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It was a sad truth that most of Raven’s acquaintances found it almost unbelievable that she had never been in therapy before. This, unfortunately, was less of a comment on the slow-spread world-domination of the touchy-feely brand of psychoanalysis than it was a damning indictment of the fact that everyone who had ever met Raven had found her to be stark raving bonkers.
Raven, keen to avoid doing anything to further this (grossly mistaken) perception, had always done her level best to avoid therapy and doctors and everything else that Sharon Xavier had suggested in the hopes of taming a child that would rather pretend to be a rottweiler and chase after the postman than dress up in pretty frocks and parade about at parties. It was only now in the face of a shark-faced nemesis who threatened to overwhelm her with his abhorrent love for green vegetables that she had finally decided to bite the bullet and submit herself to a no-doubt excruciatingly-awful experience that she had been studiously avoiding ever since she had been five years old.
Now Raven wasn’t usually one for regrets but she was willing to admit that in this one instance it was quite possible that she had maybe been kind of ever-so-slightly mistaken.
Therapy, it turned out, was awesome.
It had taken Raven some time to find herself the perfect therapist. At first she had thought that she would like to have someone like Emma (cool, logical, non-judgemental and completely unwilling to put up with anyone’s bullshit but her own) as her therapist but then she had realised that she actually had an Emma on her side and an Original Emma was about a gazillion times better than a Fake Emma any day.
So that was out.
She had also considered a Charles-like therapist but she had quickly ruled that out as well, much for the same reasons that she had dismissed the idea of a Fake Emma. She already had a Charles, thank you very much, and she would go on having a Charles – just as soon as she got rid of that pesky broccoli-obsessed hooligan in the Garden Centre. Besides, as much as she enjoyed being coddled and fussed-over and soothed, Charles had a terribly irritating habit of being overly-smug and judgmental and that was so not what she was looking for in a therapist. She needed someone who was cool and calm and sympathetic and smart and who had one of those awesome chaise longues that she could throw herself down on for dramatic effect from time to time whenever Charles was being particularly tiresome.
She needed, she came to decide, someone exactly like Dr. Henry McCoy, PhD.
‘So there I was,’ Raven said, lying back on the therapist’s couch and waving her arms out in a wide gesture, ‘Practically butt-naked except for a whole gallon of blue body paint and this totally awesome red wig that was practically calling to me from the moment that I set foot in the store …’
Dr. McCoy opened his mouth, looking strangely flustered, before quickly shutting it again and scribbling something furiously in his notebook.
‘… And then suddenly Charles wanders in, in this totally lame “sexy librarian” outfit – “sexy librarian” my ass, by the way, he was so totally just wearing the same stupid blue cardigan and glasses combo that he wears at home, I swear to god – and then suddenly just like that he’s the centre of attention and all I’m left with is a couple of gawking morons who’ve never seen a girl’s boobs before.’ She flung her arms out in indignation. ‘He was wearing a cardigan. I was freaking naked!’
‘Er,’ Dr. McCoy coughed, his cheeks slightly red. ‘Yes – yes, I remember.’
Raven blinked at that. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh. Oh yeah! I totally forgot you were there, Hank!’
Hank went bright red at that and glanced down at his feet, mumbling something that Raven couldn’t quite make out.
Raven smiled. Of course she hadn’t forgotten that Hank McCoy was there. She had paid little attention to Charles’s friend and then-research-assistant before the night of the Halloween party but that had changed when she had realised that, out of all the people present, Hank was one of the very few who was completely, totally and very definitely not interested in fucking Charles.
She had grown very fond of him since then.
‘Raven,’ Hank was saying awkwardly, trying to look anywhere but at where she had artfully draped herself over Hank’s chaise. ‘Don’t you think that you should … I mean, this really isn’t what I …’ He took a deep breath. ‘What I mean to say is – wouldn’t you be more comfortable doing this with someone more – well, for want of a better word – someone more qualified than me?’
