FDoE: From Bic to Zip, Part 2/3
TITLE: From Bic to Zip, Part 2/3
SERIES: Fundamental Difference of Experience
AUTHOR: Kuria Dalmatia
CODES: Pre-X1, Bobby/John
SUMMARY:
He would later wonder what the hell had possessed him to buy John the damned thing in the first place, because the near-constant snap! click! fwoosh! would alternate between driving him nuts and being the one sound he was desperate to hear in the Mansion.
RATING: R, profanity
See Part 1 for Disclaimers, Archiving, and Commentary.
*****((( From Bic to Zip, Part 2)))*****
His usual time with Xavier was on Thursdays. St. John would sit in Xavier's private office, stare at the corner of the mahogany desk the entire time, and not say a word. Perhaps the whole silent treatment had been a battle wills at first, but as the weeks had passed, it had morphed into something else. After his emotional breakdown, he had expected Xavier to pass him off to Scott, but the old man hadn't. The message was clear, bright and in primary colors that if he wanted to talk to Scott, he could. Scott was open to it. However, Xavier wasn't going to give him up unless, well, St. John asked.
He never had.
St. John reluctantly admitted to himself it had become the fact that an authority figure had made time for him on a consistent basis that made him stay for the entire thirty minutes. It made him wait for Xavier's measured, "Our time for today has ended, St. John" because the old man always called him by his formal name in the privacy of his office. These people had never conveniently passed him off.
Oh sure, he was just one more fucked up student to be taken care of, but they paid attention to him. To him. St. John Allerdyce.
He wasn't going to give up that precious thirty minutes until they forced him to.
Today, however, was different. He walked in the Professor's office and sat in his customary chair, but watched as the Professor slid a manila envelope towards him. The Professor then explained the concept of guardianship in relation to obtaining his driver's license and how if he wished to obtain a driver's license that he would have to choose one of the faculty unless he wanted to wait until he was seventeen.
"I realize this is an important decision for you and there is no reason to rush into it. In the meantime, Scott has volunteered to be your driving instructor." St. John almost shot back that he'd been driving since he was twelve when his dad had been too drunk to even put the key into the ignition, but the Professor simply said dryly, "The lessons, of course, are strictly for legal and insurance purposes and to show the State that we are, after all, responsible for our charges. As long as you maintain your grades and follow the rules, you will have driving privileges. You may be asked, on occasion, to run errands for the staff, but that is requested of all students who drive."
He could only nod dumbly. It had been something that he wanted, something so simplistically stupid that the other kids probably took for granted. He had just figured he had to wait until he was seventeen to pull it off. He hadn't expected someone to help him get something that he wanted.
St. John opened the folder and glanced at all the paperwork contained therein. He managed to get out, "Thank you, sir."
"You're most welcome." It wasn't said with any smugness, just the Professor's usual kind tone.
He blinked hard twice, unable to lift his gaze from the papers, and whispered, "I mean it, sir."
Because he did and there were things he wanted to say, things that he should say, but he didn't know how to say them. He did the manners thing for the Professor not purely because it was expected, but out of respect. And although he was still considered by the Mansion populace to be the Bad Kid, he did follow the rules (somewhat) because, well, he had a choice.
"I know," came the spoken response, and that more than anything, made him want to do the 'sir' thing a little more. Since the morning after the Kitchen Incident, Xavier had only telepathically communicated with him once, and that had been the day St. John had become unglued in Summers' office.
St. John wasn't sure how long he sat there, staring at the stark white pages in front of him, but he did. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Professor then gesture toward the corner of his desk, which until that day, had been one of St. John's spots to stare at.
A leather-bound notebook with a silver pen was on the corner and his breath caught in his throat. It was a gift -- he was sure -- from all of The Powers That Be. St. John's usual Thursday session was probably the only time that they could give him the gift without it being too obvious, and if he left Xavier's office looking as if he had bawled his eyes out, not one of the kids would say jack shit about it.
Not that he would ever bawl his eyes out in Xavier's office or anything, although he would have sworn the same thing about Scott's office until his body betrayed him.
St. John didn't have to touch the journal or the pen to know that they were expensive, because he'd realized on his second day that here at the Mansion, that while the students and the faculty accepted mediocrity, the Professor had very distinct tastes. The paper wasn't a discarded matchbook cover or brown shopping bag or a greasy wrapper from Burger King. It was a journal with gold-leaf along the edges, not especially flashy but worth something. He bet that the pages were rich parchment, the kind of paper that made that distinct 'turning page' sound from the movies.
The pen wasn't a chewed-on, dried-out Papermate or a stubby graphite pencil or the last inch of eyeliner. It was probably a cartridge pen, the kind that would feel good in his hand and the tip would glide smoothly across the page. It wasn't especially fancy, but it had value.
"You have a talent with words, St. John."
The praise hit him hard and he bit his lips to keep from making a sound. It was an intensely personal gift because St. John had never admitted to anyone that he liked to write. He never preened when Munroe handed back his history essays with positive comments on them although there was more than one occasion when he wanted to. He certainly never bragged when the Professor wrote such phrases as 'excellent explanation of the author's conundrum in dealing with his inner turmoil' because not one of his friends had ever earned such effulgent praise from The Powers That Be over their own writing.
He could feel the moisture pooling in the corners of his eyes; he blinked them back desperately. There was no way in hell he was going to shed tears in Xavier's office. No fucking way.
"Gifts are not limited to our mutant abilities," the Professor continued softly and oh-so-delicately. Just how many fragile male egos had the man endured? A fuckload probably. He remembered Bobby's comment about how the Professor had learned patience for property damage. At least St. John's abilities didn't flair out of control like Bobby's or like the one time that Neal fell down half a flight of stairs and exploded the banister. No, St. John had torched the kitchen and almost killed Kitty, yet he was still here and The Powers That Be were giving him a damned present. "We only wish to encourage you to use them."
Damn, if there wasn't a subtle emphasis on 'we' in that phrase.
