AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey!!! Finally finished a non-Gambit X-Men fic worth putting on the net! How about that! Damn, but writing X-people other than Gambit is tough for me; the stupid bastards refuse to do what I tell them to. Stubborn fools. Oh, well. The following is another one of those semi-literary no-plot stories I love so well, starring everyone's big blue furry lug, the Beast! AKA Henry McCoy. As ever, feedback is sought. Even flames (but please leave your e- mail address, so I can send you a thank-you virus). The story itself is rated G, but I screwed myself by putting curse words in the Author's Note, and I refuse to delete them, so now it's a PG-13. Sigh.

DISCLAIMERS, ETC: I'm tired of writing these stupid disclaimers. Everyone knows the drill, anyway. Story is mine, characters are Marvel's. Henry's "My, people do come and go quickly here" quote is from The Wizard of Oz, another enterprise I do not own. Same goes with the Aenid quote. Have fun!

by Raietta

Legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy legacy

Twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie twinkie

Bobby is up to something, I know it. He is wearing that particular cat-who-ate-the-canary look upon his punum. God help me. If he nails all my lab equipment to the tables again, I will break both his arms.

I wonder what Colossus is making for din-din tonight.

I'm hungry. Perhaps a quick respite from this nefarious Legacy Virus research, in the form of a snack raid, is in order. Yes, I believe it is.

I love Hostess.

Through the kitchen window I can see that it is a truly glorious day. Madame Nature has made a grand entrance, this year. The entourage is fantabulous; the deciduous organic vegetation (trees) on the mansion grounds are finally beginning to let the xylem flow. The flora is doing swimmingly. Especially the daffodils. I love daffodils. And tulips. I love tulips, too.

As I make my way through a box of cupcakes (the pre-packaged chocolate individually wrapped kind with the crème filling and the little white curlicue of icing on the top), perched at the kitchen table and munching, Ororo breezes in and smiles upon seeing me.

"Why, hello, Hank," she greets. I giver her a blinding smile, somewhat dimmed by the chocolate coating my teeth, and Ororo, never picky with the smiles she receives, returns one of her own to me.

"If it isn't the sagacious Storm, regally resplendent as ever!" I toss off a little bow for her and, laughing, the lovely wind rider floats past me, patting my shoulder as she goes.

"And where are you off to?" I inquire as she picks an apple from a bowl on her way out the door.

"I am going to commune with Mother Nature, my friend," she replies.

"Fare ye well, then, sweet maid," I call after her, "an ye love me," and consider quoting from something, but Ororo, laughing, sails up into the clouds before I can come up with something appropriate.

I shrug. Oh, well. I start on another cupcake. As I lick my sticky, blue fingers, an excessively irate (and wet) Marrow, shrieking obscenities, murderously chases a relatively dry Nightcrawler into the kitchen, around the table, and back out again, Sarah still squalling and Kurt wailing for help. I don't wish to interfere with whatever silliness is going down, but I do offer up an encouraging "Good luck, Kurt!" to the fleeing fuzzy elf before he disappears into the living room.

Silence in the kitchen.

"My," I say aloud to my cupcakes, "people do come and go quickly here." Ah! An apposite quote! I am inordinately pleased.

Bobby is definitely up to something. My suspicious side awakens. Sigh. Must I always be ever-vigilant for his shenanigans?

Virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus virus

Something is wrong with my calculations. Blast it all to blazes. Why won't this sequence add up?

Back to the drawing board.

Hm. I'm out of clean beakers.

Wrong, wrong, wrong! Nothing but dead ends.

I am also out of clean petri dishes.

For pity's sake.

I wonder if I have any new messages on my Yahoo account.

Nope.

I wish I were outside.

I wish I were in Hawaii.

I wish I were anywhere but here.

Still no new messages.

Nobody loves me.

Jean loves me! She just stopped by the lab with some KFC! Finger lickin' good!

I love that woman.