Raven paused and turned to face Hank. ‘Are you telling me that I need a psychiatrist?’ she demanded, sitting up and glaring suspiciously at him.
Hank sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘No,’ he said, looking torn between misery and exasperation. ‘I’m not saying that. Honest. All I’m saying is – Raven, wouldn’t you be better off going to see an actual therapist?’
Raven blinked wide blue eyes at him in a way that in no shape or form had been stolen from Charles. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked innocently. ‘Aren’t you a psychologist?’
‘I’m a biologist,’ Hank said in an insistent sort of way that seemed to indicate that this really wasn’t the first time that he had said this to her. ‘I’m a scientist. I am really not qualified to be doing this, Raven! Not to mention that it’s quite inappropriate, really, what with you being Charles’s sister and Charles being my friend, and-’
‘I’m your friend too!’ Raven protested, sounding vaguely hurt and causing Hank’s face to go red all over again as he stammered out something that sounded vaguely like an apology. ‘And I’m sure that you have a Masters degree in psychology knocking about somewhere – I remember Charles saying so.’
‘Well – yes,’ Hank said, shifting in his seat. ‘But that was all purely theoretical! I’m not a practitioner, Raven – I never have been!’
‘Practitioner-schmactitioner,’ Raven waved her hand dismissively. ‘You have a degree in this, Hank. That’s more than most of these hacks have. Besides,’ she lifted her chin smugly, ‘You have a therapist’s couch in your office. There’s only one reason why someone needs one of those in their office and that’s for therapy. Why else do you have one here, eh?’
‘… Because you brought it here!’ Hank sputtered, looking really quite honestly befuddled. ‘You just walked in with a bunch of movers and had them bring that thing into my office and then leave without saying anything about it! I didn’t want to have it in here!’
‘Details,’ Raven waved them away impatiently. ‘The main point here is that you have the degree and you have the couch and now you have the patient.’ She met Hank’s eyes. ‘Honestly, Hank, the only thing stopping you from having a thriving practice in therapy is you.’
‘And the fact that I don’t have a licence,’ Hank interjected.
‘We’ll get you one off the internet,’ Raven reassured him, reaching over to pat his hand in a soothing manner. ‘I’m sure no one will mind, really. I’m your only patient right now, after all, and I’m hardly going to tell anyone. ‘Besides,’ she shrugged, ‘You'll be perfectly fine as long as I don’t pay you for anything.’
Hank blinked. ‘You weren’t planning on paying me?’ he asked, slightly surprised.
‘You want me to pay you?’ Raven asked, sounding equally astonished.
‘Er … no?’ Hank said weakly, looking uncertain.
Raven relaxed. ‘Oh, good,’ she said, leaning back into the reclining seat. ‘Because there’s this amazing little dress that I saw on the way here and I really can’t wait to get my hands on it and-’
‘Raven,’ Hank interrupted her, ‘I don’t care about the money. The fact of the matter is – I’m not a therapist!’
‘Neither was Emma,’ Raven said with a careless shrug. ‘She didn’t seem to mind.’
Hank gave her a look. ‘Did you tell her that you were using her as a therapist?’
Raven shrugged. ‘Therapist, friend … it’s all the same thing, right?’
‘No,’ Hank said, shaking his head. ‘It really, really isn’t.’
Raven sighed. ‘Please, Hank,’ she said quietly, meeting his eyes. ‘I just – I want to get this out, you know? And I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking to a stranger …’
Hank looked at her for a moment, his expression uncertain. Raven widened her eyes slightly. She could mark the exact point at which Hank’s defences crumbled and she made a mental note to thank Charles once again for teaching her how to wield the mighty powers of the Wide-Eyed Bambi Stare on her sixteenth birthday. She had been warned to use the powers wisely – after all, as everyone knew, with great power came great responsibility (Raven had been made to watch Uncle Ben die seven times before Charles had been convinced that the mantra had sunk in) and Raven was nothing if not perfectly responsible. Some of the time.
