Okay, I hope you people aren't in a big hurry, because it seems to me this thing is threatening to become long. So sit back, enjoy the ride, and keep in mind that the Marvel characters are all copyright and like that! Part 4--Falling In Slow Motion The supplementary lights had come on in the hotel's parking garage, now that dusk was gaining on the day. To Hank's relief, the roof of his little car slid obediently into place, almost as if it knew this was a special occasion warranting best behavior. "Do you like Italian fare?" he queried, as he pointed the car down the departure ramp. "I like it fine," Cassie assured him. They compared favorite food items as he drove to a place he favored for serving authentically large-Italian-family sized portions of their specialties. He couldn't seem help sneaking little glances at his newly elegant passenger, wondering why her change of clothes and a few other minor adjustments should make him feel so uneasy. It was still his intriguing, companionable new friend underneath. Of course, the effect the pair of them gave to the onlooking world was now different, due to the change of time, locale and level of adornment. As soon as that thought struck, Hank suspected he had hit on the answer. Various less than pleasant public scenes from his past recalled themselves to his attention. 'All I can do is hope my luck keeps running high,' he thought fatalistically, and redoubled his efforts at cheerful conversation. They were soon seated in a cozy corner booth by the enthusiastic proprietor, who was at least as glad to see Hank as his colleague from the Chinese place had been, although any scores between the two would have come out close. "You certainly are popular with restaurant people," Cassie observed. "Oh, yes," he replied, and sought to try to explain in a clowning way that would disguise his mild discomfiture at needing to. "But you can see why. I'm at least two, sometimes three customers in one. Very efficient and profitable." She tilted her head, uncertain of what he was trying to express, and he shifted to a more straightforward mode. "I have a somewhat rapid metabolism in conjunction with not a little muscle mass." After a pause, she nodded, but he could see she didn't quite catch his meaning. "I order a lot more food than most... individuals." "Oh, I see what you mean," she said, relieved to understand at last. "Well, order away. I'll try to keep up!" Hank took her at her word, selecting three entrees for himself when the jovial waiter came, though sticking to the more manageable pasta forms out of consideration for the continued pristine condition of his white shirt. "The food here is excellent," he assured her, offering the basket of breadsticks, "but I am most enamored of the layout of the place. It's almost like a conglomeration of individual dining areas. I sometimes wonder how the staff finds their way around." "You can eat out and be private at the same time?" She supposed he must have a lot of opportunities to date, being famous and all. "Just so," he said, crunching a breadstick as delicately as he could manage. "I suppose it must be annoying sometimes, for people to be looking at you, and asking for autographs and things, while you're trying to have a nice quiet dinner." Autographs? "On the whole, people just stare--and it can be annoying." Cassie nodded, but he couldn't tell at all, all of a sudden, what she was thinking. Her oblique expression nudged him into making what was his mild-mannered version of an exasperated reproof. "I have been wondering--" He smiled to temper his words, "You've noticed my unusual physical features, have you not? You don't have some sort of rare neurological visual disturbance?" Cassie blinked, then smiled gently. "I don't think I'm having any trouble seeing the real you." The full meaning of her reply sunk in, and all he could do was hope he didn't look as dumbfounded as he felt. "On top of that, I might as well tell you..." she confided, not quite meeting his eyes, "I think you're very good looking." "You do?" Despite the instant assumption from his cynical side that she was of course just being nice, he felt a bubble of warmth begin to grow somewhere inside him. "Oh, yes." She looked perfectly sincere, and furthermore, didn't make the common mistake of trying too hard to convince him of her sincerity. "Perhaps sometime you'd like to see me using my image inducer, see--" What in the world was he going to say? 'What I used to look like? Should look like?' "What's that?" The salads arrived, but the server discreetly whisked them onto the table without interrupting their talk. "A device of my own invention," he explained, trying to work his way back to solid ground, familiar territory. "It creates a visual field surrounding me that presents my original phenotype." Now she looked doubtful. He was almost ready to offer a simpler version of what he'd just said, when a corner of her mouth quirked up. "You mean like Steven Wright?" "Who?" He wondered crazily what she would say if he suggested they exit the restaurant and come in again, to see if they could regain that sense of being on the same wavelength that had disappeared somewhere. "The comedian?" She appeared to be vaguely disappointed he didn't know. Then a recollection showed itself in his mind; a tall, partially balding man with a long somber face and a bizarrely twisted mental outlook. She must have seen something in his face that showed he had caught on, because then she smiled. "He does this joke, 'I have a tattoo all