Boys will be Boys

Posted on Sat May 31st, 2025 @ 5:49pm by Pietro Maximoff & Warren Worthington III & Scott Summers & Bobby Drake & Hank McCoy & Sean Cassidy

9,981 words; about a 50 minute read

Mission: Episode 6: X-Fernus Agenda
Location: New York City
Timeline: January 23, 1991

The common area of the X-Factor suites was alive with tension as Bobby and Hank engaged in a passionate verbal duel. Scott was thankfully not present for the controversial subject matter, as he was away at the airport picking up Sean Cassidy from his international flight. That left Warren sitting between them, his face a mask of polite patience, but his brow twitched occasionally, betraying his growing annoyance.

Bobby leaned forward, gesturing animatedly with a bottle of soda in hand. "Come on, Hank, lighten up! A bachelor party’s supposed to be wild! It’s like, the last hurrah before Scott gets shackled to the ol’ ball and chain. And what better way to send him off than with—" he grinned, raising his eyebrows suggestively, "an evening at the good ol' Glitter Dome?"

Hank adjusted his glasses, visibly appalled, his furry blue features scrunching into a frown. “The Glitter Dome, Bobby? Do you even hear yourself? Such establishments are nothing short of societal relics, catering to the basest of instincts and reinforcing the most lamentable tropes of… chauvinistic barbarism. I daresay, a celebration of one’s impending nuptials should aspire to something loftier than... ogling." He said the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Bobby scoffed and leaned back in his chair, tossing the empty soda bottle from hand to hand like a baseball. "Okay, Professor McCoy. But Scott doesn’t need some boring, stuffy dinner party with a side of Aristotle. He needs to cut loose, have some laughs, and, y’know, live a little before he turns into Ward Cleaver." He paused to snicker at the old TV reference. “Besides, who doesn’t love sparkly outfits and synchronized dancing?”

“Sparkly outfits?” Hank repeated, deadpan. “Do you truly think Scott Summers, who routinely eschews frivolity in favor of order and discipline, would find mirth in such a tawdry display? Let us not forget that Jean is a telepath, and thus, his inevitable embarrassment would be magnified exponentially.” He leaned forward, jabbing a large blue finger into the air for emphasis. “A dignified soirée is the only appropriate course of action. Perhaps a wine tasting accompanied by a recital. Something refined and introspective. A proper celebration of love’s enduring triumph.”

Bobby let out a loud, exaggerated groan. "A recital? You’re getting lamer and lamer, Hank! You really think Scott wants to sit around sipping wine and listening to Bach? This is the guy who literally flies a jet into battles. He’s not gonna want a bunch of fancy crackers and violin music. He’s gonna want a party. A real party. With lights! Music! And... entertainment."

“As much as I enjoy the sensual tease that is a strip tease, I don’t really want to see the look on your lame face when you pop a tent over some single mother’s lap dance.” Warren said with just a touch of vicious mockery. “Plus you’re not old enough to get into New York strip clubs that serve alcohol anyways.”

“Oh thank god.” Pietro sighed in relief from over the top of his tall boy. “I agreed to go to this thing but the idea of watching stripers all night was… not ideal. So what are we doing?”

“It’s taken care of.” Warren replied with a haughty tone, “The best man is responsible for taking care of the bachelor party, so I’ve arranged for all of it. A limo is waiting for us in the garage once Scott and Sean arrive. Say, did anyone invite the new blue guy?”

“The German monk?” Bobby asked. “Now I know you guys are crazy.”

“I did have occasion to invite Kurt,” said Hank, “but after explaining to him what a bachelor party was, he politely declined...”

Bobby scoffed at that. “See? Even a priest thinks you're boring. That should be a clue, Hank.”

Ignoring Bobby's latest dig, Hank added, “...on grounds that he had already been asked to officiate the wedding. He sends his regards, however.”

“Whatever.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “So what are we doing, Warren?!”

“Wait for Scott, you brat,” Warren said with one of his trademark smirks that had the ability to mellow out any harsh words he delivered. “The only clue is that I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry,” Pietro said while finishing his beer. The speedster ate triple what any of them would consume on an excessive day. “Be warned, I can eat.”

“No problem.” Warren adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, “My trip home was as beneficial as I had hoped it would be. My deep Worthington pockets have been returned to me now that I am no longer legally dead. There was a touch of quid pro quo that came with the deal but I’m happy with the agreement that was reached between me and dear old dad. So tonight we’re going to celebrate Scott and my obnoxious wealth.”

The door swung open as Sean Cassidy stepped into the room, arms spread wide and his voice booming with unmistakable Irish cheer. “Tell me, lads, are we plannin’ a proper bachelor’s send-off, or am I ‘bout to be sorely disappointed?”

“Sean!” Bobby was always excited to see the older man. “See? He gets it!” Bobby practically shouted. “Let’s take it to a vote!”

“Let’s not.” The door opened again, and Scott appeared in the doorway, burdened with a suitcase and Sean’s jacket draped over his arm. “Could’ve carried this yourself, Sean,” he said, stepping inside and setting down the luggage.

“Aye, but what’s t’ fun in that?” Sean retorted, sweeping his arms wide once more. “It’s t’ groom what’s meant to spoil his guests! An’ besides, ye need t’ practice for carryin’ all them bags on t’ honeymoon!”

Making his rounds and slapping backs, Sean’s grin stretched from ear to ear while his sharp blue eyes twinkled. “And will ye look at this setup! Oi!” He nodded with approval at the office suites. “Obnoxious wealth, was it, Warren? Jaysus, Mary, an’ Joseph, I’ll not say no to indulgin’ a bit on yer da’s dime. Sure, it’s only roight for Scott’s nuptials, eh? I’m up for some hoigh-class debauchery in t’ name o’ love!”

“Whatever our noble Warren has in store,” Hank intoned, trying to bring the room’s energy down a notch, “it begins with a limousine.”

“Then what are we waitin’ fer?” Sean asked. “Onto t’ limo we go!”

“We were waiting for your pale Irish ass to finally arrive,” Warren said with a chuckle as he countered Sean and all the hot air that came with him. “Now let’s hurry up and get going so the party can finally start.”

