xp_logs | Hank and Q - Welcome Back

xp_beast posting in

In which Hank is tired and forgot how Q-like Q is

It seemed wrong that it was a bright and sunny day. Hank would have preferred it be drizzly, dreary, rainy, dingy.... something that captured his mood while also giving him even more reason to reach out to the one person he was most scared of seeing again.

Five years.

It'd been five years since he was last in New York,,,but it only felt like two, and that was really messing with him. The proliferation of technology was everywhere, in a way that was taking time to process. Even walking through airports was a weird experience, seeing signs for 'Uber' and 'Vrbo' and something called X which he learned was Twitter, only rebranded.... was this how prison inmates felt when they were released into society? Adjusting his glasses, he sighed and rubbed at his forehead as he walked towards the pick up area. Another change too -- while before, it was almost an aesthetic choice, after a full year in space, his eyesight had deteriorated to the point where he needed glasses now to function. Without them, he was lost. Fitting, for a scientist, but at the same time, another measure of how things were different now. His body, something he'd always hated, was now entirely in his control. He had muscle definition, he understood where his body started and where it ended and yes, he even understood his limitations.

Zero gravity was both a curse and a blessing.

And now he was here. No longer in space, no longer in contact with Reed. He'd cut him off once the true scope of the project came true. Hank had taken his money (he wasn't too proud for that), taken his one suitcase of belongings, and his cell phone which was out of date four years ago, and now barely functioned. All he managed to do was turn it on and send one message, trying his best to ignore the fact that the last message he had sent to Q had gone unresponded.

To be fair, he hadn't expected an I love you back but still. To know that in all this time, Hank hadn't warranted a message back..... and yet Q was the first person he thought of when he realized he would appreciate a ride home.

So now he walked to the car lot, a bit trepidatiously, and scanned the vehicles, looking for that shock of pink hair that would guide him to the one familiar face he wanted to see.

For a long time after he received that final cryptic message to which he could not bring himself to respond, Quentin had considered blocking Hank's number. And possibly psychically lobotomizing himself to forget the other man had ever existed. It was bad enough that Hank had left the mansion without notice right after Quentin had become whole again. But a whole year of rare "how are you?" texts, memes, and dick pics, and then Hank ended things with an "I love you goodbye" followed by four years of complete silence? Quentin did not owe him anything and he would have been right to excise him entirely from his life.

But Quentin could never say no to a boy in need. Never to Hank.

But he at least refused to get out of his car, just honked repeatedly when he spotted the arrival. He didn't even pop the trunk until Hank struggled with it for a moment, and reveled in that little bit of pettiness. And once Hank climbed into the passenger seat, the car was out of the lot, speeding back towards Salem Center.

Hank barely had time to put his seatbelt on before he felt he was jolted down the road, his eyes widening in surprise. It was hard enough figuring out the trunk (why was it all buttons and no handles?) but the minute he sat down, there were sounds, and the car was speeding, and it was a lot. Breathing inward deeply, he glanced over at Q and noting the white knuckled grip on the wheel, he felt it was probably wise not to say anything. How could he do that though when he'd imagined this moment for so long?

Hank cleared his throat once. And then a second time before getting the courage to mumble out "Hey."

"Hi. How was your flight?" There was no curiosity in Quentin's voice, though, and he twirled a finger above the control panel to dial up the volume of Sabrina Carpenter's sweet crooning voice. It was extra petty, but now that Hank was here, on this side of the world, in his car, speaking to him, he found years of anger and resentment trying to ebb away. But being the master of spite that he was, Quentin clung tightly to it.

It could have been a statement, considering the lack of emotion and interest, but Hank was determined not to let it affect him more than it already was. He reached up and adjusted his glasses slightly while nodding. "Good. It was good. I was surprised that I could get wifi in the air now. Or even that the seats have chargers in them. That's new. I wasn't expecting that ... nor was I expecting to have to pay for everything. When did it all get so expensive?" When he'd seen the itinerary, he was shocked. It was easily double the price he'd thought it would be, and the fact that he had to pay for all his luggage (of which there were only two suitcases) was a surprise too. This was probably going to be an on-going feeling for him for a while.

"Things changed a lot in four years," Quentin informed Hank, sparing him a side-eye glance before turning his attention fully back to the road. "Though I guess there's no inflation in space. And no wage raises to keep up with that inflation?"

Oh, so that was how it was going to be. Not that Hank was surprised. He expected the residual anger and resentment. Still. It was one thing to expect it and another to have it happen in front of him. "I told you that information to explain the situation, not to be made fun of," he responded quietly. "I did not intend to be gone so long. I also lost years of my life while still keeping them. Can you understand how complex this paradox is for me? There is a clear dichotomy between my present and my past -- rather than being a uniter journey, it is splintered and has led to ....this. I am only two years older when five years have passed, and I cannot keep apologizing for something that I had no control over."

"Have you tried apologizing—and meaning it—for how you deserted m . . . everyone," Quentin hastily corrected himself. "That was a decision you made all on your own. Unless you want to tell me that was part of your research, too? A psychological aspect to go along with whatever the hell else you were doing?"

Hank frowned. "I did not desert anyone. I had a job opportunity that I needed to take. I sent you messages. We communicated. True, I did not properly exchange goodbyes with you; however, I did inform you once I was in France. I remember sending you a picture of my lab setup. If I had deserted you, I wouldn't have done that." He turned and looked out the window. "You could have reached out as well, so you know."

