Fic: Rebuilding Burned Bridges (Part 7/9)
Title: Rebuilding Burned Bridges (Part 7/9)
Author: ms_jvh_shuh
Pairing: Bobby/St John
Rating: PG-13 overall
Summary: Years after the events of Alkali Lake and Alcatraz, St John finds that you cannot burn all your bridges without rebuilding some.
Bits and pieces sliding into the right places, again and for the first time.
Note: Since there was some confusion about this in chapter 6: Stels is Stella is "Starlady" (an OC), and Auntie_Em is, in fact, Mystique. How could she possibly refer to herself by such a name, you ask? Because it's a name Magneto would never believe she would choose.
As ever, lots and lots of thank yous to inootz for looking everything over for me!
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3,
Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
Rebuilding Burned Bridges
*
"When it was soldiers," St John says, and Bobby jumps about two inches off his computer chair. He frantically picks a thin layer of ice off the keyboard before spinning around to face his friend. "When it was soldiers," St John repeats, "or cops, or security guards, or scientists or doctors…" He frowns at the pen in his hand, as if discovering it can't produce a flame for the first time. "…there was a reason." He stops and actually shoots a quick glance at Bobby before staring down at the pen again. "I know we don't agree on that, never will, but I always knew exactly why I injured or killed them."
And just like that, the word is in the room between them. Killed, pronounced without regret, a six letter word, matter-of-fact. Bobby bites his lip hard, tries not to break St John off with the scathing remarks he feels bubbling up. Brotherhood insiders aside, he probably knows the head count of exactly how many people Pyro has killed better than anyone.
It's too late to judge now. If he'd wanted to condemn Pyro for his Brotherhood actions, he should have shut the door in St John's face, taken him out, signalled to Storm that the X-Men should come and collect him. It's his own fault, and he doesn't really want to be anywhere else than he is now.
"I didn't believe her, when she said he'd gone mad," says St John in a low, thin voice, and Bobby knows that if he were to change his mind, turned him in to either the X-Men or the government, he wouldn't be surprised, wouldn't be mad. For the hundredth time since Ms Monroe's last call, Iceman wonders how Ororo, how Kitty, how any of them can actually trust him to make the right decision.
These children owe you their lives, he wants to say. Magneto would've killed them himself if you hadn't saved them, but there is no easy way to bring up heroics when the head count estimate in Bobby's head also went up when they were watching the news after the stint at the hospital.
There is no terrorist named St John Allerdyce, he wants to shout, to scream until it's true. Kitty destroyed the evidence, the only records they ever had are of some punk called Pyro, but he can't, not yet, the statement filled too heavily with expectations for St John to stay. Laying that on his guest would be too soon, way too soon, so he goes to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee, listens to St John breathe, words caught in his throat.
*
Some undetermined time this fifth evening, Bobby startles awake when his couch-numbed sagging body lands on top of St John's. A few stunned seconds pass, seconds in which St John doesn't push Bobby away, in which Bobby doesn't recoil. Greyish green and blue eyes remain locked into each other, stay engaged in a non-hostile staring contest where neither participant registers anything but the widening of the other's pupils, the iris' changes of color.
Suddenly the flat is just another joint in a somewhat fancy hall of residence where two chests are rising and falling calmly, where two young men who have known each other for years are feeling each other's breath on chins and faces.
The angle is awkward - it doesn't take long before the weight of Bobby's body is sending a battalion of ants to John's leg, getting in position and waiting hungrily while it falls asleep.
The stirring of something that doesn't have anything to do with ants whatsoever is welcomed with a sultry smile and a half-embarrassed grin. A bitten-off moan is followed by slightly heavier breathing, but it's shaken away, dismissed with a chuckle, acknowledged but left ignored because it's too soon for this, too - five years in the making but still too soon.
It's not too soon, however, for St John's arms to slide around Bobby's shoulders, to pull him in. It's not too soon for Bobby to re-arrange his legs in a way that is much more comfortable, to settle down.
It's not too soon to simply be lying on the couch tangled up in each other, not admitting but not denying to be snuggling, listening to St John's heartbeat and Bobby's breathing and the narration of the historical documentary that's still on on TV.