Warren took a few steps forward and took Sean’s bag from Scott. With a single, forceful motion he carelessly chucked the back down the hall, letting it loudly thunk against the walls as it went. “There. Your stuff has been put away.”

Warren pushed the button for the elevator to the garage and sure enough a sleek black limousine was waiting for them down stairs, its driver was a buxom brunette who was wearing a valet jacket and nothing else.

“Hello, Mr. Worthington,” the woman said with a smile as she bent at the waist and held the door open for them. “My name is Misty and I’ll be your driver this evening.”

“You can thank me later,” Warren said with a nudge to Bobby before he climbed in. “Come on boys, the night is young.”

Bobby's jaw dropped like a ton of bricks, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as he tried to process Misty’s ample assets on display. The buxom brunette’s valet jacket barely concealed what it was meant to, and her coy smile only made matters worse for him. “Hi-i-i-i I’m boob-booby Bobby…”

Sean leaned toward Bobby, nudging him with his elbow. “What’s wrong, lad? Never seen a pair o’ tiddies b’far?”

Bobby sputtered, his face turning as red as a lobster. “I—what—I mean, that’s not—”

“Sean,” Hank interjected with a pointed look. “I believe you’re more than familiar with the concept of tact.” He adjusted his bowtie primly. “Surely you wouldn’t tease poor Robert in such a manner.”

“Means no,” Scott deadpanned as he climbed into the limo.

Raucous laughter filled the passenger area from the comedic timing.

“Wow, thanks for having my back, old pal,” Bobby shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Do you kiss Jean with that caca mouth?”

Before Scott could reply, Sean burst out laughing, slapping his knee. “Jean’s mouth? Oi, Bobby me boy, I can tell ye Scott does way more wit’ his mouth than that!”

Scott groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why? Just why?”

Hank cleared his throat loudly, trying to restore some semblance of decorum. “If we could perhaps set aside this exercise in juvenile commentary, Mr. Worthington, would you be so kind as to enlighten us as to the true nature of this evening’s festivities?”

“You are so impatient, Hank,” Warren said with a cool smile as he opened the bar in the limousine and poured two drinks, one for himself and the other for Hank. “Have a drink and relax.”

Warren looked at Bobby while he fixed two more drinks and handed them to Scott and Sean. “Listen, you, I’m counting on you to not drink like an amateur tonight. Which means don’t guzzle anything placed in front of you so you become a shitfaced idiot. We have a full night of activities ahead of us and no one here is nice enough to hold your hair while you puke.”

Warren leaned back in the deep bucket seating of the limo and took a sip of his own glass of bourbon. “Same goes for you, Sean.”

Sean tipped his glass in Warren’s direction, his grin as wide as the Irish Sea. “Hold me spirits tighter than me dick, ye say? Well, I’d no be worried about meself, lad. I’ve nursed finer whiskeys on stormier seas. As ye Yanks put it, t’is ain’t me first rodeo.”

Bobby brightened at Sean’s retort. “You heard the man, Warren. No amateurs here! ‘Hold my spirits tighter than my—’” He paused, his face scrunching before repeating the phrase with exaggerated emphasis. “—‘dick!’ I’ll roll with the big dogs, you just try and keep up.”

Scott, who had been sitting silently, pressed his lips together, his usual stoic expression cracking at the edges. Despite himself, his mouth fell open, and a muffled laugh escaped as he turned his head to hide his face. He waved his free hand dismissively, trying to regain composure but failing miserably.

Hank, who had been quietly swirling his bourbon with a mix of disdain and amusement, finally interjected. “Gentlemen, if we could aspire to at least a semblance of decorum,” he began, holding his glass aloft. “A toast. To dignified libations and celerity in the face of… well, the delightful company of brutes such as yourselves.”
Bobby stared at Hank, blinking a few times in feigned confusion. “Uh… can we get a translator on aisle Hank, please? Pretty sure he just called us all morons with fancy words.”

Sean roared with laughter and clinked his glass against Hank’s. “Ha! Don’t be sore, Bobby! Some o’ us have t’ tongue for t’ Queen’s English and some o’ us just live to entertain her with cunning linguistics!”

“Ha! Gross.” Pietro cackled from his spot pressed up against the glass near the driver. He mostly watched the men as they jabbed and joked with one another, slightly dumbfounded by the scene before him.

Reaching for a drink from Warren, Scott did his best to ignore the banter filling the limousine. “I’ll drink to that… Hank.”

“Oh come now Scott, don’t be such a stick in the mind. All of this is for you.” Warren raised his almost empty glass to the long cab of the limousine. “Well, most of it is for you.” He laughed at his own joke before he continued. “But tonight we’re celebrating before you’re shackled to Jean, because you know… once you’re married that means your days of wild fun are over.” Warren absolutely lost it after he made that statement, Scott had never been wild or fun and the idea of an even more tight lipped and stoic Scott was almost impossible to imagine.

Warren patted Scott on the shoulder a touch too hard as he regained some of his composure. “So the first stop for the night is a proper dinner at Keens Steakhouse. They serve tomahawks the size of your head amongst leather and tobacco stained wood. The private room in the back is reserved for us and they intend to treat us like kings.”

The limousine pulled up to the VIP entrance of Keens Steakhouse, where the warm glow of antique lanterns illuminated the sidewalk. The group exited the vehicle, their collective energy a mix of boisterous camaraderie and anticipation. Scott adjusted his ruby-quartz glasses, taking in the stately exterior of the building, its dark wood and brick façade emanating old-world charm.

The interior of Keens was steeped in history, the scent of aged tobacco and polished wood mingling with the aroma of sizzling steaks. The walls were paneled in rich mahogany, adorned with portraits, brass plaques, and vintage memorabilia. Most striking, however, were the countless clay churchwarden pipes suspended from the ceiling like a canopy of history, their delicate stems a testament to centuries of tradition.

A well-dressed maître d’, clad in a perfectly pressed black suit with a silver cravat, approached the group with a professional yet warm smile. His neatly groomed salt-and-pepper mustache twitched slightly as he greeted them.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, his voice smooth and refined, betraying a practiced charm honed over years of welcoming patrons. “The Summers party, I presume?”

“That’s me,” Scott said with a slight wave of his hand to identify himself.