‘Fine,’ Hank sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. ‘I’ll be your therapist.’ Raven beamed at him. ‘But only if you stop telling me stories about your brother’s … proclivities. Please, Raven – I understand that you need to let this all out, but – it’s Charles.’ Hank gave her a pitiful look. ‘He was my thesis advisor. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look him in the face after this as it is …’ He paused then, biting his lip. ‘Did he really do that thing with the football and the captain of the-’
‘Oh yeah,’ Raven nodded, unable to keep from smirking. ‘That happened.’
‘Oh.’ Hank’s cheeks were pink. ‘Right. Well. If we could possibly avoid all such anecdotes in the future …’
Raven grinned. ‘I’ll just stick to stories involving blue body paint then, shall I?’
Hank’s face went even pinker. ‘Are there very many of those?’ he stammered, avoiding Raven’s eyes.
Raven’s eyes glinted. ‘You’d be surprised,’ she purred, watching in satisfaction as Hank blushed and shifted in his seat. Raven did not know very many people with the ability to be easily embarrassed (it was one of the pitfalls of growing up with a brother who was an utterly shameless trollop and who seemed to share this defining trait with every last one of his closest friends) and Hank coloured up really very nicely indeed, which gave a much-needed boost to her ego.
‘Right,’ Hank coughed, trying his best to not look so very flustered, bless his bashful little heart. ‘Maybe we ought to get back to the – you know – the actual therapy?’
Raven beamed at him. ‘See?’ she said triumphantly. ‘That’s exactly what a real therapist would say!’ Probably without the stammering and blushing, of course, but Raven didn’t feel the need to tell poor Hank that. She grinned at him. ‘I knew I was right – you’re a natural at this Hank!’
Hank didn’t look terribly convinced but his blush had receded so Raven counted that as a win.
‘Right,’ he said again, shifting about in his seat and trying his best not to look like an overgrown teenager playing Doctor. ‘So … why don’t you tell me what’s been bothering you?’ His voice went up at the end of the sentence and he cast Raven a questioning look. Raven beamed back at him and gave him a big thumbs up before collapsing dramatically back onto the couch.
‘Oh, Doctor,’ she lamented.
‘Er-’ Hank looked distinctly uneasy about being addressed in such a way and opened his mouth to say as much.
‘Doctor,’ Raven repeated in a tone that brooked no refusal. Hank’s mouth immediately snapped back shut. Raven relaxed. ‘Oh Doctor,’ she said again, ‘I need help.’
Hank’s expression seemed to indicate that he accepted this wholeheartedly. Being the good sort, however, he refrained from saying so and instead just quirked a pleasantly-interested eyebrow at her before calmly enquiring, ‘How so?’
‘Well,’ Raven said slowly, considering her words deeply. ‘You see, my brother’s this really, big shameless sl-’
‘Raven!’
‘Right,’ Raven cut herself off, nodding vigorously. ‘No talk about how Charles is a gigantic slag, got it. My lips are sealed.’
Hank gave her a look that on anyone else would have been one of sharp disapproval but on him it just looked like the injured expression of a cat caught in the rain. Then his shoulders slumped.
‘No,’ he said slowly, shaking his head with a sigh. ‘Clearly this is bothering you. As your designated therapist it would be remiss of me to ignore it, so you may as well get it out now.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m warning you, though – it’ll be your fault if I can never look Charles in the eye again after this.’
‘Oh,’ Raven sat up in her seat, looking surprised but pleased. ‘Thanks, I guess. But it’s not what you’re thinking. It really doesn’t bother me that Charles likes sex. Honest,’ she raised her hands up in the air at Hank’s look of surprise. ‘He likes people and that – that’s the way he is. I wouldn’t want him any other way.’ When Hank’s expression didn’t change she rolled her eyes. ‘Seriously. Charles could sleep with a hundred people at once if he liked and I really wouldn’t mind it. Well,’ she paused. ‘Maybe I would mind it a little – can you imagine the laundry bill for those sheets? Not to mention the noise – but honestly? I really don’t mind.’
