Going South
TITLE: Going South
AUTHOR: ayumie
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: John/Bobby
SUMMARY: This time there was no big fight - only a hissed curse and the clang of a frozen lighter.
NOTES: Thanks to lea724 and rulistenin14 for betaing. Post X-3, so I guess minor spoiler warning. Feedback would make my day!
Going South
Iceman found Pyro two weeks after Alcatraz. For someone who considered himself street smart, he wasn’t all that good at hiding. Or perhaps it was that lying low had never really been his thing. He hadn’t even left San Francisco. This time there was no big fight - only a hissed curse and the clang of a frozen lighter.
*
Almost 15 hours later, John opened his eyes and saw … wooden walls. His head hurt like hell and instinctively he reached for his wrist lighters, only to find them gone. Panic rising, he groped through his pockets for his Zippo, needing the reassurance of his flames. But the Zippo wasn’t there and neither were his matches and this was all wrong, because he never went anywhere without his lighter and where the fuck was he anyway?!
Slowly, very slowly, he sat up and took stock of his surroundings. No furniture except for the bed he was lying on, a wooden closet and a chair in one of the corners. Two doors and narrow windows, too small to fit through. Even more disconcerting, when he propped himself up to get a glimpse of what was outside, he saw nothing but trees. John took a deep breath. It didn’t help, not really. He tried to figure out what had happened, but all he could really think about right now was that the door would be locked and he was trapped without even his fire for comfort. Then he remembered. He had been in a hotel. He had fought … Bobby, and there had to be a connection somewhere, and, God, he needed to piss.
His body moved agonizingly slowly, but he managed. The first door was locked. Fuck. The second opened to a bathroom, thank God. A toilet, a sink and a shower booth, and it wasn’t much, but, hell, at this rate he should probably be glad that it wasn’t a bucket.
His most basic needs taken care of, John realized just how badly he needed to sit back down. Head spinning, he pressed his back against the wall. So he didn’t have any idea what was going on. At least it didn’t look like the police had caught up with him. Or the X-men, except that Bobby’s face was on top of his mind, and how fucked up was that? Bobby took care of other people, made sure everybody was okay and worried about them to the point of fretting. He most certainly didn’t knock former friends out and lock them into what looked like the Little House on the Prairie, even if they did try to fry him and there had to be some sort of reasonable explanation. Shape-shifters, maybe.
Suddenly his eyes fell on a couple of bags he had somehow managed to overlook until now. John groaned and struggled back to his feet. No time like now to figure things out. He spent the next minutes rooting through the bags, unearthing sandwiches, a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and, holy fucking shit, were those his school books?! It had to be Bobby after all, because who else would think to include those? He could totally see it, too: what does a prisoner need? Food, drink, fresh underwear and, yes, algebra books. John groaned again, but somehow he was feeling better already. Bobby. He could deal with Bobby.
*
Bobby was standing in front of the door and breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. Still locked. He didn’t think that anybody had followed him and, unless he had developed a whole new set of powers, Pyro definitely wasn’t up to freeing himself, but he had still been half-afraid to find the other boy gone.
Silence greeted him as he entered the room. Pyro was sitting in a corner, chin up, sullen glare firmly in place. Bobby leaned his backpack against the wall and wondered whether he should ask if he was all right, but decided against it. He probably wouldn’t like the answer anyway.
“Fuck you.”
In fact, it had been quite some time since he had liked anything coming out of Pyro’s mouth. Bobby sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. After a few minutes of silence, Pyro obviously couldn’t take it anymore.
“So what the fuck do you think you are doing?”
Bobby opened his mouth, only to quickly close it again. The truth was, he didn’t really know. He was sure of one thing, though. He couldn’t let Pyro go free, knowing that he’d hurt - kill - people.
The problem was, he couldn’t bring himself to hand him over either, because no matter what his teachers told him, the last year had taught him a few things about enforced cures and secret government labs. And, no, he hadn’t said anything about all the others, but this wasn’t just any mutant terrorist, this was the mutant terrorist who had once been John and perhaps his motives weren’t all that noble. Perhaps Pyro wasn’t the only one who had changed.
The temperature was dropping and, nails biting into his palm, Bobby fought the urge to run back outside. Memories of Alcatraz were flashing in front of his mind’s eye and funny how back then it had kind of been all right, but he hadn’t been able to sleep a single night through ever since.