“Welcome to Keens Steakhouse. Your private room is prepared, and we are delighted to have you join us tonight.” The maître d’ nodded and turned with a graceful motion, guiding them through the restaurant.

As they walked, the group marveled at the surroundings. The wood-paneled walls were adorned with plaques bearing names of pipe club members, each a relic of a bygone era. Hank adjusted his glasses, studying the collection of pipes hanging overhead.

“Remarkable,” Hank murmured, gesturing toward the ceiling. “A veritable museum of culture and tradition. Did you know the churchwarden pipe was considered beneficial for dissipating the ‘evil humors’ of the brain in Elizabethan England?”

“Evil humors?” Bobby said with a grin. “I think Scott could use one of those pipes. Might lighten him up a bit.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Scott replied dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Sean leaned toward Warren and Pietro and whispered into his hand, “Evil humar fer sure.”

“That explains a lot, actually,” Pietro whispered but chuckled loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

The maître d’ led them deeper into the establishment, past bustling dining rooms where patrons laughed and clinked glasses. The ambiance grew quieter as they approached a set of ornate wooden doors. He pushed them open to reveal a private dining room that was brimming with quaint luxury.

The room was lined with plush leather banquettes, its walls adorned with sepia-toned photographs and more pipes encased in shadow boxes. The long table was set with crisp white linens, glinting crystal glasses, and polished silverware. A roaring fireplace cast flickering light across the space, adding to the room’s warmth and ambience.

“Here we are, gentlemen,” the maître d’ announced, stepping aside to allow them entry. “Your servers will be with you shortly. If there is anything you require in the meantime, please do not hesitate to ask.”

The group filed into the room, their earlier banter momentarily subdued by the elegance surrounding them. As they settled into their seats, the hum of anticipation returned, and Sean raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Well, now,” Sean said with a long whistle, “if this ain’t a place fit fer a king, I don’t know wha’ t’is!”

“Scott might be a royal pain in the ass sometimes,” Bobby agreed, “but tonight he’s king.”

Seeing his name card at the head of the table, Scott had already taken to his place setting and folded his napkin across his lap. “Thanks, Bobby… I think.”

“If Scott’s a pain in the ass, what the hell does that make you?” Warren replied to Bobby’s dig. “Oh right, the butt of every joke.”

Pietro started to giggle at that remark, even though the alcohol metabolized so quickly for him he managed to find a buzz for a few fleeting moments. The liquid courage made him bold enough to chime in with their banter. “And, Warren, you’re just a plain old asshole.”

“Plain?!” Warren unexpectedly scoffed at a different word. “I’m far from plain or bland, I happen to exude taste and finery. But then again, Eurotrash in a tracksuit wouldn’t know class if it bit him on the ass.”

Pietro looked down at his black tracksuit, it was a sharp contrast from the suit Warren wore. “I have to be comfortable in order to move, it’s a speedster thing you wouldn’t understand… wingless prick.”

Warren’s eyes narrowed over the comment of the loss of his wings, they had been his glory and his pride. Pietro’s comment was a touch too far for him and it sparked his temper despite the jovial surroundings. He clenched his fist and was about to stand when the waiter finally arrived.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Keens. My name is Roberto and I will be your waiter for the evening.” The olive skinned man began to pour water into their glasses as he made his rounds about the table. “And congratulations to you, Mr. Summers. I hear we’re celebrating your impending nuptials. Can I get you gentlemen a drink for the bar while you look over the menu?”

The arrival of the waiter seemed to diffuse Warren’s anger, public image was one thing he would never sacrifice. It was part of the reason why he did so well with mutant PR, his pretty face and his smooth, cool delivery made him a favorite when it came to reporters. “Roberto, I see you have some Glenfiddich from 1937. I’ll take a glass of that and so will Mr. Summers. We have to give him a taste of excellence before the night is over.”

“I think I spotted a bottle o’ Machir Bay on t’ way in,” Sean said to Roberto before he had a chance to respond to Warren. “Go ahead and leave t’ bottle.” He tossed Bobby a wink. “We’ll make light o’ it in short order.”

“Hell yeah,” Bobby agreed, totally lost in the excitement of the hour. “Whatever he said. We’ll do the whole bottle!”

Hank chuckled at their exuberance, opting to keep things light himself. “And I shall have a double pour of the delicious Glenrothes which tempted me on the way inside. The 12 year batch, neat but with a single ice cube, if you would be so kind.”

As everyone was giving their drink order, Scott looked back and forth between them, wondering at what point they all had become a bunch of lushes and left him behind. He was no stranger to the basic categories, but he always took his time picking out the best. These guys were ready for Final Jeopardy with their choices. He looked at Warren and mouthed a silent thank-you. Clearly he had made the right choice for best man.

“I have something I want to say,” Scott started once Roberto scurried away with their drink orders. “Everybody busts my balls for being too… wound up and straight-laced, and I can’t say as I don’t have it coming. But tonight?” He bit back a chuckle that wouldn’t go away. “Guys, I’m touched. Really. Thank you for being part of my life. Through thick and thin, you’ve all been there…” His ruby lenses settled on Pietro in particular. “... each in your own way… and I’m just really glad for all of you.”

“Come on, Scott, you know all of us would be worse off without you.” Warren slapped him on the back, it appeared to be the closest thing to male affection he could muster. “I know you and I butt heads from time to time but at the end of the day I respect your decisions. You’ve saved my life more than once and I know that I can always depend on you. We’ll always show up for you when you need us, wearing our suits or even our suits.”

“Like you said, Scott…” Hank raised his glass with the single cube tinkling around the bottom. “Through thick and thin.”

“Aye to that.” Sean had just poured a glass for Bobby but put the mouth of the bottle to his lips.

Not to be outdone, Bobby held up his glass with the meager single shot and repeated the toast. “Through thick and thin!”

All eyes fell to Pietro who hadn’t said anything since his heated exchange with Warren a moment ago.

“Oh, ah…” Pietro was caught off guard by all eyes turning towards him. “I know you guys haven’t always considered me a friend. But… um… yeah… through thick and thin.” He raised his glass along with the rest of them. Pietro seemed surprised by the gesture but eager to join in.

