writers_muses 47.4 - Ficlet [Bad Day]
ooc: These events take place during the day of Thursday, Aug 7/08. (Tomorrow!) tm_northstar, doug_ramsey, siryn_song, and will_stiles used with permission by all their FABULOUS muns. Thanks, lovely muns! :)
Prompt: 47.4 - Ficlet: We all have those days where nothing seems to go right, well, today is your. Tell us about it.
There should be warning signs for a bad day, right from the start, from the moment one wakes up. The alarm not going off, nothing but dirty laundry when there's an important meeting, a spat with your lover, the shattered glass of a broken plate when you try to make breakfast.
But John wakes up that day like any other day, and nothing seems wrong. He wakes up a bit early, even, before the annoying buzzer of the alarm. He fools around with Doug in the shower. He puts on clean clothes. He has a good breakfast, and he does up the dishes before he leaves for the day. He leaves for work and nothing seems wrong.
The bad day starts out a little slowly. When he walks into the office, Jean-Paul pops his head up from his desk. "Coffee?" he asks hopefully. It's become a bit of a tradition that John will pick up coffee on the way to work.
John scowls. "Unless you want to suck it off my shirt..." Terry coughs, and John rolls his eyes. "I wasn't even talking anything sexual." He points at his shirt, where there is coffee stains down the front of it. "I hate cyclists," he mutters darkly. It's explanation enough.
At least Terry and Will have the decency to try not to laugh. Jean-Paul, on the other hand, does. "Oh, baby," he says, grinning.
John doesn't even let him say anything else. He holds up one finger and gives a Death Glare. "Don't even, Jean-Paul. Just don't."
John goes to sit down at his desk, and reaches down to press the power button on his old, junky computer. He wants to upgrade, says he would pay for it, but Terry keeps refusing to let John pay for anything else. Those are the computers they bought on their budget and those are the computers they are going to use.
Except that John isn't going to be able to use his today.
As soon as he presses the button, the thing starts smoking in the back. There's a spark, and John can feel it moving through the internal circuits of the tower - not quite fire so he can't stop it, but enough there to feel it and know that the computer is now fucked.
He stops it from catching on fire, at least.
"Fuck," he exclaims as he kicks the stupid thing, and shoves the keyboard across the desk in anger. "I have research for that report to do, and I didn't bring my laptop."
He looks over at his co-workers.
"Emails," Terry says.
Jean-Paul nods, and adds, "Proposals for the shelter, cher."
Will pipes up quietly. "Balancing accounts."
John sighs and stands up, grabbing his backpack. "Okay. I'm going to the library. I'll be back after lunch."
John does just that, and it's a rather uneventful trip. He finds different reports and on-line articles he needs, and he just sends them to his work email to use there when he brings his laptop in the next day. But without access to their server and the other information he's already collected and the report he started, he's got nothing else left to do for this particular task. He considers going home to get his laptop, but there are a lot of other projects at work he can work on without it, or phone calls to be made, so he may as well wait until tomorrow.
John heads back to work earlier then planned. When he enters the office, he doesn't even take two steps in before Jean-Paul is at his side, looking a little surprised. "John," Jean-Paul says, in his soft flowing accent so that John comes out more like Jean, JP's own name but different. "You're back early."
"Wow, personal boundaries at work there, JP," John says, smiling. The smile faulters a little when he sees a couple people through the small glass window of the small little boardroom they've actually been able to set up. John frowns. "We have a meeting? I didn't know we have a meeting."
"John, baby-"
John cuts him off. "Work, JP, don't call me that." Even though he did call him that earlier in the day. This is different. JP is trying to smooth something over. It's annoying John already.
"Fine," JP says, voice harder. "It is an impromptu meeting, we didn't know the Jeffersons were going to show up..."
The Jeffersons. The rich couple, both doctors, who would love to help out the Cassidy Health Center if it wasn't for that pesky former criminal who was employed there. Meaning, of course: John.
The Jeffersons. Whom were currently glancing at John uncertainly and who would probably get up and walk right out if he wasn't standing right in the exit. Terry is smiling, though obviously a little forced and lined with worry, and is trying to speak to them and distract them. Probably trying to make them stay.
"Right," John says flatly. He hikes his backpack up on his shoulder better, and reaches behind him to grab the door knob. He looks Jean-Paul right in the eyes. "You don't have to ask. I'll leave."
