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Raven felt limp in Hank's arms, her body heavy and yielding. He hadn't even run the diagnostics yet, but he didn't need a scan to know how bad the damage was. Mystique wasn't the type to let anyone carry her unless she was half a breath from passing out.
And the truth was brutal: if that Kryptonian hadn't intercepted and bled off the force, if he hadn't dug that trench with his own body, Raven would've ended up a crimson smear against the nearest wall.
Hank knew exactly how Jean's telekinesis worked. He'd never even considered throwing himself in front of it—because it wouldn't have saved anyone. Henry's choice to "cushion" the impact was, for all its sarcasm, the smartest option available.
Still, Hank's hesitation grated on Henry. For all his reputation—the X-Men's science officer, their diplomat with the government—Beast wasn't much good in a crisis. No wonder Cyclops wore the field leader's mantle. Hank had brains, sure, but urgency? Not so much.
Especially when those sad, worried eyes kept locking on the battered blue-skinned woman in his arms. Henry almost groaned aloud.
"Hey, pal," Henry called, leaning casually on a mound of dirt, "you planning to just stare her back to health? Or is 'longing gaze' your new mutant power? What's the healing factor on that—does it come with co-pays?"
That snapped Hank out of it. His beastly features stiffened as he adjusted his hold, scooping Raven into a bridal carry. "We need to get her on the Blackbird. Now. Back to the mansion, medical bay, the works. What about you?"
Henry sighed, running a hand through his dirt-caked hair. "Guess I'm coming along. Somebody's gotta make sure this little mess doesn't get pinned on me twice."
The police, meanwhile, were in chaos. Two cruisers had been flipped, officers trapped inside. They'd survived only because seatbelts had done their job, but they were pinned tight, shouting for help. Sirens wailed closer—more cops, fire trucks, probably half the county.
Henry rolled his eyes. Perfect timing, as always. Never here when the world's ending, always on hand to clean up the rubble.
The town itself hadn't fared too badly. A few houses crushed, power lines down. No civilian deaths, not even Jean's estranged father—just a whole lot of trauma and a property damage bill that would bankrupt a small nation.
The X-Men didn't wait to explain themselves. With Charles silent and shaken, they piled into the Blackbird like a retreating army, lifting off before the flashing lights reached the block. Henry slipped aboard with them.
Charles' expression eased when he saw Raven still alive, if barely. The lines on his weathered face softened just enough that he didn't look like a shriveled prune anymore.
Back at the mansion, the med bay came alive. Hank moved with precision, setting Raven and Pietro both onto treatment platforms. Only then did the team understand the full weight of their injuries.
Quicksilver was a wreck. Multiple fractures up and down his body. With a healing rate better than normal humans but nowhere near Wolverine's, he was looking at weeks in bed. Lucky for him, no steel rods would be necessary—casts and careful resets would suffice.
Raven was worse. The crushing force had wreaked havoc on her organs. She'd been on an IV drip since the jet ride home, her vitals swinging wildly up and down, every spike a test of Hank's skill.
And cruelest of all—she was still conscious. Conscious, and talking.
"You dragged me here just to spectate?" she croaked, voice thin but sharp. "Front row tickets to the X-Men family drama. Quite the show. How much should I charge him for admission, you think?"
Henry had been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He strolled to her bedside, extended one finger, and pressed lightly into the muscle of her arm.
"Hey, don't undersell yourself. With the way you guys begged me, how could I not come watch? You don't get this kind of entertainment on CNN."
He barely pressed at all, but Raven still flinched violently, her body shifting through a half-dozen faces in pain. She didn't make a sound, though—just bared her teeth and glared daggers.
Hank finally snapped, shooing Henry away from the bedside with a low growl.
Henry grinned, unbothered. "What, you wanted me to throw down with Jean? Either she breaks me, or I break her. If it's the first, I'm not exactly thrilled about that. If it's the second, you'd all be weeping and pointing fingers at me. So yeah, best option? Don't fight at all."
He gestured lazily, as though the evidence was obvious. "And let's be real—one hit from her left a canyon across town. You X-Men got beat bloody without making much headway yourselves. If I cut loose, that little town would've been wiped off the map. That what you wanted? X-Men standing proud over a smoking crater?"
There was a cruel satisfaction in saying it, watching Mystique's sharp tongue stall for once. He knew that smugness—being untouchable on the moral high ground.
At length, she hissed, "But you just stood there and let us get pummeled."
Henry shrugged. "She's a kid, Raven. An angry one, but still a kid. You let her throw her punches, burn through it, then maybe—maybe—she's calm enough to listen. Otherwise, you're just fueling the fire."
Raven narrowed her eyes. "That's your grand plan? Let her beat us half to death and hope she feels guilty afterward?"
Henry smirked. "Worked well enough, didn't it? Shame's a powerful thing. You should try it sometime."
Raven sputtered with fury, too weak to do more than glare, while Henry leaned back against the wall, looking far too pleased with himself.
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