“Through thick and thin,” Warren agreed as all their glasses clinked together before they took a sip from their drinks. “And now, we feast. Order your heart’s desires because I don’t think any of you will be coming back to place this pristine anytime soon.”

Pietro had already eaten the small loaf of bread that was on his end of the table. He paused and glanced at the menu. “Appetizers and dessert? How about a bottle of wine?”

“Go nuts, Pietro.” Warren said with a laugh before reclining in his chair. “I’ll watch in both amazement and disgust, like seeing those guys in hot dog eating competitions.”

Sean, holding his glass in mid-air, looked at Warren with a mix of playful suspicion and genuine curiosity. “Common’, Worthington… ye aren’t one o’ those—ah, what’s t’ feckin’ word—vegans? Tell me ye aren’t! I’ll not be drinkin’ to a man who turns his nose up at a good ol’ Irish banger!”

Bobby jumped in, grinning ear to ear. “Pfft, not him, Sean. But he always loses to me at the hot dog eating contest every year. You’re looking at the king. Five years running, baby!”

That was all it took for Hank. The corners of his mouth twitched, and despite his best efforts to remain composed, a deep, tipsy giggle escaped him. It was like a dam breaking. “Oh my stars and garters,” he muttered between chuckles, “I don’t think you quite realized how that… erm… sounded, Robert.”

Bobby’s grin faltered as he frowned in confusion. “What? What did I—” He froze as realization hit him like a ton of bricks. His face turned as red as his drink. “Oh, shut up, Hank!”

“I-I’m terribly sorry,” Hank wheezed, trying to sound sincere even as his shoulders shook with laughter. “But you must admit the phrase does beg to be misunderstood…”

Scott, who had been quietly sipping his drink, caught Hank’s eye and tried to keep a straight face. He failed spectacularly. His mouth twitched once, and then he and Hank were both in stitches, laughing so hard they had to put their drinks down to avoid spilling them.

The waiter, Roberto, hovered just at the edge of the room, doing his damnedest to pretend he had not heard a single word.

“Hey! Forget these guys,” Bobby called over to him. “I want a big steak. A fat, juicy rare one with all the trimmings and—”

Scott’s head plopped against the table so he could howl into his lap in a poor attempt at being discreet. He could not hold back anymore himself.

“Oh, go to hell.” Bobby sat back in his chair and raised both middle fingers to the table, a scowl on his face as Warren, Sean, and even Pietro joined in the laughter.

“Is that for the entire table?” Roberto asked, his voice approaching a falsetto as he fought to stay professional.

“God no, Bobby can keep his meat to himself.” Warren said with a touch of laughter but his tone remained far more collected than the rest of the men at the table. “But seeing as how this lot wouldn’t know fine dining if it bit them on the ass I will order.”

Warren scanned the menu for a moment and took in the options provided. “We’ll start with the oysters and the foie gras, the mushrooms and the scallops, and what the hell, French onion soup too. I don’t think anyone here is going to waste their time with a petite filet so how about bone in ribeyes, medium rare along with one of each side… oh yeah and make sure our silver fox has more bread.”

He pulled out the next menu and looked at the wine, “Let’s start with that Napa zinfandel and take it from there.”

Roberto nodded his head in acknowledgment of Warren’s order, his professionalism on display that he didn’t need to write anything down. “Of course sir, we will get started on that right away. And I assume another round of cocktails?”

“You know it, Roberto.” Warren said with a grin as the waiter disappeared. His attention turned towards Scott once more now that they had composed themselves once more. “As long as Slim hasn’t gotten cold feet, we’ll keep going.”

“Bring it on!” Scott cheered, finally letting loose for the evening. The deep belly laugh at Bobby and the whiskey were definitely perking him up.

“Aye, that's t’ spirit!” Sean had requested a bottle of whiskey for the table as soon as they had arrived, he raised it to his lips and took another draft.

“Weren't you splitting that with the table?” Scott asked, his eyebrow raising high enough to see over his glasses.

“An’ it's sittin’ on t’ table right now,” Sean said, though he never took his fingers off the bottleneck. “Wanna’ make somethin’ of it, ye bifocaled giraffe? Oi'll kick ye where t’ Good Lord split ye!”

“Sean, that is hardly polite table talk,” Hank intoned with a slight slur to his otherwise crisp baritone.

“Donna’ worry, Hank, there be another boot for yer hairy arsehole roight ‘ere!” The words weren't even out of his mouth before he burst into laughter.

“Yeah, boots in ass, that's what you deserve,” Bobby agreed with a wry grin. He was evidently still smarting from the last round at his expense.

Sean leaned back in his chair, pretending to gag theatrically. “Ah, boots in arses, eh? Don’ be puttin’ it loike that, Bobby, or Moira’ll get jealous!”

Scott chuckled and shook his head, glancing at Hank. “You’d think after a whiskey bottle, Sean would be less sharp, but nope.”

Hank adjusted his glasses, trying to look mildly disapproving, though the edges of his lips curved into a faint smile. “Sean, I must congratulate you. Truly. To have found someone who matches your... unique energy and puts up with your antics is nothing short of miraculous.”

Sean’s grin widened, but Hank’s smile faltered slightly as he reached for his drink. He stared into his glass for a moment, swirling the amber liquid absently before taking a sip. “Love is... a rare thing,” he said softly, his jovial buzz giving way to a more somber tone. “And rare things are often fleeting.”

The table quieted for a beat, the mood suddenly shifting as the others exchanged glances. Bobby, who was usually the first to make a joke, sat still for a moment. He glanced at Hank, his voice softer than usual. “We’re sorry, buddy. Mara was great.”

Hank nodded quietly, taking another sip before setting his glass down with a heavy sigh. “Yes, she was. A singular individual. But... life marches on, as they say.” His attempt at levity fell flat, and he glanced away, clearing his throat. “We find the greatest friction in life when rubber meets the road.”

“Alright,” Bobby said, barely stifling his smirk. “Explain... friction. You know, in, uh... practical terms.” He made a vague circular motion with his hand. “Like, why do certain things slide so easily, and others just... stick?”

Hank narrowed his eyes, wondering what Bobby was getting at.