over my entire body--it's me, but six inches taller.'" Hank couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. "Yes, I suppose, now that you mention it, the image inducer is quite similar." "But you have one for real? One you invented?" Her awe, now that she realized he was serious, was almost as pleasant as her assertions about his general attractiveness. (1) "Still tinkering with it, really," he began to explain, trying for modesty now. "It's in numerous pieces on my workbench in the lab, which is why I didn't wear it today." "Do you usually wear it to go out?" "It depends on my mood." Hank half-wanted to change the subject, half-wanted to know her reaction. "Some days I simply prefer not to add the attitudes of the general populace about mutants to my current list of concerns." She digested this for a moment. "I guess I must have led a comparatively sheltered life," she finally said quietly. "I didn't know it was such a problem." 'Oh, great,' Hank berated himself instantly. 'Now you've upset her! You get a lovely woman looking at you like you invented the compact disk, and what do you do? Start complaining about your life! Perfect!' "It isn't that bad, my dear--don't fret yourself," he managed to say cheerfully, thrusting the melancholy mood firmly away. "I actually prefer to keep busy, working in my lab, on my own. Sometimes I turn into quite the scientific hermit, only dragged out for meals by my friends when they've missed me for several days on end." This return to joviality made her smile again, and he leapt on the chance to change the subject. "I don't know if you will have heard of Silver's?" Cassie shook her head. "It is quite fashionable right now, which means in a short time it will be very difficult to get into, because of the crowds." He was pontificating now, he knew, but the way she looked when he did it just encouraged him. "Soon after that, there will be a dozen imitations, and then the fad will move on, and those of us who like it for what it is can return." "And then People magazine will do a retrospective of it, and start the whole process over again," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "I see you have a firm grasp on the life cycles of the entertainment world." "I'm part of it, or at least part of a part of it. Fads I know about," she said ruefully. "Everyone was writing the dumbest time travel stories last year, and my agent just had kittens because I kept saying I couldn't think of any good ideas. She said I didn't need a good idea, just a time travel idea." Now it was Hank's turn to commiserate, and hers to shake her head and dismiss the non-cheerful subject. "So what's this place like?" "Silver is the owner, and he named it for himself in a blaze of open self-aggrandizement." He was interrupted by the arrival of their food, and the brief puzzle to be solved of how to fit everything on the table in an efficient manner. Once these amenities were observed, he resumed, "Silver's an interesting fellow--a frustrated theater choreographer, I suspect. The decor is minimalist eclectic; groupings of tables and dance areas in a positively cavernous former warehouse." Cassie looked entranced, a forkful of linguini alfredo barely managing to cling unheeded to the utensil as she listened. "What kind of music?" she asked, then hastily recaptured the escaping pasta with a desperate twirl. "That is the key to the charm of the place--you never know. Silver has a control booth up in the rafters, and he plays what he likes. You are as likely to hear Count Basie as Sophie B. Hawkins, and possibly even to hear them melded in some strange electronic fashion." "How totally great!" Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Hank felt the last of his apprehension vanish. "Plus he has controls for all sorts of lighting up there. He makes combinations as he sees fit." He shook his head. "Sadly, he sometimes uses his devices to express his idea of humor. I recall an instance when I was dancing with a friend, and he chose to play the theme from Disney's 'Beauty and the Beast'." Rogue had thought it was hilarious.... "Because 'Beast' is your...nom de guerre? N'est pas?" "Exactement, ma cherie," he beamed at her, both for her knowing that about him and giving him the chance to show off his French accent, which he knew to be rather good, despite what Gambit said. "How annoying of him, then." She was halfway between amusement and indignance, much as he had been. "Yes. But the club is so entertaining, I had to forgive him." "Is that where we're going? It does sound like fun. I know we don't have anything like it in Denver." "Oh, well, Denver..." He started to say something snide and New Yorkian, then thought better of it. He smiled instead. "The best thing about Denver is...." right here "...there are air routes between here and there." Cassie ducked her head and fumbled with the napkin in her lap, looking at him out of the corner of her eye to see if he could tell how flustered even this mild a flirtation made her. Yes, from the broad grin on his face, he could tell. She managed to smile back, but busied herself in her food until she got her composure back. "You ought to know, I'm not much of a dancer." "Oh? Would you prefer to do something else instead?" His instant solicitousness of her preferences was something she would have to be careful about, Cassie decided. She could get far too used to that sort of consideration, and take advantage of his kind nature. "No, no--I just thought you deserved fair warning. If you have a