Over the past few years, Remy has grown comfortable with Hank, enough to sit behind him on a counter, listening to him mutter scientific formulae that make no sense, and wait. Enough to be blunt.

"How's this goin' to interact with her mutation?" Remy demands. He needs to know. He doesn't say that he hadn't believed she could get pregnant—at least, not and stay that way.

Hank winds up. "Without precedent for this thrilling undertaking, I couldn—"

"What are the odds, Hank?" Remy's voice softens.

"Seeing she has passed six weeks, quite good, I believe."

But doesn't know.