The Waiting Game [Standalone]
Title: The Waiting Game
Rating: PG-13
Author: Moi, blackeyedwicca
Pairing: John/Bobby (Kinda?)
Chapter: Short Standalone
Summary: He knew returning to Sydney would be too much like returning to the X-Men and he didn’t want to be in the middle of his past, he just wanted something he could do amongst familiar ground. That’s why he was in Melbourne a week after the ship docked.
Beta: No one. Any mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. I’d be more creative but I’m surprisingly tired, heh.
Dedication: pyrokitten77 for requesting this. Sorry it’s late!
A/N: Okay so, this is the prompt ‘sink’ from my prompt table. The masterlist of fics created from the table has been linked.
I’m not too sure what this is, I just liked the general idea of it all, I guess? I just found a way of sticking a bunch of vague ideas into this fic and because they were only vague, the John/Bobby slash is too. It’s hard to explain, so I hope reading it clears up what I’ve undoubtedly made confusing. Meh. Anyway, enjoy ^^
--
John supposed he was probably the worst off, and even though he hated to admit it, he probably deserved that. He left, he chose the dark side and he went evil. It’ was all his fucking fault once again - it didn’t mean he had to like it.
It also didn’t mean he was going to stop brooding, swearing and burning out his frustration on furniture either, and neither was he going to turn good again. No, that ship has long since sailed, and not even the disbanding and curing of the Brotherhood was going to make him admit that mistake and crawl back to the X-Men.
As soon as he’d got away from them at Alcatraz, he was on the first ship bound for Australia. He usually didn’t like being that surrounded by water - out of his element - but a plane was too risky.
He knew returning to Sydney would be too much like returning to the X-Men and he didn’t want to be in the middle of his past, he just wanted something he could do amongst familiar ground. That’s why he was in Melbourne a week after the ship docked.
It was easy finding work from there when he had no real moral conscience and was ready to follow orders. His boss just thought he was someone who liked fire, not that he was a mutant - as long as they were dead; he didn’t care if they were also charred.
In two years John became one of the most deadly hitman in Victoria, having taken fighting classes and perfected the use of various firearms. He quickly had at least sixty thousand dollars sitting in a bank account that he rarely used. There was also a few hundred in his crappy apartment that was falling apart.
Unlike what everyone thought, he wasn’t worried about the cops. They didn’t have and couldn’t hold shit on him. He was more cautious about focusing the attention of his old roommate on him. He wasn’t going to make it easy.
He’d made sure to keep an ear to America and its mutants. Bobby was coming along nicely, working alongside the X-Men and rounding up the newly resurrected Brotherhood. He always had been the model student.
He had a feeling Bobby was still trying to track him too, but he also knew that the Iceman would be looking for Pyro the mutant, not some small time human hitman. He was safe - to a degree - and while he wasn’t exactly happy, he was surviving, and he could deal with that.
He had his apartment, his wrist guards and enough money that running wouldn’t be much of a problem. He may have had a higher death toll to his name after taking this job, but he’d long ago dealt with his less than perfect record. A few more body counts weren’t going to make much of a difference on his final score.
And usually John could fully believe that, but sometimes… sometimes even he came home and washed blood off his hands into a sink that once white but now pink, and he had to rest his forehead against the mirror. He could usually ignore the screaming, but if they resembled a face too much, were young and blue-eyed. Sometimes he felt frozen.
When the water washed away the colour though, he would heat up and things would get harder. It was in those moments that he burned; wanting to run away, get away to somewhere secret and peaceful - to live there where he could be alone and untroubled, where he could fade away from the headlines.
The thoughts would never last past the bathroom, because for every person he killed, ever body he charred. The reporters would be there, talking about him, reading out his calling cards until one day they would notice. They’d notice and he would come find him.
John would be waiting for that day, because he wasn’t going to hide. He was going to bide his time, so when he did fight, and he did lose, he would know that Bobby took it away. Ice was the only thing that could put out his fire, the only thing he would let do it.