good reputation to protect out on the dance floor--you said you go there often...." His mouth full, Hank nevertheless managed to indicate his complete disregard for such matters with an eloquent shrug. "I always take three times as long as anyone else in our dance aerobics class to learn new moves--I can mess up a whole line in a heartbeat." "But then, merely use the dance moves you already know, and I'll copy you, and people will think we're the reincarnation of Fred and Ginger." "I'm not so sure," Cassie laughed, tickled by the mental image of Hank in a top hat with a cane. "If I tried some of those moves we do in aerobics, I'd be right out of this dress." "That would surely be...precipitous," he murmured. Her reaction was to blush again, and bite her lower lip to try to hide her smile; an auspicious reaction, he thought. They finished the meal down to the last breadstick, and then were subjected to a gooey Italian confection pressed on them by the proprietor. "I want your mirabella friend to want to come back to see us," Antony explained, winking at Hank and Cassie impartially. Cassie tasted hers and declared it wonderful, but was only able to eat half. She insisted Hank finish it off for her, so they wouldn't hurt Antony's feelings, and he acquiesced without much resistance. She leaned her chin on her hands and watched him eat with such fondness that he toyed with the idea for a moment of ordering another set. But no--time to move on to new adventures! *** "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. If you ain't home by then, boy, yer in big trouble!" Baxter Black *** Errata: I am fairly sure I spelled the famous Russian dancer's name wrong in this. But heck, I even spelled an easy American name like Steven Wright wrong in Part 4! (Ed. note: Fixed it in this version.) Sorry about that, all you perfectionists! The Marvel characters are copyright to Marvel, of course. Other celebrities are only mentioned in passing (I would quote the "fair use" law here if it wasn't so long) to add verisimilitude. Relax, folks, it's only a story.... There is at last a fight scene of sorts in this chapter--since this is a comics based story, I felt there should be at least one. Explicitness coming up in part 6! Beware!! Part 5--At Silver's Silver's naturally had valet service, which Hank never took advantage of. He was just the slightest bit possessive about his sports car; it caused his teammates to sometimes pretend they were going to ask to borrow it, just to see his reaction. When he attended Silver's, he used a secure parking garage, and walked the several blocks difference. Tonight, he realized he might have been unintentionally remiss to his guest. The evening breeze had acquired a definite edge, and her dress left her shoulders bare. "I'll be fine once we start walking--Denver's still lots colder than this at night," Cassie said, with a brave smile, though she was already casually hugging her arms together across her chest. "Take my jacket, then?" Hank suggested, doffing the garment and hanging it around her without waiting for confirmation. She instantly clutched the lapels in a cross handed grab, and pretended to violently shiver and chitter out, "My hero!" "And it's my night off, too," Hank pointed out with smug false-modesty, as they started towards the street. Cassie kept the coat pulled snugly around her, secretly appreciating the body warmth lingering in it, and the elusive scent of its wearer. She was not quite sure if she were smelling a trace of exotic men's cologne, or Hank himself, or some combination thereof, but it was a good smell, as warm and comforting as the jacket it clung to. As they came out onto the sidewalk, she could see a difference in both the foot and vehicle traffic several blocks ahead. It was the only active-looking edifice in the area, which seemed to mostly contain warehouses and storefront businesses. But there was a huge gaudy sign blaring enough excitement to make up for the dingy surroundings, which said "Silver's", and that's where the people were heading. Once they had passed muster with the bored-looking door guard, they squeezed with the rest of the crowd down a short hallway, which held a secret metal detector according to Hank, and then emerged into the main room. Cavernous was just barely adequate to describe the vastness of the place, and it was already half-teeming with patrons. Cassie had expected the music to be loud and blaring, but it was instead at a level that easily permitted conversation between two people walking side by side. On the walls--or were they screens?-- movie clips of famous dancers appeared and disappeared with little or no relation to what the music was doing. The only ones she recognized for sure were John 'Saturday Night Fever' Travolta, and Mikhal Baryshnikov. She had the feeling, though, that Hank would be able to name them all for her if she only cared to ask. "What do you think?" he asked now, as proud as if he had invented the place for her amusement. "It's fabulous!" she assured him, and he beamed. They were approached by a woman wearing an old-fashioned movie usher's uniform. "This way, please, Dr. McCoy," she said with a professionally happy smile, and headed towards the center of the building. "They do seating here?" "This looks like Silver's doing," Hank muttered, though he was secretly not displeased at being given celebrity treatment on this rare occasion when he chanced to be trying to impress someone. They were shown to a small table for two just at the edge of the