First post. (Apprehension.)
Hi, new here. dreality pointed me over here from x_men100 because of this ficlet. This is barely a pairing/slash fic, but y'all get it because there's a kiss in it. *mwah* Besides that one.
Title: Apprehension
Characters: Bobby, John
'Verse: Movie, post X2
Rating: PG?
Disclaimer: not mine, yada...
Music: Roads, Portishead (my girl claims it should be Angel by Type O Negative)
Wordcount: 1256
After the disaster, they gave him a place in a broken temple. It stank of seaweed and muck, of the primordial stew that had rendered up life in the beginning. When the wind blew, the smell of death rippled in, making John gag. Damn this altruism. But he missed doing good, missed doing it when it mattered. In the face of hell, Eric had let him go to indulge the need to act. Some things made all living beings equal and the greatest of those things was death.
John settled onto what he'd first thought was a stone bench, then realized with a shock that he was sitting on an altar. Still, no one seemed to mind. A thin old woman in blue tatters lit a handful of thin incense sticks between him and the broken wall. The smoke was cloying but it covered up the smell of the dead well enough. He gave her a nod and mustered up a smile. She pressed her fragile hands together and bowed to him, then backed away to the door.
We are as gods, Eric liked to say. Among insects. Suddenly it didn't seem like such an amusing metaphor. A pair of young men wrestled in a steel trough, setting it down in front of him, like he'd asked. They seemed to be willing to take their chances with his plans, unlike most of the people he dealt with. Others were out wrestling with the wreckage and searching for the survivors. Let them. John was here, lighter cupped in his palm, doing what he was given the gift to do.
The first body they laid in front of him was swollen beyond recognition, stinking and swathed in muddy blankets. It was going to be hard work with everything waterlogged as it was. A young woman reached out to touch the disfigured face and John waved her back imperiously. This was going to be a long day if he was going to make a dent in the stacks of bodies lining the streets. His thumb turned the wheel of his lighter, filling his hands with flame. The fire leapt from him to the body, wreathing it with light, singing in his ears. John flexed his fingers, making a fist, and the fire roared whiter than lightning, then died away.
There was so little left after the flames, just a cup full of dust in the cradle of steel before him. One of the men swept it out with a single motion, scooping it into a bowl that he handed to the young woman. Weeping, she took it, then turned and bowed to John. Kneeling briefly, she left something on the steps at his feet, then disappeared into the gathering crowd.
"No." John picked it up, it was a golden chain with a medallion dangling from it. A god smiled back at him. "I don't want..." He held it out helplessly. The old woman took it, shaking her head, and put it down beside him firmly. Turning, she beckoned, and the men laid four bodies down this time, two large, two tiny. John closed his eyes and let the fire run through him again.
When he was too tired to go on it was long past dark and the temple emptied slowly, the people receding respectfully at the wave of his hand. The air was thick with smoke from his labours, even though the wind had sighed and whispered all day long. Candles flickered in little alcoves and nooks around the temple.
John looked down at himself and found that his skin was no longer white. Dragging his fingers over his chest, he made tracks in the soot from the pyres he'd burned that day, the remnants of hundreds of lost lives he'd reduced to ashes. He ached, he couldn't feel his feet, his mouth was parched, he felt hollowed out from his own flame.
He was surrounded by flowers, a carpet of them overflowed the altar and the stairs and among the blossoms, little offerings, whatever was left from the floods. A tiny statue of Ganesha was here, a bracelet there, and there, a silver picture frame with a little girl in it still smiling through the damage. There were pieces of fruit, a bowl of saffron rice, a clay jar of oil at his feet. But no water. Nothing to drink.
The irony cracked his composure and he started to laugh, a rasping, dry sound that turned to sobs before he knew it. Face in his blackened hands, he cried without tears to wash the ashes away. "Oh, God." Oh, he didn't feel like a god now. Or maybe he did. Maybe this was what it felt like.
"Take this." The soft, Boston-accented voice cut through his despair and cool hands pressed a bottle of water into his. "I knew it was you when I heard people talking."
The water was icy, a clean, wet knife that cut through the taste of burnt flesh in his mouth. John rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to clear his vision enough to focus in the candle light. Bobby knelt on the steps in front of him, crushing flowers under his knees, pulling another bottle of water out of his backpack.