*
Part 8
Author: ms_jvh_shuh
Pairing: Bobby/St John
Rating: PG-13 overall
Summary: Years after the events of Alkali Lake and Alcatraz, St John finds that you cannot burn all your bridges without rebuilding some.
Bits and pieces sliding into the right places, again and for the first time.
Note: Since there was some confusion about this in chapter 6: Stels is Stella is "Starlady" (an OC), and Auntie_Em is, in fact, Mystique. How could she possibly refer to herself by such a name, you ask? Because it's a name Magneto would never believe she would choose.
As ever, lots and lots of thank yous to inootz for looking everything over for me!
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3,
Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
Rebuilding Burned Bridges
*
"When it was soldiers," St John says, and Bobby jumps about two inches off his computer chair. He frantically picks a thin layer of ice off the keyboard before spinning around to face his friend. "When it was soldiers," St John repeats, "or cops, or security guards, or scientists or doctors…" He frowns at the pen in his hand, as if discovering it can't produce a flame for the first time. "…there was a reason." He stops and actually shoots a quick glance at Bobby before staring down at the pen again. "I know we don't agree on that, never will, but I always knew exactly why I injured or killed them."
And just like that, the word is in the room between them. Killed, pronounced without regret, a six letter word, matter-of-fact. Bobby bites his lip hard, tries not to break St John off with the scathing remarks he feels bubbling up. Brotherhood insiders aside, he probably knows the head count of exactly how many people Pyro has killed better than anyone.
It's too late to judge now. If he'd wanted to condemn Pyro for his Brotherhood actions, he should have shut the door in St John's face, taken him out, signalled to Storm that the X-Men should come and collect him. It's his own fault, and he doesn't really want to be anywhere else than he is now.
"I didn't believe her, when she said he'd gone mad," says St John in a low, thin voice, and Bobby knows that if he were to change his mind, turned him in to either the X-Men or the government, he wouldn't be surprised, wouldn't be mad. For the hundredth time since Ms Monroe's last call, Iceman wonders how Ororo, how Kitty, how any of them can actually trust him to make the right decision.
These children owe you their lives, he wants to say. Magneto would've killed them himself if you hadn't saved them, but there is no easy way to bring up heroics when the head count estimate in Bobby's head also went up when they were watching the news after the stint at the hospital.
There is no terrorist named St John Allerdyce, he wants to shout, to scream until it's true. Kitty destroyed the evidence, the only records they ever had are of some punk called Pyro, but he can't, not yet, the statement filled too heavily with expectations for St John to stay. Laying that on his guest would be too soon, way too soon, so he goes to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee, listens to St John breathe, words caught in his throat.
*
Some undetermined time this fifth evening, Bobby startles awake when his couch-numbed sagging body lands on top of St John's. A few stunned seconds pass, seconds in which St John doesn't push Bobby away, in which Bobby doesn't recoil. Greyish green and blue eyes remain locked into each other, stay engaged in a non-hostile staring contest where neither participant registers anything but the widening of the other's pupils, the iris' changes of color.
Suddenly the flat is just another joint in a somewhat fancy hall of residence where two chests are rising and falling calmly, where two young men who have known each other for years are feeling each other's breath on chins and faces.
The angle is awkward - it doesn't take long before the weight of Bobby's body is sending a battalion of ants to John's leg, getting in position and waiting hungrily while it falls asleep.
The stirring of something that doesn't have anything to do with ants whatsoever is welcomed with a sultry smile and a half-embarrassed grin. A bitten-off moan is followed by slightly heavier breathing, but it's shaken away, dismissed with a chuckle, acknowledged but left ignored because it's too soon for this, too - five years in the making but still too soon.
It's not too soon, however, for St John's arms to slide around Bobby's shoulders, to pull him in. It's not too soon for Bobby to re-arrange his legs in a way that is much more comfortable, to settle down.
It's not too soon to simply be lying on the couch tangled up in each other, not admitting but not denying to be snuggling, listening to St John's heartbeat and Bobby's breathing and the narration of the historical documentary that's still on on TV.
*
Part 8