After the Fall: One. Two
I think I posted this here, but then I don't really remember anything beyond yesterday.
Author: underscoremily (me)
Title: After the Fall
Rating: PG-13/R
Spoilers: Post X2
“…being born is the easy part, yes
it is this staying here that’s difficult
this walking for the heart without being certain
exactly why, threading a path through the city
as though I could gather these streets
and bridges to me, hold them in this moment
shining, unassailable.”
-Catherine Hunter
After the Fall: Told in Meals and Dialogue
Part One
“So why’d you choose Prague? Old world charm?” John had been fiddling with the silverware, as he and Magneto ate dinner in a small café. He wasn’t suppose to go all lighter happy in public because two out of three in their little group couldn’t change their very-America’s-Most-Wanted-Faces and the one person who could was busy back in Washington being subversive and stuff.
Magneto smiled. His smiles looked cockier than any smirk John thought he could come up with. “Why’d you choose Bobby Drake?” He calmly reached over and slid the silverware to his side of the table, brushing the tips of his fingers against John’s.
“What?” John sat up straight, and fought the urge to burst out with a Kitty-esq ‘Like, gross!’ “I never chose Bobby. What the hell are you talking about? I’m not like that!” Magneto gave that smile, that I-put-up-with-you-because-I’m-older-and-wiser-and-better-than-you-so-watch-your-ass-you-little-shit smile. John would have punched him if he were back in Juvie. He would’ve punched him if he were back on the street or in another foster home. He would’ve punched him if he were back in the Institute. He would have punched him if he didn’t think that quite possibly Magneto had metal under his skin. He would have punched him, but he thought maybe that’s what Magneto wanted and god damn it, he wouldn’t do that.
It was that same holier-than-thou smile Magneto had given him after Mystique said, “Welcome to the Brotherhood” and John had said, “Brotherhood? There were two of you and now with me there are three. Even a chess club needs more than three.” Mystique had gotten a little pissed that he ruined her Master of the Ceremonies moment. Magneto had pulled him aside later on and said that Mystique was better as an ally than an enemy. John had said whatever.
It wasn’t like John didn’t like Prague and it was ok, even if he didn’t speak German or Czech or whatever they spoke here. It was ok, even if he got lost a lot, because he never bothered to stay within a safe zone of tourists and shop keepers who liked tourists. It was ok; even if one too many people had called him American but John guessed it was probably all the same if he didn’t speak Prague.
He had his own room and it wasn’t even filled with all that modern furniture Magneto seemed to be into. He could control the temperature and the stereo and everything, which might not seem like a lot but it was. John had new clothes so he could get rid of the Bobby-Drake-I-am-the-country-club-version-of-a-sugar-daddy ones. Magneto didn’t seem like that, or like those gummy skinned guys in Juvie who picked through new kids for their bitch (very Shawshank Redemption). He even stole a camera and some black and white film and was fiddling around with them for a while because evidently he wasn’t ready to read ‘How to Alienate Yourself from the Free World And Become an Arch Villain in Ten Easy Steps’ or ‘The Art of War’ (although he had read ‘The Communist Manifesto’ last year for History and gotten an A on the damn report).
It kept him from the other store, the one with gold leaf sketchpads and journals and famous French pens and handmade paper from Nepal. That store that put the fast forward on memories, dragging him to those times late at night when Bobby would say half joking, ‘tell me a story’ and John would oblige, half serious, for once foregoing the Marlon Brando attitude. Once he remembered that, everything else was fair game, and most of the time the next thing to think about would be those nightmare nights, when one of them would end up curled in the other’s bed, legs wrapped around legs, silent and waiting for the shaking to stop. John never cried but he moaned a lot in his sleep and while Bobby had cried once (his face on blush mode the whole next day) his nightmares about the end of the world and the mutant holocaust stood out only because he would freeze John’s sheets.
Magneto reshaped the knife he had taken from John, molding it into a small chess piece. It looked like a giant nipple to John. Or some phallic symbol. “Do you play chess John?” Magneto palmed the piece, pulling some trick so it vanished.
“You know, to everyone else it looks like you’re my grandfather and everything.”
“Appearances are deceiving.” The piece reappeared in Magneto’s other hand. John realized (and felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner) that Magneto could have just taken apart the original and built it onto his other hand, sliding the metal through his sleeve and along his back to his waiting palm.
“No. An English teacher in Juvie tried to teach me it once. Said I could do with the stability.”
“Stability? Really?”
“Well that and we weren’t allowed to have checkers after someone sharpened one of the pieces down and used it to try and slice a guard’s throat.”
“Charming.” John shrugged and went back to picking at his sandwich. It helped to fiddle with something and he doubted Magneto would try to take this too because he’d look pretty damn stupid with John’s plate on his side of the table. Magneto didn’t do looking stupid.
~…~
They were eating lunch in a small park by the east bank of the Vltava River, at one of those chess tables, the kind you’d see in New York or in San Francisco, in the respective Union Squares. Magneto was slowly teaching him the moves and positions of chess, and John was slowly becoming better at ignoring Magneto’s exasperated sighs. Maybe it gave Magneto those feelings of a family, having these meals together, at least one a day. Maybe Magneto had let all the ‘this your grandson, yes?’ comments that had started in Dresden and hadn’t stopped to go to his head. Whatever. John thought for a moment and picked up his knight, moved it to take a rook. “There.”
Magneto countered by taking John’s bishop. “The closer they are to the king, the more valuable they are, John.”
“Crap.” John went back to rubbing his face into the cup of his hand. His elbow was starting to hurt from leaning on the concrete and he really wanted to just burn up this whole stupid freaking chessboard right about now, despite that it was carved out of stone. Game of the gods, his ass. There was a reason people didn’t worship Odin anymore and it probably was because the guy spent too much time playing this damn game and not enough time demanding ale, virgins and sacrifices. Besides, chess was from like, China, and weren’t they Commies over there? Seriously, if this were The Cold War, everyone would be sticking to checkers. “King me,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” John sighed and tried to concentrate. He let his hand hover and grabbed one at random. Seeing an opening he moved his pawn.
“Daring. But foolish.” Magneto calmed took his queen and checked John’s king.
“Fuck it.” John decided to ignore the fact that the game wasn’t over.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Yeah, and I wasn’t made to play chess, so we’re even.” Magneto began gathering up the intricately carved wooden pieces and putting them gently into a leather bag.
“What do you mean?” John shrugged.
“Parents didn’t even finish secondary school.” Magneto shrugged and leaned back in his high backed chair. John followed the motion, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
“Education doesn’t necessarily rely upon degrees John.” I know, John wanted to say and roll up of the sleeves of his jacket, show him the scars, tell him the stories, shock that self-assured look off his face. Street smart, ‘member?
“Whatever.” They sit in silence for a few minutes. “Do you have any siblings?”
“I’m sorry?” Magneto stiffened.
“I just thought maybe that’s why you chose Prague. Family.”
“My older sister died in a concentration camp. She and her husband.” John tried to not let his eyes go immediately to Magneto’s left arm.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. Do you?”
“Have siblings? Yeah I guess.”
“Having siblings is not quite something most people guess about John. It’s considered to be more of a sure thing.”
John shrugged. “My older brother Asher, he took off when I was ten- he was eighteen- to go and find my dad. A little after that my mom took my younger brother Seth, he was eight, to go somewhere. I don’t know where, she didn’t say or call or anything; just left me in Seattle’s biggest Catholic foster home. So, I don’t know.” There was a silence and John spoke again. “Why do you call me John?”
Magneto’s forehead crinkled slightly. “That’s your name- unless you prefer for me to call you St. John?”
“No, I mean, when we met you said ‘tell me your real name’ and gave me all that crap about gods and insects and whatever so why do you call me John? You don’t call Mystique Raven or anything.”
“Incognito John, means not using one’s mutant name, however true it sounds.” John shrugged. There was another silence. The first time Magneto-Erik-whatever had tried to get a silence in one of their dinners and John kept continuing to talk, he asked if he needed Ritalin or Aderall or something. Magneto was used to it now, and had stopped trying to be contemplative over dinner. He didn’t complain anymore when John played the Dead Kennedys or Bright Eyes or whatever he felt like too loud. Magneto was the one who’d give him money on one of the first days when they had wandered around London under the pretense of buying non-pajama/Ronny Drake/ bringer of the homo-sapiens Apocalypse/Evil Doer/prison garb and ended up at a music store. Besides, he could always hang out with Mystique-Raven-whatever when she came to town if he wanted silence or deep philosophical questions.
John would never admit it but occasionally there were silences where he didn’t need to talk, times when it was almost like he was back sharing a room with Bobby (Drake, Drake, he tries correcting his thoughts), waiting to fall asleep because they had always turned out the lights at the same time. It was easier that way. Those times, the breathing at the same time as some else times, neither wanting the other to change times, they weren’t all that bad.
~…~
It was before breakfast when John made his move. He came into Magneto’s room quietly and flopped onto his bed, jerking the older man out of sleep and into a confused before-coffee haze. “Wh-“
“This bed is fucking uncomfortable.” John shifted, allowing his hips to rise slightly as he did.
“What the hell do you want John?” Magneto didn’t sound giving and had his eyes closed still.
“Would you spot me ten dollars? I mean it’s not like you ever set up an allowance for me and I can’t exactly get a job…” John kept his head on the spare pillow, turning his face so his cheek rested on the fabric, looking at Magneto, who finally opened his eyes. He rubbed his temples.
“What for?”
“Develop film.”
“From the camera you stole.” John nodded. “And the film you stole.” John nodded. “Why the sudden interest in paying for things?” John shrugged.
“You can’t exactly steal people into developing your pictures. Well, you can, but that’s called kidnapping, not stealing. Plus I’d have to get the material somewhere, which would be more stealing. And you gave me the whole undercover speech already, remember?” Magneto seriously looked like he was reconsidering the whole insect and god statement and whatever he had told Mystique to get her to turn the helicopter around. He probably would have stuck to coaxing Bobby to defect if he had known that John, despite his lack of people skills, was a morning person. Bobby, with all his virtues and his redeeming characteristics, was not a ‘get four hours of sleep and go because it’s daylight’ kind of guy.
“Why don’t you develop them yourself?” John shrugged, letting his shirt ride up again slowly, exposing his piercing, the thin metal stud thrust into the skin below his belly button and just above his belt, bisecting the thin line of hair there.
When diplomacy and fists failed, he had learned, a long time ago before there were Juvie nights and foster parents instead, seduction would do. It could protect, provide, damn near from anyone and anything. It filled the empty spaces. Some of the time it wasn’t so bad. Plus it tended to be the better alternative to getting the shit kicked out of him. Although there was a good percentage of time in which sex was followed by getting the shit kicked out of him so maybe it was time to rethink the philosophy. Whatever.
“Dunno how.” He waited.
“Why the sudden interest in the camera?”