"John-"
John walks out, and Jean-Paul doesn't follow. They both know this is business.
There's a little coffee shop a couple blocks away, the opposite direction of the library, and John heads there this time. He buys a paper from a vendor, and when he gets there, he orders a sandwich and Dr. Pepper. He lounges on one of the couches, getting comfortable and trying to relax. He takes his time eating and reading, and doesn't pay much attention to anyone else.
Though, he notices the three big, burly human males in the corner watching him, whisper and pointing. They looked like washed up football players who used to be great in high school but were at least ten years past their prime. They know who he is, obviously. John snorts to himself, but he ignores them, doesn't even acknowledge them in any way. He's not in the mood for this shit today.
After an hour or so, someone from the office tries calling him. He lets it go to voicemail. They call him two more times. Finally, Jean-Paul texts John from his own cell: Done.
John rolls his eyes, and turns a page of the paper. He's not going to rush back. He's busy. Obviously.
When John feels good and ready - when he's let his (irrational, he knows) irritation and anger cool a little - he gets ready to go, leaving the paper behind on the table. He heads back to work, but when he gets to the building, he walks right on by.
He's being followed. He knew that pretty much a couple yards away from the coffee shop. Those guys from the coffee shop he was trying to ignore obviously don't want to be ignored.
There is no way in hell he's going to lead them back to the Center, though. Maybe they just know him as Pyro, and maybe they don't know anything about where he works and he's not going to put anyone else in possible danger, if they feel like retaliating or something. He can handle these goons.
He could lose them easily enough, given enough distance and time, looping around and going back to work. That would be the calm way of dealing with it, he's sure.
But his irritation levels are on the rise again and who do these fuckers think they are, anyway? If they know who they're dealing with, they really shouldn't be trying to mess with him. Not that he wants to show them a lesson or anything, but he's not going to dodge away like some sick wounded animal. He's going to confront them. He can deal with it.
He ducks into an alleyway between two large buildings, and keeps walking, trying to find an area away from the main strip and people, because he doesn't want anyone else involved and he certainly doesn't need anyone coming to his rescue. He finds a back lane, one-way and narrow but still obviously used often, and starts walking down it. It's the middle of the day, he's not worried.
The men follow, and when they get onto the same road as him, closing on him a bit, he turns around to face them. They don't pause or stop, but have menacing looks on their faces.
"Can I help you boys?" John asks with faux pleasantry as they approach.
"We know who you are," one says, the taller beefier one, the one with an AC/DC shirt on.
"Figured as much," John says dryly.
They have no fear, it seems, and walk right up to him, all of them just inches away. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't run. John stands there, firmly in place, and smirks at them. It's not a fight or flight situation - it's a fight, and he knows it. His hand slips into his pocket and curls around the lighter there, and pulls it out. They notice.
Oddly, it makes them smile.
"Goodies," the shortest one, nearly as short as John but stockier and nearly three times the size, says with a sneer, "wouldn't use their powers like that."
"We know what you really are, mutie," AC/DC says.
"Yeah we do," Stockier agrees, "and you really shouldn't be walking the streets right now." His voice drops to a menacing stage whisper. "You should be in a cage, animal."
The third one, who had been quiet the whole time, a face more thoughtful then hateful like the other two, pulled his arm back and swung his fist at John's face.
John easily blocked it, ducked and moved so that put some more space between him and the guys, but remained facing them. Somewhere behind him, he hears a door open and someone walk into theback lane; he took note of it but didn't look. He didn't want to turn his back on these guys.
"Did you see that?" Stockier asks.
"Sure did," AC/DC responds. "That mutie hit him."
"What?" John asks. "He fucking tried--"
He looks at Quiet Guy. All he does is smile.
John gets it now. He should have flight-ed. He asses what they want to do, and thinks fast - he needs a game plan.
He throws his lighter to the ground. "I'm not doing this," John says. It'll ruin everything, these punks trying to set him up. He thinks about his reputation, and how a hit (metaphorically) like this will hurt the Center. How he'll be nothing but a disappointment to Jean-Paul, and Terry, and Doug; how everyone who said he couldn't make it will comfort them and gloat about it. He will not let that happen. He won't.