There were tons of questions he could probably ask. St. John supposed that the Professor would answer most of them. The biggest one was, of course, "Why me?" but there were some answers St. John preferred his own creative answers to than stark reality or a telepath's interpretation of what he wanted to hear.
St. John stared at the gifts, noting that they were unwrapped of course, so he could tuck it away with his normal collection of books and no one would notice. Very carefully, he moved his gaze from the corner of the desk to meet the Professor's eyes. Deliberately, not caring what emotion was showing on his face because he was sure he was 'projecting his emotions' or some such shit just fine, he said, "Thank you, sir."
It wasn't meant sarcastically. It was meant with respect. Deference, really, if St. John wanted to get technical about it, but respect all the same. The 'you' was plural so to acknowledge that he knew that the journal and pen had come from the four teachers, and 'sir' to acknowledge that he understood fully that it had been Xavier's call to take him in, not just some random 'he's a mutie therefore he's a viable candidate' thing. After all, the kids at the Mansion sported a variety of potent and powerful mutant abilities, not lame-assed shit like being able to glow in the dark or looking like a fish.
"Happy Birthday, St. John. We hope it is a good one for you."
*****((()))*****
Jubilee said, "Strawberry."
Bobby let out an explosive sigh. "No. Bittersweet chocolate."
It was after dinner and John had wandered off with the unspoken (yet well understood) message that he wanted to be alone. The four of them had pounced upon the opportunity to figure out the kind of cake that Kitty should make because they all agreed John should have one. Yet when they had entered the kitchen, the argument between Bobby and Jubilee had erupted the moment the door had swung shut.
"Strawberry," she repeated, popping her gum for emphasis.
"Strawberries, as in the actual berries? Yes. Strawberry, as in cake? No way. He won't eat it because it tastes too fake. The one Ro had for her birthday? John had two bites and gave the rest to Pete."
"Your preferences, Drake. Not his. Johnny likes strawberries. The ones he scores from the buffet? He'll give Kit-Kat and me some, but he eats most of them." Jubilee rocked back on her feet slightly and adjusted the sunglasses that she was currently using as a fashionable headband. They were his Ray Bans and it pissed him off that she had snagged them again. "John don't eat chocolate. No Hershey's. No Crunch bars. Not even M&M's."
"He'll eat bittersweet chocolate cake," he clarified, emphasizing the last word, "but only the way that Kat makes it. Dani's birthday last month? He went back for seconds, first time ever he's done that, and not just because Kat said that she made it. When she made the one for Sam? John only had half a slice."
"Because it was chocolate, stupid." She said it with just the right amount of derision to make him ball his fists in anger. "No offense, Kit-Kat, but Johnny only ate it because of the manners-thing. Both times." Kitty, who was standing between them at the table, simply shook her head. Jubilee continued, leaning close enough to poke Bobby on the arm. "Both those cakes? Chocolate. Johnny don't like chocolate."
"Sam's cake was Death by Chocolate," Bobby countered and then dramatically ticked off the ingredients by holding up a finger for each one. "Dutch-processed cocoa. Belgium chocolate chips. Semi-sweet chocolate frosting with dark chocolate glace and chocolate shavings on top. Way too sweet for him." He met Jubilee's gaze. "Dani's cake wasn't like that. It didn't have frosting. It only had a little of the glace because she's got to watch her sugar. Therefore, bittersweet chocolate." .He lifted his chin because he knew he was right on this. He tacked on the final proof: "That night? Snack raid at midnight. He was mad because there was none left."
She glowered at him, fingertips glowing menacingly. "Strawberry."
"Bittersweet chocolate."
They glared at each other for a few seconds before they shouted in unison, "Piotr?"
There was a muffled groan from the corner of the kitchen where Pete had retreated. Slowly, in a flat tone that meant he didn't want to be part of the argument, their de facto mediator said, "Yes, John eats strawberries. Yes, he does not normally eat chocolate things. Yes, he had half a slice of cake at Sam's party. Yes, he had two slices of cake at Dani's party. Yes, midnight snack raid and no cake left made John unhappy." He waved toward the fridge. "The milk is on the second shelf."
"Huh?" Bobby blurted out as he stared at Pete in confusion, "What does milk have to do with anything?" Kitty sighed again and he turned his attention back to the two girls.
That was when he noted the crimson of Jubilee's cheeks and realized that their Russian friend had scored an unexpected insult that only she got, but the coloring only lasted a few seconds before she rallied. "Frosting then."
"What?" It took a few seconds before it kicked in that she had given up on the type of cake and had moved on to the decorations. Still he rolled his eyes, because clearly she just didn't get it. "No frosting."
"Frosting," she repeated, edgier and with a quick glance in Piotr's direction. Bobby snuck a peek over as well and saw their friend pinching the bridge of his nose like Scott did to ward off a headache.
"He scrapes it off and gives it to me because I'm the sugar freak," he shot back. "Ever single time."
"Birthday cakes have to have frosting," she insisted. She was angry with him; he could tell by the set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes. It was the first time, however, that he ever heard her sound almost petulant. Her fingertips glowed a bit brighter. "It's the rule."
He ignored the tone, figuring she was just trying to play upon a weakness of his. "What part of 'he doesn't eat frosting' do you not understand? What? Will you understand it in Russian? Piotr, how do you say 'John doesn't eat frosting'?"
"Don't answer that, Petey." She flipped Bobby off. "You're such a dork, Drake."
"Takes one to know one," he fired back and he realized that the argument had dissolved into a grade school, playground fight. He didn't care. "Like I said, he doesn't eat frosting."
She paused and then narrowed her eyes. "Jackie Chan flicks."
"Nope," he grinned triumphantly at her because this was one he knew he couldn't get wrong. He even used the correct pronunciation as he declared, "Classic Gojira."
"Jackie Chan," she said harshly.
"He only watched one of the Chan films that one weekend TNT played a bunch of them back to back," he told her and crossed his arms. "When SciFi ran that Godzilla marathon on Saturday mornings? He watched every single one. Therefore, Classic Gojira. Hah!"
