#Alongside giant Spock and other human Spock who loves bacon.

[positivelybeastly]

"I don't make a habit of saying things I don't believe to be true. I find it engenders poor conversation, to say nothing of it being subpar table manners."

A glib answer, perhaps, but still an honest one - continuing along their theme, as it happened. Spock was in need of assistance, of truth, and though Hank could easily have spun him an entertaining web of half-truths and aspirations, dazzled him with tales of derring do and mutant wonderment, the truth of what he had to offer, the truth of Hank's life and what he wanted to share with him if he would have it, was altogether messier, more achingly violent, and more in line with what the other man knew life as a mutant to be like.

Yes, he could tell him about sentient clouds of gas that took Hank's literature classes, or about living weapons that had learned to love - but that wasn't what Spock needed. At least, not right now. He needed someone who understood that life had inured him to distrust. He needed honesty.

And Charles hadn't helped matters. For as much good as the man had done, continued to do, he could be - overbearing, for those who didn't know him. Telepathy was . . . a touchy subject, especially among telepaths, ironically, and while Hank had long since learned to accept the liminal nature of privacy in a mansion festooned with the most powerful minds on the planet, others didn't take to it as kindly.

"The Professor is . . . zealous." Precisely zealous. "I find that he often takes it upon himself to weigh down his shoulders with the world's problems, even if sometimes the world would rather he desist and learn to leave well enough alone. I've gotten used to it, I suppose. One man's meddling is another man's propensity to always have a hand outstretched." Kind words to Charles, to be sure, but offered without any kind of reproach for his current companion's judgements - Spock had every right to draw his own conclusions. Again. Honesty.

Then came the question that was every question, and he couldn't help but smile, self-effacing, very well aware this was going to sound a boast, but he wasn't about to play down how proud he genuinely was of what he did.

"For starters, I should warn you that I'm something of a renaissance man, and my predilections for how I spend my time at the school are not entirely representative.

Mostly, I teach - everything. Literature, mathematics, sciences, philosophy, politics, engineering, pre-med, history of art, etcetera, etcetera. I research, primarily genetics and biophysics, but anything that catches my eye.

Every now and then, I duck my head out the door and take in a show, occasionally remember to eat. Sometimes, I save the world.

When I find the time, I even do my best, like Alice, to believe in five impossible things before breakfast."

Perhaps he was pushing it a little too far with the Lewis Carroll, but it was, in its way, true. Being a teacher, being a scientist, being an X-Man, they all required belief - in the world's ability to change for the better, if you would allow him to be so painfully earnest and cliché. It required rather a lot of getting knocked down and getting right back up again. It required faith in a wider purpose, for each and every little action and reaction. It required strength.

"Does that answer your question?"

                                          EACH MINUTE IS A WAR to stifle the scent of roses, memories unchecked and lapping at the edges of his thoughts like a wave. The question is a distraction, the timid beginnings of conversation meant as a shield. They have been looking for him for some time now, he knows, them or him — a man named Charles — Hank has confirmed this with a simplicity that Spock admittedly did not expect.

Perhaps, it is what gives him pause, rooting him to this seat while feigning an occupation with the menu at his fingertips. Hank's pawing seemed an unconscious, if unavoidable rhythm just then, tracing the shape of an old, unseen wound; scars that Spock could pry and pluck and pick at without the work of his hands should he so choose.

Except, he does not have to.

Something about @positivelybeastly shakes in the air before Hank’s body does, carefully ragged and unknown to Spock — silver with the crack of a bat — sniping at his curiosity enough to tilt his head and furrow his brow. What he has been told and told again is clean and seemingly untethered, spoken without promise or malice, and an offer all the same.

Belatedly, he realizes that he could have kept running, remained hidden and ignored his current company for the familiar embrace of the streets.

Spock is a nomad. He’s known cold anonymity for months now.

But afterwards, after a meal, perhaps he does not have to do that either.

                                          “ You truly believe that to be the case. ” It is not a question. He says it in partial disbelief, duplicitous of his wonderment simultaneously. The world is none so kind, not so bright; it is bloody, red like fallen roses, “ I confess your approach has been far less invasive than that of your colleague. ”

Charles Xavier is a man, a mutant, that he has never met. Not in person. Though, his voice rings true when there are no mouths to listen to, echoing against the cacophony Spock has struggled to keep quiet, buried under the sand. It does not make Henry McCoy any more trustworthy despite the affirmations he gives to Spock. Still, Spock is here, errant of his gifts and the invisible blood on his hands. What did he want? He lays his hands on the table, lets them slide into his own lap. He was certain once.

Spock eyes Hank. " What do you do there, Doctor? "