Quentin was silent for a moment as he considered his response. And then decided to throw tact out the window. "How the fuck do you respond to someone who says 'I haven't seen you in a year and now I'm going to outer space for another year and by the way I love you'???" The triple question mark was audible in his tone, and he punctuated the fervor with a long honk of the horn to tell off the car in front of him. He quickly swerved to the next lane to pass the offending driver. "You can't fucking spring that on someone and expect them to be okay. Not after one or four years. How did you even want me to answer that?"

The horn made Hank wince, and he finally looked from the window to Q. "There wasn't a need for an answer. I felt it, I wanted to let you know. That was it. One does not say those words simply for a reciprocal response. It is an inner emotion that I wanted to express. I apologize if it made you uncomfortable. I wasn't expecting a response." And that was true. Not only from a self-esteem perspective but from a practical perspective. They were words you said because you didn't want your last comment to someone to be a dick pic, or a meme. That was inappropriate, and he didn't know if he would die in space or not. These thoughts though, why say them? It would make Q angrier, and Hank was already regretting this car ride as it stood. "If you would prefer, you can drop me off at the next metro stop. I can find my own way back to Westchester. You seem upset, and I do not want to continue to contribute to that."

"No, I'm not going to leave you on the side of the road," Quentin said with a sigh. "I just . . . ugh. I need you to understand how spectacularly shitty what you did was. And this coming from me, the reigning champion of being spectacularly shitty to people. You basically gave me back my telepathy after I'd lost it for a year. Do you know what that means?"

Hank still didn't think it was 'spectacularly shitty' but he realized he was in no place to argue. It wasn't his emotions.

"No. I don't know what that means."

Quentin glanced at Hank and frowned. "Of course you don't," he muttered. "It means . . . fuck, Henry. The whole thing was a fucking mental block. I packed my telepathy away because, I don't know, I didn't want to risk doing with it what the Shadow King did with it. He killed a taxi driver with an aneurysm just because he could, you know? And now a Bangladeshi immigrant family is left without a husband, a father, a provider."

He was quiet for a moment as he turned off the freeway, flipping the bird at the driver behind him as he merged, a standard New York driver greeting. "But that weekend with you, at Raf's wedding, I saw what I could do even without it. What I could do with you. And that, like, unlocked that part of my brain. Now do you get it?"

"Oh." That was all Hank could think of to say immediately. Oh. Nothing else. Not when he was suddenly being reminded of that weekend as well. How Q also made him feel like he could be okay in his body, the way it was, gangly limbs and pasty skin and all.

Was this something to apologize for? It felt like it so he did. "I'm sorry."

"Hmm. It's . . . whatever." And just like that, an at least somewhat sincere apology, and the resentment began to ebb. Quentin hated that Hank had that effect. "So. How long you back for? And why come back here instead of literally anywhere else?"

Ah, finally. A question he had an answer to. "I'm too different to go home and be with my parents, in that space. I no longer belong there. Not like this. I wanted to go where I can be different and understand what that means." He gave a rueful grin. "I need my glasses now. Cosmic radiation has played a toll on my body, in many different ways. My eyesight has deteriorated greatly; however, as I was focused on muscle mass, I have never been fitter."

As if suddenly enraptured by a siren's song, Quentin turned his gaze to Hank for as long as was safe to assess the other man's claims himself. It was hard to tell how accurate he was given his ill-fitting outfit, but there were some signs he was not fibbing. Hard to hide a chest and shoulders like those, for sure.

"You a gym bunny now, then?" Quentin teased, tearing his eyes off Hank to focus on the road again, though he still stole a glance every now and then. "Eating a diet exclusive of boiled chicken breast smoothies?"

"A protein rich diet has its benefits, but you're forgetting the importance of complex carbohydrates along with the nutritional output of fresh fruit and vegetables." He rubbed at his nose, and lifted the bridge of his glasses. "In terms of attending the gym, I have decided to maintain the exercise regiment I have grown accustomed to. A regular routine is important for a healthy mind, and I want to ensure that I remain in as optimal condition as possible as the long-term effects of the radiation on an x-gene individual is unknown."

"Well, if you ever need to play doctor and get a checkup . . ." Part of Quentin knew that making such an overture was a bad idea, especially after all he had just laid bare. But no one ever accused him of making good decisions when other men were involved.

"How would I be both doctor and patient?"

"Henry, I . . ." For the first time in a while, Quentin laughed. "Fuck, you're dumb. It's a good thing you're pretty."

Hank wasn't sure what he had said, but he was pleased to get a laugh. "Thank you, Quentin. I find you incredibly attractive as well."

~*~

Quentin stepped out of the bathroom after a quick shower, towel hanging low on his hips, and bent over to pick up his discarded shorts and shirt from the floor of Hank's new room. "Well. Welcome back, again."

Hank still had no idea how they had gotten from the car to back in bed with each other, and now that the moment had worn off, he found himself equally exhausted and energized. He knew better than to assume this meant anything although he couldn't help but wonder if it did. He also had no idea how he still felt -- was this love or post-coital clarity? He had no idea, and he had no idea what to do or say.

"Thank you for the welcome home. I think I need a nap now."

Quentin smirked as he dressed. "Got to build up that endurance again after a 5-year dry spell. Assuming there weren't hot aliens up there to fuck." He thought about that for a moment before shaking himself out of the fantasy. "Anyway, call me."

Out of everything, that caught Hank off guard the most. "I can?"

"No, of course not, never talk to me again," was Quentin's droll reply. But he was already at the door so Hank could not see him roll his eyes.