Possible beginning of a longer fic
Hey guys. I just wrote this, and I'm trying to decide if I like it or if I want to get away from the first person tense. I'd love some feedback, because I want to use something like this as the beginning of a longer Bobby/John fic.
Title: Winter
Rating: PG
Characters: Bobby/John, Rogue
Summary: Bobby's never been bothered by the cold before.
Why did he have to leave me in the middle of winter?
I almost say it aloud to myself, sitting on my twin bed, staring at his side of the room, empty and too clean. He was messy; he never made his bed. After a week I told myself I was tired of looking at his sloppy sheets, all bunched up at the bottom, so I made it for him. A week later he’s still gone, and now the fact that the bed is made is bothering me. It looks unnatural. There’s no trace of John left there, only the trappings of my own obsessive loneliness staring back me.
So I get up with a groan and go to his bed. My hands are shaking - they were shaking the day I made the bed up, too. I had wanted to fall into it and break down, hug his pillow and breathe in the last traces of him. But I didn’t. He would have laughed at me for hours, had he seen such a thing. Or at least he would have shot an “I told you so” my way.
I reach down and muss up the covers furiously, punch his pillow a few times, biting my trembling lip. I step back and have a look, but it’s still not right. John had a particular way of messing up his bed - why can’t I remember what it looked like? I’d found myself staring absently in this direction often enough, back when he was here.
There’s a knock at the door and I jump, embarrassed.
“ Yeah?” I call, my heart leaping into my throat. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he at least came back for his clothes.
“ Bobby?” It’s Rogue. I try not to let my disappointment draw me under, but I feel it tugging at me sharply, waiting for me to crack. I swallow heavily and go for the door.
I step out quickly into the hall, shutting the door behind me. I don’t want anyone to see the inside of our room. It feels like all my secrets are on display in there, all the stupid, hopeless longing I’m so ashamed of. Rogue gives me a look that’s a little suspicious. She’s not dumb; she knows something is going on, but she doesn’t press me. She’s good about that.
“ Want to get some dinner?” she asks, hooking a gloved arm through mine as we walk down the hall.
“ I’m not hungry,” I say, and it’s true. “ But I’ll sit with you if you want,” I add, feeling guilty.
“ Jesus, Bobby,” she says, stopping in her tracks and frowning, pressing her covered palm to my upper arm. “ Are you alright? You feel cold. I mean, duh - but more than normal. I can feel it through the glove, even.”
“ I am kind of cold,” I say, looking down at my t-shirt and jeans. It’s early December, but I’ve always worn short-sleeves throughout winter. I tend to be relatively immune to the cold, which wouldn’t surprise anyone, I’m sure.
“ We need to find you a sweater,” she says, rubbing my arms, which are pricked with goosebumps. I smile at her. I do love this girl. She’s so kind and honest, and I can tell her anything. Well, almost anything.
I hear John’s voice in my head, asking me if there’s a reason I went for the one girl in the student body who I can’t touch. I tell him that I’m not shallow, that Rogue means more to me than sex. And it’s true, but there’s more to it than that.
The asshole was right about everything, after all. Well. Maybe not. But he was right about me, anyway. I’m not sure how he did it, but he could read me flawlessly almost from the moment Scott stuck us in the same room together. I used to think I hated that about him, his penchant for blurting out his little theories about me, always dead on, though I’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Only now do I realize how comforting that was.
After dinner I go back to my room alone. John and I used to sit up with the other kids in the common room for hours before stumbling back here together, punching and pushing all the way, getting looks from the teachers if they happened by. They must have thought we couldn’t stand each other, the way we were always fighting. It didn’t take me long to figure out that it was just an excuse for him to touch me.
I sit on my bed again, stare at the mess I’ve made of his. I look for any changes, as if maybe he’s come back while I was away, moved the covers a bit and then left again. But nothing is out of place.
My hands are freezing. I laugh to myself at the thought. Of course they are. But it’s never bothered me before. I can’t really remember a time I felt cold like this. Or at least I can’t remember a time when I hated it, couldn’t get rid of it, couldn’t get warm enough to feel human.
_______________________________
It lasts through the week, the inescapable cold. I want to go to Dr. Grey about it, but of course she’s gone, too. I consider asking Xavier, but he seems preoccupied, and anyway he’s always made me nervous. He’s kind but far too wise to be relatable.
“ What wrong?” Rogue asks me when we we’re watching TV together one afternoon. The lost look on her face makes me feel terrible, even though I know she’s really in love with Logan, only biding her time with me.