He takes a step back, and it feels like he hits a brick wall of flesh. He glances over his shoulder, slightly, and sees some really big tall biker-type dude standing there. The person who came out the door. Please, god, oh please---
"This mutie bothering you?" Large hands like hams and strong like steel clasp at his shoulders.
Fuck. Of course.
There are three candles burning about three stories above. There's an wood-burning oven in the back of a restaurant two blocks away. Sparks on that car are more then close enough to the fuel tank. There are eighteen cigarettes lit within a hundred foot radius of him.
He feels it all, deep in the core of his bones, as he's dragged by the hair, the fists hit, and the boots kick.
Finally they're gone, but only because there were sirens going down the back lane. Not for them, but enough to scare them off. John lays in his curled position on the ground. His phone rings, the specialized tone he has picked for his co-worker and boyfriend. He doesn't answer. "Not now, JP," he says groans out loud. Thank god his phone was in his pocket, and his keys and wallet. They got the backpack. It had his rollerblades. Anything else? Shit, how much personal information was in there? The address of the Shelter? The address of his and Doug's home? He can't remember, there could be absolutely nothing. His mind's too fuzzy.
And now it's the ring for text messaging. Over and over. John finally reaches into his pocket, wincing at the pain spiking through his body, and pulls out the phone.
Where are you?
Get your ass back to work, slacker.
This isn't funny, scruffy.
Let us explain. It's okay!
John makes his way back to work, somehow, slowly and with people looking at him like he's some drunk bum who just got into a fight or something. Three people offer to help but he shakes his head and twelve people give him extra wide birth and six people cross the street to the other side, if they're able to do so without getting hit by traffic.
When he enters the office, he thinks suddenly that it wasn't something he should have done.
"John!" Terry exclaims. Will's eyes look big and round like some stupid anime cartoon or something.
But it's Jean-Paul who is at his side in an instant, reaching out to touch a cut on his forehead. "Cher--"
John ducks his head out of the way, even though the movement sorta hurts him anymore. "We're at work," John hisses, though his voice sounds rough and hoarse.
JP frowns. "Don't be stupid. John, let me--"
"Don't touch me," John says, and steps away from Jean-Paul.
He's not trying to mean and harsh; he really just doesn't want to be touched right now. He feels... disgusting. Weak. Broken. He had more then enough of that, and it should be over. He's getting mad and frustrated with all that anger that should have been channeled through a fight but instead he just took it, like some stupid weak child. A loser. He is a loser.
He takes more steps, back and to the side, not turning away from them but needing to get away. Why? He doesn't know. He shouldn't have come here. His head really hurts. He's limping, a little bit, and his chest hurts and he's not sure why but something in there pains him.
"What happened?" Terry asks, ever cool and rational.
"They tried to make me," John explains. Not that that makes sense in the least. "But I wouldn't. I will not."
"Who?"
"Those stupid humans," John answers bitterly. He sounds a lot more Pyro then he has in months.
"Make you do what?" JP asks shortly. He looks worried and pissed off at the same time.
"Go Pyro on their asses," John says. He laughs suddenly. It's funny. But it's not so he scowls, and when he bumps into the water cooler he turns on it quickly and pushes it over easily, and then twists his body and slams a fist into the fall as hard as he can. It's all with an angry adrenaline that's going to hurt a lot later on.
"I WILL NOT. FUCKING. FAIL."
That's pure John, all the way.
The water is gushing on the floor. No one says anything. He watches it for a second, but then pulls out his lighter. (They'd left it on the ground, his attackers. Why that, he doesn't know. Stupid thing to leave him, really. Morons.) He flicks it open and ignites it. He pulls on the flames. It's just about the most soothing thing for him right now, the feel of the flame so near and dear to him. It calms him right down.
He sheets the fire over the water, thin like paper but smoking hot. The water bubbles and there's a lot of steam that floats up from the floor. The room becomes very warm and humid but the water evaporates quickly.
"I'm going to leave now," John announces quietly. "Don't follow me."
"John-"
"No."
"You need to see a--"
"I'll go to a hospital. Alone." John looks at each of them, one at a time - Will, Terry, and JP. He looks long and hard at JP, and wipes the blood dripping from his nose with the back of his hand. "I'm not a fucking invalid. I'm not dying. I can do this one my own."
"I'll call a cab--"
John walks out. He just needs... out, right now.