In the end, Bobby just sat down, careful to stay out of the other boy’s immediate reach. He didn’t want to have to freeze anything if Pyro tried something stupid. Besides, John had always fought dirty. An aggravated sigh and John had never been comfortable with silences.
“How’s school?”
The question was almost cordial. Bobby wanted to say that things weren’t the same, what with all the loss and death and the absence of telepaths and wise old men who always knew what was best, and, hey, on this point at least, Pyro might be able to commiserate. It hurt too much, though. After everything else that had happened, why did it still hurt?
“That’s it. Enough with the silent treatment. I’m getting out of here.”
And Pyro had to know that it wouldn’t work that way, that even if Bobby hadn’t locked the door, there was no chance in hell he’d let him escape. But Pyro wouldn’t be Pyro if he didn’t at least try and within seconds he was on his feet, only that Bobby was faster, grabbing the other boy’s wrist and slamming him into the wall and, hey, five years of self-defense classes actually were good for something. The only problem was that now he was pressing up against Pyro, Pyro who smelled like John. But this wasn’t John, not in the way that counted, and perhaps that thought was all that kept him sane. Not John, not John, not Johnny and-
“You tried to kill me!”
Pyro was struggling, hissing his anger, but Bobby wasn’t letting go.
“So what?! You’re with them!”
Only that wasn’t the whole truth and they both knew it. And suddenly it was all about Pyro’s mouth, John’s mouth, and Bobby had been hard for what felt like forever. It was all coming back, making out in empty classrooms, sneaking away to jerk off together, or, God, being alone in their room after lights out. Pyro’s free hand was clawing at his shirt, alternately pulling him closer and trying to push him away. Head spinning, Bobby finally had to break the kiss, teeth dragging across that full lower lip. Pyro was staring at him, eyes wide, dark.
“You’re fucking sick, Drake.”
And maybe he was, but he could feel Pyro hard against his thigh, hear the excitement in his voice, so he figured that he wasn’t the only one. His hand snuck beneath the hem of the other boy’s shirt, finding a nipple and starting to pinch-twist-pinch-pull in the sequence that had always seemed to drive John wild. Pyro shuddered and Bobby smiled against his neck.
He knew all about what John liked, partly from experience and partly from what Rogue had told him back when they had thought that honesty was the way to save their failing relationship. Bobby still hadn’t figured out why she had chosen that particular topic to be honest about, but right now he didn’t care.
The mattress was only a few feet away and it was no problem at all to push the smaller boy in its general direction. Another kiss, a brief shove and Pyro was sprawled in front of him, all spread legs and sullen glare. Bobby toed off his shoes, not giving himself any time to think. He needed - no, he deserved this, and Pyro deserved … worse. He could still hear the screams of the people in that clinic. Bobby pulled off his T-shirt. Then he was on top of the other boy, pinning him, and he had always been stronger than John, only now it was out in the open. Pyro was shifting restlessly, not quite fighting him, but not quite acquiescing either. It felt good. His fingers once more closed around a slim wrist, squeezing tightly enough to hurt. When he closed his eyes he could feel flames beating against him.
Bare skin was showing where John’s old T-shirt had ridden up, radiating a different kind of heat, the good kind. Bobby reached out, just nails and fingertips, hitching the T-shirt further up as he went. He found a nipple and leaned down to suck it, lips cold enough to produce a stifled curse. Harsh fingers dug into his shoulder and Pyro’s hips were lifting to rub against his thigh. Bobby moaned. He had missed this, missed John, in a way that didn’t bear thinking about.
Pyro was wearing the pair of loose sweatpants he had brought him yesterday, all soft, worn-out fabric and easy accessibility, and Bobby needed skin now. Getting their pants off wasn’t easy, mostly because he couldn’t, wouldn’t take the time to get up to do so. They ended up wriggling and kicking and rubbing against each other, and it was so worth it, because as soon as the last article of clothing came off, Bobby was there. Chest against chest, limbs entangled, feeling familiar warmth seep into his body. It almost wasn’t sexual, or rather, it wouldn’t have been, if it wasn’t for the fact that they were both desperately hard. For a moment Bobby closed his eyes and burrowed closer, face hidden in the bend of John’s neck.
“What’s the matter, Iceman? Getting cold feet?”
There was scorn in Pyro’s voice, scorn and bitter laughter. Bobby felt like cursing. Instead he reached for his discarded jeans, finding the small bottle of lube he’d been carrying around with him, and he hadn’t been planning this, he really, really hadn’t. He managed to squeeze some of the slick gel onto his fingers.