“Dunno. Seems like a good way to waste my time, as good as any other. Besides, maybe I can use it to be subversive and stuff. Reconnaissance.” Magneto didn’t say anything. “Thought I was on your side.”
“Didn’t think you liked to choose sides.” John shrugged again. Whatever. He started to roll to get up, feeling Magneto lightly touch his shoulder, sounding strained. “Ask me when I wake up John.” He left the apartment and wandered for the rest of the day. He didn’t do begging. The next morning he woke up to find a film developing kit upon his bedside table and three how-to-books.
~…~
“John? John, wake up.” John opened his eyes, pissed that he had fallen asleep. On Magneto’s bed for Christ’s sake, and that fucker was as hard as anything, with metal slats and all. “What are you doing?” John reached over and hit stop on the laptop, freezing the screen and sitting cross-legged, turning to look at Magneto. He stood dripping, rain still rolling off his long black coat and matching fedora, the traditional Bad Guy outfit.
“Watching porn.” Magneto raised an eyebrow. “Your laptop plays DVDs.” Magneto turned, started to hang up his coat on the metal stand, the rain shaken off and puddling on the floor. “How the hell do you sleep on this thing?”
“Bad dream?”
“Huh?”
Magneto turned, stepping out of his dress shoes, standing on the hardwood floor in damp socks. “You talk in your sleep.”
John shrugged, didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t dream.” Magneto raised his eyebrows.
“Your brother hurt you.”
“Ash was a fuck.” John stood, made to walk out of the room.
“Do you want something to eat?” John stopped. Generally he was against that. Standing, hesitating in doorways, they were risky places to be; you couldn’t see behind you or what might be waiting in front. It was better to just keep moving, not to retract your steps. He turned back.
“Midnight snack?” Magneto waited. He wasn’t into the whole shrugging thing, John had noticed. John shrugged. “Sure.”
John measured out cups of the yellow powder and then moved to the tap. Magneto watched, flipping two pieces of French toast in the pan with the metal spatula, his hands resting lightly on the counter edge. He reached over and turned on the tap for him, still flipping two more pieces of bread into the mix of milk, cinnamon and egg with a fork. The fork hovered in the air, letting a piece of bread drip back the extra into the glass bowl. “What is that?” It looked like the mutant version of that Fantasia short John had watched when he was younger, because Seth loved Mickey Mouse. The brooms and mops one. ‘Sorcerer’s Apprentice’.
“Something I bought,” John emphasized bought, just in case there were misunderstandings, “cause I got tired of drinking tap. Soda was too expensive and you told me just to get whatever I liked. Not sure what it is but it tastes more or less like lemonade. Want some?” He took down two glasses and placed them on the counter. Arching his neck and spine down, he rested his forehead on the cold faucet as the water ran and filled the pitcher. He waited and Magneto still didn’t say anything. “He beat me too. Pretty bad. I guess everyone figured it was just sibling shit, the bruises and cuts. Said he’d kill me if I ever told anyone why he really beat me, why he always made sure we shared a room.”
“I’m-”
“Things pass.” He shut off the tap and stood straight. “I don’t want to talk about it.” John sat on the counter top, holding the plate on top of knees. Magneto did the same, facing him on the counter between the sink and the stove. John tried to catch some of the syrup in the small indentation in the center of the fork and spoon it into his mouth. It dripped on to his chin slightly and he licked it away, and then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth to be sure it was gone. He kept his eyes on his plate.
“What were you watching?” John looked up.
“The Usual Suspects. It’s a good movie.” Magneto nodded.
“Where did you get it?”
“Found it in a store. Pretty cheap- American release version and everything. Figured it was a better buy than the soda.” He ate another corner of toast, soaked in syrup and melted butter. “You should get a table. I mean I bet it’s great for my calves and shit to eat standing up but a table might look nice.” Magneto didn’t say anything; just put his plate quietly into the sink on top of the dirty dishes. John finished eating, slid down and did the same. “Have you ever seen it?” He gathered up the milk, the eggs and butter and placed them in the fridge, rearranging the cartons of leftovers.
“No.”
“You want to?”
“Sure.” Magneto followed him into his bedroom and John cued the movie from the beginning, shifting on the bed, trying to get comfortable. Magneto watched him and waited for him to stop. He did once the first scene began.
~…~
John laid on the floor of his room, digesting desert, a pint of ice cream in newly ripped cargoes from where linen hit cobblestone. Magneto came in, looked at him, and then looked up at the ceiling in one of those why-god-did-I-have-to-recruit-the-crazy-one-looks, at the photographs John had taped up there, on the wrinkly and bumpy white plaster. “So are you and Mystique a thing?” It had been raining for three days and after yesterday’s ‘eff it’ fiasco from which he came home wet and muddy, shivering and bleeding from his knee and palms, Magneto had forbid him to go out until the downpour let up a bit. John had said whatever and obliged because there was just as little to do in a rainstorm, as there was to do in the apartment, and at least an apartment had DVDs.
The thing was, Magneto hadn’t even given a shit when he came back that one night and found John stretched out on a hotel bed, holding a wet washcloth to the skin above where his appendix would be. Hadn’t even batted an eye as he stood in the doorway and watched John wipe away blood and extra ink from the exploding fireball printed on his skin, his back arched against the itchy expensive blanket, the tips of fading scars white against his ribs. He hadn’t said anything and John hadn’t felt the need to tell him where he’d gotten it done or how he got the money. Magneto started telling him meal times after that, and slipping him the change from the bills without mentioning it.
Magneto looked down at him and didn’t answer. “These aren’t so bad.”
“Thanks.”
“Enjoying the zoom I see.” He reached up, tapping his index finger against one buried in the center, the overlapping others framing two men kissing, photographed from across a square. John shrugged.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Magneto looked at him. “Not that you were planning to.”
“Why are you lying on the floor?”
“Best place to see the pictures.” Magneto chose not to ask the next logical question. John went back to looking at the prints. He liked one on the outer right side a lot, a small boy racing through a flock of pigeons that hadn’t quite reacted yet. His mother was chasing after him, just about to scoop him up. The boy was all smiles. The mom was not. Frozen like that, the pigeons yearning to fly, the boy waiting to be caught, the mother ready to console him when he fell. Frozen. John looked back at Magneto. “You should try it.”
He stretched his arms behind his head, along the floor, not caring that his shirt rode up or that he wasn’t wearing a belt or that his labret was in. Someone might think that was stupid, wearing metal jewelry around a guy who practically ate it. John wasn’t stupid. Cocky, but not stupid.
“Try what?”
“Bungee jumping. What the hell do you think I meant? Lying on the floor.” John shook his head. Christ. Magneto lay down, looking for all the world dignified as hell. He didn’t say anything though as he arranged himself on the floor. John understood that would sound like he was giving in and John had learned a long time ago to never show a weakness if you don’t know what the stakes are. That didn’t change- no matter how much brownie swirl he ate, or how many dinners Magneto had with him.
They lay on the floor a long time. John let the pictures blur together, streaming a pattern of black and white and gray across the ceiling, let it sink down into his eyes and through his body until he was no longer sure what he was looking at.
He rolled over on his side and looked for a minute at Magneto. He was staring at the photos still, his chest rising slow, calm and steady. John picked up his arm and kissed it, the under side. One kiss on the prominent artery, pale blue. One kiss on a small brown beauty mark. One kiss on the 786111. He pressed his mouth into the crease of Erik’s elbow and held it there for a moment, in the warm corner of skin.
“St. John.” St. John brought his head up and looked at him. He let go. “Go back to your Bobby Drake.”
“I told you, I’m not like that.” Erik nodded and smiled, then looked back at the pictures. St. John rolled onto his back again and watched, waited until they blurred.
That night he took them down and left the picture of the little boy running on Erik’s hard-as-fuck bed.
If I did, and you care to read,
“Do not keep in mind my sins when I was young, or my wrongdoing: let your memory of me be full of mercy, O Lord, because of your righteousness.” Psalms 25:7
After the Fall: Part Two
John jumped out of the cab, grabbing his bag as his feet hit the ground. Slamming the door he walked away, raising his arm slightly in a salute as the trucker drove off. Not letting himself look behind or hesitate, he scanned his hand and the gate opened. The walk up the driveway was not the hardest part, as he had assumed it would be but the stammering of his feet as he debated whether to ring the doorbell or knock or just walk in and what was afforded to him, considered within his rights. Before he made a choice, Summers opened the door and probably thought he had saved him, like when he’d first been invited here, Shane leading him to a diner where a guy in a wheelchair and the third most beautiful woman John had ever seen had bought him lunch and hadn’t flinched as he smoked and wolfed down two burgers. The school didn’t look different, like Black Ops hadn’t come in and blown the place to shit.
“Sit John.” John sat, and Summers headed back outside because old or no, Professor Xavier could take care of himself. In three seconds flat he could have John on the floor dead, his brain shut down or sitting in a padded room somewhere, convinced he was the next Dali Lama. When they had first met John had written him off as some pervert philanthropist and had realized rather quickly that anyone who could carry on a conversation about baseball while telling John telepathically about his school’s emphasis in vigilantism was someone who deserved a second write-off. “How are you?”
“M’ok.” John fidgeted with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, pulling them farther over his fingertips, balling up the extra in the palm of his hands.
“I assume you’re interested in continuing your education?” John nodded, his eyes fixed on a point of the window, where a pane of glass was fit into the wooden grille. It was new- the color was a minute shade lighter than the other woodwork. “John?” John redirected his eyes to meet the Professor’s, dreading now the mental conversation, the locked in stare. The nausea began to build in his stomach in preparation. “It is not the nature of this school to turn away students. With that in mind, you will be given a second chance but, as you have probably assumed, you will be on probation. This is not a grounding but a monitoring of your activities. Simply put John, you’re on a short leash. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“I assume you would prefer if I call Mr. Cooper and work out the details.” John nodded. “You will continue to share a room with Bobby. I will send someone up to escort you to the Medical Wing.”
“I, I don’t need -“
“I’m sure you are due for a check up.” John dropped up the argument (knowing it would have been defeated anyway), stood, and shook the offered hand. He turned to go, picking up his messenger bag with one loose hand. “John-“ John stopped and half-turned, waiting for the shoe to drop, “Erik called to say you’d be here a week ago.”
John shrugged. “Got lost.” Professor Xavier nodded and turned back to his desk. John left and headed back to what used to be his room. He attempted not to let himself stare around because it wasn’t wonder really, so much as it was reacquainting himself with this place again, and removing the most recent map out in his head where he had systematically eliminated walls and added bullet holes in the paneling.
The only reason he had assumed the school was still standing and not moved to some safer location in Iowa was the call he’d made from a Dresden phone booth, dialing the old number, letting his fingertips speak for him and for what he had left behind. Kitty has answered and John had hung up before his mouth could slip and completely decimate the cardinal Erik rule of “Don’t second guess. Don’t build up what you left and most importantly, never go back,” because there were days when he had hated this place but once he was away all he could remember were the stumbling around drunk with Jubilee and not getting caught, or sliding down the banister, or video games or French fries that never failed to be perfect or Bobby. The four seconds it took for Kitty to say, “Xavier’s School for the Gifted” cost John seven dollars.