She twitched, her mouth curving into a sneer she usually reserved for Alison. "Cantonese."
"Huh? Cantonese? You want me to say it in Cantonese?"
"No, Snow Brains…." She gave him a threatening look. "Dinner. Cantonese."
And before he considered the wisdom of his next words, he spat out, "That stuff you made that one time? He barely touched it. Pete poached most of it when you weren't looking. If you actually listened to John, you would know that he likes Thai food, extra spicy, over any kind of Chinese. It doesn't matter if it's Cantonese, Sichuan, or Hunan. Or don't you remember what he said during Battle Pork Belly two months ago?"
There was a sharp gasp, which could have been from Kitty but he suddenly realized it was from Jubilee. It was her turn to cross her arms now, the sparks dancing down her sleeves. There should have been more viciousness in her tone, but there wasn't. She was challenging him, but almost seemed to be nervous. "Oh, you're the expert now, huh?"
"I'm his roommate."
"I'm his best friend, Popsicle," she growled, and the use of the nickname momentarily stunned him because it was one that was never used at the Mansion. The way she had said it meant that she'd gleaned that information from John, proof that she did have some insider information.
It fired him up. It egged him on. It hurt him because God only knew what else John had told her. Bobby supposed the crackle-zap should have unnerved him more than it did, but he held his ground. She had left an opening, a gaping one for the normally tough-as-nails, no-chink-in-her-armor Jubilee. Bobby ground out the final insult, "Which one of us scored the gift, Sparky?"
She recoiled. A plasma arc sailed from her left hand and to the counter that had the baking items Kitty had already set out. The condensed energy landed on the bag of powdered sugar. The fine white powder exploded upward and outwards, effectively coating both Jubilee and Bobby. He didn't care. He didn't move. Neither did she.
"Stop it! Both of you!" Kitty demanded in a sharp parental tone. He blinked and then stared at Kitty. Partially-phased so the sugar hadn't landed on her, she had one hand on her hip and then she pointed to the door. She was as mad as he'd ever seen her, lips set in a thin line and determination in her eyes that meant she was going to have her way. "Bobby, go to your room!"
His mind blanked for a second. "What?!?"
Kitty stomped her foot. "Go to your room now!"
"You can't make me!" which was childish, he knew, but he was not about to retreat just because a girl who was younger than he was told him to. He loved Kitty like a sister but it was the rules of being a big brother that gave him to excuse not to obey her. Bobby then felt a strong hand on the back of his neck, and damned if Piotr didn't grab him by the shirt collar and turn him towards the door.
Jubilee stuck her tongue out at him.
In a last, desperate attempt at something, he wasn't sure what, he spat out, "But she has my sunglasses!"
Piotr made a frustrated sound before reaching over, plucking the Ray Bans off of Jubilee's head, slapped them against Bobby's chest, and then pushed him bodily through the door. As they walked down the corridor, Piotr said with that same parental edge that Kitty had just moments before, "One word from you and I will make you sit in the corner as well."
And while he wanted to say, "But she started it" because Jubilee had, he shut up and hung his head because Kitty had sent him to his room and Piotr was enforcing it. Knowing his luck, Piotr was actually frustrated enough to go through with his threat about making Bobby sit in the corner. At least no one was in the hallways as he was escorted upstairs. Since when had Kitty and Piotr become his parents or The Powers That Be? He pouted because, well, it was so damned humiliating. Piotr opened the door to his room and he was pushed in. The door closed behind them.
Of course, John was sitting on his bed and stared at the two of them before asking, "What in the fuck happened to you?"
Bobby suddenly blushed hard, because the last person he wanted to explain to about why he was covered in powdered sugar was his roommate.
"Katya send Frosty to his room because he was being bad in the kitchen," Piotr explained.
"Hey!" Bobby protested. "Was anything frozen? No. Was there any ice? No. My powers were controlled, man. Jubilee started it. She was the one who zapped the powdered sugar, not me."
Piotr waved him silent. "You stay up here the rest of the night. No going downstairs, else Katya will make you clean the Kitchen when she is done."
"Whoa… Miss Mayor gave the Mascot a time out?" John let out a snort of amusement and then burst out laughing. Bobby glanced up, stunned, because it was the first time he'd ever heard his roommate erupt in laughter. "And the Tin Man's playing the cop?"
"Frosty was fighting like a girl." That burn was unexpected, especially from Piotr, but it made John laugh even harder.
"Hey! I had to bring it down to her level, man," Bobby retorted in his defense. "And Kitty was there so it wasn't as if I could say anything good." He crossed his arms gave Piotr a look. "And what the hell was that crack about the milk being in the fridge?"
The loud thunk drew Bobby's attention back over to John. His roommate was now on the floor, laughing so hard that tears were in his eyes. It annoyed the hell out of Bobby that everyone else got the joke but he didn't. He was too mad to humiliate himself further, so he pursed his lips together and glowered. John looked up and then let out into another peal of laughter.
"As I said, you were fighting like a girl," Piotr told Bobby although a smile was twitching at his lips. "The only thing you did not do was stomp your foot."
"At least I'm not channeling The Powers That Be like you are, Pete! I still can't believe Kitty sent me to my room and you went along with it! Whatever happened to guys sticking up for guys?" he spat back, which earned a howl from John.
"Katya was merely minimizing property damage, Frosty."
"It's not fair."
John made an odd sound, somewhere between a hoot and a gasp for air, and then he began hitting the floor with his fist.
Bobby crossed his arms even tighter across his chest. "I was right. You know I was right. Just wait. You'll see that I'm right."
"Of course you were, Frosty." Piotr patted his head as if he were a six year old. Bobby watched as another round of hiccupped laughs escaped from John. He really hated being the butt of the joke.
But his roommate was literally rolling around on the floor, laughing his ass off. Something that Bobby swore up and down would never, ever happen, without a lot of Piotr's vodka and a damned funny joke. It was all at Bobby's expense, but the humiliation he was feeling eased just a bit when he caught the flash of Piotr's smile. He had recognized the situation as well, and whatever frustration the Russian had felt because he had been forced to referee a fight between Bobby and Jubilee had disappeared.