Bobby pressed, his grin growing. “Like, if you’ve got something... smooth... and it’s rubbing against—”

Scott groaned, his face already in his hands. “Oh no...”

Sean, however, was fully invested, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Go on, Hank! Educate t’ poor lad!”

Hank cleared his throat, his normally unflappable composure faltering as a faint flush crept up his neck. “Friction, in the mechanical sense, is the resistance that one surface or object encounters when moving against another. It is influenced by surface texture, material composition, and the—”

“Okay, okay, but like,” Bobby interrupted, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “What if there’s too much resistance? Like, say, the surface is really dry.”

Hank’s mouth opened, then closed as realization dawned. “Robert...”

“And what if you’ve got something to, you know, reduce friction?” Bobby continued, barely suppressing his laughter now. “Like some kind of... lubricant?”

Sean practically fell out of his chair, roaring with laughter. “Ah, Jaysus! Yer killin’ me!”

Even Scott, who had been shaking his head in dismay, finally cracked, letting out a snort of laughter despite himself.

Hank, thoroughly flustered, set his drink down and removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Robert, I would wager you have answered your own question.”

“Is that why there is a bottle of lotion on every flat surface of your apartment, Bobby? The dry rub of your palm was chafing your dick.” Warren replied as he swirled his drink in his hand. Bobby swung low with the always gullible and innocent Hank. Warren liked to give him back everything he threw out there. “Scott, how much money did Bobby spend on dirty movies when he stayed with you?”

Bobby’s eyes bulged out. “What?!” The look he shot Scott’s way was one of pure betrayal. “You told him about that?!”

In answer to Warren’s question, an increasingly loose Scott started spilling tea. “Well, let’s see, there were so many.” Scott began counting off with his fingers. “I remember getting billed for The Breakfast Chub, RoboCock, Beaverjuice, Invasion of the Booty Snatchers, A Clockwork Orgy, The Sperminator, Indiana Bones and the Temple of Poon…”

“Shut the fuck up already!” Bobby screeched, as his eyes peeked out between his spread fingers.
Sean was absolutely losing it, his howling laughter echoing from wall to wall. He had nearly doubled over in his seat, his drink sloshing in his hand as he tried to regain his composure. Through his chortles, he managed to wheeze out, “Jaysus, Mary, an’ Joseph, lad! From t’ sound of it, ye need t’ get laid somethin’ fierce! Yer poor wrist must be wrecked!”
Bobby groaned, his hands still covering his face to shield himself from the relentless assault. “Why do I even hang out with you people?”
Hank, barely holding back his own amusement, cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Now, now, Sean. While I do understand your, shall we say, concern for our dear friend’s well-being, I must present a counterargument.” He steepled his fingers as if about to deliver a university lecture. “Given the sheer volume of… independent study Mr. Drake has undertaken in the field of autoeroticism, introducing another party into the equation may only exacerbate his current situation.”
Bobby shot Hank the dirtiest look imaginable. “Are you seriously trying to science-shame me right now? I swear to God, I will freeze your drink solid.”
Scott, still chuckling, shook his head. “What I think Hank is saying is you already got the situation well in-hand.”
“Yeah, well, Hank would know since he’s already got the hairy palms and bad eyesight!” Bobby adjusted invisible glasses to send Hank’s joke right back at him.
Sean let out another guffaw and slapped his knee. “Oi, come on, lad, we’re only havin’ a bit o’ fun! Just given’ yer chain a yank is all.”
“Better keep it to just his chain at the table,” Scott cut in, unable to restrain himself.
The air was filled with multiple spittakes. Who knew Scott Summers had that level of dirty wit in him?
“He’d like it.” Warren chuckled while suggestively waggling a brow at Sean.
“I appreciate that you stuck to pornos with bad movie puns.” Pietro said with a smirk as he continued to eat, “It shows you have some… I dunno.. standards?”
Before they could go another round at Bobby’s expense, their appetizers arrived along with the wine Warren had requested. If this early course was any indication of what the rest of the dinner was going to be, they were in for a delicious meal.
“What happens after you get married?” Pietro waxingly contemplated while swirling the wine in his glass. “And I don’t mean in the friction sort of way,” He snuffed out Bobby’s quip before it began. “I just mean in the bigger picture of things. Sure, it’s a big party and everyone is happy for you at that moment but when that’s done… Do you just go back to normal? What’s the point then?”
It was a fair question, one which Scott gave all due consideration. He didn’t take long. When he finally spoke, it was still the same answer that had first come to mind.
“Because I love her and she loves me. There is no ‘normal’ in our lives, Pietro. Anything that says differently is a misunderstanding. This past year… it’s one I’ll never forget. It’s a year of second chances for all of us. I for one don’t intend to waste mine. I’m making the most of it.” Scott looked away from Pietro and took in the entire table. “I’m going to marry the woman I love.”
“Well said…” Hank wiped his eye dry with his thumb.
“Yeah…” Bobby agreed, just as dumbstruck as Hank with a profound sense of awe and loneliness.
“Keep talkin’ like that an’ I just moight make an honest woman outta’ Moira.” The smirk on Sean’s face was only half-hearted. Behind those reddened eyes, the truth was evident. Even an old scoundrel like Sean Cassidy had been moved by Scott’s frank honesty.
“Honestly, it’s about time.” Warren side between bites, “I always thought you were crazy for waiting this long. I know it’s frowned upon to marry so young but with a girl like Jean… I would have.”
“Yeah, I guess I just don’t understand the whole desire to be married.” Pietro shrugged, “A ring on your finger shouldn’t really change anything between the two of you.”
“It’s not the ring that matters,” Scott insisted, “but what the ring represents. That’s just a way for everyone to know at a glance that we’re more than just a casual relationship. We’re life partners. If you ever find someone like that, Pietro, then you’ll understand why you would want everyone to know.”
Hank wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood to his feet, looking like he was about to wretch. “If you’ll excuse me…”
Sean frowned as he watched Hank hurry off, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What’s got into him? Can’t hold his drink?” he asked, swirling the last of his whiskey in his glass.

Bobby, uncharacteristically subdued, shook his head. “It’s not that,” he muttered. “Mara didn’t just leave. She died.”