The room looked the same. His bed wasn’t stripped and CDs were still stacked haphazardly on the shelf above his bed, forming bookends to keep worn out second hand novels, graphic novels and one or two books of poetry hidden within different covers, standing up. No one had painted over the sprawling lyrics, lines and phrases he had written in Sharpie on the baseboard and the frame of his bed. One desk was covered in soda cans and the other had a stack of papers, notes that had once been strewn around the laptop (folded shut and pushed to the back corner, out of the way for hands to reach but appearing neat) for now a three-month late paper on Washington Square (he could still remember his thesis and how exactly he was going to prove that not one character of the book was likeable or more than a poorly drawn façade).
He put his bag on his bed and sat, not sure whether to stand or put his things away or wait for Bobby to come bounding in after hearing the news of the prodigal roommate’s return, playing with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, pushing them up his arms then pulling them back down. Like it or not, this had become Bobby’s room. And he, John, had been the one to sever the friendship by walking across a clearing. And yes, he could put some of the blame on Bobby because he hadn’t followed him but the one thing John wasn’t sure of, no matter how times he continued to run the scene through his head, was whether he’d turn around mid-footstep if Bobby had asked him to stay. Leaving seemed like the necessary next step and what was expected of him because when you got down to it, chances of John being asked his uniform size was slim.
He ended up putting his things away: the camera and the best of the photos, what remained of the kit, a pair of jeans he’d bought using Erik’s credit card simply because they were expensive and wanted to learn how exactly to push his buttons, a few worn in T-Shirts. He was in the midst of fitting the few books he’d picked up in various grimy bookstores with tiny selections in a language he could read on the shelf when Bobby came in and did a double take as they sized each other up. “You’re back?” John nodded and licked his lips, not sure what consensus was on returning dissenters and the proper protocol for coming back to the fold. Bobby nodded and shrugged. “Cool. Haven’t really touched your stuff. Listened to your CDs but I figured you’d come back for your shit eventually. Jules took one of your T-Shirts. I think she sleeps in it. So where’d you go?”
“Europe mainly- stuck to the former Communist areas, actually. Think he was trying to tell me something but it went over my head. Germany, Kiev, Prague.”
“You back for good or until something better comes?” John shrugged and Bobby sighed. A knock came then, and the door opened, a tall, dark-haired woman entering.
“John?” She looked at him, smiling briefly at Bobby. “Hello Bobby. I trust your working hard on your paper?” She spoke with an English accent.
“Diligently, Miss Braddock. A+ material. If you want, I could just save you the trouble and grade it myself.” She shook her head, smiling, and turned back to John.
“John, I’ve come to take you to see Dr. McCoy. He’s-”
“Who?”
“You don’t know…” John turned to Bobby, waiting. “Dr. Gray died John, at Alkaline Lake- the dam broke and she died stopping the water, fixing the jet.”
John bit his lip, the feeling of chlorine in his stomach. “Sorry Bobby I…”
“S’alright man.” John turned back to Miss Braddock who stuck out a hand.
“I’m Betsy Braddock, the English teacher here. I assume you’re John?” He shook and nodded. “Well let’s get you down to the medical lab.” He followed, hands balling up in his sweatshirt again. Miss Braddock left him in the doctor’s office, nodding to the man who emerged from the back office.
“John, I’m Dr. McCoy. I’m going to have to ask you remove your sweatshirt and shoes.”
John tried to inch back. “Is there anyway we can skip this? I’m not sick or anything.”
“It’s just a check up John.”
“I just don’t like doctors. No offense but…” John had his hand on the knob; all the doctor had to do was say ok and he was as good as gone.
“Understandable. I can promise I won’t tell you you’re going to die any time soon.” John shrugged. To explain was to admit a shitload of things he’d rather not say out loud or remember for that matter. He stepped away from the door. If he went along with everything it should be over fast and the guy didn’t look like he could outrun John, should he need to get away. John pulled the sweatshirt over his head, leaving his left hand in the sleeve, holding the bundle against his side. “You can put that on the chair over there,” Dr. McCoy motioned with one huge hand, “and I’ll get your height and weight.”
John stood shifting in his socks, his knuckles pressed against his sides. With more dexterity than John would have thought him to have, the doctor pulled John’s left hand forward and looked at it, two fingers pushing the roots of his middle and ring fingers to keep them flat. He cut off the bloody gauze and masking tape over the two and looked at the cut, saying nothing when the blood oozed up again as the scab broke. “This is a bad cut.” John shrugged, his hand still held by McCoy gently. “I’ll need to stitch this. Any desire to explain how you got it?” John shrugged again. “Well, sit down and keep your hand flat on the tray. I can administer a pain reliever if you’d like but it won’t be anything too powerful.”
“It’s fine. Whatever.”
“Indeed.” Dr. McCoy slid off in his chair, and picked up the supplies he need, then rolled back. “The best part of a medical degree is getting the stool with wheels. Nothing administers such a perfect power trip. When you have a leather stool with wheels, you know you’ve made it.”
John smiled because he knew the joke was an attempt to put him at ease and seeing the doctor roll around a stool two hundred pounds smaller than him was worth a smirk. Fourteen stitches formed a comma starting up at the second knuckle of his ring finger and ending on his middle, the messily ripped skin held in place. For a moment or two he spread his fingers and brought them together, watching as the curlicue split and joined again and again. “Thanks.” Dr. McCoy nodded.
“You’re up to date on your tetanus shot so I won’t administer another dose but come back tomorrow and we’ll check on it. May I ask when you got it?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you go see a doctor?” John looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “Of course. Don’t like doctors. I’m sorry. So, let’s get you on the scale and take your height and we’ll get you up to date.” As Dr. McCoy worked he kept talking, asking John questions about his health or Dr. Gray’s notation in his records. “Well, I think you’re all done. You seem to be in top shape. Just keep that up.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” John nodded and collected his sweatshirt, slipped on his shoes and left.
~…~
“John!” John turned to the squeal to be ambushed by a hug. Awkwardly he touched his hands to Jubilee’s back, before she pulled away and hit him. Hard. “I am so fucking pissed off at you.” She walked away, his eyes momentarily meeting Kitty’s, who shrugged, waved and followed, her wrist encircled and dragged by Jules. John turned back and continued walking around the Mansion grounds, slipping slightly in the snow that had sprinkled across the shoveled pathways, kicked there by running students and badly aimed snowballs. His fingers fiddled in his pocket, rubbing the metal of his lighter, flipping it gently with his fingertips against his palm. When he reached the front walk he stopped to see Shane getting out of his car, shirt half tucked in and tie askew. Professor was coming out to meet him, and for once Scott was not joined at his hip. They spoke for a few minutes and John, sighing and gripping the lighter tighter, walked into view.
“Hey Shane.”
“John! Good to see you.” John shook Shane’s hand, eying up for a moment his parole slash social worker. “How was breaking parole?”
“Fun. But I’m never playing hide and seek with you again.”
“Cute John. You want to get into the car? We can chat on the way about where you’ve been the past three months.” John looked at Professor Xavier, trying not to look needy but going back to Juvie was not what they had discussed and John would be damned if he went back there for breaking parole.
“Mr. Cooper, I thought we agreed that John would be released back into the school’s custody.”
“I’m know Professor Xavier and I’m sorry, but on my way here I got the strangest call. It seems a car lot was broken into last night and two teenage boys were seen fleeing the crime, evidently taking the week’s profits with them. And it sounded awfully like an old pattern of my friend John here.” Shane was looking at John as he spoke, enunciating just enough to remain nonchalant to Professor Xavier but to convey to John that he was pissed as hell.
“I didn’t-“
“Do anything? I know John; you’re Christ-like in your innocence but with your record I have to bring you in all the same and let you have a talk with the police about what exactly it is you’ve been doing since October.”
“I didn’t do-”
“John, get in the car. Matter of fact, let me see your hands first.” John hesitated. “Not a request John.” John held out his hands, palm up. Shane flipped them over and dropped the right. “Want to explain how you got this?” He tapped the stitched cut. John shrugged.
“Fell.”
“Fell? John, the lot had a fence with barbed wire. You want to explain how you falling looks like you ripped up your hand?” John shrugged again.
“Fell going up the steps at Penn Station. They’re metal. Guess I fell weird- my bag got in the way.”
“And why were you in Penn Station?”
“Getting off the train from Newark International.”
“When?”
“This morning. Came here. Figured I’d get the doctor here to stitch me up.”
“Really. Do you have a ticket stub?”
“No. Chucked it. Used someone else’s passport too for the flight. Got it off Ebay- really is amazing what you can buy online.”
Shane exhaled a very small ‘fuck’ and closed his eyes. John counted to ten with him and waited. “Professor Xavier, would you mind if I talked to the school physician?”
“No, not at all. John, I’m sure you can lead the way.” John waited as introductions were made, looking around for any means of an escape. There always was, if it came to that, sucker punching Shane at a rest stop and taking off. He’d feel bad about it because Shane was a halfway decent guy and hadn’t completely given up on him in the five years he’d been on John’s case, the five years John had been in New York. More than once he’d let John sleep on his couch as he bounced from home to home to streets to home. But halfway decent or no, he’d rather die before he went back to Juvie.
“Well Dr. McCoy, I came down here to ask your opinion on the cut on John’s left fingers. John claims that he cut himself this morning, and you stitched it up. Is this true?”
“I did stitch it yes. I assume John told you how he received it?”
“Falling up the stairs in Penn Station?”
“I’m sure he embellished it more than that. My version involved being tripped.” John looked at the doctor, because saving his ass added a whole new dimension on who this guy could possibly be and his motives. The important thing was that Shane was buying it, and buying it completely. Must be the medical degree, he thought. Fuck the stool, give me that. “You see Mr. Cooper, I treated John’s cut this morning and I’d have to say, in my professional opinion, there’s no way he could have cut himself at any other time. I worked in the ER for several years and in that time I came to the conclusion that there are two types of lacerations- the slow bleeding and the quick. All else are variations. John’s cut was fast bleeding, not rapidly pouring but there’s no way he could have waited very long to have it looked at- it would have been simply too messy. Now, you’re welcome to confer with another opinion but my feelings would be hurt.” Shane laughed and shook his head.
“No, I’m sure you’re the expert. Thank you Dr. McCoy.” He turned to John, putting one hand on his shoulder and John resisted the urge to tell him to piss off, he didn’t like being touched. “Looks like you’re off the hook. Watch your ass.”
“I’ll show you to your car, Mr. Cooper. Just follow me.” Professor Xavier and Shane left, talking about the upcoming baseball season. Dr. McCoy began to walk back into his office, nodding good-bye at John. After a moment of gazing shocked at the wall, John followed.