Hank was frowning. ‘So if that’s not a problem for you …’ he looked confused.
Raven sighed. ‘It’s not the fact that he likes sex that bothers me,’ she explained patiently. ‘It’s who he enjoys having sex with.’
There was a pause.
‘And that is?’ Hank asked cautiously, swallowing tight and seeming to brace himself in preparation of finding out something horrific about one of his personal heroes.
‘Maniacs!’ Raven declared, spreading her arms wide in indignation and confirming Hank’s worst fears. ‘Deviants! Broccoli-loving psychopaths!’
Hank paused in the middle of cringing and blinked, glancing up at Raven. ‘What was that last one again?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘I knew that one would pique your interest,’ Raven said knowingly, giving him a meaningful look. ‘I mean – you’re a smart guy. You’d know if a guy was crazy or not, wouldn’t you?’
‘Er-’
‘Right,’ Raven continued on as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘So what would you say to me if I came to you and said that I loved broccoli?’ She leaned forward and fixed Hank with a beady-eyed stare.
‘Er,’ Hank fumbled, looking completely flummoxed. ‘I’d say … that’s nice?’ he tried valiantly, his voice going slightly high-pitched at the end.
But Raven shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re not getting it.’ She widened her eyes. ‘What if I said that I loved broccoli? Like, really loved broccoli?’
Hank frowned. ‘I – I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me here,’ he admitted, stuttering slightly. At Raven’s glare he tried again. ‘Do you mean you like eating it, or … or something else?’
‘Not me!’ Raven rolled her eyes, looking almost insulted. ‘Erik.’
Hank blinked. ‘Who’s Erik?’ he asked dumbly.
Raven shot up in her seat. ‘You really have not been listening to a thing I’ve said, have you?’ she demanded, glaring at him. ‘Do you really not remember me telling you about him when I came in? About how he has more teeth than a crocodile and a smile that he probably perfected in prison? About how I swore I saw his twin brother in a tank at Sea World?’
Hank frowned for a moment. Then his brow cleared. ‘Oh, Shark Guy,’ he said, nodding vigorously. ‘Yes, I remember.’ He paused. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’
Raven’s eyes widened. ‘What’s he got to do with this? Only bloody everything, Hank! The guy’s the reason I’m in here, honestly, please try to keep up!’ She sighed at Hank’s confused expression before setting her jaw resolutely. ‘Erik – that is, Shark Guy,’ she said deliberately slowly, ‘The guy who is probably a serial killer who eats broccoli for breakfast, the weird masochistic fucker – this guy has set his sights on Charles and if I don’t rescue my poor, idiotic baby seal of a brother from his evil clutches then – then-’
Hank leaned forward in his seat. ‘Yes?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Well – use your imagination!’ Raven huffed, throwing her arms into the air and glaring at him. ‘I mean - whatever this guy’s planning it can’t be good.’
‘Why not?’ Hank actually looked bemused.
‘Why – because!’ Raven sputtered, looking at Hank with all the disappointment that she could muster – which, as the daughter of Sharon Xavier, was an incredible amount. ‘He’s a grown man with the smile of a serial killer who likes broccoli and – worst of all – Charles likes him!’ At Hank’s uncomprehending expression she leapt up in her seat and leaned towards him. ‘Hank – you may not know this about Charles, but when it comes to love, Charles is a total Moron. And I mean “Moron” with a capital “M”, that’s how bad he is. You remember that time when he almost quit his position at the university and packed it all in?’
Hank gave a hesitant nod.