Sean’s stomach dropped. He sat up straighter, setting his glass down as a wave of regret settled over him. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I— I didn’t know. Feckin’ hell, I feel like an arse now.” He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is there anythin’ we can do for him?”

Bobby leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a sigh. “Nope,” he said simply. “Especially not after he vetoed the whole stripper thing.”

Scott finally spoke. “Bobby,” he said, his voice edged with warning.

“What?” Bobby held up his hands. “I just figured Hank didn’t want a party like that because he’s boring—like you. But…” His expression grew distant for a moment as he glanced toward the direction Hank had gone. “…Maybe I still have a lot to learn about what it means to love someone.”

Scott gave him a rare, knowing smirk. “Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe you do.”

“Bobby can act like his balls have dropped when he wants to.” Pietro punched him in the arm before helping himself to the last of every appetizer that remained on the table. Out of all of X-Factor, Bobby had been the most accommodating to him. Jean was nice but he didn’t trust telepaths and this was the most personal conversation he had heard out of Scott since he arrived. Bobby was an idiot at times be he wasn’t all idiot.

“So, how long were Hank and Mara together?” Pietro didn’t hide the fact that he liked drama and the dirt that went with it. “He acts like he was getting ready to pop the question himself.”

That question popped something else for several people. Bobby and Scott looked at each other, realizing a certain context was lacking. They looked at Warren for help, but he had been missing for the longest out of them all.

“They…weren't,” Scott said at length. “At least not to our knowledge.”

“Hank chickened out,” Bobby said, though not unsympathetic in his demeanor. “That's why he's taking it so hard, I think.”

Scott nodded his agreement. “And…that's why we're making it official. Me and Jean. We never know how much time we get.”

Sean, who had been swirling the last remnants of his drink in his glass, furrowed his brows as he tried to process what he had just heard. He blinked, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "So lemme get t’is straight," he said, leaning forward, his Irish brogue thickening as the alcohol settled in. "Hank's a’ been mopin’ around like a bleedin’ widower o’er a lass he was never actually beddin’?"

Bobby and Scott exchanged a glance, but Sean wasn’t finished. He threw a hand in the air, gesturing vaguely as if trying to grasp the logic of it all. "Feck me runnin’, I thought t’ poor bastard lost his wife t’ way he’s been carryin’ on! But she wasn’t even his girlfriend? What’s he doin’ grievin’ like she was his soulmate when she moight not’ve evar looked at ‘im t’ same way?"

He shook his head, baffled. "Ain't he t’ smart one o’ us?"

“That’s kind of sad for a lot of different reasons,” Pietro commented on the situation. “Why don’t you guys find him someone new? Someone who will actually, you know…” He glanced over at Warren who seemed to be silently pondering all of this, either that or he was drunk. “Aren't you the lady’s man? Can’t you find him… I dunno… whatever it is he’s into.”

“A date for Hank?!” Warren sharply laughed at that suggestion. “I think he’d rather I shave him bald than set him up on a blind date.”

Hank made his return just in time to catch Warren’s sharp laugh. Adjusting his glasses, he arched a brow. “A blind date, Warren? You wound me,” he said, settling back into his chair with a sigh. “Though, between that and the prospect of baldness, I must admit—neither particularly appeals.”

“Ah, so ye did hear us,” Sean said, taking another sip of his drink. “Good, good. Thought we’d have to recap for ya.”

Hank gave a small, weary smile. “No need. I can hazard a guess at the bulk of your conversation. And, for the record, Warren is correct—I have no desire for matchmaking, nor do I seek to bury my grief beneath forced companionship.” He exhaled through his nose and swirled his drink idly, watching the liquid lap against the glass. “My heart mourns for Mara, yes, but my mind suffers the far crueler affliction—the burden of what could have been.”

He set his glass down with a quiet clink. “But as the poet Propertius once mused, ‘Cupid’s arrow strikes not by command but by fate.’ True love must be discovered, forged through experience and connection. It cannot be conjured from nothing, no matter how much one wishes it so.”

Sean squinted. “So… help me get t’is straight—ye spent all t’at time mopin’ o’er a lass ye never even told ye fancied, and now yer sayin’ love can’t be willed into existence? Ain’t that exactly what ye tried t’ do?”

Hank let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re not wrong, my friend. I let the fantasy consume me, and that, I think, is the true tragedy. Wasting away over something that never was does not honor Mara’s memory. It simply diminishes my own.” He straightened his shoulders slightly. “So, I shall not force what is not meant to be, nor will I chase ghosts. If fate affords me another opportunity for loving companionship, one born of truth rather than illusion, I will not squander it.”

Bobby stared at Hank for a long moment, then let out an exaggerated groan. “Shit, that’s all just fucking depressing as hell,” he griped, reaching for his drink. “Pietro, you know any Russian drinking songs? We need to liven this place up before I turn into him.”

“Dude, I’m Romani, not Russian.” Pietro bristled at the comment. His people were persecuted and unwanted, the negative opinions added to their resilient pride. “My sister would skin you for a comment like that.” He too became glum at that moment, Pietro missed Wanda terribly. He felt like he was missing a limb without his twin by his side. They had gotten so close to finding her, then Kurt had to be noble and blow it.

Pietro paused and rather than fight with Bobby or attempt to change the subject, he decided it was easier to oblige him. In a soft tenor’s voice he began to sing something that he has performed in the circus, the music was slow and sad.


Pomniu rvanye dzhinsy
Legkaia kozhanka, chernye volosy i pirsing
A znaesh-, chto nam nuzhno? Eto chut--chut- bezumstva

Mozhet, ty skhvatish- menia za ruku, i tut my ponesemsia posredi dorogi?
Ia nauchu tebia tomu, ot chego liudi v shoke
Davai v primerochnoi napialim dorogie shmotki
I pust- za mnoi bezhit kassir, a ty snimai na fotik
Davai mne ruku i smelei na kryshu Mersedesa
I vo vse gorlo zaorem s toboi durnuiu pesniu
Nas poimaiut, zakroiut v palate odnomestnoi
Ty ne boisia, ty smeisia


When he finished he downed his glass of wine in a single smooth gulp.

Warren looked over at Pietro with a cocked eyebrow and a faint look of surprise. “That was actually really beautiful, who knew you could sing?”