Bobby sighed. The things he would endure in order to win a smile (or howling laughter, in this case) from John. It was worth it.
*****((()))*****
In his months at the Mansion, St. John had seen a variety of weird things. With such a high concentration of mutants, comedic situations happened on a regular basis. Usually, it was in relation to a brief loss of control or the one phrase St. John supposed The Powers That Be dreaded to hear: "I was experimenting with my powers when…."
So far, his particular group had been spared the totally embarrassing moments. He had wondered if they were immune from such things given that they were the Mansion elite. Yet when Bobby had been pushed into their bedroom, St. John knew that even the highest of high-up students were subject to Fate's wicked sense of humor.
A petulant, powder-coated Bobby had been ushered in by Piotr. Piotr had been in full parent-mode and had then explained that Kitty had sent Bobby to his room. The ensuing discussion had sent St. John into a fit of laughter, which he knew was much better than a fit of puking and crying. Maybe like last time, his body had been searching for some type of emotional release and his subconscious had chosen that particular incident to allow him to let loose.
He supposed there were very few teenaged guys who could pull off an effective pout that made him resist launching into bevy of insults, those bruising smacks to the ego which would probably have made Bobby cry. St. John had refrained because he had been too busy laughing and falling on the floor to really do so.
Bobby had taken three showers last night because he had sworn he could still feel the sugar in his hair. Upon returning from the showers that final time, he had complained only once about not being to wash his clothes because he wasn't allowed downstairs. It had sent St. John into another fit of giggles, and he wasn't the giggling type. But instead of glaring or punching him or dropping the room temp, which should have been the automatic reaction to being laughed at, Bobby had only shrugged and had continue to mope for the rest of the evening. His roommate sulking had been… well… cute. The Mascot could pull off charmingly dorky, and it was probably why most of the girls at the Mansion had crushes on Bobby.
It hadn't been until after lights out that St. John had been able to coax an explanation out of Bobby regarding the fight. "It was just the four of us," Bobby had said quietly. "Jubilee and I… we were just… debating on what you would want."
And St. John had backed off because of swell of emotion that had hit him in the chest. No one had ever fought over him like that before in his entire life. He must have made some kind of sound, because Bobby had immediately sat up and started the litany of apologies, "No one else heard. I swear. We wouldn't do that to you. We wouldn't embarrass you. I swear."
"I know," he had replied. Then, he used the one phrased guaranteed to ease Bobby's fears: "You're my friends."
Bobby had then given him a brilliant grin, one that could have potentially rivaled Scott's. St. John had retreated to his side of the room and had buried himself under the covers. He had wanted to hold on to that image in his head and he had known if anything else had been said, the spell would have been broken.
St. John had slept well that night and for the first time since he could remember, he had woken up actually looking forward to his birthday. It was 5:46 a.m. now, and he began wondering just when those mystical birthday cards would appear under the door. He wondered just how many he would get, if each of The Powers That Be would give him one or if it would be a group card. He wondered if each of his friends would give him one or if that would be a group card as well.
No. He knew that each of his friends would give him a card because Bobby and Lee-Lee had been fighting over him and probably couldn't agree on the type of card to give him. Pete would probably design his own because that's what their artist did for everyone's birthday. Maybe he would also do one for the group because he sometimes did that as well. Kitty's card would probably be on the mushy side, because she was very good at mushy things. Lee-Lee's would be half mushy and half obnoxious. No matter what the Mansion populace believed, they weren't dating although neither had actively tried to squelch the rumors, because the illusion sheltered them from the more vicious whispers.
As for Bobby… God only knew what his roommate would come up with.
There was a sound by the door, the soft yet heavy thump of footsteps outside of the bedroom door. It made perfect sense that Scott would be the one who delivered the cards in the boys' dorm. After all, Bobby had said that no one was stupid enough to spook someone in the morning, and Dr. Grey or Ms. Munroe prowling the hallways at Oh-God-Awful in the morning could definitely qualify as 'spooking'.
St. John watched in utter fascination as nine items were slid between the door and the hardwood floor. He found his emotions shifting to a weird, almost weightlessness. It wasn't like that first time, when his body had decided the shock of realization should involve him puking his guts up and passing out on Scott. It wasn't like last night when he had dissolved into uncontrollable fits of laughter. This time… it was an odd feeling. Sitting up in his bed, nestled in clean sheets and blankets, and staring his birthday cards, St. John thought about all that had happened since he had first arrived at the Mansion and just where he was in his life.
He was sixteen. He was alive and living in a mutant utopia. Things were downright good, odd and uncomfortable sometimes, but that was to be expected considering a) he was a teenaged male, b) he finally had somewhat of a stable home life complete with authority figures who actually had clues about things, and c) he was a mutant living in a Mansion of Mutants. He had a home and he wasn't afraid to call it that now.
He had friends, the real kind that in his old life had always been with other people. He had Kitty. He had Pete. He had his Lee-Lee who had probably argued ferociously on his behalf to ensure that he got what she believed was "what he wanted". He wondered what it had specifically been about because Bobby had been so adamant about being right and as much as St. John cared for Lee-Lee, he knew that Bobby knew his preferences in an almost creepy, obsessive way.
That sandwich on that day St. John had emotionally fallen apart was proof of that. It was proof of Bobby's dogged pursuit of winning St. John's trust and friendship. No one had ever made that type of effort, not even his Lee-Lee. Then again, Bobby had the advantage of sharing a room with him.
Bobby was the only reason perhaps he hadn't bolted from the Mansion those nights when he had woken up, terrified out of his mind, and desperate for some kind of attention. It was a different type of understanding than he had with Lee-Lee. Bobby had seen him at his barest of bare moments and had never once betrayed him. He was the only reason St. John's knee-jerk reaction to receiving birthday cards was not to burn them just because.
He got out of bed and padded over to the pile of cards.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually received birthday cards.
But that was his old life. That old life didn't matter any more.