“ I’m worried about John,” I blurt out without meaning to. After I’ve said it I whirl around, make sure no one else heard.
“ You’re shaking,” Rogue says, frowning at me.
“ Still cold,” I mutter, though I’m wearing three layers and wool socks now. Maybe I should add thermal underwear under my jeans.
“ He’ll be okay,” she says quietly. “ He knows what he’s doing.”
No, he doesn’t, I want to scream. Why does everyone assume that John is slick and capable and unafraid? That’s just his act, can’t anyone else see through it? Why does everyone treat him like an adult? They don’t know him like I do. It seems like no one else even cares that he’s gone.
“ Your lips look kinda blue,” Rogue says, leaning in closer. “ Maybe you should go see Professor X.”
“ I’m fine,” I say, suddenly aggravated. I get up and walk purposefully out of the common room. By the time I get up to my room my teeth are chattering. Something is happening to me, I think, going to the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror. Something to do with my mutation. I can’t remember ever feeling this alone, either, not since I discovered my powers in the first place.
I was very mature about it. I remained calm, didn’t tell anyone, kept everything under control. I’m good at that, usually, control. I researched my little problem online and came across some information about a support group, where I met people who led me to Xavier’s. It was all going quite smoothly until John was dumped in my lap. I saw him as my responsibility from the beginning - he was picked up off the streets, rescued. He had a broken arm and a black eye; he was filthy and furious. I wanted to refuse him when Scott brought him to my door, but I’ve never been one to stand up to authority figures, and there was something intriguing about him, something I couldn't put my finger on just then.
Unable to stop shaking, I turn to the bathtub and fill it with hot water, so hot that steam is rising invitingly from the surface. I step out of my clothes and leave them on the bathroom floor, too eager to climb in to bother with putting them in the hamper.
I put a foot in, and the steaming heat feels so good. I let out my breath in relief as I slide under the water, lie back and wait for it to warm me until I can’t stand it, until I’m sweating and flushed. But after the initial rush of warmth the water quickly becomes lukewarm. I know it’s me, my newly defective body. I’ve doused the heat like a bucket of ice cubes, and soon I’m sitting and shivering, freezing.
I’ll never be warm again, I realize. I’ll corrupt anything I touch with cold. I sit in the increasingly icy water, and for the first time since he left me, I cry.
______________________________
Title: Winter
Rating: PG
Characters: Bobby/John, Rogue
Summary: Bobby's never been bothered by the cold before.
Why did he have to leave me in the middle of winter?
I almost say it aloud to myself, sitting on my twin bed, staring at his side of the room, empty and too clean. He was messy; he never made his bed. After a week I told myself I was tired of looking at his sloppy sheets, all bunched up at the bottom, so I made it for him. A week later he’s still gone, and now the fact that the bed is made is bothering me. It looks unnatural. There’s no trace of John left there, only the trappings of my own obsessive loneliness staring back me.
So I get up with a groan and go to his bed. My hands are shaking - they were shaking the day I made the bed up, too. I had wanted to fall into it and break down, hug his pillow and breathe in the last traces of him. But I didn’t. He would have laughed at me for hours, had he seen such a thing. Or at least he would have shot an “I told you so” my way.
I reach down and muss up the covers furiously, punch his pillow a few times, biting my trembling lip. I step back and have a look, but it’s still not right. John had a particular way of messing up his bed - why can’t I remember what it looked like? I’d found myself staring absently in this direction often enough, back when he was here.
There’s a knock at the door and I jump, embarrassed.
“ Yeah?” I call, my heart leaping into my throat. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he at least came back for his clothes.
“ Bobby?” It’s Rogue. I try not to let my disappointment draw me under, but I feel it tugging at me sharply, waiting for me to crack. I swallow heavily and go for the door.
I step out quickly into the hall, shutting the door behind me. I don’t want anyone to see the inside of our room. It feels like all my secrets are on display in there, all the stupid, hopeless longing I’m so ashamed of. Rogue gives me a look that’s a little suspicious. She’s not dumb; she knows something is going on, but she doesn’t press me. She’s good about that.
“ Want to get some dinner?” she asks, hooking a gloved arm through mine as we walk down the hall.
“ I’m not hungry,” I say, and it’s true. “ But I’ll sit with you if you want,” I add, feeling guilty.
“ Jesus, Bobby,” she says, stopping in her tracks and frowning, pressing her covered palm to my upper arm. “ Are you alright? You feel cold. I mean, duh - but more than normal. I can feel it through the glove, even.”