"Here." Bobby pulled the blue bandana off his head and soaked the fabric. "You look like a native," he said wryly before he reached out to wipe the soot from John's face.
"Yeah, well you know I don't tan," John said, trying to dig out some cynicism. "I burn." He took the cloth from Bobby and scrubbed angrily at his skin.
"You here alone?" Bobby sat down among the flowers and began, absently, to sort out the offerings into neat little groups.
"Of course." John drained the first bottle of water and Bobby handed him what was left of the second.
"Right." Bobby didn't say anything more, just frowned as he puzzled over where to put the chain with the medallion, the first offering, and settled on putting it with the religious items instead of the jewelry. Everything in order. "So, you done?"
"I think." John uncrossed his legs, stifling a whimper as the blood flowed back to his feet. "For now. Same thing tomorrow. Promised I'd go start some other fires, too, in the morning. How's that for irony?" He stood and promptly pitched forward. Bobby, unsurprised and unperturbed, caught him easily.
"Pretty damn good."
A cold shoulder never felt so good. John rested his pounding head on Bobby's shoulder with a sigh, fingers digging into Bobby's shirt. Lilies and magnolias crumpled fragrantly under his bare feet, their sweetness seeping into the air.
"How does that quote go?" John asked, fighting back tears. "What a piece of work is a man... you always paid attention in class. You remember it, right, Bobby?"
"...how noble in reason," Bobby continued, one hand rubbing gently at the knot between John's shoulders, loosening it and with it tears. "How infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable."
"That's it," John whispered. "Hamlet. I liked him."
"You would," Bobby said dryly. "In action how like an angel," he added, pressing a kiss to John's filthy hair. "In apprehension how like a god."
"Apprehension?"
"Understanding," Bobby clarified, sweetly pedantic and practical. "The condition of one who understands."
"I didn't, not until now." John closed his eyes, clinging to the stability Bobby offered. "They're not insects at all, Bobby." he whispered against the faded chambray of Bobby's shirt. "Not at all."
[Note: As per community guidelines. Please do not archive. Linking is always fine, and I will archive on my own site for that purpose if desired.]
Title: Apprehension
Characters: Bobby, John
'Verse: Movie, post X2
Rating: PG?
Disclaimer: not mine, yada...
Music: Roads, Portishead (my girl claims it should be Angel by Type O Negative)
Wordcount: 1256
After the disaster, they gave him a place in a broken temple. It stank of seaweed and muck, of the primordial stew that had rendered up life in the beginning. When the wind blew, the smell of death rippled in, making John gag. Damn this altruism. But he missed doing good, missed doing it when it mattered. In the face of hell, Eric had let him go to indulge the need to act. Some things made all living beings equal and the greatest of those things was death.
John settled onto what he'd first thought was a stone bench, then realized with a shock that he was sitting on an altar. Still, no one seemed to mind. A thin old woman in blue tatters lit a handful of thin incense sticks between him and the broken wall. The smoke was cloying but it covered up the smell of the dead well enough. He gave her a nod and mustered up a smile. She pressed her fragile hands together and bowed to him, then backed away to the door.
We are as gods, Eric liked to say. Among insects. Suddenly it didn't seem like such an amusing metaphor. A pair of young men wrestled in a steel trough, setting it down in front of him, like he'd asked. They seemed to be willing to take their chances with his plans, unlike most of the people he dealt with. Others were out wrestling with the wreckage and searching for the survivors. Let them. John was here, lighter cupped in his palm, doing what he was given the gift to do.
The first body they laid in front of him was swollen beyond recognition, stinking and swathed in muddy blankets. It was going to be hard work with everything waterlogged as it was. A young woman reached out to touch the disfigured face and John waved her back imperiously. This was going to be a long day if he was going to make a dent in the stacks of bodies lining the streets. His thumb turned the wheel of his lighter, filling his hands with flame. The fire leapt from him to the body, wreathing it with light, singing in his ears. John flexed his fingers, making a fist, and the fire roared whiter than lightning, then died away.