This life did.
*****((( End Part 2)))*****
SERIES: Fundamental Difference of Experience
AUTHOR: Kuria Dalmatia
CODES: Pre-X1, Bobby/John
SUMMARY:
He would later wonder what the hell had possessed him to buy John the damned thing in the first place, because the near-constant snap! click! fwoosh! would alternate between driving him nuts and being the one sound he was desperate to hear in the Mansion.
RATING: R, profanity
See Part 1 for Disclaimers, Archiving, and Commentary.
*****((( From Bic to Zip, Part 2)))*****
His usual time with Xavier was on Thursdays. St. John would sit in Xavier's private office, stare at the corner of the mahogany desk the entire time, and not say a word. Perhaps the whole silent treatment had been a battle wills at first, but as the weeks had passed, it had morphed into something else. After his emotional breakdown, he had expected Xavier to pass him off to Scott, but the old man hadn't. The message was clear, bright and in primary colors that if he wanted to talk to Scott, he could. Scott was open to it. However, Xavier wasn't going to give him up unless, well, St. John asked.
He never had.
St. John reluctantly admitted to himself it had become the fact that an authority figure had made time for him on a consistent basis that made him stay for the entire thirty minutes. It made him wait for Xavier's measured, "Our time for today has ended, St. John" because the old man always called him by his formal name in the privacy of his office. These people had never conveniently passed him off.
Oh sure, he was just one more fucked up student to be taken care of, but they paid attention to him. To him. St. John Allerdyce.
He wasn't going to give up that precious thirty minutes until they forced him to.
Today, however, was different. He walked in the Professor's office and sat in his customary chair, but watched as the Professor slid a manila envelope towards him. The Professor then explained the concept of guardianship in relation to obtaining his driver's license and how if he wished to obtain a driver's license that he would have to choose one of the faculty unless he wanted to wait until he was seventeen.
"I realize this is an important decision for you and there is no reason to rush into it. In the meantime, Scott has volunteered to be your driving instructor." St. John almost shot back that he'd been driving since he was twelve when his dad had been too drunk to even put the key into the ignition, but the Professor simply said dryly, "The lessons, of course, are strictly for legal and insurance purposes and to show the State that we are, after all, responsible for our charges. As long as you maintain your grades and follow the rules, you will have driving privileges. You may be asked, on occasion, to run errands for the staff, but that is requested of all students who drive."
He could only nod dumbly. It had been something that he wanted, something so simplistically stupid that the other kids probably took for granted. He had just figured he had to wait until he was seventeen to pull it off. He hadn't expected someone to help him get something that he wanted.
St. John opened the folder and glanced at all the paperwork contained therein. He managed to get out, "Thank you, sir."
"You're most welcome." It wasn't said with any smugness, just the Professor's usual kind tone.
He blinked hard twice, unable to lift his gaze from the papers, and whispered, "I mean it, sir."
Because he did and there were things he wanted to say, things that he should say, but he didn't know how to say them. He did the manners thing for the Professor not purely because it was expected, but out of respect. And although he was still considered by the Mansion populace to be the Bad Kid, he did follow the rules (somewhat) because, well, he had a choice.
"I know," came the spoken response, and that more than anything, made him want to do the 'sir' thing a little more. Since the morning after the Kitchen Incident, Xavier had only telepathically communicated with him once, and that had been the day St. John had become unglued in Summers' office.
St. John wasn't sure how long he sat there, staring at the stark white pages in front of him, but he did. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Professor then gesture toward the corner of his desk, which until that day, had been one of St. John's spots to stare at.
A leather-bound notebook with a silver pen was on the corner and his breath caught in his throat. It was a gift -- he was sure -- from all of The Powers That Be. St. John's usual Thursday session was probably the only time that they could give him the gift without it being too obvious, and if he left Xavier's office looking as if he had bawled his eyes out, not one of the kids would say jack shit about it.
Not that he would ever bawl his eyes out in Xavier's office or anything, although he would have sworn the same thing about Scott's office until his body betrayed him.
St. John didn't have to touch the journal or the pen to know that they were expensive, because he'd realized on his second day that here at the Mansion, that while the students and the faculty accepted mediocrity, the Professor had very distinct tastes. The paper wasn't a discarded matchbook cover or brown shopping bag or a greasy wrapper from Burger King. It was a journal with gold-leaf along the edges, not especially flashy but worth something. He bet that the pages were rich parchment, the kind of paper that made that distinct 'turning page' sound from the movies.
The pen wasn't a chewed-on, dried-out Papermate or a stubby graphite pencil or the last inch of eyeliner. It was probably a cartridge pen, the kind that would feel good in his hand and the tip would glide smoothly across the page. It wasn't especially fancy, but it had value.
"You have a talent with words, St. John."
The praise hit him hard and he bit his lips to keep from making a sound. It was an intensely personal gift because St. John had never admitted to anyone that he liked to write. He never preened when Munroe handed back his history essays with positive comments on them although there was more than one occasion when he wanted to. He certainly never bragged when the Professor wrote such phrases as 'excellent explanation of the author's conundrum in dealing with his inner turmoil' because not one of his friends had ever earned such effulgent praise from The Powers That Be over their own writing.
He could feel the moisture pooling in the corners of his eyes; he blinked them back desperately. There was no way in hell he was going to shed tears in Xavier's office. No fucking way.
"Gifts are not limited to our mutant abilities," the Professor continued softly and oh-so-delicately. Just how many fragile male egos had the man endured? A fuckload probably. He remembered Bobby's comment about how the Professor had learned patience for property damage. At least St. John's abilities didn't flair out of control like Bobby's or like the one time that Neal fell down half a flight of stairs and exploded the banister. No, St. John had torched the kitchen and almost killed Kitty, yet he was still here and The Powers That Be were giving him a damned present. "We only wish to encourage you to use them."
Damn, if there wasn't a subtle emphasis on 'we' in that phrase.