--
A/N: Yes, it has very little to do with a sink… moving on >.>
Rating: PG-13
Author: Moi, blackeyedwicca
Pairing: John/Bobby (Kinda?)
Chapter: Short Standalone
Summary: He knew returning to Sydney would be too much like returning to the X-Men and he didn’t want to be in the middle of his past, he just wanted something he could do amongst familiar ground. That’s why he was in Melbourne a week after the ship docked.
Beta: No one. Any mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. I’d be more creative but I’m surprisingly tired, heh.
Dedication: pyrokitten77 for requesting this. Sorry it’s late!
A/N: Okay so, this is the prompt ‘sink’ from my prompt table. The masterlist of fics created from the table has been linked.
I’m not too sure what this is, I just liked the general idea of it all, I guess? I just found a way of sticking a bunch of vague ideas into this fic and because they were only vague, the John/Bobby slash is too. It’s hard to explain, so I hope reading it clears up what I’ve undoubtedly made confusing. Meh. Anyway, enjoy ^^
--
John supposed he was probably the worst off, and even though he hated to admit it, he probably deserved that. He left, he chose the dark side and he went evil. It’ was all his fucking fault once again - it didn’t mean he had to like it.
It also didn’t mean he was going to stop brooding, swearing and burning out his frustration on furniture either, and neither was he going to turn good again. No, that ship has long since sailed, and not even the disbanding and curing of the Brotherhood was going to make him admit that mistake and crawl back to the X-Men.
As soon as he’d got away from them at Alcatraz, he was on the first ship bound for Australia. He usually didn’t like being that surrounded by water - out of his element - but a plane was too risky.
He knew returning to Sydney would be too much like returning to the X-Men and he didn’t want to be in the middle of his past, he just wanted something he could do amongst familiar ground. That’s why he was in Melbourne a week after the ship docked.
It was easy finding work from there when he had no real moral conscience and was ready to follow orders. His boss just thought he was someone who liked fire, not that he was a mutant - as long as they were dead; he didn’t care if they were also charred.
In two years John became one of the most deadly hitman in Victoria, having taken fighting classes and perfected the use of various firearms. He quickly had at least sixty thousand dollars sitting in a bank account that he rarely used. There was also a few hundred in his crappy apartment that was falling apart.
Unlike what everyone thought, he wasn’t worried about the cops. They didn’t have and couldn’t hold shit on him. He was more cautious about focusing the attention of his old roommate on him. He wasn’t going to make it easy.
He’d made sure to keep an ear to America and its mutants. Bobby was coming along nicely, working alongside the X-Men and rounding up the newly resurrected Brotherhood. He always had been the model student.
He had a feeling Bobby was still trying to track him too, but he also knew that the Iceman would be looking for Pyro the mutant, not some small time human hitman. He was safe - to a degree - and while he wasn’t exactly happy, he was surviving, and he could deal with that.
He had his apartment, his wrist guards and enough money that running wouldn’t be much of a problem. He may have had a higher death toll to his name after taking this job, but he’d long ago dealt with his less than perfect record. A few more body counts weren’t going to make much of a difference on his final score.
And usually John could fully believe that, but sometimes… sometimes even he came home and washed blood off his hands into a sink that once white but now pink, and he had to rest his forehead against the mirror. He could usually ignore the screaming, but if they resembled a face too much, were young and blue-eyed. Sometimes he felt frozen.
When the water washed away the colour though, he would heat up and things would get harder. It was in those moments that he burned; wanting to run away, get away to somewhere secret and peaceful - to live there where he could be alone and untroubled, where he could fade away from the headlines.
The thoughts would never last past the bathroom, because for every person he killed, ever body he charred. The reporters would be there, talking about him, reading out his calling cards until one day they would notice. They’d notice and he would come find him.
John would be waiting for that day, because he wasn’t going to hide. He was going to bide his time, so when he did fight, and he did lose, he would know that Bobby took it away. Ice was the only thing that could put out his fire, the only thing he would let do it.
--
A/N: Yes, it has very little to do with a sink… moving on >.>