‘Ha!’ Raven gave him a triumphant look. ‘That’s the work of Culprit Number Two, Lilandra. And that time that Charles almost burnt the lab down because he was too wrapped up in his own head to realise that he had set the place on fire?’ She didn’t even wait for Hank’s nod. ‘That one is courtesy of Culprit Number One, Steve.’
Hank’s eyes had gone round. ‘Oh,’ he said, realisation colouring his voice. ‘Do you mean that all those times …’ His eyes suddenly widened. ‘And do you mean that that time that Charles-’
‘Yup,’ Raven said quickly, cutting him off. ‘Yup, that’s the work of Culprit Number Three, Wade. But we don’t talk about that.’
‘We don’t?’ Hank asked anxiously.
‘No,’ Raven said firmly, shaking her head. ‘Frankly, I do my best to repress that particular stage in my life, and I’m pretty sure that Charles does too.’
For a moment it looked like Hank was going to ask more about this (out of professional curiosity, naturally, not out of a personal one) but one well-placed glare from Raven soon coaxed him into a more sensible line of questioning.
‘And because of this you’re sure that this – this Erik – that Charles now likes … you think that he’s …’
‘A mass-murdering psychopath?’ Raven asked brightly. ‘A depraved sex-maniac who can’t wait to shag Charles in a field full of broccoli? You betcha!’
‘Ah,’ Hank took a moment to process this. ‘And if you’re wrong?’
‘Ha!’ Raven scoffed, because please. ‘As if that’s likely!’
‘But-’ Hank looked hesitant. ‘What if – and this is purely hypothetical, you understand – what if this Erik isn’t what you think? I mean, how well do you know actually know him? What if he’s not a mass-murdering psychopath or a – a – broccoli-obsessed sex-maniac?’
Raven paused, considering. It was a fair question, after all. ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose there is a chance that he might not be a mass-murdering psychopath …’
Hank let out a sigh of relief.
‘… But he is definitely a depraved sex-maniac who wants to shag my brother rotten in a field full of broccoli,’ Raven declared, straightening her spine and lifting her chin with renewed resolve. ‘And I, for one, will be damned before I let him take my brother’s virtue on a manure-strewn vegetable patch in a garden centre!’ She paused and wrinkled her nose. ‘Well – what’s left of my brother’s virtue, at any rate. I don’t think he’s completely beyond saving, I mean it’s not like he’s …’
‘I don’t think I want to hear where this is going,’ Hank said in a strangely high-pitched voice.
Raven gave him a fond look. ‘No,’ she said, ‘You probably don’t. But anyway,’ she shook her head and sighed. ‘The fact still remains – I don’t trust my brother with that guy and I’m going to break the two of them up if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘Oh dear,’ Hank was peering at her like a worried old grandma and Raven felt an odd surge of affection for him at the sight. ‘Raven – are you sure about this? I mean, isn’t this just a bit unfair on Erik? And on Charles too?’
‘Unfair!’ Raven was jolted out of her desire to knit Hank a fluffy blue grandma-cardigan by a violent surge of indignation. ‘I’m trying to protect Charles from being eaten by a hungry man-shark! How is this unfair?’
Hank swallowed. ‘Well,’ he soldiered on, bravely meeting her eyes (he was clearly a great deal braver than he looked, Raven thought, impressed). ‘You’re not exactly giving this Erik a chance to prove himself, are you?’
‘You mean by giving him a chance to hurt Charles!’ Raven retorted, glaring at Hank.
‘I mean giving him the chance to make Charles happy,’ Hank corrected, meeting Raven’s eyes evenly, and Raven would have been annoyed if she wasn’t secretly so very pleased with herself for having realised that Hank actually made a pretty kick-ass therapist when he put his mind to it. ‘Charles obviously sees something in him, and besides – Charles is a grown man. He can make his own decisions. Don’t forget that your brother is an extremely intelligent man – I mean, even his undergraduate thesis on the mutations of-’
‘Yeah, yeah, we get it,’ Raven cut him off hurriedly. She remembered that thesis without the least bit of fondness: Charles had often sent her to sleep by reading out extracts from it, and Raven, who had always hated falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon, had usually woken up afterwards feeling particularly irritable and grumpy with the world at large. The day that Charles had finally handed in his thesis had been one of the happiest days of her life (and that was even with counting the day that she had first laid lips on one of Moira’s divinely delicious chocolate cupcakes, so that was saying something).