Bobby pushed himself, creating enough space to wedge a hand between their bodies. He brushed a hard cock and both of them groaned. Then his fingers found Pyro’s hole and slipped in, first one, then two. A few twisting, scissoring motions later and Pyro’s whimper told him that this was the right angle, the one that had always rendered John helpless, unable to do anything but moan and beg and shiver. Of course back then, he had thought that it was just him. Now Bobby wondered how many people in the brotherhood had found out how easy Pyro was. He quickly banished that thought.
Thumb tracing the crease where thigh met torso, Bobby pushed his fingers in as far as they would go. He was losing it. He could feel his temperature plummet, body tensing as he struggled to regain control, and, God, he used to be better than this. Suddenly afraid that it’d be over all too soon, he pulled away. More lube and considering how he was feeling right now, Bobby was pretty sure that Pyro’s proximity was all that kept it from freezing in spot. He positioned himself and thrust once, hard. Not enough.
Pyro was moaning his name, “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby” dragged from his pretty mouth like some kind of dirty secret. Something jerked low in Bobby’s stomach and he was thrusting in time with those groans, biting his lip to keep the ice at bay. Pyro’s eyes were open, looking at him, and, God, those were Johnny’s eyes, all lost and feverish and so full of … something. And just like that Bobby was lost, too, hips working harder, mouth was next to John’s ear, and gonna fuck you, Johnny, gonna fuck you so hard…
John’s cock was trapped against his stomach, and he pressed down, adding to the friction. It couldn’t last, didn’t last. The moment he heard John’s strangled cry, felt him tense, Bobby came. It was perfect heat.
When he regained his wits, John was struggling out from under him, scooting back until he was stopped by the wall. He was staring, clearly unnerved. Bobby looked right back, eyes wide, serious. He finally knew what to say.
“I’ve got money and a car,” he blurted out and, God, said aloud, it sounded even worse than in his head.
“Good for you. What’cha do? Rob a bank?”
John’s voice was studiously indifferent, another sign of how shaken he was. Bobby smiled, half-embarrassed.
“Trust-fund. My grandparents set it up to- That’s not the point. We can go anywhere you want, I don’t care. I … I told them I saw you being hit with the cure. Nobody will be looking for you - us.”
Bobby willed the other boy to listen, to hear what he wasn’t saying. John was stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid. He would have to see…
“I guess telling you to go fuck yourself wouldn’t do any good.”
“Not really. I’m not letting you go.”
And he wasn’t. John turned away, eyes fixed stubbornly on the wall.
“Fine, then. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
Bobby, too, understood what wasn’t being said: ‘You hurt me, bastard, and one good fuck isn’t going to make things right. You’ve got me backed into a corner, but don’t think that I’m giving up. One wrong move and I’ll kick your ass.’
It was enough. Later he’d tell John all about his decision to leave the school, about Marie and what her loss of power had done to all of them. Maybe they’d even talk about Alcatraz and the Brotherhood. But there’d be plenty of time for that.
*
John pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the car window. The landscape was flying by, mile after mile of coast, punctuated by the occasional gas station. He had given up trying to find a decent radio station two hours ago. They were heading south, no clear destination. John thought it was nicely symbolic. And at least wherever they ended up wouldn’t hold any bad memories.
John’s fingers were itching for his Zippo. What with Bobby constantly hovering at his side like an overexcited watchdog, he hadn’t gotten around to replacing it yet. He clasped his left hand in his right the way he had always done when Magneto had told him to stop fidgeting. At least he could feel the heat of the motor, the explosive potential of the gas tank just behind him.
It had taken him a while to figure out how Bobby was justifying this whole thing to himself. To give him credit, he even made sense, in a way. In his mind he was still fighting the good fight, still doing his part to support the team, by making sure that John didn’t cause any more trouble.
John wondered whether he realized that the argument cut both ways. They had always canceled each other out. It didn’t really matter whether it happened on the battlefield or of it. A small smile was tugging on John’s lips. He thought that Magneto would be proud of him.
With a grin he turned back to Bobby, who was keeping his eyes on the road like a good, law-abiding citizen. John resolved that in the afternoon he would drive. But first there’d be some payback for last night. Much as he liked this new and improved version of Bobby Drake, he had a reputation to uphold. John sat up straighter, pointing ahead.
“Hey, there’s a restaurant coming up. Stop there, will you? I’m hungry.”
