Hank and Quentin, Tuesday afternoon

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Quentin 'stumbles' across Hank in the labs and they have a nice chat about mutations, work, and... cunning linguists.

He would never admit it even with the threat of murder, but telepathy lessons with Jean were Quentin's favorite part of the week. Not just spending time with her and continuing his losing battle to woo her, but the actual lessons themselves. Learning how to use his extraordinary abilities in ways he never would have imagined a year ago. He was grateful. More than that. He was indebted.

So he was in what passed for a good mood for him as he walked by the research lab suite on the way back to the elevators, when an unfamiliar mind registered. Quentin knew smart people. Jean, Sue, Chuckles. But there was something different about this one. It ran in multiple directions at once yet never got tangled. Were Quentin to look any more closely, he feared he'd be trapped in the genius's mental labyrinth. But he was curious enough that he could at least follow the signal until he identified the source in real life. He didn't know what to expect when the doors to the lab slid open for him, but surely not the bespectacled twink in a lab coat.

"Huh."

The 'twink' glanced up at his intrusion, blinking somewhat owlishly as he pulled himself away from whatever he was doing with the large machine covered in flashing lights. "Oh, hello," he greeted Quentin, offering a polite smile and barely any staring. "Are you looking for Reed? I'm afraid he's not here just now - he said something about sustenance, maybe you should try the kitchen? Although what time is it?" He paused and glanced at his wristwatch - he actually wore a wristwatch. "Oh, that was some time ago now. I'm afraid I don't know where he could be, I'm terribly sorry."

Quentin raised an eyebrow. The guy had huge hands for such a slim frame. Odd physical appearance or mutation? Either way, it only intrigued Quentin further. "I have no idea who that is," he answered, crossing his arms and leaning causally against the doorway. "Or you. Who're you?"

"Reed Richards? I mean, that's not me, I'm Hank, but I'm surprised you haven't heard of him." He was only one of the foremost minds in his field, after all.

"Why would I have?" Quentin asked, snorting. "So you're like, what, his assistant or something? That's why he's keeping you locked up in here while he goes off and does whatever?"

"Not his assistant, no. I suppose I'm more like a... colleague." Hank had never really thought of himself in those terms before and doing so gave him a small swell of pride. "Though obviously our specialities are quite different - I couldn't claim even half the knowledge of materials science that he has."

"Uh huh." Quentin stepped into the lab uninvited, trailing his fingers along the cold fireproof lab bench. The room looked like if the Apple Store sponsored a chemistry class. "So you're another one of the geniuses that Chuckles is hoarding. What's your specialty?"

"Molecular genetics, for the moment. At least, that's my major. Are you a student as well?" Hank asked, finally remembering his manners and turning the questions back on the newcomer.

Quentin's only response to that was a hardy laugh. "I would literally rather lose my telepathy than go to any sort of school again." He hopped up onto Hank's bench, heedless of the tubes and pipettes he was undoubtedly endangering, or the fact that with the short shorts he was wearing, his skin was probably picking up all sorts of stray chemicals. "I'm Quentin, by the way. I'm a detective. Ish."

"Oh?" Hank raised his eyebrows in interest, snapping off his gloves and dropping them in the nearest bin. It wasn't like he was going to get any work done, after all. "I can imagine telepathy dovetailing nicely with that line of work. Are you a private investigator, or..." He trailed off. He didn't really need to finish the sentence - they both knew Quentin wasn't a cop.

That earned Hank another laugh, although this one actually carried amusement. "Private," Quentin responded. "X-Factor Investigations. You know Worthington? Blond, rich as fuck, 10/10 would bang, giant-ass wings growing out his back? He's the boss. Well, him and Frost, but I haven't seen the bitch in weeks."

Frankly it sounded like he was describing the cast of a soap opera but Hank smiled politely and nodded anyway. "I see. Are there a lot of cases, then? I mean, I assume they are mutant-oriented - most of the business out of the mansion seems to be."

"Mostly, sure, but the mutant population in the city, or even the state, being what it is, we do all sorts. Lots of missing persons. Some pre-divorces." There was nothing Quentin liked more than finding evidence of foul play that would end a relationship. "I've learned to say 'Eat shit' in, like, twenty different languages."

"Ah, so you're multilingual as well! I'm afraid I've only four myself - so far, though I'm working my way through Japanese in my spare time, it's very different from the Romance languages but I thought perhaps I was due a change, and with the current trend in Japanese biotechnology developments as they are it seemed timely..."

This humble display of linguistic skill had Quentin rolling his eyes until he realized there was a lascivious joke to make there, which had him grinning. "So," he said, leaning forward, locking eyes with Hank, "You've got a well-trained tongue?"

"I... suppose so," the bespectacled young man said, unable to tear his gaze away from Quentin's curiously intense stare. "Though it's far from the nimblest part of me, thanks to my mutation. If only that had extended as far as my lingual capacity."

"Really?" Quentin sat back, though his ogling never ceased. "What's your mutation, then? What makes you so . . . nimble?"

"As far as I can tell it's solely physical enhancements - enhanced dexterity, agility, that sort of thing. And, ah..." Hank hesitated before lifting and gesturing with one oversized hand. "Increased limb and appendage proportions. Though that is less advantageous than some of my other adaptations."

That explained the big hands. There was a softening of Quentin's expression when Hank held it up. No snide remark about how big hands and big feet meant other big anatomical features. The telepath leaned forward again and raised his hand as if to reach out and touch Hank's, but stopped himself and leaned back. "So a superb body with a brain to match," he said without so much as a drip of sarcasm in his voice. "I'm almost jealous."

If Hank knew how lucky he was to be getting off without any further teasing he didn't show it, instead offering Quentin a bashful smile, his hair falling down over his brow as he ducked his head. "Tell me more about your telepathy," he said then, "how much have you explored your range? Your other limits? It must be fascinating."

"I'd show you, but I sensed your mind from outside and you've got a fucking weird head. You think too much. More than pretty much all the other plebs here. I wouldn't be able to follow you without getting lost. And you don't want me getting stuck in there. Maybe not 'til we know each other a little better." There was that provocative tone again.

"That sounds like an excellent idea," Hank said with his ingrained Midwestern friendliness, his smile growing more genuine. It wasn't often someone just paraded into the lab and made themselves at home, but something about Quentin made him feel like he might make for an excellent - if unconventional - friend. Maybe it was just that he seemed perfectly comfortable with mutant issues, an area in which Hank felt all too naive and uneducated. "I can't promise I'll always be free should you drop in unannounced to the labs, however - you know how it is when you're in the middle of an assay and you just can't spare an ounce of concentration for anything else."

"Well, yeah, of course. Can't interrupt that." And there was the sarcasm, too, heavy as ever. Still, there was no hostility. Quentin was making progress in his interpersonal skills, even if the primary drive to do so was to sleep around. "We should go to the club some time. Do you dance? Wait, how old are you? Not that it matters, I can telepath our way inside without ID. That is what I explore with my lessons."

Hank blinked, then gave a good-natured shrug. "I've never been clubbing before. I'm sure it's quite the experience."

"Excellent." Quentin hopped off the table and wiped off the dust and whatever else he'd been sitting on from the back of his shorts. "Then I'll see you 'round. Good luck curing AIDS or whatever."