He tries to walks a couple blocks but that doesn't work out so great for him, so he does hail himself a cab to take him to the nearest hospital. He gets put on the waiting list. The nurse looks both surprised and nervous when he hands over his ID, but he isn't kicked out. He waits a couple hours in that noisy waiting room, but he gets to see a doctor eventually. He has to get X-Rays. His ribs are cracked but not broken, luckily. There are bruises forming on his torso, and on his face. His ankle isn't broken but it's swollen pretty bad. (He has to use crutches for a couple days, to relieve it some.) His knuckles are swollen too but that's his own damn fault. And one of his eyes too - not his fault. None of the cuts on his face from those big stupid championship rings are deep enough to need stitches. He gets all patched up. A doctor tries to get him to put in a report to the police but John just shakes his head and barely speaks. He's not going to make this a big deal. He just wants it to all go away, really.
His cell phone is off the whole time. Not supposed to have it on in hospitals, you know.
He gets a prescription for meds and when he finally gets to leave, he gets it filled. He even pops a couple. He isn't sure what to do with himself, but he thinks he should probably go home now. He catches the cab, and gets dropped off, but when he sees home he can't make himself go to it yet.
He comes up with another plan. He goes into a little pub/restaurant instead, it's really not that far and he needs to get used to the crutches anyway. He goes in, with the full intentions of order a Dr. Pepper - and he does, but it turns out that in a place like this, that means a Coke with Amaretto. It tastes just like a Dr. Pepper. He almost sends it back, but what the fuck, right? This is what people in the real world, people trying to live normal lives, do. He's heard it, time and time again. Besides, it's Happy Hour. He could use a little Happy right now. It's been a long day.
A couple hours later, and he's decided that Happy Hour is the stupidest name in the planet and he's reminded why he doesn't drink. But at least it numbs the pain and getting back to the apartment is both easier and harder. Depends on which way you feel like looking at it.
The stairs, though. Those are a problem no matter which way you look at it. The boys are probably just up them, if they're at home, and they'd come help. (Maybe they're not. Maybe they just thought fuck it and went out drinking and dancing and picked up random hot men to screw. Yeah, maybe, John thinks as he scowls and slowly makes his way up the stairs. By himself because he doesn't need them and he can do it on his own.)
They're home. Doug and Jean-Paul come to the entrance way as soon as they hear the door open. John hobbles his way in, throws his crutches on the floor, and leans up against the back of the door. And promptly slides right down to the floor.
"Hi," he offers.
"You smell like a brewery," Jean-Paul says.
"J, are you drunk?" Doug asks, confused. "And, are you okay?"
They both move towards him but John holds up his hands.
"Oh, right, he doesn't want to be touched," Jean-Paul says, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Tabernac, this is stupid, John!"
Doug sits down on the floor in front of John, cross-legged, and props his elbows on his knees and rests his hands on his fists. He watches John. "Are you okay?"
"Can I sleep right here?" John asks, pointing to the ground. Man, his head hurts. And it's spinning. And it hurts. And it's still spinning. "And I puked on the porch."
"No," Doug says easily, and adds, "gross."
John nods. No, he can't sleep there. And it is gross.
Jean-Paul is pacing, and muttering in French. John has no idea what he's saying, he never does, but Doug glances over his shoulder and sort of grins. He must be venting in some sort of ridiculous fashion, John surmises. Doug looks back at John. "He's been worried," Doug explains. "We both have."
John nods. He knows. "Can I go to sleep in our bed now?"
"Yes," Doug says, and stands up. He doesn't offer to help John, but waits patiently, standing there and making sure John is okay.
John gets himself most of the way up, but his ankle gives a little bit and he starts to topple over, but Jean-Paul is there (yet again) in a blink of an eye. "Chrisse," he mutters. "Too fucking bad, cher, I'm helping you."
John decides not to argue. After all, he can't really stand up right now. "Okay." John leans heavily into him. If JP insists on helping him, he's going to have to really help him.
They make their way to the bedroom, JP helping John along. They both help him strip down to his boxers and John makes some crass comments about that, but he's really not in the mood. They know it. John gets into bed and his eyes close as soon as his head hits the pillow. The world still feels like it's spinning and he sorta wants to roll out of bed to make it stop but that would take way too much energy and it's kinda comfy where he is.