“ I am kind of cold,” I say, looking down at my t-shirt and jeans. It’s early December, but I’ve always worn short-sleeves throughout winter. I tend to be relatively immune to the cold, which wouldn’t surprise anyone, I’m sure.
“ We need to find you a sweater,” she says, rubbing my arms, which are pricked with goosebumps. I smile at her. I do love this girl. She’s so kind and honest, and I can tell her anything. Well, almost anything.
I hear John’s voice in my head, asking me if there’s a reason I went for the one girl in the student body who I can’t touch. I tell him that I’m not shallow, that Rogue means more to me than sex. And it’s true, but there’s more to it than that.
The asshole was right about everything, after all. Well. Maybe not. But he was right about me, anyway. I’m not sure how he did it, but he could read me flawlessly almost from the moment Scott stuck us in the same room together. I used to think I hated that about him, his penchant for blurting out his little theories about me, always dead on, though I’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Only now do I realize how comforting that was.
After dinner I go back to my room alone. John and I used to sit up with the other kids in the common room for hours before stumbling back here together, punching and pushing all the way, getting looks from the teachers if they happened by. They must have thought we couldn’t stand each other, the way we were always fighting. It didn’t take me long to figure out that it was just an excuse for him to touch me.
I sit on my bed again, stare at the mess I’ve made of his. I look for any changes, as if maybe he’s come back while I was away, moved the covers a bit and then left again. But nothing is out of place.
My hands are freezing. I laugh to myself at the thought. Of course they are. But it’s never bothered me before. I can’t really remember a time I felt cold like this. Or at least I can’t remember a time when I hated it, couldn’t get rid of it, couldn’t get warm enough to feel human.
_______________________________
It lasts through the week, the inescapable cold. I want to go to Dr. Grey about it, but of course she’s gone, too. I consider asking Xavier, but he seems preoccupied, and anyway he’s always made me nervous. He’s kind but far too wise to be relatable.
“ What wrong?” Rogue asks me when we we’re watching TV together one afternoon. The lost look on her face makes me feel terrible, even though I know she’s really in love with Logan, only biding her time with me.
“ I’m worried about John,” I blurt out without meaning to. After I’ve said it I whirl around, make sure no one else heard.
“ You’re shaking,” Rogue says, frowning at me.
“ Still cold,” I mutter, though I’m wearing three layers and wool socks now. Maybe I should add thermal underwear under my jeans.
“ He’ll be okay,” she says quietly. “ He knows what he’s doing.”
No, he doesn’t, I want to scream. Why does everyone assume that John is slick and capable and unafraid? That’s just his act, can’t anyone else see through it? Why does everyone treat him like an adult? They don’t know him like I do. It seems like no one else even cares that he’s gone.
“ Your lips look kinda blue,” Rogue says, leaning in closer. “ Maybe you should go see Professor X.”
“ I’m fine,” I say, suddenly aggravated. I get up and walk purposefully out of the common room. By the time I get up to my room my teeth are chattering. Something is happening to me, I think, going to the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror. Something to do with my mutation. I can’t remember ever feeling this alone, either, not since I discovered my powers in the first place.
I was very mature about it. I remained calm, didn’t tell anyone, kept everything under control. I’m good at that, usually, control. I researched my little problem online and came across some information about a support group, where I met people who led me to Xavier’s. It was all going quite smoothly until John was dumped in my lap. I saw him as my responsibility from the beginning - he was picked up off the streets, rescued. He had a broken arm and a black eye; he was filthy and furious. I wanted to refuse him when Scott brought him to my door, but I’ve never been one to stand up to authority figures, and there was something intriguing about him, something I couldn't put my finger on just then.
Unable to stop shaking, I turn to the bathtub and fill it with hot water, so hot that steam is rising invitingly from the surface. I step out of my clothes and leave them on the bathroom floor, too eager to climb in to bother with putting them in the hamper.
I put a foot in, and the steaming heat feels so good. I let out my breath in relief as I slide under the water, lie back and wait for it to warm me until I can’t stand it, until I’m sweating and flushed. But after the initial rush of warmth the water quickly becomes lukewarm. I know it’s me, my newly defective body. I’ve doused the heat like a bucket of ice cubes, and soon I’m sitting and shivering, freezing.
I’ll never be warm again, I realize. I’ll corrupt anything I touch with cold. I sit in the increasingly icy water, and for the first time since he left me, I cry.
______________________________