The End
AUTHOR: ayumie
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: John/Bobby
SUMMARY: This time there was no big fight - only a hissed curse and the clang of a frozen lighter.
NOTES: Thanks to lea724 and rulistenin14 for betaing. Post X-3, so I guess minor spoiler warning. Feedback would make my day!
Going South
Iceman found Pyro two weeks after Alcatraz. For someone who considered himself street smart, he wasn’t all that good at hiding. Or perhaps it was that lying low had never really been his thing. He hadn’t even left San Francisco. This time there was no big fight - only a hissed curse and the clang of a frozen lighter.
*
Almost 15 hours later, John opened his eyes and saw … wooden walls. His head hurt like hell and instinctively he reached for his wrist lighters, only to find them gone. Panic rising, he groped through his pockets for his Zippo, needing the reassurance of his flames. But the Zippo wasn’t there and neither were his matches and this was all wrong, because he never went anywhere without his lighter and where the fuck was he anyway?!
Slowly, very slowly, he sat up and took stock of his surroundings. No furniture except for the bed he was lying on, a wooden closet and a chair in one of the corners. Two doors and narrow windows, too small to fit through. Even more disconcerting, when he propped himself up to get a glimpse of what was outside, he saw nothing but trees. John took a deep breath. It didn’t help, not really. He tried to figure out what had happened, but all he could really think about right now was that the door would be locked and he was trapped without even his fire for comfort. Then he remembered. He had been in a hotel. He had fought … Bobby, and there had to be a connection somewhere, and, God, he needed to piss.
His body moved agonizingly slowly, but he managed. The first door was locked. Fuck. The second opened to a bathroom, thank God. A toilet, a sink and a shower booth, and it wasn’t much, but, hell, at this rate he should probably be glad that it wasn’t a bucket.
His most basic needs taken care of, John realized just how badly he needed to sit back down. Head spinning, he pressed his back against the wall. So he didn’t have any idea what was going on. At least it didn’t look like the police had caught up with him. Or the X-men, except that Bobby’s face was on top of his mind, and how fucked up was that? Bobby took care of other people, made sure everybody was okay and worried about them to the point of fretting. He most certainly didn’t knock former friends out and lock them into what looked like the Little House on the Prairie, even if they did try to fry him and there had to be some sort of reasonable explanation. Shape-shifters, maybe.
Suddenly his eyes fell on a couple of bags he had somehow managed to overlook until now. John groaned and struggled back to his feet. No time like now to figure things out. He spent the next minutes rooting through the bags, unearthing sandwiches, a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and, holy fucking shit, were those his school books?! It had to be Bobby after all, because who else would think to include those? He could totally see it, too: what does a prisoner need? Food, drink, fresh underwear and, yes, algebra books. John groaned again, but somehow he was feeling better already. Bobby. He could deal with Bobby.
*
Bobby was standing in front of the door and breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. Still locked. He didn’t think that anybody had followed him and, unless he had developed a whole new set of powers, Pyro definitely wasn’t up to freeing himself, but he had still been half-afraid to find the other boy gone.
Silence greeted him as he entered the room. Pyro was sitting in a corner, chin up, sullen glare firmly in place. Bobby leaned his backpack against the wall and wondered whether he should ask if he was all right, but decided against it. He probably wouldn’t like the answer anyway.
“Fuck you.”
In fact, it had been quite some time since he had liked anything coming out of Pyro’s mouth. Bobby sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. After a few minutes of silence, Pyro obviously couldn’t take it anymore.
“So what the fuck do you think you are doing?”
Bobby opened his mouth, only to quickly close it again. The truth was, he didn’t really know. He was sure of one thing, though. He couldn’t let Pyro go free, knowing that he’d hurt - kill - people.
The problem was, he couldn’t bring himself to hand him over either, because no matter what his teachers told him, the last year had taught him a few things about enforced cures and secret government labs. And, no, he hadn’t said anything about all the others, but this wasn’t just any mutant terrorist, this was the mutant terrorist who had once been John and perhaps his motives weren’t all that noble. Perhaps Pyro wasn’t the only one who had changed.
The temperature was dropping and, nails biting into his palm, Bobby fought the urge to run back outside. Memories of Alcatraz were flashing in front of his mind’s eye and funny how back then it had kind of been all right, but he hadn’t been able to sleep a single night through ever since.