“I was a performer for a long time,” Pietro said with a shrug, he didn’t mind the eyes on him but he also didn’t love the attention. It still felt strange to be friendly with a table of X-Men. “I rode elephants and tamed tigers, barked for ticket sales, mended costumes.”

“No shit,” Warren seemed surprised by Pietro’s revelations. “And here I thought you were just a soldier in Magneto’s army.”

“No, that came later,” Pietro replied while helping himself to another glass of wine.

“What in t’ bloody hell was that shiite?” Sean scoffed in disbelief at how everyone was so taken in the sad song. “T’wasn’t a drinkin’ song, more like a funeral dirge, aye? Lemme show ye how it’s done.”

Scooting out of his chair, Sean climbed onto the empty table behind them and started kicking his feet in an Irish folk dance. It was a miracle of miracles he didn’t fall off the table. And then he raised his voice with far fewer slurred words than one might expect.

”I've been a wild rover for many a year,
An’ I spent all me money on whiskey and beer,
But now I'm returning wit’ gold in great store,
And I never will play t’ wild rover no more!”
And it's no, nay, never!”
Clap, clap, clap, clap!
”No, nay, nevar no more,
Will I play t’ wild rover,
No nevar, no more!”

Whether it was the table leg that gave out or one of Sean’s, either way the man went tumbling to the floor. He caught himself with a brief sonic scream that caught him just enough to absorb the worst of the impact.

“Oi! I’m alroight, lads. I am all roight!”

Bobby laughed himself into stitches, clutching his side at the drunken antics.

For Scott’s part, he was more concerned about them getting thrown out of the restaurant. “Uh, Warren… how, um, congenial are they at this joint?”

“Not that congenial…” Warren said with a chuckle before he hollered at Sean. “Alright, you drunk jackeen. I told you to not be an idiot before we got in the limo.” He kicked Sean in the leg in an attempt to help his words sink in. “Look, dinner has arrived so you can soak up some of that gut rot whiskey you ordered.”

Roberto and a few other waiters entered the private dining room with plates filled with sizzling, seared steaks. Each man had a side of beef placed in front of them, the butter on top slowly melting into the tender steak. Side dishes were then placed in the middle of the table and a feast fit for a king was provided for Scott and the rest of the men at the table.

“Do you need anything else, Sir?” Roberto asked while taking a step back from the table.

“No, no. This is perfect,” Warren replied while helping himself to whipped and mashed potatoes. “Thank you, Roberto.”

Warren glanced over at Scott who had already started cutting into his steak, he seemed pleased with the spread of dinner before them. “If the rumors are true and the two of you end up having a kid, dinners like this will be a rare treat, so enjoy, Slim.”

Pietro sat up straight as Warren decided to publically share the gossip he had told him. “You said you wouldn’t say anything!”

Practically choking on his drink, Sean let out a gasp. “Wait, Summers. Yer not sayin’ ye got a fookin’ wain on t’ way?!”

“If he means ‘baby,’ then ditto that!” Bobby threw in.

Hank, in contrast, remained composed, though his curiosity was piqued. Adjusting his glasses, he turned to Scott. "Is that why you and Jean are accelerating your nuptials? Are congratulations in order?"

Scott set his knife down and gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. "No, nothing like that. But we did get confirmation that it's possible, so… kids are officially on the table now."

Sean lifted his bottle. "To buns in t’ oven, then!" He tilted it back, only to find it disappointingly empty. He frowned, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.

Scott smirked. "Thanks, Sean. Maybe stick to water for this toast."

Bobby leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Okay, but hear me out. Bobby. It's a perfect name. Works for a boy or a girl. And, since I brought it up, that means you legally have to use it."

Scott arched a brow, wry amusement creeping into his expression. "We’ll think about it." He gestured toward Sean’s glass. "But first, how about you and Sean enjoy some of that water?"

Sean scoffed, setting his empty bottle down. "Pfft, 'tis a shite name. Ye should name t’ wain after yer Da. "

The table went quiet.

Scott’s jaw tensed. Everyone else shifted in their seats.

Sean, ever oblivious, looked around. "What? What’d I say?"

A bread roll smacked him square in the face, followed swiftly by a second, a third, and more besides.

"Roight," Sean muttered, rubbing his cheek. "Guess that’s a no, then."

Pietro cackled as Sean made the biggest asshole out of himself that he has ever seen. “Oh that’s too good, you’re an idiot, Sean.”

“Really?” While they all laughed and mocked Sean for his off remark, Warren seemed concerned by the revelation. “With all the awful things that have been happening to mutants and the dangers we are put in, you want to have a kid? Who knows what the next horrible round of legislation will do to us. What happens if you both die on a mission?”

“Life is for the living, Warren.” Looking to Hank, Scott asked, “Who said that?”

“Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid,” Hank intoned. “Langston Hughes.”

“Exactly,” Scott persisted. “We can’t stop living because we might die some day. We might as well be dead if we do.”

“Dark,” Bobby said. He had had several brushes with death himself. Only just recently had he been getting through it. “Death isn’t so bad, but living is definitely better. I agree with Scott. Let them do what they want.”

Hank adjusted his glasses, his expression thoughtful as he considered both sides of the argument. “I must admit, Warren raises a valid point,” he said, steepling his fingers. “With the world in its current state, one could argue that it might be wise for you and Jean to cherish your time together before intentionally complicating matters with the immense responsibility of parenthood.”

Scott narrowed his eyes slightly. “Careful, Hank.”

Hank raised a placating hand. “Every child is a blessing, of that I have no doubt. But if we are invoking poetry to guide us…” He paused, his gaze flicking toward Scott with a knowing look before reciting, ‘What will be, will be. Why jump ahead when the river runs free?’” He gave a small, wry smile. “Perhaps allowing things to take their course would be wiser than deliberately skipping ahead.”

Sean let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as he swirled what little remained in his glass. "No shiite, Sherlock," he scoffed, throwing Hank a bemused look. "D’ye even know how t’ make a baby? T’ain’t one an’ done, y’know. As much left to chance as anythin’ else." He leaned back in his chair with a smirk, waving a dismissive hand. "Now, can we get back t’ drinkin’ already? All this talk o’ nappies an’ procreatin’ is killin’ me buzz.”