"I've had a really bad day."
He feels a kiss on his forehead and a hand in his hair. He doesn't really mind that much, it's his boys, is the last thing he remembers thinking.
Prompt: 47.4 - Ficlet: We all have those days where nothing seems to go right, well, today is your. Tell us about it.
There should be warning signs for a bad day, right from the start, from the moment one wakes up. The alarm not going off, nothing but dirty laundry when there's an important meeting, a spat with your lover, the shattered glass of a broken plate when you try to make breakfast.
But John wakes up that day like any other day, and nothing seems wrong. He wakes up a bit early, even, before the annoying buzzer of the alarm. He fools around with Doug in the shower. He puts on clean clothes. He has a good breakfast, and he does up the dishes before he leaves for the day. He leaves for work and nothing seems wrong.
The bad day starts out a little slowly. When he walks into the office, Jean-Paul pops his head up from his desk. "Coffee?" he asks hopefully. It's become a bit of a tradition that John will pick up coffee on the way to work.
John scowls. "Unless you want to suck it off my shirt..." Terry coughs, and John rolls his eyes. "I wasn't even talking anything sexual." He points at his shirt, where there is coffee stains down the front of it. "I hate cyclists," he mutters darkly. It's explanation enough.
At least Terry and Will have the decency to try not to laugh. Jean-Paul, on the other hand, does. "Oh, baby," he says, grinning.
John doesn't even let him say anything else. He holds up one finger and gives a Death Glare. "Don't even, Jean-Paul. Just don't."
John goes to sit down at his desk, and reaches down to press the power button on his old, junky computer. He wants to upgrade, says he would pay for it, but Terry keeps refusing to let John pay for anything else. Those are the computers they bought on their budget and those are the computers they are going to use.
Except that John isn't going to be able to use his today.
As soon as he presses the button, the thing starts smoking in the back. There's a spark, and John can feel it moving through the internal circuits of the tower - not quite fire so he can't stop it, but enough there to feel it and know that the computer is now fucked.
He stops it from catching on fire, at least.
"Fuck," he exclaims as he kicks the stupid thing, and shoves the keyboard across the desk in anger. "I have research for that report to do, and I didn't bring my laptop."
He looks over at his co-workers.
"Emails," Terry says.
Jean-Paul nods, and adds, "Proposals for the shelter, cher."
Will pipes up quietly. "Balancing accounts."
John sighs and stands up, grabbing his backpack. "Okay. I'm going to the library. I'll be back after lunch."
John does just that, and it's a rather uneventful trip. He finds different reports and on-line articles he needs, and he just sends them to his work email to use there when he brings his laptop in the next day. But without access to their server and the other information he's already collected and the report he started, he's got nothing else left to do for this particular task. He considers going home to get his laptop, but there are a lot of other projects at work he can work on without it, or phone calls to be made, so he may as well wait until tomorrow.
John heads back to work earlier then planned. When he enters the office, he doesn't even take two steps in before Jean-Paul is at his side, looking a little surprised. "John," Jean-Paul says, in his soft flowing accent so that John comes out more like Jean, JP's own name but different. "You're back early."
"Wow, personal boundaries at work there, JP," John says, smiling. The smile faulters a little when he sees a couple people through the small glass window of the small little boardroom they've actually been able to set up. John frowns. "We have a meeting? I didn't know we have a meeting."
"John, baby-"
John cuts him off. "Work, JP, don't call me that." Even though he did call him that earlier in the day. This is different. JP is trying to smooth something over. It's annoying John already.
"Fine," JP says, voice harder. "It is an impromptu meeting, we didn't know the Jeffersons were going to show up..."
The Jeffersons. The rich couple, both doctors, who would love to help out the Cassidy Health Center if it wasn't for that pesky former criminal who was employed there. Meaning, of course: John.
The Jeffersons. Whom were currently glancing at John uncertainly and who would probably get up and walk right out if he wasn't standing right in the exit. Terry is smiling, though obviously a little forced and lined with worry, and is trying to speak to them and distract them. Probably trying to make them stay.
"Right," John says flatly. He hikes his backpack up on his shoulder better, and reaches behind him to grab the door knob. He looks Jean-Paul right in the eyes. "You don't have to ask. I'll leave."
"John-"
John walks out, and Jean-Paul doesn't follow. They both know this is business.