biggest dance floor. It had a black faux-marble top, as smooth as glass but with only a dull sheen. Cassie reached out to smooth her hand over it as Hank politely held her chair. Suddenly, they seemed to be surrounded by glitter and light. She gave a faint gasp and looked to Hank. He was wearing a faintly exasperated expression, squinting up into the light source. He waved, and it quit as instantaneously as it had come. But a small blue exclamation point of light was now centered in the table. Cassie touched it in wonder--it was in the table! Part of the amazing special effects, she supposed. Hank was sitting down now, still looking up at the ceiling over the dance floor. "Is that where your friend runs things from?" "Yes--you can't see it because of mirrors, but he can see us, and anything else he wants to, I would imagine, through cameras." Hank waved up again towards their invisible host. The exclamation point vanished, to be replaced by a pink heart and a question mark. Hank snorted, but eyed Cassie with a touch of worry. When she covered her smile with one hand, and gave him a shy sideways look in return, he relaxed. Looking up again, he pantomimed a wide- armed shrug, intended to indicate his lack of knowledge about the future, adding a smile to indicate his willingness to accept whatever it might bring. The heart throbbed in response, making Cassie emit a choked giggle, and then a light-stencil of an approving upthrust thumb gleamed, before the table went dark again. "This is a very interesting place," Cassie said gravely. "I'm glad you think so." A server appeared to take their drink order, and was quickly dispatched in search of a bottle of Asti Spumante, one of the tastes they had found they had in common, solemnly agreeing it was far superior to champagne. "I don't know where he gets the energy to run it--many of the sequences are pre-programmed, of course, but still I think he spends most of the day getting ready for the night, and then the whole night running his show. And he's always wanting to add new technologies." "He ought to consult you." "He has! He wanted holographic dancers, as well as the flat ones on the walls." Hank shook his head at some memory. "I could do it, too--but he doesn't have a computer that would run the program." "Well, build him one," Cassie suggested, only half-kidding. Hank started to inform her she was now being silly, then stopped to pursue sudden inspiration. If they could acquire a used Cray.... "But, Hank--" Her mild tone abruptly snapped him back to the present moment. "Maybe you could start building it tomorrow?" "Or better yet, the day after," Hank agreed. There was still a lot of tomorrow available for spending with Cassie, he suspected. "In the meantime, would you care to dance, my dear?" The sound level and the ambient warmth gradually increased as the crowd grew, and the time spread out smoothly in a blur of dancing and music and talk and laughter. "I can't remember when I've had such a good time," Cassie gasped, as she regained her breath after laughing over a tale Hank had related about a prank his friends had attempted to play on him, which had backfired with hysterical consequences. "Really? I'm glad," Hank told her casually, fighting down an urge to turn a few handsprings. "Really," Cassie assured him. "I'm so glad you didn't have any change for the parking meter this morning!" "So am I," he replied, his normally deep voice going a shade husky. He took her hands, cupping them between his. His assessing gaze searched her face, and found no impediment to his leaning closer...her eyes closed and she leaned forward as well.... "Hey!" The harsh voice scarcely registered on either's consciousness, but the jarring sensation of a kick to the underside of their table did. "Whaddya think yer doin'?" Cassie jerked away from the kiss with a gasp at the interruption, but did not move from Hank's side. A young man was staring malevolently at them, swaying a little, clenching and unclenching his hands. Slowly, Hank freed his own hands from their hold on Cassie's. "I cannot imagine that it's any business of yours," he told their verbal assailant firmly, but with an undertone that should have warned the offender to move along. "You were gonna kiss that woman," snarled the youth. His eyes were mad with something stronger than alcohol, something fueling his antipathy while it obliterated his sense of self-preservation. A girl his age approached, and began trying to pull him away, whispering something. "I don' care!" he roared, and shoved her backwards so she fell sprawling. The nearby crowd hushed and spread back, but no one moved to intervene. "He's a mutie--got no business kissin' a normal woman!" Cassie gasped, and heard Hank growl, "That's it," as he stood up. The boy staggered back a step when he saw the size of the one he had chosen to harass, but then he came forward in a rush, drawing one arm back to throw a punch. Hank sidestepped the table, and when his attacker's fist flailed forward, he caught it in one huge hand, with an almost bored fillip. His face was anything but bored, however. Feeling his hand caught, the drunken youth struggled to yank it free, then attempted a second ill-conceived assault, a straight-legged kick that lashed up into mid-air, not even close to a target. Hank caught that leg's ankle, and jerked the would-be marauder off his feet. With a distasteful grimace, he then threw him in the general direction of the silver-shirted security men at last pushing through the crowd. The youth's