Bobby snorted into his glass. “Yeah, really. You’re making it sound like Scott’s out here scheduling ovulation windows instead of just having a good time with his girl.”

Scott, unamused, took a slow sip of his water before deadpanning, “Are we really going to sit here and debate my sex life all night?”

Sean grinned and clinked his empty bottle on the table. “Not if someone gets me another drink, we ain’t.”

“While we’re on the subject, I have to ask…” Warren leaned into Scott so he could hear his answer. “Did you actually have sex in the back of the Studebaker after the county fair disaster while Hank and Bobby sat together in the front seat for the drive home?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Scott said with a smirk.

“Ye prolly had it off in ev’ry car in that garage,” Sean quipped.

“He’s not wrong,” Bobby agreed. “Gross but not wrong.”

“I’ve done my level best to forget the events of that night,” Hank said drolly, “for multiple reasons.”

Scott let out a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You guys are acting like a bunch of junior high virgins," he said, exasperated. "People have sex. Who cares?"

“I just wanted an answer to a long standing rumor.” Warren said while clearing his plate of the last bite of steak. “Besides, it's not like you screwed in the Blackbird or anything.”

Scott pointedly avoided eye contact with Warren. While he didn't exactly look guilty, it was still an unavoidable inference.

There was a long pause after that statement and Pietro started to laugh at the revelation the silence told. “I’m so glad I’ve never been to your school.”

Hank, who had been dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin, gave an exaggerated sigh. “Must I always be the sole defender of our esteemed alma mater?” He set down his utensils and folded his hands in front of him. “Xavier’s is, first and foremost, an institution of higher learning—one that has produced some of the finest minds of our generation, myself included, I dare say. That some of its students were... overzealous in their extracurricular activities is hardly a condemnation of its academic rigor.”

Bobby smirked. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, Hank. You became a ‘man of letters’ instead of letting someone make a man out of you.”

“Robert,” Hank interjected smoothly, adjusting his glasses, “need I remind you of the proverb concerning stones and glass houses? For if memory serves, your own high school love life was about as active as a library on a holiday.”

Bobby scowled. “Now that’s just uncalled for.”

Scott lowered his head and exhaled through his nose. “You’re all ridiculous.”

Pietro enthusiastically clapped his hands as he continued to roar with laughter over their goading banter. While they teased and provoked one another there was still an air of brotherly love across the table. Men who had grown up together and fought alongside one another, those connections allowed them to bait and poke at each other in an endearing manner. He had never experienced anything like this before.

“Alright, I get it.” Warren laughed with a wave of his hand “Scott and I just had to compensate for the two of you so it all balances out.”

He looked over at Sean who had become glassy eyes and silently, probably from too much to drink. “Hey, Irish, are you still with us? We have to get going to our next activity. I need to know now if you are going to puke in the limo?”

Sean blinked sluggishly at Warren, his unfocused gaze sharpening just enough to register the question. He snorted, then scoffed with pure, unfiltered Irish indignation.

"Are ye takin’ t’ piss, Worthington? I could drink t’ lot o’ ye under t’ table, climb back on t’ table, sing a fookin’ rebel song, and still walk a straight line out t’ door while ye gobshites are huggin’ t’ toilet!"

Casting his friend a wary side-eye, Bobby pushed his own glass forward. “Yeah, maybe I’ll hold off for a bit.”

"Smart lad," Sean muttered, swaying slightly before steadying himself. "Now where’s this limo takin’ us? Or do I gotta drive us meself since ye lightweights are worried about one pint too many?"

“You didn’t drive yourself here,” Scott said, “so maybe you’d better stick with us.”

“We’re heading to Madison Square Garden.” Warren replied as he handed off his black credit card to Roberto without even looking at the check. “We have a private box at the Knicks game. It’s fully catered along with a full bar and its own bathroom. It is one of the owner’s suites. I traded him the use of a private Worthington jet for the game tonight. Nothing but VIP for our boy. So yeah, Sean, I think you’re going to want to stick with us, especially if you want to keep drinking in the limo.”

“I hope he pukes.” Pietro said with a giggle as he ate the last of the remaining side there were left on the table. “I’m excited for stadium food, hot dogs and nachos, I might even have a funnel cake or two.”

Bobby’s face lit up. “A Knicks game? Owner’s box? Are you kidding me?! This is the best!”

“Speaking of Madison Square Garden, did you know that despite its name, it has never actually been a garden?” Hank held his finger in the air and continued his unsolicited trivia. “In fact, this is the fourth incarnation of the venue. The original opened in 1879 and was built on the site of an old railroad station.”

“I did know that, Hank, because you tell me every time we pass by the Garden,” Bobby said. “Just shut up and enjoy it for once.”

While the rest of the group exchanged laughter and ribbing, Scott sat frozen in his chair. He hadn’t moved since Warren had casually tossed his black card to Roberto without so much as a glance.

A private owner’s suite? A jet trade? Fully catered, full bar, VIP treatment? It was the kind of extravagance Scott couldn’t even fathom, let alone expect someone to gift him just because.

His hands curled into fists on the table as his jaw tightened, but it wasn’t anger—he just didn’t know how to process the sheer generosity of it. This was already one of the best nights of his life. And it was just getting started.

Swallowing down whatever emotions had momentarily locked him in place, Scott suddenly pushed back his chair and stood up. Before Warren could react, Scott stepped forward and pulled him into a tight, lingering hug.

“Whoa, Slim.” Warren chuckled but there was a touch of surprise in his voice. He was disarmed by the sudden emotional outburst from the normally stoic Scott. But he quickly recovered and patted Summers on the back in his typical manner.

“Hey man, you’re my brother.” Warren’s voice was sincere rather than its usually overly confident tone. “I know I was a real prick at times, I still am. But I’m here to celebrate you because you deserve it. And if you ever break Jean’s heart, I’ll kill you.”

“Thanks, Warren,” Scott said. Before releasing the embrace, he said, “Same goes for you.” He clapped Warren's back and stepped away so he could dab his eyes with a napkin. “Come on. We'd better get those guys into the limo before they get tossed in the drunk tank for the night.”

- END -

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