‘Right,’ Hank cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. ‘Of course. All I meant was that Charles is a very intelligent, capable man who ought to be allowed to makes his own decisions free from any interference. Naturally I’m not saying that you should abandon your brother completely-’
‘Good,’ Raven interrupted. ‘Because that’s not happening. And I’d fire you for even suggesting it.’
Hank gave her a look that plainly said, You don’t pay me for this shit anyway so see if I care, before continuing. ‘-But perhaps you ought to scale back this – er – campaign that you are waging against him just a little. Maybe just monitor their relationship in a … more subtle way, and then decide how you feel about Erik.’
Raven’s forehead creased as she considered this and she bit her lip before slowly nodding. ‘So,’ she said reflectively. ‘What you are saying is that I should be quieter about it …’ Hank nodded, relieved. ‘And that I should go undercover and spy on them and dig up all the dirt I can on Sharky-Pants and make sure they don’t get up to any hank-panky in the meantime and then break them up?’
Hank’s mouth dropped open. ‘Er …’
‘Hank!’ Raven beamed. ‘That’s brilliant!’
‘Um,’ Hank blinked at her. ‘That’s not exactly what I-’
‘Of course I’d already planned on doing that anyway,’ Raven continued, raising her chin and waving a careless hand. ‘But now you’ve just made me even more certain that I’m doing the right thing. That my cause is righteous, and all that.’
‘Raven-’
‘Thanks, Hank,’ Raven aimed a bright smile in Hank’s direction and this seemed to cause him to flush and stumble over his words and completely forget what he was going to say. ‘You’re the best. You should totally ditch the safety goggles and stick with the therapy. You’re a natural.’
There didn’t seem to be very much that Hank could say in response to that.
Raven flounced out of Hank’s office a few minutes later, feeling calm and collected and full of the glorious sense that she was absolutely right.
Therapy, if she said so herself, was awesome.
*
The following afternoon saw Raven once again having her weekly coffee with Emma. As expected, it did not take long for Emma to start questioning Raven’s mental capabilities and that nicely segued into questions about Raven’s newfound love of therapy.
‘So you finally found yourself a therapist?’ Emma murmured, watching Raven over the top of her coffee cup.
Raven proudly puffed her chest out. ‘Yup,’ she said happily, feeling very grown-up and sophisticated, because grown-up and sophisticated people totally had therapists, right?
‘I see,’ Emma eyed Raven keenly. ‘And who is it?’
Raven’s smile got even wider. ‘It’s Dr. McCoy,’ she announced, lifting her chin and trying not to look too smug at the fact that her therapist was so totally awesome and exclusive.
Emma’s eyebrows pulled together and she frowned. ‘McCoy,’ she muttered, rolling the name around her tongue. ‘I don’t think I know any-’ She paused suddenly and turned to Raven. ‘McCoy?’ she repeated, her tone dark. ‘Hank McCoy? Charles’s Hank McCoy?’
Raven pouted. ‘He doesn’t belong to Charles, you know,’ she said petulantly. ‘He is my friend too.’
‘But Raven,’ Emma was looking at her strangely. ‘Isn’t Hank a biologist?’
Raven grinned. ‘Yup,’ she said cheerfully, ‘And a pretty damn awesome one, too, if Charles’s frequent paroxysms of delight are anything to go by.’
Emma stared at her. ‘Darling,’ she said slowly, as if wary of Raven’s reaction, ‘This may sound like a foolish question, but – why on earth is a biologist moonlighting as your therapist?’