“You saved my ass.”
“Is there something wrong John?”
“I just wanted to know why you covered for me.” Dr. McCoy turned to him and John let his gaze drift around the room- he’d never been in here when Dr. Gray was alive (it seemed strange to say that, like at any moment she’d pop out and call him the fool of a rather large joke), choosing instead to visit the medical wing only when absolutely necessary which translated to when Jules or Bobby dragged him down there for a checkup. There were bookcases filled with medical journals, what looked like records, and more books. He could see, through the slim opening between another door and a frame, a bed and beyond that, a bathroom. “You live down here?”
“I choose to stay close by my work. I covered for you John, as you say, because I am under the assumption you came here for a second chance and it’d be a poor beginning for you in juvenile detention. I’m sure Mr. Cooper would not mind turning his car around if-“
“No, that’s ok. Thank you.” Dr. McCoy nodded and turned back to his desk, fiddling with papers. He turned again, and John met his eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry John?”
“What do you want in return? You covered for me, did me a favor. What do you want?”
“John-“
“There’s got to be something.” John knew how things worked and people did not do things for nothing. There was no such thing as a lack of ulterior motive and personally, John would rather know the stakes.
“I don’t know John. I wasn’t really thinking of blackmail. Come back tomorrow and we’ll look at your cut. In the meantime I’ll formulate some sort of malicious plan. Is that alright?” John shrugged and turned to go.
“Thanks.”
~…~
“Huh?” John pulled his headphones off and looked up from Bobby’s copy of the newest Frank Miller work. He lay on his bed, reacquainting himself with the components of his CD collection that he had not bought a second copy of in Europe and Bobby’s comics.
“I said, you doing anything? I thought maybe we could go to the mall. Hang out.” John let his head fall back on the pillow and thought about the connotations for a moment- consumerism, seeing things he couldn’t buy, cinnabuns, the comic store and hanging with Bobby. He shrugged and got up.
“You drive.”
The mall was disarming to walk into, to get used to the contained noise. “So… what’s it like being back?” John shrugged and ripped off more of the bun, dipping it into the third container of cream.
“Jules is pissed at me. Other than that I don’t know. It’s weird trying not to see everything as shot up.”
“Yeah- the Professor had people come in and fix everything.”
“When did Braddock and McCoy show up?”
“Um, like two weeks after you left- end of October, beginning of November? She teaches English now and Dr. McCoy does the medical stuff and French. Professor Xavier just teaches science. Everyone else teaches the same stuff. You came at a good time- the winter term ends in a week.”
“And I always thought I had bad timing. Don’t look but those two girls over there are checking us out.”
“Seriously?” Bobby looked, as John knew he would. The girls giggled and one waved, moving her fingers independently of each other with a move stolen from some old movie. Bobby swiveled back, cheeks red, biting his lip. “Cool. You gonna go over and say hi?” John shrugged and bit off more of the sticky bun. “Marie and me broke up. Two weeks ago. Right before she went home for winter break.”
“Sorry.”
Bobby shrugged. “Why did you come back now? I mean, you could have stayed wherever you were but…”
“Didn’t really see a difference between out there and here.” Bobby nodded and fiddled with the Dairy Queen cup. “C’mon.”
“Hm?”
“Get up. We’re getting you a date.” Bobby was shifting next to him, his hands in his pockets. His foot was tapping on the floor and John knew that if he didn’t put Bobby at ease pretty soon, the girls would be snow cones in tank tops. “Hey.”
“Hey.” They giggled in unison and John lost all interest; they looked like idiots. For Bobby’s virginity, he continued on.
“I’m John. This is Bobby.”
“Hey. I’m Jessica and this is Hannah. Do you guys go to that prep school?”
“Xavier’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. Why, you guys at public?”
“Westchester High, boredom central. You know,” Jessica licked her lips- the lip-gloss seemed ready at any moment to drip off. “There’s a party tonight if you guys want to go. Strictly hush but you guys seem cool.”
“There’ll be drinking.”
“My God, Hannah. Forgive her,” she met eyes with John again, “she’s not very good at subtle. So we’ll see you at eight? 17 Woodwild Terrace? You know where that is of course.”
“Of course,” echoed Bobby, dazed. She was not the type of girl ‘no’ was said to, or questions were asked of. John shrugged.
“Great. C’mon Hannah.” They picked up their purses and jackets and headed off. John and Bobby turned at the same moment and watched as they walked away, the legs stepping at the same time, identical asses.
“What just happened?”
“We got you a date. So, want to go see a movie tonight?”
~…~
John scratched his bitten down nails against the arms around his stomach and detached for a moment to say, “no hickies,” over the music. It was some crap emo-core or something where you couldn’t understand anything being said. It was continually creating a discord with the music in John’s head which, granted, was no more appropriate but at least Matt Skiba enunciated. He moved his hands up the bumps of the spine, the small hairs on the skin soft against his palms, rubbing the back of the neck.
“Sure- whatever.” John adjusted the blanket, half pulled over himself and the other, whose hand was clutching at John’s jeans and jerking the waistband back and forth (as if he tried hard enough John would slither through the clothing without undoing the buttons), slipping the other hand inside to grope; they were his most worn in pair: the sewn hole on the crotch and the tiny little rips in all the seams where the white of the cotton swayed up like coral or something, the ‘POWs Never Have a Nice Day’ sewn on a back pocket. He had bought the jeans for five bucks in a thrift store three years ago and they had been one of the few possessions he had missed. John’s hand were pushing at the strange jeans, the buckle of the belt undone and striking his hands as they skidding around, pushing them and the boxers lower and lower until hair and hips met his fingers, skin on his fingers numb where the stitches scratched against strange skin. The tongue tasted like cheap beer and plastic but it was action and it was heat and it was doing something rather than sitting around the living room and drinking and watching other people drink.
And the idiot hadn’t locked the door. Someone stumbled in and hit the lights. John sat up and the other guy attempted to pull the covers of his bed over his head although if the people at his party didn’t guess by now where he was, there was more than just sociable drinking go on. “Do you fucking-” he started to spit out.
“John?” Bobby was leaning against the doorframe and staring at him with that open face look saved for special occasions, like when the Black Ops guy had smashed through the window during the raid.
“Shit.”
Bobby turned and stumbled off. John detangled himself from the arms and the bed sheets and went for the door, buckling his pants, shoving his feet into shoes not completely unlaced. “Hey wait-“ He ignored the guy, grabbed his jacket and looked for Bobby’s wake, finding him in the relatively empty kitchen, awash in plastic cups, crushed chips and sticky messes; every step John took there was a pull for him to remain standing. Bobby was fisting the counter of the breakfast nook and swaying slightly.
“Bobby?” He turned at the touch and tried to back away, the counter preventing any further movement.
“What the fuck were you doing John?” Bobby’s jacket was over a chair, the arm peeking out from tens of other jackets and sweatshirts. John tried to mince forward but Bobby recoiled. “What the hell was that John? Were you having sex with another guy?” Attention was starting to turn towards them and John leaned forward to pull out Bobby’s jacket. As he did he suddenly caught the odor Bobby gave off.
“How much have you been drinking?”
“What were you doing-” Bobby was yelling now and more people were looking away from their hookups to see what the noise was over the music. John grabbed Bobby’s arm and pulled him to the door, the cold sucking the air from his lungs for a moment as he pushed Bobby in front of him.
“Are you drunk?” Bobby was swaying and his face had hardened from slack disbelief to anger.
“Are you gay?” Look how goddamn ugly the stars are, murmured the music in his brain and John for a moment was even more put off.
“Give me your keys. You’re not-“ Between a rock and a bottle… I can tell you’re have trouble breathing… John reached for Bobby’s pocket and Bobby stepped back, like a broken dance.
“Is that why you left? So you could fuck Magneto?”
“Bobby. C’mon. Just calm down ok. I got to get you back to the Mansion-“ John reached forward again, hooking a finger on the keys. Bobby jerked back and the keys slid back into his pocket.
“Do not fucking touch me! What else have you been lying-”
“I haven’t lied about anything! I’m not the one who’s piss drunk-” John stepped forward and grabbed the keys. Bobby pushed him backwards and John stopped. Bobby didn’t hit him, never had. When he was angry he didn’t talk, inflicting his anger on himself. John was the messy sort of angry- kicking walls, punching trees, anything tangible he could attribute to what hurt.
“You never said you were gay!”
“Bobby just-” …let your light rot you inside out…
“Don’t touch me!” Bobby backed away, feet dragging on the shoveled pavement and John stood where he was, watching as the gap grew slowly, until Bobby was almost in the snow.
“Bobby, please.” John tried to start forward, to take Bobby’s arm and bring him to the car but Bobby inched back again.
“Don’t.” Bobby turned his face again. John stood, cold, chest hurting. This was what he didn’t want Bobby to know and now what? If Bobby told anyone he was fucked- he had seen how this worked in Juvie, in other places. If you stand out, you’re weak. If you’re gay, you must want anything anyone wants to give you, guys gang up on you. With Jules mad, Bobby was his last friend here and what did he have left now? Bobby retched and threw up on the snow. John tried to pat his back, to push his dirty blond hair back where it fell into his eyes, the gel wearing out. Bobby flinched and John closed his eyes. It hurt.
“C’mon.” Pulling on Bobby’s arm he half pushed and half carried Bobby to the car, putting him in the backseat, placing his jacket over him, careful not to touch Bobby and see him flinch away again. Bobby rested his head against the widow on the far side and wouldn’t look at John.
John kept the stereo off on the ride home. Leaving his Alkaline Trio, he parked and went to the back of the car. Bobby stood swaying slightly, head directed in an angle to the ground, still not looking at John. “C’mon Bobby.’
“Don’t touch me.” John steered Bobby, fighting the urge to put his arm over his shoulder and help him up the stairs. He knocked on Jules’ door and prayed Kitty still rooming with Sally -Bobby had said she didn’t like sleeping alone in the room after it had been shot up and Marie had been rooming with her before John left, that Jules would answer.
“Jules, c’mon, please answer the door,” John muttered under his breath, watching out of the corners of his eyes as Bobby slid down, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Jules answered the door in a men’s button down shirt and panties and started to close the door again in his face. He slipped his hand between the frame and the wood and breathed in as the door grabbed at the palm of his hand, anticipating and finding some small release in the pain.
“John, what the hell! Your hand-”
“Jules please. I’m sorry, I just I don’t know what to do…” John turned to Bobby, to attempt to lift him up but Bobby sagged away, snapping with slightly less force,
“Don’t touch me.”
“John, what happened?”