There's a little coffee shop a couple blocks away, the opposite direction of the library, and John heads there this time. He buys a paper from a vendor, and when he gets there, he orders a sandwich and Dr. Pepper. He lounges on one of the couches, getting comfortable and trying to relax. He takes his time eating and reading, and doesn't pay much attention to anyone else.
Though, he notices the three big, burly human males in the corner watching him, whisper and pointing. They looked like washed up football players who used to be great in high school but were at least ten years past their prime. They know who he is, obviously. John snorts to himself, but he ignores them, doesn't even acknowledge them in any way. He's not in the mood for this shit today.
After an hour or so, someone from the office tries calling him. He lets it go to voicemail. They call him two more times. Finally, Jean-Paul texts John from his own cell: Done.
John rolls his eyes, and turns a page of the paper. He's not going to rush back. He's busy. Obviously.
When John feels good and ready - when he's let his (irrational, he knows) irritation and anger cool a little - he gets ready to go, leaving the paper behind on the table. He heads back to work, but when he gets to the building, he walks right on by.
He's being followed. He knew that pretty much a couple yards away from the coffee shop. Those guys from the coffee shop he was trying to ignore obviously don't want to be ignored.
There is no way in hell he's going to lead them back to the Center, though. Maybe they just know him as Pyro, and maybe they don't know anything about where he works and he's not going to put anyone else in possible danger, if they feel like retaliating or something. He can handle these goons.
He could lose them easily enough, given enough distance and time, looping around and going back to work. That would be the calm way of dealing with it, he's sure.
But his irritation levels are on the rise again and who do these fuckers think they are, anyway? If they know who they're dealing with, they really shouldn't be trying to mess with him. Not that he wants to show them a lesson or anything, but he's not going to dodge away like some sick wounded animal. He's going to confront them. He can deal with it.
He ducks into an alleyway between two large buildings, and keeps walking, trying to find an area away from the main strip and people, because he doesn't want anyone else involved and he certainly doesn't need anyone coming to his rescue. He finds a back lane, one-way and narrow but still obviously used often, and starts walking down it. It's the middle of the day, he's not worried.
The men follow, and when they get onto the same road as him, closing on him a bit, he turns around to face them. They don't pause or stop, but have menacing looks on their faces.
"Can I help you boys?" John asks with faux pleasantry as they approach.
"We know who you are," one says, the taller beefier one, the one with an AC/DC shirt on.
"Figured as much," John says dryly.
They have no fear, it seems, and walk right up to him, all of them just inches away. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't run. John stands there, firmly in place, and smirks at them. It's not a fight or flight situation - it's a fight, and he knows it. His hand slips into his pocket and curls around the lighter there, and pulls it out. They notice.
Oddly, it makes them smile.
"Goodies," the shortest one, nearly as short as John but stockier and nearly three times the size, says with a sneer, "wouldn't use their powers like that."
"We know what you really are, mutie," AC/DC says.
"Yeah we do," Stockier agrees, "and you really shouldn't be walking the streets right now." His voice drops to a menacing stage whisper. "You should be in a cage, animal."
The third one, who had been quiet the whole time, a face more thoughtful then hateful like the other two, pulled his arm back and swung his fist at John's face.
John easily blocked it, ducked and moved so that put some more space between him and the guys, but remained facing them. Somewhere behind him, he hears a door open and someone walk into theback lane; he took note of it but didn't look. He didn't want to turn his back on these guys.
"Did you see that?" Stockier asks.
"Sure did," AC/DC responds. "That mutie hit him."
"What?" John asks. "He fucking tried--"
He looks at Quiet Guy. All he does is smile.
John gets it now. He should have flight-ed. He asses what they want to do, and thinks fast - he needs a game plan.
He throws his lighter to the ground. "I'm not doing this," John says. It'll ruin everything, these punks trying to set him up. He thinks about his reputation, and how a hit (metaphorically) like this will hurt the Center. How he'll be nothing but a disappointment to Jean-Paul, and Terry, and Doug; how everyone who said he couldn't make it will comfort them and gloat about it. He will not let that happen. He won't.
He takes a step back, and it feels like he hits a brick wall of flesh. He glances over his shoulder, slightly, and sees some really big tall biker-type dude standing there. The person who came out the door. Please, god, oh please---
"This mutie bothering you?" Large hands like hams and strong like steel clasp at his shoulders.