There were tons of questions he could probably ask. St. John supposed that the Professor would answer most of them. The biggest one was, of course, "Why me?" but there were some answers St. John preferred his own creative answers to than stark reality or a telepath's interpretation of what he wanted to hear.
St. John stared at the gifts, noting that they were unwrapped of course, so he could tuck it away with his normal collection of books and no one would notice. Very carefully, he moved his gaze from the corner of the desk to meet the Professor's eyes. Deliberately, not caring what emotion was showing on his face because he was sure he was 'projecting his emotions' or some such shit just fine, he said, "Thank you, sir."
It wasn't meant sarcastically. It was meant with respect. Deference, really, if St. John wanted to get technical about it, but respect all the same. The 'you' was plural so to acknowledge that he knew that the journal and pen had come from the four teachers, and 'sir' to acknowledge that he understood fully that it had been Xavier's call to take him in, not just some random 'he's a mutie therefore he's a viable candidate' thing. After all, the kids at the Mansion sported a variety of potent and powerful mutant abilities, not lame-assed shit like being able to glow in the dark or looking like a fish.
"Happy Birthday, St. John. We hope it is a good one for you."
*****((()))*****
Jubilee said, "Strawberry."
Bobby let out an explosive sigh. "No. Bittersweet chocolate."
It was after dinner and John had wandered off with the unspoken (yet well understood) message that he wanted to be alone. The four of them had pounced upon the opportunity to figure out the kind of cake that Kitty should make because they all agreed John should have one. Yet when they had entered the kitchen, the argument between Bobby and Jubilee had erupted the moment the door had swung shut.
"Strawberry," she repeated, popping her gum for emphasis.
"Strawberries, as in the actual berries? Yes. Strawberry, as in cake? No way. He won't eat it because it tastes too fake. The one Ro had for her birthday? John had two bites and gave the rest to Pete."
"Your preferences, Drake. Not his. Johnny likes strawberries. The ones he scores from the buffet? He'll give Kit-Kat and me some, but he eats most of them." Jubilee rocked back on her feet slightly and adjusted the sunglasses that she was currently using as a fashionable headband. They were his Ray Bans and it pissed him off that she had snagged them again. "John don't eat chocolate. No Hershey's. No Crunch bars. Not even M&M's."
"He'll eat bittersweet chocolate cake," he clarified, emphasizing the last word, "but only the way that Kat makes it. Dani's birthday last month? He went back for seconds, first time ever he's done that, and not just because Kat said that she made it. When she made the one for Sam? John only had half a slice."
"Because it was chocolate, stupid." She said it with just the right amount of derision to make him ball his fists in anger. "No offense, Kit-Kat, but Johnny only ate it because of the manners-thing. Both times." Kitty, who was standing between them at the table, simply shook her head. Jubilee continued, leaning close enough to poke Bobby on the arm. "Both those cakes? Chocolate. Johnny don't like chocolate."
"Sam's cake was Death by Chocolate," Bobby countered and then dramatically ticked off the ingredients by holding up a finger for each one. "Dutch-processed cocoa. Belgium chocolate chips. Semi-sweet chocolate frosting with dark chocolate glace and chocolate shavings on top. Way too sweet for him." He met Jubilee's gaze. "Dani's cake wasn't like that. It didn't have frosting. It only had a little of the glace because she's got to watch her sugar. Therefore, bittersweet chocolate." .He lifted his chin because he knew he was right on this. He tacked on the final proof: "That night? Snack raid at midnight. He was mad because there was none left."
She glowered at him, fingertips glowing menacingly. "Strawberry."
"Bittersweet chocolate."
They glared at each other for a few seconds before they shouted in unison, "Piotr?"
There was a muffled groan from the corner of the kitchen where Pete had retreated. Slowly, in a flat tone that meant he didn't want to be part of the argument, their de facto mediator said, "Yes, John eats strawberries. Yes, he does not normally eat chocolate things. Yes, he had half a slice of cake at Sam's party. Yes, he had two slices of cake at Dani's party. Yes, midnight snack raid and no cake left made John unhappy." He waved toward the fridge. "The milk is on the second shelf."
"Huh?" Bobby blurted out as he stared at Pete in confusion, "What does milk have to do with anything?" Kitty sighed again and he turned his attention back to the two girls.
That was when he noted the crimson of Jubilee's cheeks and realized that their Russian friend had scored an unexpected insult that only she got, but the coloring only lasted a few seconds before she rallied. "Frosting then."
"What?" It took a few seconds before it kicked in that she had given up on the type of cake and had moved on to the decorations. Still he rolled his eyes, because clearly she just didn't get it. "No frosting."
"Frosting," she repeated, edgier and with a quick glance in Piotr's direction. Bobby snuck a peek over as well and saw their friend pinching the bridge of his nose like Scott did to ward off a headache.
"He scrapes it off and gives it to me because I'm the sugar freak," he shot back. "Ever single time."
"Birthday cakes have to have frosting," she insisted. She was angry with him; he could tell by the set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes. It was the first time, however, that he ever heard her sound almost petulant. Her fingertips glowed a bit brighter. "It's the rule."
He ignored the tone, figuring she was just trying to play upon a weakness of his. "What part of 'he doesn't eat frosting' do you not understand? What? Will you understand it in Russian? Piotr, how do you say 'John doesn't eat frosting'?"
"Don't answer that, Petey." She flipped Bobby off. "You're such a dork, Drake."
"Takes one to know one," he fired back and he realized that the argument had dissolved into a grade school, playground fight. He didn't care. "Like I said, he doesn't eat frosting."
She paused and then narrowed her eyes. "Jackie Chan flicks."
"Nope," he grinned triumphantly at her because this was one he knew he couldn't get wrong. He even used the correct pronunciation as he declared, "Classic Gojira."
"Jackie Chan," she said harshly.
"He only watched one of the Chan films that one weekend TNT played a bunch of them back to back," he told her and crossed his arms. "When SciFi ran that Godzilla marathon on Saturday mornings? He watched every single one. Therefore, Classic Gojira. Hah!"
She twitched, her mouth curving into a sneer she usually reserved for Alison. "Cantonese."