“We went to a party. I didn’t know, I fucked up. He got drunk. Just, I, got to go. I got to walk or something. Just, please…” John backed away as he spoke, heading down the hallway, pulling on his jacket. He headed outside, flipping the lighter against his palm and ignoring the smarting and numbness growing in his hand.
my formatting or whatever sucks. sorry
Author: underscoremily (me)
Title: After the Fall
Rating: PG-13/R
Spoilers: Post X2
“…being born is the easy part, yes
it is this staying here that’s difficult
this walking for the heart without being certain
exactly why, threading a path through the city
as though I could gather these streets
and bridges to me, hold them in this moment
shining, unassailable.”
-Catherine Hunter
After the Fall: Told in Meals and Dialogue
Part One
“So why’d you choose Prague? Old world charm?” John had been fiddling with the silverware, as he and Magneto ate dinner in a small café. He wasn’t suppose to go all lighter happy in public because two out of three in their little group couldn’t change their very-America’s-Most-Wanted-Faces and the one person who could was busy back in Washington being subversive and stuff.
Magneto smiled. His smiles looked cockier than any smirk John thought he could come up with. “Why’d you choose Bobby Drake?” He calmly reached over and slid the silverware to his side of the table, brushing the tips of his fingers against John’s.
“What?” John sat up straight, and fought the urge to burst out with a Kitty-esq ‘Like, gross!’ “I never chose Bobby. What the hell are you talking about? I’m not like that!” Magneto gave that smile, that I-put-up-with-you-because-I’m-older-and-wiser-and-better-than-you-so-watch-your-ass-you-little-shit smile. John would have punched him if he were back in Juvie. He would’ve punched him if he were back on the street or in another foster home. He would’ve punched him if he were back in the Institute. He would have punched him if he didn’t think that quite possibly Magneto had metal under his skin. He would have punched him, but he thought maybe that’s what Magneto wanted and god damn it, he wouldn’t do that.
It was that same holier-than-thou smile Magneto had given him after Mystique said, “Welcome to the Brotherhood” and John had said, “Brotherhood? There were two of you and now with me there are three. Even a chess club needs more than three.” Mystique had gotten a little pissed that he ruined her Master of the Ceremonies moment. Magneto had pulled him aside later on and said that Mystique was better as an ally than an enemy. John had said whatever.
It wasn’t like John didn’t like Prague and it was ok, even if he didn’t speak German or Czech or whatever they spoke here. It was ok, even if he got lost a lot, because he never bothered to stay within a safe zone of tourists and shop keepers who liked tourists. It was ok; even if one too many people had called him American but John guessed it was probably all the same if he didn’t speak Prague.
He had his own room and it wasn’t even filled with all that modern furniture Magneto seemed to be into. He could control the temperature and the stereo and everything, which might not seem like a lot but it was. John had new clothes so he could get rid of the Bobby-Drake-I-am-the-country-club-version-of-a-sugar-daddy ones. Magneto didn’t seem like that, or like those gummy skinned guys in Juvie who picked through new kids for their bitch (very Shawshank Redemption). He even stole a camera and some black and white film and was fiddling around with them for a while because evidently he wasn’t ready to read ‘How to Alienate Yourself from the Free World And Become an Arch Villain in Ten Easy Steps’ or ‘The Art of War’ (although he had read ‘The Communist Manifesto’ last year for History and gotten an A on the damn report).
It kept him from the other store, the one with gold leaf sketchpads and journals and famous French pens and handmade paper from Nepal. That store that put the fast forward on memories, dragging him to those times late at night when Bobby would say half joking, ‘tell me a story’ and John would oblige, half serious, for once foregoing the Marlon Brando attitude. Once he remembered that, everything else was fair game, and most of the time the next thing to think about would be those nightmare nights, when one of them would end up curled in the other’s bed, legs wrapped around legs, silent and waiting for the shaking to stop. John never cried but he moaned a lot in his sleep and while Bobby had cried once (his face on blush mode the whole next day) his nightmares about the end of the world and the mutant holocaust stood out only because he would freeze John’s sheets.
Magneto reshaped the knife he had taken from John, molding it into a small chess piece. It looked like a giant nipple to John. Or some phallic symbol. “Do you play chess John?” Magneto palmed the piece, pulling some trick so it vanished.
“You know, to everyone else it looks like you’re my grandfather and everything.”
“Appearances are deceiving.” The piece reappeared in Magneto’s other hand. John realized (and felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner) that Magneto could have just taken apart the original and built it onto his other hand, sliding the metal through his sleeve and along his back to his waiting palm.
“No. An English teacher in Juvie tried to teach me it once. Said I could do with the stability.”
“Stability? Really?”
“Well that and we weren’t allowed to have checkers after someone sharpened one of the pieces down and used it to try and slice a guard’s throat.”
“Charming.” John shrugged and went back to picking at his sandwich. It helped to fiddle with something and he doubted Magneto would try to take this too because he’d look pretty damn stupid with John’s plate on his side of the table. Magneto didn’t do looking stupid.
~…~
They were eating lunch in a small park by the east bank of the Vltava River, at one of those chess tables, the kind you’d see in New York or in San Francisco, in the respective Union Squares. Magneto was slowly teaching him the moves and positions of chess, and John was slowly becoming better at ignoring Magneto’s exasperated sighs. Maybe it gave Magneto those feelings of a family, having these meals together, at least one a day. Maybe Magneto had let all the ‘this your grandson, yes?’ comments that had started in Dresden and hadn’t stopped to go to his head. Whatever. John thought for a moment and picked up his knight, moved it to take a rook. “There.”
Magneto countered by taking John’s bishop. “The closer they are to the king, the more valuable they are, John.”
“Crap.” John went back to rubbing his face into the cup of his hand. His elbow was starting to hurt from leaning on the concrete and he really wanted to just burn up this whole stupid freaking chessboard right about now, despite that it was carved out of stone. Game of the gods, his ass. There was a reason people didn’t worship Odin anymore and it probably was because the guy spent too much time playing this damn game and not enough time demanding ale, virgins and sacrifices. Besides, chess was from like, China, and weren’t they Commies over there? Seriously, if this were The Cold War, everyone would be sticking to checkers. “King me,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” John sighed and tried to concentrate. He let his hand hover and grabbed one at random. Seeing an opening he moved his pawn.
“Daring. But foolish.” Magneto calmed took his queen and checked John’s king.
“Fuck it.” John decided to ignore the fact that the game wasn’t over.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Yeah, and I wasn’t made to play chess, so we’re even.” Magneto began gathering up the intricately carved wooden pieces and putting them gently into a leather bag.
“What do you mean?” John shrugged.
“Parents didn’t even finish secondary school.” Magneto shrugged and leaned back in his high backed chair. John followed the motion, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
“Education doesn’t necessarily rely upon degrees John.” I know, John wanted to say and roll up of the sleeves of his jacket, show him the scars, tell him the stories, shock that self-assured look off his face. Street smart, ‘member?
“Whatever.” They sit in silence for a few minutes. “Do you have any siblings?”
“I’m sorry?” Magneto stiffened.
“I just thought maybe that’s why you chose Prague. Family.”
“My older sister died in a concentration camp. She and her husband.” John tried to not let his eyes go immediately to Magneto’s left arm.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. Do you?”
“Have siblings? Yeah I guess.”
“Having siblings is not quite something most people guess about John. It’s considered to be more of a sure thing.”
John shrugged. “My older brother Asher, he took off when I was ten- he was eighteen- to go and find my dad. A little after that my mom took my younger brother Seth, he was eight, to go somewhere. I don’t know where, she didn’t say or call or anything; just left me in Seattle’s biggest Catholic foster home. So, I don’t know.” There was a silence and John spoke again. “Why do you call me John?”
Magneto’s forehead crinkled slightly. “That’s your name- unless you prefer for me to call you St. John?”
“No, I mean, when we met you said ‘tell me your real name’ and gave me all that crap about gods and insects and whatever so why do you call me John? You don’t call Mystique Raven or anything.”
“Incognito John, means not using one’s mutant name, however true it sounds.” John shrugged. There was another silence. The first time Magneto-Erik-whatever had tried to get a silence in one of their dinners and John kept continuing to talk, he asked if he needed Ritalin or Aderall or something. Magneto was used to it now, and had stopped trying to be contemplative over dinner. He didn’t complain anymore when John played the Dead Kennedys or Bright Eyes or whatever he felt like too loud. Magneto was the one who’d give him money on one of the first days when they had wandered around London under the pretense of buying non-pajama/Ronny Drake/ bringer of the homo-sapiens Apocalypse/Evil Doer/prison garb and ended up at a music store. Besides, he could always hang out with Mystique-Raven-whatever when she came to town if he wanted silence or deep philosophical questions.
John would never admit it but occasionally there were silences where he didn’t need to talk, times when it was almost like he was back sharing a room with Bobby (Drake, Drake, he tries correcting his thoughts), waiting to fall asleep because they had always turned out the lights at the same time. It was easier that way. Those times, the breathing at the same time as some else times, neither wanting the other to change times, they weren’t all that bad.
~…~
It was before breakfast when John made his move. He came into Magneto’s room quietly and flopped onto his bed, jerking the older man out of sleep and into a confused before-coffee haze. “Wh-“
“This bed is fucking uncomfortable.” John shifted, allowing his hips to rise slightly as he did.
“What the hell do you want John?” Magneto didn’t sound giving and had his eyes closed still.
“Would you spot me ten dollars? I mean it’s not like you ever set up an allowance for me and I can’t exactly get a job…” John kept his head on the spare pillow, turning his face so his cheek rested on the fabric, looking at Magneto, who finally opened his eyes. He rubbed his temples.
“What for?”
“Develop film.”
“From the camera you stole.” John nodded. “And the film you stole.” John nodded. “Why the sudden interest in paying for things?” John shrugged.
“You can’t exactly steal people into developing your pictures. Well, you can, but that’s called kidnapping, not stealing. Plus I’d have to get the material somewhere, which would be more stealing. And you gave me the whole undercover speech already, remember?” Magneto seriously looked like he was reconsidering the whole insect and god statement and whatever he had told Mystique to get her to turn the helicopter around. He probably would have stuck to coaxing Bobby to defect if he had known that John, despite his lack of people skills, was a morning person. Bobby, with all his virtues and his redeeming characteristics, was not a ‘get four hours of sleep and go because it’s daylight’ kind of guy.
“Why don’t you develop them yourself?” John shrugged, letting his shirt ride up again slowly, exposing his piercing, the thin metal stud thrust into the skin below his belly button and just above his belt, bisecting the thin line of hair there.
When diplomacy and fists failed, he had learned, a long time ago before there were Juvie nights and foster parents instead, seduction would do. It could protect, provide, damn near from anyone and anything. It filled the empty spaces. Some of the time it wasn’t so bad. Plus it tended to be the better alternative to getting the shit kicked out of him. Although there was a good percentage of time in which sex was followed by getting the shit kicked out of him so maybe it was time to rethink the philosophy. Whatever.
“Dunno how.” He waited.
“Why the sudden interest in the camera?”