In the end, Bobby just sat down, careful to stay out of the other boy’s immediate reach. He didn’t want to have to freeze anything if Pyro tried something stupid. Besides, John had always fought dirty. An aggravated sigh and John had never been comfortable with silences.
“How’s school?”
The question was almost cordial. Bobby wanted to say that things weren’t the same, what with all the loss and death and the absence of telepaths and wise old men who always knew what was best, and, hey, on this point at least, Pyro might be able to commiserate. It hurt too much, though. After everything else that had happened, why did it still hurt?
“That’s it. Enough with the silent treatment. I’m getting out of here.”
And Pyro had to know that it wouldn’t work that way, that even if Bobby hadn’t locked the door, there was no chance in hell he’d let him escape. But Pyro wouldn’t be Pyro if he didn’t at least try and within seconds he was on his feet, only that Bobby was faster, grabbing the other boy’s wrist and slamming him into the wall and, hey, five years of self-defense classes actually were good for something. The only problem was that now he was pressing up against Pyro, Pyro who smelled like John. But this wasn’t John, not in the way that counted, and perhaps that thought was all that kept him sane. Not John, not John, not Johnny and-
“You tried to kill me!”
Pyro was struggling, hissing his anger, but Bobby wasn’t letting go.
“So what?! You’re with them!”
Only that wasn’t the whole truth and they both knew it. And suddenly it was all about Pyro’s mouth, John’s mouth, and Bobby had been hard for what felt like forever. It was all coming back, making out in empty classrooms, sneaking away to jerk off together, or, God, being alone in their room after lights out. Pyro’s free hand was clawing at his shirt, alternately pulling him closer and trying to push him away. Head spinning, Bobby finally had to break the kiss, teeth dragging across that full lower lip. Pyro was staring at him, eyes wide, dark.
“You’re fucking sick, Drake.”
And maybe he was, but he could feel Pyro hard against his thigh, hear the excitement in his voice, so he figured that he wasn’t the only one. His hand snuck beneath the hem of the other boy’s shirt, finding a nipple and starting to pinch-twist-pinch-pull in the sequence that had always seemed to drive John wild. Pyro shuddered and Bobby smiled against his neck.
He knew all about what John liked, partly from experience and partly from what Rogue had told him back when they had thought that honesty was the way to save their failing relationship. Bobby still hadn’t figured out why she had chosen that particular topic to be honest about, but right now he didn’t care.
The mattress was only a few feet away and it was no problem at all to push the smaller boy in its general direction. Another kiss, a brief shove and Pyro was sprawled in front of him, all spread legs and sullen glare. Bobby toed off his shoes, not giving himself any time to think. He needed - no, he deserved this, and Pyro deserved … worse. He could still hear the screams of the people in that clinic. Bobby pulled off his T-shirt. Then he was on top of the other boy, pinning him, and he had always been stronger than John, only now it was out in the open. Pyro was shifting restlessly, not quite fighting him, but not quite acquiescing either. It felt good. His fingers once more closed around a slim wrist, squeezing tightly enough to hurt. When he closed his eyes he could feel flames beating against him.
Bare skin was showing where John’s old T-shirt had ridden up, radiating a different kind of heat, the good kind. Bobby reached out, just nails and fingertips, hitching the T-shirt further up as he went. He found a nipple and leaned down to suck it, lips cold enough to produce a stifled curse. Harsh fingers dug into his shoulder and Pyro’s hips were lifting to rub against his thigh. Bobby moaned. He had missed this, missed John, in a way that didn’t bear thinking about.
Pyro was wearing the pair of loose sweatpants he had brought him yesterday, all soft, worn-out fabric and easy accessibility, and Bobby needed skin now. Getting their pants off wasn’t easy, mostly because he couldn’t, wouldn’t take the time to get up to do so. They ended up wriggling and kicking and rubbing against each other, and it was so worth it, because as soon as the last article of clothing came off, Bobby was there. Chest against chest, limbs entangled, feeling familiar warmth seep into his body. It almost wasn’t sexual, or rather, it wouldn’t have been, if it wasn’t for the fact that they were both desperately hard. For a moment Bobby closed his eyes and burrowed closer, face hidden in the bend of John’s neck.
“What’s the matter, Iceman? Getting cold feet?”
There was scorn in Pyro’s voice, scorn and bitter laughter. Bobby felt like cursing. Instead he reached for his discarded jeans, finding the small bottle of lube he’d been carrying around with him, and he hadn’t been planning this, he really, really hadn’t. He managed to squeeze some of the slick gel onto his fingers.