Fuck. Of course.
There are three candles burning about three stories above. There's an wood-burning oven in the back of a restaurant two blocks away. Sparks on that car are more then close enough to the fuel tank. There are eighteen cigarettes lit within a hundred foot radius of him.
He feels it all, deep in the core of his bones, as he's dragged by the hair, the fists hit, and the boots kick.
Finally they're gone, but only because there were sirens going down the back lane. Not for them, but enough to scare them off. John lays in his curled position on the ground. His phone rings, the specialized tone he has picked for his co-worker and boyfriend. He doesn't answer. "Not now, JP," he says groans out loud. Thank god his phone was in his pocket, and his keys and wallet. They got the backpack. It had his rollerblades. Anything else? Shit, how much personal information was in there? The address of the Shelter? The address of his and Doug's home? He can't remember, there could be absolutely nothing. His mind's too fuzzy.
And now it's the ring for text messaging. Over and over. John finally reaches into his pocket, wincing at the pain spiking through his body, and pulls out the phone.
Where are you?
Get your ass back to work, slacker.
This isn't funny, scruffy.
Let us explain. It's okay!
John makes his way back to work, somehow, slowly and with people looking at him like he's some drunk bum who just got into a fight or something. Three people offer to help but he shakes his head and twelve people give him extra wide birth and six people cross the street to the other side, if they're able to do so without getting hit by traffic.
When he enters the office, he thinks suddenly that it wasn't something he should have done.
"John!" Terry exclaims. Will's eyes look big and round like some stupid anime cartoon or something.
But it's Jean-Paul who is at his side in an instant, reaching out to touch a cut on his forehead. "Cher--"
John ducks his head out of the way, even though the movement sorta hurts him anymore. "We're at work," John hisses, though his voice sounds rough and hoarse.
JP frowns. "Don't be stupid. John, let me--"
"Don't touch me," John says, and steps away from Jean-Paul.
He's not trying to mean and harsh; he really just doesn't want to be touched right now. He feels... disgusting. Weak. Broken. He had more then enough of that, and it should be over. He's getting mad and frustrated with all that anger that should have been channeled through a fight but instead he just took it, like some stupid weak child. A loser. He is a loser.
He takes more steps, back and to the side, not turning away from them but needing to get away. Why? He doesn't know. He shouldn't have come here. His head really hurts. He's limping, a little bit, and his chest hurts and he's not sure why but something in there pains him.
"What happened?" Terry asks, ever cool and rational.
"They tried to make me," John explains. Not that that makes sense in the least. "But I wouldn't. I will not."
"Who?"
"Those stupid humans," John answers bitterly. He sounds a lot more Pyro then he has in months.
"Make you do what?" JP asks shortly. He looks worried and pissed off at the same time.
"Go Pyro on their asses," John says. He laughs suddenly. It's funny. But it's not so he scowls, and when he bumps into the water cooler he turns on it quickly and pushes it over easily, and then twists his body and slams a fist into the fall as hard as he can. It's all with an angry adrenaline that's going to hurt a lot later on.
"I WILL NOT. FUCKING. FAIL."
That's pure John, all the way.
The water is gushing on the floor. No one says anything. He watches it for a second, but then pulls out his lighter. (They'd left it on the ground, his attackers. Why that, he doesn't know. Stupid thing to leave him, really. Morons.) He flicks it open and ignites it. He pulls on the flames. It's just about the most soothing thing for him right now, the feel of the flame so near and dear to him. It calms him right down.
He sheets the fire over the water, thin like paper but smoking hot. The water bubbles and there's a lot of steam that floats up from the floor. The room becomes very warm and humid but the water evaporates quickly.
"I'm going to leave now," John announces quietly. "Don't follow me."
"John-"
"No."
"You need to see a--"
"I'll go to a hospital. Alone." John looks at each of them, one at a time - Will, Terry, and JP. He looks long and hard at JP, and wipes the blood dripping from his nose with the back of his hand. "I'm not a fucking invalid. I'm not dying. I can do this one my own."
"I'll call a cab--"
John walks out. He just needs... out, right now.