There was so little left after the flames, just a cup full of dust in the cradle of steel before him. One of the men swept it out with a single motion, scooping it into a bowl that he handed to the young woman. Weeping, she took it, then turned and bowed to John. Kneeling briefly, she left something on the steps at his feet, then disappeared into the gathering crowd.
"No." John picked it up, it was a golden chain with a medallion dangling from it. A god smiled back at him. "I don't want..." He held it out helplessly. The old woman took it, shaking her head, and put it down beside him firmly. Turning, she beckoned, and the men laid four bodies down this time, two large, two tiny. John closed his eyes and let the fire run through him again.
When he was too tired to go on it was long past dark and the temple emptied slowly, the people receding respectfully at the wave of his hand. The air was thick with smoke from his labours, even though the wind had sighed and whispered all day long. Candles flickered in little alcoves and nooks around the temple.
John looked down at himself and found that his skin was no longer white. Dragging his fingers over his chest, he made tracks in the soot from the pyres he'd burned that day, the remnants of hundreds of lost lives he'd reduced to ashes. He ached, he couldn't feel his feet, his mouth was parched, he felt hollowed out from his own flame.
He was surrounded by flowers, a carpet of them overflowed the altar and the stairs and among the blossoms, little offerings, whatever was left from the floods. A tiny statue of Ganesha was here, a bracelet there, and there, a silver picture frame with a little girl in it still smiling through the damage. There were pieces of fruit, a bowl of saffron rice, a clay jar of oil at his feet. But no water. Nothing to drink.
The irony cracked his composure and he started to laugh, a rasping, dry sound that turned to sobs before he knew it. Face in his blackened hands, he cried without tears to wash the ashes away. "Oh, God." Oh, he didn't feel like a god now. Or maybe he did. Maybe this was what it felt like.
"Take this." The soft, Boston-accented voice cut through his despair and cool hands pressed a bottle of water into his. "I knew it was you when I heard people talking."
The water was icy, a clean, wet knife that cut through the taste of burnt flesh in his mouth. John rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to clear his vision enough to focus in the candle light. Bobby knelt on the steps in front of him, crushing flowers under his knees, pulling another bottle of water out of his backpack.
"Here." Bobby pulled the blue bandana off his head and soaked the fabric. "You look like a native," he said wryly before he reached out to wipe the soot from John's face.
"Yeah, well you know I don't tan," John said, trying to dig out some cynicism. "I burn." He took the cloth from Bobby and scrubbed angrily at his skin.
"You here alone?" Bobby sat down among the flowers and began, absently, to sort out the offerings into neat little groups.
"Of course." John drained the first bottle of water and Bobby handed him what was left of the second.
"Right." Bobby didn't say anything more, just frowned as he puzzled over where to put the chain with the medallion, the first offering, and settled on putting it with the religious items instead of the jewelry. Everything in order. "So, you done?"
"I think." John uncrossed his legs, stifling a whimper as the blood flowed back to his feet. "For now. Same thing tomorrow. Promised I'd go start some other fires, too, in the morning. How's that for irony?" He stood and promptly pitched forward. Bobby, unsurprised and unperturbed, caught him easily.
"Pretty damn good."
A cold shoulder never felt so good. John rested his pounding head on Bobby's shoulder with a sigh, fingers digging into Bobby's shirt. Lilies and magnolias crumpled fragrantly under his bare feet, their sweetness seeping into the air.
"How does that quote go?" John asked, fighting back tears. "What a piece of work is a man... you always paid attention in class. You remember it, right, Bobby?"
"...how noble in reason," Bobby continued, one hand rubbing gently at the knot between John's shoulders, loosening it and with it tears. "How infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable."
"That's it," John whispered. "Hamlet. I liked him."
"You would," Bobby said dryly. "In action how like an angel," he added, pressing a kiss to John's filthy hair. "In apprehension how like a god."
"Apprehension?"
"Understanding," Bobby clarified, sweetly pedantic and practical. "The condition of one who understands."
"I didn't, not until now." John closed his eyes, clinging to the stability Bobby offered. "They're not insects at all, Bobby." he whispered against the faded chambray of Bobby's shirt. "Not at all."
[Note: As per community guidelines. Please do not archive. Linking is always fine, and I will archive on my own site for that purpose if desired.]