Bobby pushed himself, creating enough space to wedge a hand between their bodies. He brushed a hard cock and both of them groaned. Then his fingers found Pyro’s hole and slipped in, first one, then two. A few twisting, scissoring motions later and Pyro’s whimper told him that this was the right angle, the one that had always rendered John helpless, unable to do anything but moan and beg and shiver. Of course back then, he had thought that it was just him. Now Bobby wondered how many people in the brotherhood had found out how easy Pyro was. He quickly banished that thought.
Thumb tracing the crease where thigh met torso, Bobby pushed his fingers in as far as they would go. He was losing it. He could feel his temperature plummet, body tensing as he struggled to regain control, and, God, he used to be better than this. Suddenly afraid that it’d be over all too soon, he pulled away. More lube and considering how he was feeling right now, Bobby was pretty sure that Pyro’s proximity was all that kept it from freezing in spot. He positioned himself and thrust once, hard. Not enough.
Pyro was moaning his name, “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby” dragged from his pretty mouth like some kind of dirty secret. Something jerked low in Bobby’s stomach and he was thrusting in time with those groans, biting his lip to keep the ice at bay. Pyro’s eyes were open, looking at him, and, God, those were Johnny’s eyes, all lost and feverish and so full of … something. And just like that Bobby was lost, too, hips working harder, mouth was next to John’s ear, and gonna fuck you, Johnny, gonna fuck you so hard…
John’s cock was trapped against his stomach, and he pressed down, adding to the friction. It couldn’t last, didn’t last. The moment he heard John’s strangled cry, felt him tense, Bobby came. It was perfect heat.
When he regained his wits, John was struggling out from under him, scooting back until he was stopped by the wall. He was staring, clearly unnerved. Bobby looked right back, eyes wide, serious. He finally knew what to say.
“I’ve got money and a car,” he blurted out and, God, said aloud, it sounded even worse than in his head.
“Good for you. What’cha do? Rob a bank?”
John’s voice was studiously indifferent, another sign of how shaken he was. Bobby smiled, half-embarrassed.
“Trust-fund. My grandparents set it up to- That’s not the point. We can go anywhere you want, I don’t care. I … I told them I saw you being hit with the cure. Nobody will be looking for you - us.”
Bobby willed the other boy to listen, to hear what he wasn’t saying. John was stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid. He would have to see…
“I guess telling you to go fuck yourself wouldn’t do any good.”
“Not really. I’m not letting you go.”
And he wasn’t. John turned away, eyes fixed stubbornly on the wall.
“Fine, then. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
Bobby, too, understood what wasn’t being said: ‘You hurt me, bastard, and one good fuck isn’t going to make things right. You’ve got me backed into a corner, but don’t think that I’m giving up. One wrong move and I’ll kick your ass.’
It was enough. Later he’d tell John all about his decision to leave the school, about Marie and what her loss of power had done to all of them. Maybe they’d even talk about Alcatraz and the Brotherhood. But there’d be plenty of time for that.
*
John pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the car window. The landscape was flying by, mile after mile of coast, punctuated by the occasional gas station. He had given up trying to find a decent radio station two hours ago. They were heading south, no clear destination. John thought it was nicely symbolic. And at least wherever they ended up wouldn’t hold any bad memories.
John’s fingers were itching for his Zippo. What with Bobby constantly hovering at his side like an overexcited watchdog, he hadn’t gotten around to replacing it yet. He clasped his left hand in his right the way he had always done when Magneto had told him to stop fidgeting. At least he could feel the heat of the motor, the explosive potential of the gas tank just behind him.
It had taken him a while to figure out how Bobby was justifying this whole thing to himself. To give him credit, he even made sense, in a way. In his mind he was still fighting the good fight, still doing his part to support the team, by making sure that John didn’t cause any more trouble.
John wondered whether he realized that the argument cut both ways. They had always canceled each other out. It didn’t really matter whether it happened on the battlefield or of it. A small smile was tugging on John’s lips. He thought that Magneto would be proud of him.
With a grin he turned back to Bobby, who was keeping his eyes on the road like a good, law-abiding citizen. John resolved that in the afternoon he would drive. But first there’d be some payback for last night. Much as he liked this new and improved version of Bobby Drake, he had a reputation to uphold. John sat up straighter, pointing ahead.
“Hey, there’s a restaurant coming up. Stop there, will you? I’m hungry.”
The End