He tries to walks a couple blocks but that doesn't work out so great for him, so he does hail himself a cab to take him to the nearest hospital. He gets put on the waiting list. The nurse looks both surprised and nervous when he hands over his ID, but he isn't kicked out. He waits a couple hours in that noisy waiting room, but he gets to see a doctor eventually. He has to get X-Rays. His ribs are cracked but not broken, luckily. There are bruises forming on his torso, and on his face. His ankle isn't broken but it's swollen pretty bad. (He has to use crutches for a couple days, to relieve it some.) His knuckles are swollen too but that's his own damn fault. And one of his eyes too - not his fault. None of the cuts on his face from those big stupid championship rings are deep enough to need stitches. He gets all patched up. A doctor tries to get him to put in a report to the police but John just shakes his head and barely speaks. He's not going to make this a big deal. He just wants it to all go away, really.
His cell phone is off the whole time. Not supposed to have it on in hospitals, you know.
He gets a prescription for meds and when he finally gets to leave, he gets it filled. He even pops a couple. He isn't sure what to do with himself, but he thinks he should probably go home now. He catches the cab, and gets dropped off, but when he sees home he can't make himself go to it yet.
He comes up with another plan. He goes into a little pub/restaurant instead, it's really not that far and he needs to get used to the crutches anyway. He goes in, with the full intentions of order a Dr. Pepper - and he does, but it turns out that in a place like this, that means a Coke with Amaretto. It tastes just like a Dr. Pepper. He almost sends it back, but what the fuck, right? This is what people in the real world, people trying to live normal lives, do. He's heard it, time and time again. Besides, it's Happy Hour. He could use a little Happy right now. It's been a long day.
A couple hours later, and he's decided that Happy Hour is the stupidest name in the planet and he's reminded why he doesn't drink. But at least it numbs the pain and getting back to the apartment is both easier and harder. Depends on which way you feel like looking at it.
The stairs, though. Those are a problem no matter which way you look at it. The boys are probably just up them, if they're at home, and they'd come help. (Maybe they're not. Maybe they just thought fuck it and went out drinking and dancing and picked up random hot men to screw. Yeah, maybe, John thinks as he scowls and slowly makes his way up the stairs. By himself because he doesn't need them and he can do it on his own.)
They're home. Doug and Jean-Paul come to the entrance way as soon as they hear the door open. John hobbles his way in, throws his crutches on the floor, and leans up against the back of the door. And promptly slides right down to the floor.
"Hi," he offers.
"You smell like a brewery," Jean-Paul says.
"J, are you drunk?" Doug asks, confused. "And, are you okay?"
They both move towards him but John holds up his hands.
"Oh, right, he doesn't want to be touched," Jean-Paul says, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Tabernac, this is stupid, John!"
Doug sits down on the floor in front of John, cross-legged, and props his elbows on his knees and rests his hands on his fists. He watches John. "Are you okay?"
"Can I sleep right here?" John asks, pointing to the ground. Man, his head hurts. And it's spinning. And it hurts. And it's still spinning. "And I puked on the porch."
"No," Doug says easily, and adds, "gross."
John nods. No, he can't sleep there. And it is gross.
Jean-Paul is pacing, and muttering in French. John has no idea what he's saying, he never does, but Doug glances over his shoulder and sort of grins. He must be venting in some sort of ridiculous fashion, John surmises. Doug looks back at John. "He's been worried," Doug explains. "We both have."
John nods. He knows. "Can I go to sleep in our bed now?"
"Yes," Doug says, and stands up. He doesn't offer to help John, but waits patiently, standing there and making sure John is okay.
John gets himself most of the way up, but his ankle gives a little bit and he starts to topple over, but Jean-Paul is there (yet again) in a blink of an eye. "Chrisse," he mutters. "Too fucking bad, cher, I'm helping you."
John decides not to argue. After all, he can't really stand up right now. "Okay." John leans heavily into him. If JP insists on helping him, he's going to have to really help him.
They make their way to the bedroom, JP helping John along. They both help him strip down to his boxers and John makes some crass comments about that, but he's really not in the mood. They know it. John gets into bed and his eyes close as soon as his head hits the pillow. The world still feels like it's spinning and he sorta wants to roll out of bed to make it stop but that would take way too much energy and it's kinda comfy where he is.
"I've had a really bad day."
He feels a kiss on his forehead and a hand in his hair. He doesn't really mind that much, it's his boys, is the last thing he remembers thinking.