"Huh? Cantonese? You want me to say it in Cantonese?"
"No, Snow Brains…." She gave him a threatening look. "Dinner. Cantonese."
And before he considered the wisdom of his next words, he spat out, "That stuff you made that one time? He barely touched it. Pete poached most of it when you weren't looking. If you actually listened to John, you would know that he likes Thai food, extra spicy, over any kind of Chinese. It doesn't matter if it's Cantonese, Sichuan, or Hunan. Or don't you remember what he said during Battle Pork Belly two months ago?"
There was a sharp gasp, which could have been from Kitty but he suddenly realized it was from Jubilee. It was her turn to cross her arms now, the sparks dancing down her sleeves. There should have been more viciousness in her tone, but there wasn't. She was challenging him, but almost seemed to be nervous. "Oh, you're the expert now, huh?"
"I'm his roommate."
"I'm his best friend, Popsicle," she growled, and the use of the nickname momentarily stunned him because it was one that was never used at the Mansion. The way she had said it meant that she'd gleaned that information from John, proof that she did have some insider information.
It fired him up. It egged him on. It hurt him because God only knew what else John had told her. Bobby supposed the crackle-zap should have unnerved him more than it did, but he held his ground. She had left an opening, a gaping one for the normally tough-as-nails, no-chink-in-her-armor Jubilee. Bobby ground out the final insult, "Which one of us scored the gift, Sparky?"
She recoiled. A plasma arc sailed from her left hand and to the counter that had the baking items Kitty had already set out. The condensed energy landed on the bag of powdered sugar. The fine white powder exploded upward and outwards, effectively coating both Jubilee and Bobby. He didn't care. He didn't move. Neither did she.
"Stop it! Both of you!" Kitty demanded in a sharp parental tone. He blinked and then stared at Kitty. Partially-phased so the sugar hadn't landed on her, she had one hand on her hip and then she pointed to the door. She was as mad as he'd ever seen her, lips set in a thin line and determination in her eyes that meant she was going to have her way. "Bobby, go to your room!"
His mind blanked for a second. "What?!?"
Kitty stomped her foot. "Go to your room now!"
"You can't make me!" which was childish, he knew, but he was not about to retreat just because a girl who was younger than he was told him to. He loved Kitty like a sister but it was the rules of being a big brother that gave him to excuse not to obey her. Bobby then felt a strong hand on the back of his neck, and damned if Piotr didn't grab him by the shirt collar and turn him towards the door.
Jubilee stuck her tongue out at him.
In a last, desperate attempt at something, he wasn't sure what, he spat out, "But she has my sunglasses!"
Piotr made a frustrated sound before reaching over, plucking the Ray Bans off of Jubilee's head, slapped them against Bobby's chest, and then pushed him bodily through the door. As they walked down the corridor, Piotr said with that same parental edge that Kitty had just moments before, "One word from you and I will make you sit in the corner as well."
And while he wanted to say, "But she started it" because Jubilee had, he shut up and hung his head because Kitty had sent him to his room and Piotr was enforcing it. Knowing his luck, Piotr was actually frustrated enough to go through with his threat about making Bobby sit in the corner. At least no one was in the hallways as he was escorted upstairs. Since when had Kitty and Piotr become his parents or The Powers That Be? He pouted because, well, it was so damned humiliating. Piotr opened the door to his room and he was pushed in. The door closed behind them.
Of course, John was sitting on his bed and stared at the two of them before asking, "What in the fuck happened to you?"
Bobby suddenly blushed hard, because the last person he wanted to explain to about why he was covered in powdered sugar was his roommate.
"Katya send Frosty to his room because he was being bad in the kitchen," Piotr explained.
"Hey!" Bobby protested. "Was anything frozen? No. Was there any ice? No. My powers were controlled, man. Jubilee started it. She was the one who zapped the powdered sugar, not me."
Piotr waved him silent. "You stay up here the rest of the night. No going downstairs, else Katya will make you clean the Kitchen when she is done."
"Whoa… Miss Mayor gave the Mascot a time out?" John let out a snort of amusement and then burst out laughing. Bobby glanced up, stunned, because it was the first time he'd ever heard his roommate erupt in laughter. "And the Tin Man's playing the cop?"
"Frosty was fighting like a girl." That burn was unexpected, especially from Piotr, but it made John laugh even harder.
"Hey! I had to bring it down to her level, man," Bobby retorted in his defense. "And Kitty was there so it wasn't as if I could say anything good." He crossed his arms gave Piotr a look. "And what the hell was that crack about the milk being in the fridge?"
The loud thunk drew Bobby's attention back over to John. His roommate was now on the floor, laughing so hard that tears were in his eyes. It annoyed the hell out of Bobby that everyone else got the joke but he didn't. He was too mad to humiliate himself further, so he pursed his lips together and glowered. John looked up and then let out into another peal of laughter.
"As I said, you were fighting like a girl," Piotr told Bobby although a smile was twitching at his lips. "The only thing you did not do was stomp your foot."
"At least I'm not channeling The Powers That Be like you are, Pete! I still can't believe Kitty sent me to my room and you went along with it! Whatever happened to guys sticking up for guys?" he spat back, which earned a howl from John.
"Katya was merely minimizing property damage, Frosty."
"It's not fair."
John made an odd sound, somewhere between a hoot and a gasp for air, and then he began hitting the floor with his fist.
Bobby crossed his arms even tighter across his chest. "I was right. You know I was right. Just wait. You'll see that I'm right."
"Of course you were, Frosty." Piotr patted his head as if he were a six year old. Bobby watched as another round of hiccupped laughs escaped from John. He really hated being the butt of the joke.
But his roommate was literally rolling around on the floor, laughing his ass off. Something that Bobby swore up and down would never, ever happen, without a lot of Piotr's vodka and a damned funny joke. It was all at Bobby's expense, but the humiliation he was feeling eased just a bit when he caught the flash of Piotr's smile. He had recognized the situation as well, and whatever frustration the Russian had felt because he had been forced to referee a fight between Bobby and Jubilee had disappeared.