“Dunno. Seems like a good way to waste my time, as good as any other. Besides, maybe I can use it to be subversive and stuff. Reconnaissance.” Magneto didn’t say anything. “Thought I was on your side.”
“Didn’t think you liked to choose sides.” John shrugged again. Whatever. He started to roll to get up, feeling Magneto lightly touch his shoulder, sounding strained. “Ask me when I wake up John.” He left the apartment and wandered for the rest of the day. He didn’t do begging. The next morning he woke up to find a film developing kit upon his bedside table and three how-to-books.
~…~
“John? John, wake up.” John opened his eyes, pissed that he had fallen asleep. On Magneto’s bed for Christ’s sake, and that fucker was as hard as anything, with metal slats and all. “What are you doing?” John reached over and hit stop on the laptop, freezing the screen and sitting cross-legged, turning to look at Magneto. He stood dripping, rain still rolling off his long black coat and matching fedora, the traditional Bad Guy outfit.
“Watching porn.” Magneto raised an eyebrow. “Your laptop plays DVDs.” Magneto turned, started to hang up his coat on the metal stand, the rain shaken off and puddling on the floor. “How the hell do you sleep on this thing?”
“Bad dream?”
“Huh?”
Magneto turned, stepping out of his dress shoes, standing on the hardwood floor in damp socks. “You talk in your sleep.”
John shrugged, didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t dream.” Magneto raised his eyebrows.
“Your brother hurt you.”
“Ash was a fuck.” John stood, made to walk out of the room.
“Do you want something to eat?” John stopped. Generally he was against that. Standing, hesitating in doorways, they were risky places to be; you couldn’t see behind you or what might be waiting in front. It was better to just keep moving, not to retract your steps. He turned back.
“Midnight snack?” Magneto waited. He wasn’t into the whole shrugging thing, John had noticed. John shrugged. “Sure.”
John measured out cups of the yellow powder and then moved to the tap. Magneto watched, flipping two pieces of French toast in the pan with the metal spatula, his hands resting lightly on the counter edge. He reached over and turned on the tap for him, still flipping two more pieces of bread into the mix of milk, cinnamon and egg with a fork. The fork hovered in the air, letting a piece of bread drip back the extra into the glass bowl. “What is that?” It looked like the mutant version of that Fantasia short John had watched when he was younger, because Seth loved Mickey Mouse. The brooms and mops one. ‘Sorcerer’s Apprentice’.
“Something I bought,” John emphasized bought, just in case there were misunderstandings, “cause I got tired of drinking tap. Soda was too expensive and you told me just to get whatever I liked. Not sure what it is but it tastes more or less like lemonade. Want some?” He took down two glasses and placed them on the counter. Arching his neck and spine down, he rested his forehead on the cold faucet as the water ran and filled the pitcher. He waited and Magneto still didn’t say anything. “He beat me too. Pretty bad. I guess everyone figured it was just sibling shit, the bruises and cuts. Said he’d kill me if I ever told anyone why he really beat me, why he always made sure we shared a room.”
“I’m-”
“Things pass.” He shut off the tap and stood straight. “I don’t want to talk about it.” John sat on the counter top, holding the plate on top of knees. Magneto did the same, facing him on the counter between the sink and the stove. John tried to catch some of the syrup in the small indentation in the center of the fork and spoon it into his mouth. It dripped on to his chin slightly and he licked it away, and then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth to be sure it was gone. He kept his eyes on his plate.
“What were you watching?” John looked up.
“The Usual Suspects. It’s a good movie.” Magneto nodded.
“Where did you get it?”
“Found it in a store. Pretty cheap- American release version and everything. Figured it was a better buy than the soda.” He ate another corner of toast, soaked in syrup and melted butter. “You should get a table. I mean I bet it’s great for my calves and shit to eat standing up but a table might look nice.” Magneto didn’t say anything; just put his plate quietly into the sink on top of the dirty dishes. John finished eating, slid down and did the same. “Have you ever seen it?” He gathered up the milk, the eggs and butter and placed them in the fridge, rearranging the cartons of leftovers.
“No.”
“You want to?”
“Sure.” Magneto followed him into his bedroom and John cued the movie from the beginning, shifting on the bed, trying to get comfortable. Magneto watched him and waited for him to stop. He did once the first scene began.
~…~
John laid on the floor of his room, digesting desert, a pint of ice cream in newly ripped cargoes from where linen hit cobblestone. Magneto came in, looked at him, and then looked up at the ceiling in one of those why-god-did-I-have-to-recruit-the-crazy-one-looks, at the photographs John had taped up there, on the wrinkly and bumpy white plaster. “So are you and Mystique a thing?” It had been raining for three days and after yesterday’s ‘eff it’ fiasco from which he came home wet and muddy, shivering and bleeding from his knee and palms, Magneto had forbid him to go out until the downpour let up a bit. John had said whatever and obliged because there was just as little to do in a rainstorm, as there was to do in the apartment, and at least an apartment had DVDs.
The thing was, Magneto hadn’t even given a shit when he came back that one night and found John stretched out on a hotel bed, holding a wet washcloth to the skin above where his appendix would be. Hadn’t even batted an eye as he stood in the doorway and watched John wipe away blood and extra ink from the exploding fireball printed on his skin, his back arched against the itchy expensive blanket, the tips of fading scars white against his ribs. He hadn’t said anything and John hadn’t felt the need to tell him where he’d gotten it done or how he got the money. Magneto started telling him meal times after that, and slipping him the change from the bills without mentioning it.
Magneto looked down at him and didn’t answer. “These aren’t so bad.”
“Thanks.”
“Enjoying the zoom I see.” He reached up, tapping his index finger against one buried in the center, the overlapping others framing two men kissing, photographed from across a square. John shrugged.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Magneto looked at him. “Not that you were planning to.”
“Why are you lying on the floor?”
“Best place to see the pictures.” Magneto chose not to ask the next logical question. John went back to looking at the prints. He liked one on the outer right side a lot, a small boy racing through a flock of pigeons that hadn’t quite reacted yet. His mother was chasing after him, just about to scoop him up. The boy was all smiles. The mom was not. Frozen like that, the pigeons yearning to fly, the boy waiting to be caught, the mother ready to console him when he fell. Frozen. John looked back at Magneto. “You should try it.”
He stretched his arms behind his head, along the floor, not caring that his shirt rode up or that he wasn’t wearing a belt or that his labret was in. Someone might think that was stupid, wearing metal jewelry around a guy who practically ate it. John wasn’t stupid. Cocky, but not stupid.
“Try what?”
“Bungee jumping. What the hell do you think I meant? Lying on the floor.” John shook his head. Christ. Magneto lay down, looking for all the world dignified as hell. He didn’t say anything though as he arranged himself on the floor. John understood that would sound like he was giving in and John had learned a long time ago to never show a weakness if you don’t know what the stakes are. That didn’t change- no matter how much brownie swirl he ate, or how many dinners Magneto had with him.
They lay on the floor a long time. John let the pictures blur together, streaming a pattern of black and white and gray across the ceiling, let it sink down into his eyes and through his body until he was no longer sure what he was looking at.
He rolled over on his side and looked for a minute at Magneto. He was staring at the photos still, his chest rising slow, calm and steady. John picked up his arm and kissed it, the under side. One kiss on the prominent artery, pale blue. One kiss on a small brown beauty mark. One kiss on the 786111. He pressed his mouth into the crease of Erik’s elbow and held it there for a moment, in the warm corner of skin.
“St. John.” St. John brought his head up and looked at him. He let go. “Go back to your Bobby Drake.”
“I told you, I’m not like that.” Erik nodded and smiled, then looked back at the pictures. St. John rolled onto his back again and watched, waited until they blurred.
That night he took them down and left the picture of the little boy running on Erik’s hard-as-fuck bed.
If I did, and you care to read,
“Do not keep in mind my sins when I was young, or my wrongdoing: let your memory of me be full of mercy, O Lord, because of your righteousness.” Psalms 25:7
After the Fall: Part Two
John jumped out of the cab, grabbing his bag as his feet hit the ground. Slamming the door he walked away, raising his arm slightly in a salute as the trucker drove off. Not letting himself look behind or hesitate, he scanned his hand and the gate opened. The walk up the driveway was not the hardest part, as he had assumed it would be but the stammering of his feet as he debated whether to ring the doorbell or knock or just walk in and what was afforded to him, considered within his rights. Before he made a choice, Summers opened the door and probably thought he had saved him, like when he’d first been invited here, Shane leading him to a diner where a guy in a wheelchair and the third most beautiful woman John had ever seen had bought him lunch and hadn’t flinched as he smoked and wolfed down two burgers. The school didn’t look different, like Black Ops hadn’t come in and blown the place to shit.
“Sit John.” John sat, and Summers headed back outside because old or no, Professor Xavier could take care of himself. In three seconds flat he could have John on the floor dead, his brain shut down or sitting in a padded room somewhere, convinced he was the next Dali Lama. When they had first met John had written him off as some pervert philanthropist and had realized rather quickly that anyone who could carry on a conversation about baseball while telling John telepathically about his school’s emphasis in vigilantism was someone who deserved a second write-off. “How are you?”
“M’ok.” John fidgeted with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, pulling them farther over his fingertips, balling up the extra in the palm of his hands.
“I assume you’re interested in continuing your education?” John nodded, his eyes fixed on a point of the window, where a pane of glass was fit into the wooden grille. It was new- the color was a minute shade lighter than the other woodwork. “John?” John redirected his eyes to meet the Professor’s, dreading now the mental conversation, the locked in stare. The nausea began to build in his stomach in preparation. “It is not the nature of this school to turn away students. With that in mind, you will be given a second chance but, as you have probably assumed, you will be on probation. This is not a grounding but a monitoring of your activities. Simply put John, you’re on a short leash. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“I assume you would prefer if I call Mr. Cooper and work out the details.” John nodded. “You will continue to share a room with Bobby. I will send someone up to escort you to the Medical Wing.”
“I, I don’t need -“
“I’m sure you are due for a check up.” John dropped up the argument (knowing it would have been defeated anyway), stood, and shook the offered hand. He turned to go, picking up his messenger bag with one loose hand. “John-“ John stopped and half-turned, waiting for the shoe to drop, “Erik called to say you’d be here a week ago.”
John shrugged. “Got lost.” Professor Xavier nodded and turned back to his desk. John left and headed back to what used to be his room. He attempted not to let himself stare around because it wasn’t wonder really, so much as it was reacquainting himself with this place again, and removing the most recent map out in his head where he had systematically eliminated walls and added bullet holes in the paneling.
The only reason he had assumed the school was still standing and not moved to some safer location in Iowa was the call he’d made from a Dresden phone booth, dialing the old number, letting his fingertips speak for him and for what he had left behind. Kitty has answered and John had hung up before his mouth could slip and completely decimate the cardinal Erik rule of “Don’t second guess. Don’t build up what you left and most importantly, never go back,” because there were days when he had hated this place but once he was away all he could remember were the stumbling around drunk with Jubilee and not getting caught, or sliding down the banister, or video games or French fries that never failed to be perfect or Bobby. The four seconds it took for Kitty to say, “Xavier’s School for the Gifted” cost John seven dollars.