Ah. Of course. No wonder this calculation's all wrong. Two times three equals six, not five. How could I have possibly made such an idiotic mistake as to add instead of multiply? It defies logic.

Four day's worth of research down the drain.

Back to the beginning.

I miss Trish.

Bobby is beginning to make me nervous.

Science configurations sequences DNA calculations numbers tests retests controls variables Legacy nodes science headache science brain waves stimuli no pattern.

No pattern.

I miss Trish.

Snack raid, take two!

I love Little Debbies.

I wonder what's on TV.

Nothing is on TV, but I watch it anyway.

I love vegging out. Gambit and Wolverine enjoy vegging out, too, apparently. We veg out together.

Logan insists on watching, of all things, VH1. I am secretly appalled.

Remy is openly appalled.

"Dis be de stupidest channel on eart'!" he exclaims, appalled.

"Clam it, Gumbo," is my bestial bud's reply.

I sense an incipient (inchoate nascent embryonic) row coming up (in the works on the rise fast approaching). Perhaps it is time to beat it back to the lab.

Pi, you infuriating number!

Mmm, pie...

Ah, the periodic table. How I depend upon you. Let me rest my weary head upon your gentle yielding bosom, o most effulgent chart.

Mayhap I have mail on my AOL account.

Dear God!! Bobby has finally struck, the twisted icepop! This time he has gone too far! This damned computer will not cease belting out 'N Sync! Make it stop! Make it stop! In the name of all that is good and holy, make the awful music end!

Finally got it to sto-

Nope.

Damn.

Bobby will pay for this. Oh, yes, he will pay.

He will pay most dearly. I find Bobby in the backyard, puttering about, but before my wrath can descend upon his head he looks up, spies me, and runs like hell.

Damn. He is now in ice form and has zipped away on his slide in one swift glissade.

I exact my revenge by the most elementary means possible; I inform Rogue that Bobby has once again been taking Polaroids of her in the shower.

I'm almost sorry for the poor sap. Rogue will beat him to a squishy pulp when she gets ahold of him.

Excellent.

I miss Trish.

I will never figure this virus out.

I will never find a cure.

Distantly, faint as a zephyr, from upstairs issue the sweet strains of Bobby screaming like a girl as Rogue, indubitably, catches hold of him. I can't help but smile.

I am also out of notepaper.

And pens that work.

Formula: the double integrate of function e to the negative [(x over five) to the second power plus (four over six) to the second power] times e n x with respect to y and x, never mind the boundaries, equals...

My back is aching from sitting in one position for too long.

Frustration, frustration.

I've got mail!

Junk mail.

Phooey.

Ow, my back.

It's lonely down here, in the lab. It's too well insulated. I can't hear anyone upstairs arguing or laughing or killing one another.

Big blue furry genius, my ass.

Ow, my back. Stretch, stretch. Ahh, much better.

Tedium, tedium. Formulae. Arma virumquae cano Troiae qui primus ab oris... I love The Aenid.

There is a tapping at the lab door, and I turn from my chart to find Kitty phased halfway through the ceiling, suspended upside-down.

"It's dinner time, smart guy," she notifies me.

I sigh. "I think I should finish this formula first," I say resignedly, rubbing my neck. "I'm finally getting somewhere."

Shadowcat shakes her head and smiles. "C'mon, ya big lug. Get up and come to dinner. Peter will be insulted if you don't eat his food."

"Weellll," I hedge, glancing longingly at the door.

Jean decides for me in the form of a telepathic command. ::Get your blue butt up here, Henry P. McCoy!:: she silently shouts at me. I can feel my synapses reeling.

"Yes, ma'am!" I exclaim, and Kitty giggles as I follow her up to the dining room, where my friends are waiting. I am pleased and relieved to be able to pause my work and eat with these people.

There is a large amount of food on the table. Peter has outdone himself.

Suddenly, the day is looking up.

Altogether, not bad at all, I think as I sit down at the table.

Not a bad day at all, I think, as we all begin to eat.