Bobby sighed. The things he would endure in order to win a smile (or howling laughter, in this case) from John. It was worth it.
*****((()))*****
In his months at the Mansion, St. John had seen a variety of weird things. With such a high concentration of mutants, comedic situations happened on a regular basis. Usually, it was in relation to a brief loss of control or the one phrase St. John supposed The Powers That Be dreaded to hear: "I was experimenting with my powers when…."
So far, his particular group had been spared the totally embarrassing moments. He had wondered if they were immune from such things given that they were the Mansion elite. Yet when Bobby had been pushed into their bedroom, St. John knew that even the highest of high-up students were subject to Fate's wicked sense of humor.
A petulant, powder-coated Bobby had been ushered in by Piotr. Piotr had been in full parent-mode and had then explained that Kitty had sent Bobby to his room. The ensuing discussion had sent St. John into a fit of laughter, which he knew was much better than a fit of puking and crying. Maybe like last time, his body had been searching for some type of emotional release and his subconscious had chosen that particular incident to allow him to let loose.
He supposed there were very few teenaged guys who could pull off an effective pout that made him resist launching into bevy of insults, those bruising smacks to the ego which would probably have made Bobby cry. St. John had refrained because he had been too busy laughing and falling on the floor to really do so.
Bobby had taken three showers last night because he had sworn he could still feel the sugar in his hair. Upon returning from the showers that final time, he had complained only once about not being to wash his clothes because he wasn't allowed downstairs. It had sent St. John into another fit of giggles, and he wasn't the giggling type. But instead of glaring or punching him or dropping the room temp, which should have been the automatic reaction to being laughed at, Bobby had only shrugged and had continue to mope for the rest of the evening. His roommate sulking had been… well… cute. The Mascot could pull off charmingly dorky, and it was probably why most of the girls at the Mansion had crushes on Bobby.
It hadn't been until after lights out that St. John had been able to coax an explanation out of Bobby regarding the fight. "It was just the four of us," Bobby had said quietly. "Jubilee and I… we were just… debating on what you would want."
And St. John had backed off because of swell of emotion that had hit him in the chest. No one had ever fought over him like that before in his entire life. He must have made some kind of sound, because Bobby had immediately sat up and started the litany of apologies, "No one else heard. I swear. We wouldn't do that to you. We wouldn't embarrass you. I swear."
"I know," he had replied. Then, he used the one phrased guaranteed to ease Bobby's fears: "You're my friends."
Bobby had then given him a brilliant grin, one that could have potentially rivaled Scott's. St. John had retreated to his side of the room and had buried himself under the covers. He had wanted to hold on to that image in his head and he had known if anything else had been said, the spell would have been broken.
St. John had slept well that night and for the first time since he could remember, he had woken up actually looking forward to his birthday. It was 5:46 a.m. now, and he began wondering just when those mystical birthday cards would appear under the door. He wondered just how many he would get, if each of The Powers That Be would give him one or if it would be a group card. He wondered if each of his friends would give him one or if that would be a group card as well.
No. He knew that each of his friends would give him a card because Bobby and Lee-Lee had been fighting over him and probably couldn't agree on the type of card to give him. Pete would probably design his own because that's what their artist did for everyone's birthday. Maybe he would also do one for the group because he sometimes did that as well. Kitty's card would probably be on the mushy side, because she was very good at mushy things. Lee-Lee's would be half mushy and half obnoxious. No matter what the Mansion populace believed, they weren't dating although neither had actively tried to squelch the rumors, because the illusion sheltered them from the more vicious whispers.
As for Bobby… God only knew what his roommate would come up with.
There was a sound by the door, the soft yet heavy thump of footsteps outside of the bedroom door. It made perfect sense that Scott would be the one who delivered the cards in the boys' dorm. After all, Bobby had said that no one was stupid enough to spook someone in the morning, and Dr. Grey or Ms. Munroe prowling the hallways at Oh-God-Awful in the morning could definitely qualify as 'spooking'.
St. John watched in utter fascination as nine items were slid between the door and the hardwood floor. He found his emotions shifting to a weird, almost weightlessness. It wasn't like that first time, when his body had decided the shock of realization should involve him puking his guts up and passing out on Scott. It wasn't like last night when he had dissolved into uncontrollable fits of laughter. This time… it was an odd feeling. Sitting up in his bed, nestled in clean sheets and blankets, and staring his birthday cards, St. John thought about all that had happened since he had first arrived at the Mansion and just where he was in his life.
He was sixteen. He was alive and living in a mutant utopia. Things were downright good, odd and uncomfortable sometimes, but that was to be expected considering a) he was a teenaged male, b) he finally had somewhat of a stable home life complete with authority figures who actually had clues about things, and c) he was a mutant living in a Mansion of Mutants. He had a home and he wasn't afraid to call it that now.
He had friends, the real kind that in his old life had always been with other people. He had Kitty. He had Pete. He had his Lee-Lee who had probably argued ferociously on his behalf to ensure that he got what she believed was "what he wanted". He wondered what it had specifically been about because Bobby had been so adamant about being right and as much as St. John cared for Lee-Lee, he knew that Bobby knew his preferences in an almost creepy, obsessive way.
That sandwich on that day St. John had emotionally fallen apart was proof of that. It was proof of Bobby's dogged pursuit of winning St. John's trust and friendship. No one had ever made that type of effort, not even his Lee-Lee. Then again, Bobby had the advantage of sharing a room with him.
Bobby was the only reason perhaps he hadn't bolted from the Mansion those nights when he had woken up, terrified out of his mind, and desperate for some kind of attention. It was a different type of understanding than he had with Lee-Lee. Bobby had seen him at his barest of bare moments and had never once betrayed him. He was the only reason St. John's knee-jerk reaction to receiving birthday cards was not to burn them just because.
He got out of bed and padded over to the pile of cards.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually received birthday cards.
But that was his old life. That old life didn't matter any more.
This life did.
*****((( End Part 2)))*****