The room looked the same. His bed wasn’t stripped and CDs were still stacked haphazardly on the shelf above his bed, forming bookends to keep worn out second hand novels, graphic novels and one or two books of poetry hidden within different covers, standing up. No one had painted over the sprawling lyrics, lines and phrases he had written in Sharpie on the baseboard and the frame of his bed. One desk was covered in soda cans and the other had a stack of papers, notes that had once been strewn around the laptop (folded shut and pushed to the back corner, out of the way for hands to reach but appearing neat) for now a three-month late paper on Washington Square (he could still remember his thesis and how exactly he was going to prove that not one character of the book was likeable or more than a poorly drawn façade).
He put his bag on his bed and sat, not sure whether to stand or put his things away or wait for Bobby to come bounding in after hearing the news of the prodigal roommate’s return, playing with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, pushing them up his arms then pulling them back down. Like it or not, this had become Bobby’s room. And he, John, had been the one to sever the friendship by walking across a clearing. And yes, he could put some of the blame on Bobby because he hadn’t followed him but the one thing John wasn’t sure of, no matter how times he continued to run the scene through his head, was whether he’d turn around mid-footstep if Bobby had asked him to stay. Leaving seemed like the necessary next step and what was expected of him because when you got down to it, chances of John being asked his uniform size was slim.
He ended up putting his things away: the camera and the best of the photos, what remained of the kit, a pair of jeans he’d bought using Erik’s credit card simply because they were expensive and wanted to learn how exactly to push his buttons, a few worn in T-Shirts. He was in the midst of fitting the few books he’d picked up in various grimy bookstores with tiny selections in a language he could read on the shelf when Bobby came in and did a double take as they sized each other up. “You’re back?” John nodded and licked his lips, not sure what consensus was on returning dissenters and the proper protocol for coming back to the fold. Bobby nodded and shrugged. “Cool. Haven’t really touched your stuff. Listened to your CDs but I figured you’d come back for your shit eventually. Jules took one of your T-Shirts. I think she sleeps in it. So where’d you go?”
“Europe mainly- stuck to the former Communist areas, actually. Think he was trying to tell me something but it went over my head. Germany, Kiev, Prague.”
“You back for good or until something better comes?” John shrugged and Bobby sighed. A knock came then, and the door opened, a tall, dark-haired woman entering.
“John?” She looked at him, smiling briefly at Bobby. “Hello Bobby. I trust your working hard on your paper?” She spoke with an English accent.
“Diligently, Miss Braddock. A+ material. If you want, I could just save you the trouble and grade it myself.” She shook her head, smiling, and turned back to John.
“John, I’ve come to take you to see Dr. McCoy. He’s-”
“Who?”
“You don’t know…” John turned to Bobby, waiting. “Dr. Gray died John, at Alkaline Lake- the dam broke and she died stopping the water, fixing the jet.”
John bit his lip, the feeling of chlorine in his stomach. “Sorry Bobby I…”
“S’alright man.” John turned back to Miss Braddock who stuck out a hand.
“I’m Betsy Braddock, the English teacher here. I assume you’re John?” He shook and nodded. “Well let’s get you down to the medical lab.” He followed, hands balling up in his sweatshirt again. Miss Braddock left him in the doctor’s office, nodding to the man who emerged from the back office.
“John, I’m Dr. McCoy. I’m going to have to ask you remove your sweatshirt and shoes.”
John tried to inch back. “Is there anyway we can skip this? I’m not sick or anything.”
“It’s just a check up John.”
“I just don’t like doctors. No offense but…” John had his hand on the knob; all the doctor had to do was say ok and he was as good as gone.
“Understandable. I can promise I won’t tell you you’re going to die any time soon.” John shrugged. To explain was to admit a shitload of things he’d rather not say out loud or remember for that matter. He stepped away from the door. If he went along with everything it should be over fast and the guy didn’t look like he could outrun John, should he need to get away. John pulled the sweatshirt over his head, leaving his left hand in the sleeve, holding the bundle against his side. “You can put that on the chair over there,” Dr. McCoy motioned with one huge hand, “and I’ll get your height and weight.”
John stood shifting in his socks, his knuckles pressed against his sides. With more dexterity than John would have thought him to have, the doctor pulled John’s left hand forward and looked at it, two fingers pushing the roots of his middle and ring fingers to keep them flat. He cut off the bloody gauze and masking tape over the two and looked at the cut, saying nothing when the blood oozed up again as the scab broke. “This is a bad cut.” John shrugged, his hand still held by McCoy gently. “I’ll need to stitch this. Any desire to explain how you got it?” John shrugged again. “Well, sit down and keep your hand flat on the tray. I can administer a pain reliever if you’d like but it won’t be anything too powerful.”
“It’s fine. Whatever.”
“Indeed.” Dr. McCoy slid off in his chair, and picked up the supplies he need, then rolled back. “The best part of a medical degree is getting the stool with wheels. Nothing administers such a perfect power trip. When you have a leather stool with wheels, you know you’ve made it.”
John smiled because he knew the joke was an attempt to put him at ease and seeing the doctor roll around a stool two hundred pounds smaller than him was worth a smirk. Fourteen stitches formed a comma starting up at the second knuckle of his ring finger and ending on his middle, the messily ripped skin held in place. For a moment or two he spread his fingers and brought them together, watching as the curlicue split and joined again and again. “Thanks.” Dr. McCoy nodded.
“You’re up to date on your tetanus shot so I won’t administer another dose but come back tomorrow and we’ll check on it. May I ask when you got it?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you go see a doctor?” John looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “Of course. Don’t like doctors. I’m sorry. So, let’s get you on the scale and take your height and we’ll get you up to date.” As Dr. McCoy worked he kept talking, asking John questions about his health or Dr. Gray’s notation in his records. “Well, I think you’re all done. You seem to be in top shape. Just keep that up.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” John nodded and collected his sweatshirt, slipped on his shoes and left.
~…~
“John!” John turned to the squeal to be ambushed by a hug. Awkwardly he touched his hands to Jubilee’s back, before she pulled away and hit him. Hard. “I am so fucking pissed off at you.” She walked away, his eyes momentarily meeting Kitty’s, who shrugged, waved and followed, her wrist encircled and dragged by Jules. John turned back and continued walking around the Mansion grounds, slipping slightly in the snow that had sprinkled across the shoveled pathways, kicked there by running students and badly aimed snowballs. His fingers fiddled in his pocket, rubbing the metal of his lighter, flipping it gently with his fingertips against his palm. When he reached the front walk he stopped to see Shane getting out of his car, shirt half tucked in and tie askew. Professor was coming out to meet him, and for once Scott was not joined at his hip. They spoke for a few minutes and John, sighing and gripping the lighter tighter, walked into view.
“Hey Shane.”
“John! Good to see you.” John shook Shane’s hand, eying up for a moment his parole slash social worker. “How was breaking parole?”
“Fun. But I’m never playing hide and seek with you again.”
“Cute John. You want to get into the car? We can chat on the way about where you’ve been the past three months.” John looked at Professor Xavier, trying not to look needy but going back to Juvie was not what they had discussed and John would be damned if he went back there for breaking parole.
“Mr. Cooper, I thought we agreed that John would be released back into the school’s custody.”
“I’m know Professor Xavier and I’m sorry, but on my way here I got the strangest call. It seems a car lot was broken into last night and two teenage boys were seen fleeing the crime, evidently taking the week’s profits with them. And it sounded awfully like an old pattern of my friend John here.” Shane was looking at John as he spoke, enunciating just enough to remain nonchalant to Professor Xavier but to convey to John that he was pissed as hell.
“I didn’t-“
“Do anything? I know John; you’re Christ-like in your innocence but with your record I have to bring you in all the same and let you have a talk with the police about what exactly it is you’ve been doing since October.”
“I didn’t do-”
“John, get in the car. Matter of fact, let me see your hands first.” John hesitated. “Not a request John.” John held out his hands, palm up. Shane flipped them over and dropped the right. “Want to explain how you got this?” He tapped the stitched cut. John shrugged.
“Fell.”
“Fell? John, the lot had a fence with barbed wire. You want to explain how you falling looks like you ripped up your hand?” John shrugged again.
“Fell going up the steps at Penn Station. They’re metal. Guess I fell weird- my bag got in the way.”
“And why were you in Penn Station?”
“Getting off the train from Newark International.”
“When?”
“This morning. Came here. Figured I’d get the doctor here to stitch me up.”
“Really. Do you have a ticket stub?”
“No. Chucked it. Used someone else’s passport too for the flight. Got it off Ebay- really is amazing what you can buy online.”
Shane exhaled a very small ‘fuck’ and closed his eyes. John counted to ten with him and waited. “Professor Xavier, would you mind if I talked to the school physician?”
“No, not at all. John, I’m sure you can lead the way.” John waited as introductions were made, looking around for any means of an escape. There always was, if it came to that, sucker punching Shane at a rest stop and taking off. He’d feel bad about it because Shane was a halfway decent guy and hadn’t completely given up on him in the five years he’d been on John’s case, the five years John had been in New York. More than once he’d let John sleep on his couch as he bounced from home to home to streets to home. But halfway decent or no, he’d rather die before he went back to Juvie.
“Well Dr. McCoy, I came down here to ask your opinion on the cut on John’s left fingers. John claims that he cut himself this morning, and you stitched it up. Is this true?”
“I did stitch it yes. I assume John told you how he received it?”
“Falling up the stairs in Penn Station?”
“I’m sure he embellished it more than that. My version involved being tripped.” John looked at the doctor, because saving his ass added a whole new dimension on who this guy could possibly be and his motives. The important thing was that Shane was buying it, and buying it completely. Must be the medical degree, he thought. Fuck the stool, give me that. “You see Mr. Cooper, I treated John’s cut this morning and I’d have to say, in my professional opinion, there’s no way he could have cut himself at any other time. I worked in the ER for several years and in that time I came to the conclusion that there are two types of lacerations- the slow bleeding and the quick. All else are variations. John’s cut was fast bleeding, not rapidly pouring but there’s no way he could have waited very long to have it looked at- it would have been simply too messy. Now, you’re welcome to confer with another opinion but my feelings would be hurt.” Shane laughed and shook his head.
“No, I’m sure you’re the expert. Thank you Dr. McCoy.” He turned to John, putting one hand on his shoulder and John resisted the urge to tell him to piss off, he didn’t like being touched. “Looks like you’re off the hook. Watch your ass.”
“I’ll show you to your car, Mr. Cooper. Just follow me.” Professor Xavier and Shane left, talking about the upcoming baseball season. Dr. McCoy began to walk back into his office, nodding good-bye at John. After a moment of gazing shocked at the wall, John followed.
