Pyro knows stuff. Not like freaky little Lie-lah, but he knows stuff. He's Magneto's right hand for fuck's sake.
He knows stuff. He knows Mike only joined the Brotherhood to make some goddamn point that no one else gets, that he'll help or hinder without rhyme or reason. He knows it's just Alkali lake all over again, pushing and pushing just to see what happens.
("You're a God among insects," Magneto says, and it's Mike who says, "yeah, but that's not exactly hard, is it?" and casually hits on Magneto and Mystique for the rest of the trip, Mike who's half a step behind him when he leaves, who holds him up when the pain comes, who's at his shoulder when Magneto returns for them with a cheery "wotcher, boss!" and an "ow!" when Mystique slaps him. "Kinky.")
Pyro knows stuff. He knows it's just the intimacy of telepathy that makes Mike so egregiously tactile - the nudges, the casual arm on his shoulders, the leaning - because what's personal space when you can't help hearing everything people are thinking? He knows Mike doesn't really feel the heat or the cold, that there's nothing to the habit of wandering around in just jeans, temptation of a tattoo peeking up over the waistband, except absent-minded convenience. He knows Mike is ninety percent bluff and bluster and nine percent sheer fucking power and that one last percent you have to watch out for, when he's running hot and dangerous and just a bit vicious, all sweat slick glowing and that sharp grin burning right at him, so motherfucking incandescent--
It's just a powers thing. You don't question mutant nature. Or you get Toad talking about his tongue which. No. Just, no.
Pyro knows stuff. Because he pays attention to his people. He watches his team, his family, his Brotherhood. Keeps an eye out for them, for problems and unexpected talents, like Magneto would want. That's why he goes to training sessions. That's why he keeps the observation windows dark, so they can't see him, so he wont distract them. He's just doing his job.
--and Mystique moves with preternatural grace, shifting muscles stronger, joints more flexible, and Mike blocks her punch and laughs when she flows around the energy strike, cough-laughs when her foot impacts against his stomach, driving him back, and they come back together, blur, white on blue, then red, and Pyro almost calls a halt but they're both grinning, feinting and fighting and fuck if they're not flirting, Mystique slamming Mike against the wall, and he just lets her, grin never changing until she says
"I know what you want"
and he says, serious all of a sudden, still of a sudden,
"pretend"
and she puts her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down and he goes, on his knees and looking up at her. Plea or desire or something, and Pyro almost calls a halt, almost leaves, because there's a line and he thinks he's going to cross it and that would be bad, maybe. Except--
Except the hips Mike puts his hands on are male, not female. Flesh, not blue. Goddamn if Pyro doesn't recognise the cock almost before Mystique's new face. His reflection gapes at him. His duplicate smiles at him, that stupid knowing Mystique smile on his own face. Then his-her head goes back and her-his hands clench in Mike's hair, guiding his head up and down and up and down and it turns out he crossed the line miles back.
Because, as it turns out, Pyro doesn't know anything at all.
They're fucking when the end comes, Mike's hand in his hair, legs around him, kissing with a desperation John only understands later when it, like everything else, is Too Late. They're coming together hard enough to slam the bed into the wall, relentless bam bam over the metallic twang of springs, under the gasps and groans, and John actually thinks the first explosion is part of it, all in his head, sex and noise. Mike wraps tighter around him, squeezes, don't stop still echoing in John's head when the second explosion shakes the entire room; the lube falls off the table, rolls under the bed.
"--the fuck?" John manages.
"Please," Mike says, but John's already pulling out, pulling free of Mike's grip.
Gunfire coughs and rattles somewhere nearby. John half falls off the bed, stumbling as he pulls on his jeans, tucking his cock inside and fuck, still hard, blue balls, fucking explosions and fighting going on, he can hear it now, and Mike is--
Mike, in fact, hasn't moved. Fresh bite marks on his neck, his shoulder. A glistening trail of precome and lube on his ass, his thigh. Debauched. Looking at him, face expressionless, eyes pale and blue and sad.
"What the fuck?" John says again.
"Stay," Mike says. Pleads.
"What's going on?" John knows, though. Heavy in his stomach. Hands shaking. And. Oh. Oh god. "What did you do?" Voice rising, tighter. "Mike? What have you done?"
He knows. His lighter is missing. Mike sits up, slouched in on himself. Meets John's gaze. Doesn't look away.
"I have to go," John says. "Are you going to stop me?"
Toad crashes through the door. There's blood on his jacket, but it's not his. John doesn't think it's his.
"You fucker," he says. "You fucking gene-trash traitor, you--"
Toad's tongue lashes out. John can't move. His legs won't work. His hands keep clenching. He's not wearing his flamethrowers. Of course not, he was just-- Just being fucking distracted by his fucking whatever-the-hell-Mike-is. Dead it seems, because, there's that tongue, and maybe everyone is slow, not just him, because Mike is looking right at him when he reaches up and catches Toad's tongue, still looking right at him when Toad spins off his feet and smashes into the wall, still looking when the tongue snaps back, which might be funny some other time, except Mike just threw Toad into the wall and, what. the. fuck?!
"He's fine," Mike says. "Barely stunned. No one dies today. You understand that, right? No one has to die. Not any more. Not ever. Please, John."
"Pyro," John says.
"Pyro."