Raven blinked at her and then shrugged. ‘Well, you know,’ she said vaguely, waving an arm. ‘It just sort of happened, really. I mean, he’s a friend and he has a degree in Psychology and he had an office and a couch and-’
Emma sighed. ‘You bullied him into it, didn’t you?’ she asked flatly.
‘Just a little,’ Raven agreed, taking a delicate sip of her coffee.
‘The poor man,’ Emma murmured, sounding anything but sympathetic. She cast Raven a sideways glance. ‘I assume that Charles won’t be hearing about this?’
Raven snorted. ‘Of course not,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Confidentiality and all that, right?’
‘Yes,’ Emma drawled. ‘But Hank isn’t exactly a real therapist.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Raven allowed herself a small smirk. ‘I get the feeling that darling Hank will be avoiding Charles for the next few weeks. Or months, even – he seemed to be quite overwhelmed by some of the stories that I told him.’
Emma snorted and shook her head. ‘You know,’ she said dryly, ‘I might have actually been impressed if I wasn’t so sure that you were really in dire need of a real psychologist to deal with the minefield that is your brain.’
‘Shut it, I’m awesome,’ Raven said blithely, pinching off the end of a croissant and popping it into her mouth. ‘You love that I’m this awesome.’
Emma rolled her eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I’m friends with you,’ she said with a sigh.
‘But then you remember how awesome I am and forget all about it?’ Raven asked, smiling winningly.
Emma gave her a look. ‘No,’ she said decisively. ‘I can definitively state that that does not happen.’
‘Sure it doesn’t,’ Raven gave Emma a knowing wink. ‘The same way that I’m totally not your best friend in the whole wide world. Gotcha.’
Emma screwed up her nose and opened her mouth to bite out what would no doubt be a stunning refutation of the above statement but after a moment she closed her mouth again and just shook her head tiredly. ‘Why do I even bother,’ she muttered before going back to her espresso.
Raven carefully suppressed her burning need to leap out of her chair and violently fist-pump the air in triumph and instead simply hid a smile and went back to her coffee. Now was not the time to celebrate the fact that Emma had finally, finally admitted that Raven was her Bestest Friend In The Whole Damn Universe.
(Okay, so Emma may not have actually admitted that Raven was her Bestest Friend In The Whole Damn Universe but she sure as hell hadn’t rejected the idea either, and in Raven’s books that was pretty much the same as admitting it. She was going to have to get them matching t-shirts. Or hats. Or, knowing Emma – Raven cast a sideways glance at her – maybe she should just settle for getting them a pair of matching mugs. Emma didn’t really do t-shirts and hats, after all. Mugs were probably the safer option. Unless they were being aimed at Raven’s head, that is.)
No, the ‘Raven and Emma are Besties’ memorabilia could wait. Right now Raven had a spy-operation to plan and Emma was going to help her plan it, whether she wanted to or not. She had it all completely figured out. Raven was a master of the ‘wear-them-down-and-pounce’ type of warfare, yes, but for sheer masterful sneakiness no one could outdo Emma; and masterful sneakiness was definitely something that Raven needed for the successful completion of Operation Stop-Charles-Getting-Shagged-on-a-Broccoli-Patch (the name was under review but it was pretty much to-the-point). This way she could follow Hank’s advice and take things slow, just like he had wanted, and she could keep her head down and not interfere unless things got particularly out of hand (or if Charles went a bit too close to a broccoli patch). This way she could be happy, Hank could be happy, Charles could be happy and – most importantly – safe from the grasp of pointy-toothed predatory garden-centre types who had nothing better to do than try to take advantage of poor, innocent, slutty little geneticists.
Raven took a deep sip of her coffee and let out a sigh.
It was damn lucky for everyone that she had more than enough awesomeness to pass around because constantly being this amazing was tough.