“You saved my ass.”
“Is there something wrong John?”
“I just wanted to know why you covered for me.” Dr. McCoy turned to him and John let his gaze drift around the room- he’d never been in here when Dr. Gray was alive (it seemed strange to say that, like at any moment she’d pop out and call him the fool of a rather large joke), choosing instead to visit the medical wing only when absolutely necessary which translated to when Jules or Bobby dragged him down there for a checkup. There were bookcases filled with medical journals, what looked like records, and more books. He could see, through the slim opening between another door and a frame, a bed and beyond that, a bathroom. “You live down here?”
“I choose to stay close by my work. I covered for you John, as you say, because I am under the assumption you came here for a second chance and it’d be a poor beginning for you in juvenile detention. I’m sure Mr. Cooper would not mind turning his car around if-“
“No, that’s ok. Thank you.” Dr. McCoy nodded and turned back to his desk, fiddling with papers. He turned again, and John met his eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry John?”
“What do you want in return? You covered for me, did me a favor. What do you want?”
“John-“
“There’s got to be something.” John knew how things worked and people did not do things for nothing. There was no such thing as a lack of ulterior motive and personally, John would rather know the stakes.
“I don’t know John. I wasn’t really thinking of blackmail. Come back tomorrow and we’ll look at your cut. In the meantime I’ll formulate some sort of malicious plan. Is that alright?” John shrugged and turned to go.
“Thanks.”
~…~
“Huh?” John pulled his headphones off and looked up from Bobby’s copy of the newest Frank Miller work. He lay on his bed, reacquainting himself with the components of his CD collection that he had not bought a second copy of in Europe and Bobby’s comics.
“I said, you doing anything? I thought maybe we could go to the mall. Hang out.” John let his head fall back on the pillow and thought about the connotations for a moment- consumerism, seeing things he couldn’t buy, cinnabuns, the comic store and hanging with Bobby. He shrugged and got up.
“You drive.”
The mall was disarming to walk into, to get used to the contained noise. “So… what’s it like being back?” John shrugged and ripped off more of the bun, dipping it into the third container of cream.
“Jules is pissed at me. Other than that I don’t know. It’s weird trying not to see everything as shot up.”
“Yeah- the Professor had people come in and fix everything.”
“When did Braddock and McCoy show up?”
“Um, like two weeks after you left- end of October, beginning of November? She teaches English now and Dr. McCoy does the medical stuff and French. Professor Xavier just teaches science. Everyone else teaches the same stuff. You came at a good time- the winter term ends in a week.”
“And I always thought I had bad timing. Don’t look but those two girls over there are checking us out.”
“Seriously?” Bobby looked, as John knew he would. The girls giggled and one waved, moving her fingers independently of each other with a move stolen from some old movie. Bobby swiveled back, cheeks red, biting his lip. “Cool. You gonna go over and say hi?” John shrugged and bit off more of the sticky bun. “Marie and me broke up. Two weeks ago. Right before she went home for winter break.”
“Sorry.”
Bobby shrugged. “Why did you come back now? I mean, you could have stayed wherever you were but…”
“Didn’t really see a difference between out there and here.” Bobby nodded and fiddled with the Dairy Queen cup. “C’mon.”
“Hm?”
“Get up. We’re getting you a date.” Bobby was shifting next to him, his hands in his pockets. His foot was tapping on the floor and John knew that if he didn’t put Bobby at ease pretty soon, the girls would be snow cones in tank tops. “Hey.”
“Hey.” They giggled in unison and John lost all interest; they looked like idiots. For Bobby’s virginity, he continued on.
“I’m John. This is Bobby.”
“Hey. I’m Jessica and this is Hannah. Do you guys go to that prep school?”
“Xavier’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. Why, you guys at public?”
“Westchester High, boredom central. You know,” Jessica licked her lips- the lip-gloss seemed ready at any moment to drip off. “There’s a party tonight if you guys want to go. Strictly hush but you guys seem cool.”
“There’ll be drinking.”
“My God, Hannah. Forgive her,” she met eyes with John again, “she’s not very good at subtle. So we’ll see you at eight? 17 Woodwild Terrace? You know where that is of course.”
“Of course,” echoed Bobby, dazed. She was not the type of girl ‘no’ was said to, or questions were asked of. John shrugged.
“Great. C’mon Hannah.” They picked up their purses and jackets and headed off. John and Bobby turned at the same moment and watched as they walked away, the legs stepping at the same time, identical asses.
“What just happened?”
“We got you a date. So, want to go see a movie tonight?”
~…~
John scratched his bitten down nails against the arms around his stomach and detached for a moment to say, “no hickies,” over the music. It was some crap emo-core or something where you couldn’t understand anything being said. It was continually creating a discord with the music in John’s head which, granted, was no more appropriate but at least Matt Skiba enunciated. He moved his hands up the bumps of the spine, the small hairs on the skin soft against his palms, rubbing the back of the neck.
“Sure- whatever.” John adjusted the blanket, half pulled over himself and the other, whose hand was clutching at John’s jeans and jerking the waistband back and forth (as if he tried hard enough John would slither through the clothing without undoing the buttons), slipping the other hand inside to grope; they were his most worn in pair: the sewn hole on the crotch and the tiny little rips in all the seams where the white of the cotton swayed up like coral or something, the ‘POWs Never Have a Nice Day’ sewn on a back pocket. He had bought the jeans for five bucks in a thrift store three years ago and they had been one of the few possessions he had missed. John’s hand were pushing at the strange jeans, the buckle of the belt undone and striking his hands as they skidding around, pushing them and the boxers lower and lower until hair and hips met his fingers, skin on his fingers numb where the stitches scratched against strange skin. The tongue tasted like cheap beer and plastic but it was action and it was heat and it was doing something rather than sitting around the living room and drinking and watching other people drink.
And the idiot hadn’t locked the door. Someone stumbled in and hit the lights. John sat up and the other guy attempted to pull the covers of his bed over his head although if the people at his party didn’t guess by now where he was, there was more than just sociable drinking go on. “Do you fucking-” he started to spit out.
“John?” Bobby was leaning against the doorframe and staring at him with that open face look saved for special occasions, like when the Black Ops guy had smashed through the window during the raid.
“Shit.”
Bobby turned and stumbled off. John detangled himself from the arms and the bed sheets and went for the door, buckling his pants, shoving his feet into shoes not completely unlaced. “Hey wait-“ He ignored the guy, grabbed his jacket and looked for Bobby’s wake, finding him in the relatively empty kitchen, awash in plastic cups, crushed chips and sticky messes; every step John took there was a pull for him to remain standing. Bobby was fisting the counter of the breakfast nook and swaying slightly.
“Bobby?” He turned at the touch and tried to back away, the counter preventing any further movement.
“What the fuck were you doing John?” Bobby’s jacket was over a chair, the arm peeking out from tens of other jackets and sweatshirts. John tried to mince forward but Bobby recoiled. “What the hell was that John? Were you having sex with another guy?” Attention was starting to turn towards them and John leaned forward to pull out Bobby’s jacket. As he did he suddenly caught the odor Bobby gave off.
“How much have you been drinking?”
“What were you doing-” Bobby was yelling now and more people were looking away from their hookups to see what the noise was over the music. John grabbed Bobby’s arm and pulled him to the door, the cold sucking the air from his lungs for a moment as he pushed Bobby in front of him.
“Are you drunk?” Bobby was swaying and his face had hardened from slack disbelief to anger.
“Are you gay?” Look how goddamn ugly the stars are, murmured the music in his brain and John for a moment was even more put off.
“Give me your keys. You’re not-“ Between a rock and a bottle… I can tell you’re have trouble breathing… John reached for Bobby’s pocket and Bobby stepped back, like a broken dance.
“Is that why you left? So you could fuck Magneto?”
“Bobby. C’mon. Just calm down ok. I got to get you back to the Mansion-“ John reached forward again, hooking a finger on the keys. Bobby jerked back and the keys slid back into his pocket.
“Do not fucking touch me! What else have you been lying-”
“I haven’t lied about anything! I’m not the one who’s piss drunk-” John stepped forward and grabbed the keys. Bobby pushed him backwards and John stopped. Bobby didn’t hit him, never had. When he was angry he didn’t talk, inflicting his anger on himself. John was the messy sort of angry- kicking walls, punching trees, anything tangible he could attribute to what hurt.
“You never said you were gay!”
“Bobby just-” …let your light rot you inside out…
“Don’t touch me!” Bobby backed away, feet dragging on the shoveled pavement and John stood where he was, watching as the gap grew slowly, until Bobby was almost in the snow.
“Bobby, please.” John tried to start forward, to take Bobby’s arm and bring him to the car but Bobby inched back again.
“Don’t.” Bobby turned his face again. John stood, cold, chest hurting. This was what he didn’t want Bobby to know and now what? If Bobby told anyone he was fucked- he had seen how this worked in Juvie, in other places. If you stand out, you’re weak. If you’re gay, you must want anything anyone wants to give you, guys gang up on you. With Jules mad, Bobby was his last friend here and what did he have left now? Bobby retched and threw up on the snow. John tried to pat his back, to push his dirty blond hair back where it fell into his eyes, the gel wearing out. Bobby flinched and John closed his eyes. It hurt.
“C’mon.” Pulling on Bobby’s arm he half pushed and half carried Bobby to the car, putting him in the backseat, placing his jacket over him, careful not to touch Bobby and see him flinch away again. Bobby rested his head against the widow on the far side and wouldn’t look at John.
John kept the stereo off on the ride home. Leaving his Alkaline Trio, he parked and went to the back of the car. Bobby stood swaying slightly, head directed in an angle to the ground, still not looking at John. “C’mon Bobby.’
“Don’t touch me.” John steered Bobby, fighting the urge to put his arm over his shoulder and help him up the stairs. He knocked on Jules’ door and prayed Kitty still rooming with Sally -Bobby had said she didn’t like sleeping alone in the room after it had been shot up and Marie had been rooming with her before John left, that Jules would answer.
“Jules, c’mon, please answer the door,” John muttered under his breath, watching out of the corners of his eyes as Bobby slid down, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Jules answered the door in a men’s button down shirt and panties and started to close the door again in his face. He slipped his hand between the frame and the wood and breathed in as the door grabbed at the palm of his hand, anticipating and finding some small release in the pain.
“John, what the hell! Your hand-”
“Jules please. I’m sorry, I just I don’t know what to do…” John turned to Bobby, to attempt to lift him up but Bobby sagged away, snapping with slightly less force,
“Don’t touch me.”
“John, what happened?”
“We went to a party. I didn’t know, I fucked up. He got drunk. Just, I, got to go. I got to walk or something. Just, please…” John backed away as he spoke, heading down the hallway, pulling on his jacket. He headed outside, flipping the lighter against his palm and ignoring the smarting and numbness growing in his hand.
my formatting or whatever sucks. sorry