Alprazolam. I've run out, and with everything going on lately, I'm looking for a little unconscious time myself."

"Certainly understandable," Hank nodded slowly, "in light of recent events. Just wait here a moment, and I'll sort you out."

The hulking, blue-furred scientist first went to the computer to review Simon's prescription, then quickly moved to the narcotics locker, pulling a nondescript blue-and-white bottle from inside. As he counted out tablets, he said, tone casual, "This is the third time you've requested a refill since your prescription was written. Given your current daily recommended dosage ... I cannot help but wonder if something might not be amiss. At the very list, we should consider whether or not a higher strength might not be warranted, if the point-two-five is failing to provide relief as it should from your anxiety symptoms."

"Sometimes I need a little extra," Simon argued, shifting in place agitatedly. He'd expected Hank to raise an eyebrow, but he wasn't sure he was ready for an examination of his mental state. "I mean, Warren's father died, Jean-Paul was attacked, aliens exist. It's been a stimulating summer. You can't blame me for picking up a couple more here and there. It's not as though I am dependent on them."

Hank rested a massive blue paw on Simon's shoulder reassuringly, then turned to begin counting out pills. "I never meant to suggest anything of the kind," he said. "Certainly, by any rational standard, these last few months have been filled with an uncommon excess of stress, over and beyond the usual transition from high school to the hallowed halls of higher education. And I do not blame you for anything, by any means. I'm simply voicing my very reasonable concern. It's not an effort to add to your stress, Simon--please, relax. If nowhere else, you should feel at ease here."

The tension slowly began to drain from him, and Simon took a deep breath. "Thank you. I'm sorry I'm so on edge lately. I realize that it's out of character. Sometimes I wish I could go back to being as clueless as I was before. Before any of this happened."

"Do not imagine you are alone in that desire, my friend," Hank said, counting out the last few pills before emptying them into an amber vial and stopping it with a white plastic cap. He turned back toward Simon and held it out to him between a clawed thumb and forefinger. "As loath as I am to resort to the hoariest of aphorisms ... recent experience suggests that ignorance is indeed bliss, at least as it relates to the treatment of mutants in this supposedly-modern world. I am sorry; I did not realize it had affected you so deeply."

Reaching out to take the bottle, Simon sighed inwardly. Better to look weak than to give away anything concerning Sinister. "I wish it didn't. I wish I could say I was as resilient as some of the other students here."

"There is no shame whatsoever in acknowledging you require help," Hank reassured him. "It would be much more damaging to pretend, for the sake of something as ultimately hollow as pride. Your empathy makes you human, Simon; never believe that compassion makes you weak. Indeed, I have found it to be the much more difficult path."

Simon looked down for a moment, his head giving an aching throb. It was as though McCoy was the anti-Sinister - an angel on one shoulder, and a devil on the other. "Hank...am I doing the right thing, studying the x-gene? Is Dr. MacTaggart? The more we know about it, the more it can be used against mutants. Someone could even develop a vaccine by targeting the enzymes that trigger mutations. Or, someone could target mutants as weapons, like the Right. The more people understand about it, the more our biology could be used as a weapon."

Sighing, Hank made an effort to straighten his clothes beneath his lab coat, then scrubbed a clawed hand over his face. "Those are questions I ask myself every day," he acknowledged. "But knowledge is not, in and of itself, evil. It can be used to evil ends, but it can be used in the cause of the angels, as well. There will always be those who seek to weaponize learning--that conundrum is as old as learning itself. We simply have to be vigilant, and better-armed. And, when faced with the fruits of such twisted research, we must rely on our own skills to bring us to an appropriate solution. In short ... we only need to be smarter. Not an insurmountable objective, based on my observations."

"What about Essex?" Simon asked quietly, looking up. "So far, he's shown himself to be extremely intelligent, and well funded. We may have dismantled the Right, but neither him nor his research facilities seemed to be among their labs."

"No, they were not," Hank agreed with a slow nod. "He presents a unique challenge, this Dr. Essex--we can link him to practically every atrocity committed against mutants up to his point, but mostly obliquely. His intellect is clearly formidable, but his patterns of behavior suggest an obsessive personality. It is, perhaps, to our advantage that his obsessions are not directed at the school. Not yet, at least. I will suggest to Charles that perhaps we should make pinning the good doctor down should be X-Force's next priority. It will allow us to concentrate on him while he's not concentrating on us. Perhaps that will be sufficient advantage."

"What if he knows about this place, but is just biding his time?" Simon asked carefully.

"We'll run ourselves to exhaustion chasing after all the 'what ifs' surrounding that particular individual," he pointed out with gentle reassurance. "Perhaps he does. Perhaps he will come for the school, one day. But that's all the more reason for us to arm ourselves with knowledge, personal training, and teamwork. We should not fall into the trap of believing our opponent invincible," Hank went on. "If he were so in fact, he would not have needed to be so thorough in concealing himself from the rest of the world. Dangerous, certainly, and on a level we have never before encountered, but living by the same fundamental biological rules as the rest of us. Vigilance is our friend, but so is confidence; boogeymen like Essex are rarely as frightening when exposed to the full light of day."

Living by the same fundamental biological rules, Simon thought bitterly. Not likely. At least in Simon's eyes, the man was invincible, and maybe it was Stockholm or maybe it was just fear, but Simon wasn't sure if any amount of preparation on the school's part would prepare them for Sinister. So he just nodded, a little, and tried to give the man a smile as he turned toward the door. "Thanks."

"As always, it is my pleasure," Hank replied, bustling off to one of the computer terminals to continue his research. "And please, feel free to prevail upon us here as often as you need to--whether for pharmacological intervention, or simply conversation. And remember that caution and prudence are perfectly laudable virtues--essential survival mechanisms, you might say--but fear is the mind-killer. Never let anything terrorize your reason away, Simon; it's one of the oldest tricks in the book, and you're far too intelligent to let yourself be taken in by it."

Too late, Simon thought, but just nodded at Hank, and let himself out of the office. Maybe he wasn't as intelligent as everyone thought.