girlfriend had gotten to her feet and was crying, standing alone. One security man dragged the youth up off the floor as well, while the second took a step towards Hank. Hank's chin snapped up and the man stopped, though he covered this prudent maneuver by holding a hand to the earpiece of his headset, as though he were listening to someone. Apparently it was no ruse, because in a moment, he related, "Boss says you don't have to go," in a flat tone. "Sorry for the inconvenience, sir." They disappeared the way they had come, dragging the cursing youth between them, trailed by the sobbing girl. Hank adjusted his shirt, then slowly turned to Cassie. She looked pale, shocked, and he belatedly wished he had thrown the drunken fool a lot further and harder. "I'm sorry about that, Cassie," he said, not quite sure which part of the incident he meant. Perhaps all of it, starting from the very true charge of being a mutant who wanted to kiss a normal woman. She shook her head, somewhat dazedly. "It isn't your fault." Her hands clutched the edge of the table with a white-knuckled grip. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?" Hank snorted. "He couldn't hurt me on the best day he ever imagined," he replied savagely. Not physically, he couldn't.... The crowd had returned to its activity, with the little spectacle over, but he sensed people were still watching with covert avidity. He took his seat again, and made a rapid examination of Cassie's set face and tense shoulders. "Do you want to leave, Cassie?" "Would you mind very much?" she replied in a very small voice, giving him only an instant's glance. "Not at all, actually." He put out a hand to assist her to her feet, gathered up his jacket, and began to make his way to the exit. Cassie tucked her arm up under his and followed very closely. Outside, he gave her his coat again, and they started up the street. He was trying to think what he could possibly say, what words could open the path of communication back up, and was failing utterly. Then, as they passed beneath a streetlamp, he glanced aside and was chagrined to see Cassie was trying to blink away tears. "Cassie!" He stopped, stopped her, and turned her to face him. Her woeful face only met his for a moment before she had to look to the ground, dabbing at her eyes with his coat sleeve. Doubly distressed now, he fell back on his main defense to try to right the situation. "Are those for my sake," he inquired lightly, "or for the unregenerate state of humanity in general?" She sniffed deeply, and looked up again. "I'm sorry--I really hate to cry in front of people." She wiped at her face again. "I'd...I'd rather be shot." "Have you ever been shot?" he inquired seriously. "Nooo...." "If you ever have the choice, I recommend you select crying--you actually wouldn't like your other choice that much." She choked out a small laugh. "How can you joke, when...when that man was so awful?" The scene seemed to play itself back in her mind. "How can people be so awful to each other?" "Easily, it would seem," he replied with a shrug. "You get used to it." "Do you?" Now her eyes searched his face for the truth. "Do you really?" Hank caught his breath at the raging sorrow in her expression, and let it out slowly. "Well. Allow me to rephrase." He put his arm around her and they resumed their progress. "You become better able to deal with it. It becomes easier to dismiss his kind of hatred as the result of poor parenting and education, or other social ills. Bad manners, if nothing else. But, no, so far I am not yet used to it. It's always a shock, each time." "Oh, Hank," she said, and that alone, but it seemed adequate for the moment. Slipping her arm around his waist so she could lean on him, they made their way back to the car in silence. Before opening the passenger door, Hank took Cassie's chin in one hand, almost without volition. He leaned down to complete the aborted kiss, then halted when he felt her tense up. In the instant before he could draw decently away, however, she threw both arms around his neck and kissed him with an energy he welcomed and echoed. It wasn't sensual passion, but it was a good deal better than nothing at all, at the moment. When they broke apart, he stroked her cheek with one finger. With his best warm smile, he told her, "Now I'm going to put you in the car, and we're going to go back to your hotel. If you like, I will let you off at the lobby entrance and thank you most graciously for a wonderful day. Or, alternatively, I will see you to your room, and then depart when you deem it appropriate." She blinked up at him, nodded solemnly, and opened her mouth to speak. With infinite gentleness, he touched a finger to her lips. "It would probably be best," he said, "for you to think it through first, don't you agree?" She hesitated, then nodded again. After settling her in her seat, Hank McCoy stood for just an instant, looking in through the glass window at her profile. Then, tossing and catching his keys like divining coins, with his fate cast to unknown winds, he walked around his car and climbed in to begin the long, quiet drive back to the hotel. *** "Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence." Robert Frost *** Footnote: (1) An Alert Reader pointed out to me that it was actually Forge who originally invented the image inducer in the Marvelverse. I could try to claim that, since this is sort of an alternate universe, I gave Hank the credit on purpose because I like him better. But actually, I just goofed up.