"No." He doesn't know what he's saying no to, just: no. There's fire outside. All those explosions. He doesn't need his lighter. He doesn't need any of this. No. Shoes. He needs his shoes. He pulls them on. Toad is breathing, he can see the jacket rise and fall. His shoes are on. The door's still open. Mike hasn't moved.
"You've ruined everything," John says.
"Not everything."
"You always-- You have to be fucking right about every fucking thing."
"Not everything," Mike repeats.
"I hate you." John turns away.
Except Mike is suddenly in the doorway, in front of him, dressed somehow, black leathers, Shaman armor, saying, "I know," and when John tries to shove past, Mike grabs him, pushes him back against the doorframe and kisses him, hot and hard and hungry. Response is instinctive, despite himself, lips parting, hands moving, tongues together, and John stumbles forward when Mike finally pulls back -- not just back, but completely away, turning without another word and striding off down the corridor, a half dozen places and then flying, and then boom, and gone.
No one dies. The battle is swift and brutal and over before he gets to it, and no one dies. A combined mutant, meta and human surprise attack, and no one dies, and Mike does not look his way again, not even when he's cuffed and bound, not even when he's being driven away. Some ditzy redhead is enthusiastically explaining something he doesn't listen to, just words like 'redemption' and 'morals' and 'new government pro-mutant policy movement' and 'Freedom Force'. John stares at the window, looking back, seeing Mike become smaller and smaller and never once looking his way.
He knows stuff. He knows Mike only joined the Brotherhood to make some goddamn point that no one else gets, that he'll help or hinder without rhyme or reason. He knows it's just Alkali lake all over again, pushing and pushing just to see what happens.
("You're a God among insects," Magneto says, and it's Mike who says, "yeah, but that's not exactly hard, is it?" and casually hits on Magneto and Mystique for the rest of the trip, Mike who's half a step behind him when he leaves, who holds him up when the pain comes, who's at his shoulder when Magneto returns for them with a cheery "wotcher, boss!" and an "ow!" when Mystique slaps him. "Kinky.")
Pyro knows stuff. He knows it's just the intimacy of telepathy that makes Mike so egregiously tactile - the nudges, the casual arm on his shoulders, the leaning - because what's personal space when you can't help hearing everything people are thinking? He knows Mike doesn't really feel the heat or the cold, that there's nothing to the habit of wandering around in just jeans, temptation of a tattoo peeking up over the waistband, except absent-minded convenience. He knows Mike is ninety percent bluff and bluster and nine percent sheer fucking power and that one last percent you have to watch out for, when he's running hot and dangerous and just a bit vicious, all sweat slick glowing and that sharp grin burning right at him, so motherfucking incandescent--
It's just a powers thing. You don't question mutant nature. Or you get Toad talking about his tongue which. No. Just, no.
Pyro knows stuff. Because he pays attention to his people. He watches his team, his family, his Brotherhood. Keeps an eye out for them, for problems and unexpected talents, like Magneto would want. That's why he goes to training sessions. That's why he keeps the observation windows dark, so they can't see him, so he wont distract them. He's just doing his job.
--and Mystique moves with preternatural grace, shifting muscles stronger, joints more flexible, and Mike blocks her punch and laughs when she flows around the energy strike, cough-laughs when her foot impacts against his stomach, driving him back, and they come back together, blur, white on blue, then red, and Pyro almost calls a halt but they're both grinning, feinting and fighting and fuck if they're not flirting, Mystique slamming Mike against the wall, and he just lets her, grin never changing until she says
"I know what you want"
and he says, serious all of a sudden, still of a sudden,
"pretend"
and she puts her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down and he goes, on his knees and looking up at her. Plea or desire or something, and Pyro almost calls a halt, almost leaves, because there's a line and he thinks he's going to cross it and that would be bad, maybe. Except--
Except the hips Mike puts his hands on are male, not female. Flesh, not blue. Goddamn if Pyro doesn't recognise the cock almost before Mystique's new face. His reflection gapes at him. His duplicate smiles at him, that stupid knowing Mystique smile on his own face. Then his-her head goes back and her-his hands clench in Mike's hair, guiding his head up and down and up and down and it turns out he crossed the line miles back.
Because, as it turns out, Pyro doesn't know anything at all.
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Explosively, at any rate. :p
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"--the fuck?" John manages.
"Please," Mike says, but John's already pulling out, pulling free of Mike's grip.
Gunfire coughs and rattles somewhere nearby. John half falls off the bed, stumbling as he pulls on his jeans, tucking his cock inside and fuck, still hard, blue balls, fucking explosions and fighting going on, he can hear it now, and Mike is--
Mike, in fact, hasn't moved. Fresh bite marks on his neck, his shoulder. A glistening trail of precome and lube on his ass, his thigh. Debauched. Looking at him, face expressionless, eyes pale and blue and sad.
"What the fuck?" John says again.
"Stay," Mike says. Pleads.
"What's going on?" John knows, though. Heavy in his stomach. Hands shaking. And. Oh. Oh god. "What did you do?" Voice rising, tighter. "Mike? What have you done?"
He knows. His lighter is missing. Mike sits up, slouched in on himself. Meets John's gaze. Doesn't look away.
"I have to go," John says. "Are you going to stop me?"
Toad crashes through the door. There's blood on his jacket, but it's not his. John doesn't think it's his.
"You fucker," he says. "You fucking gene-trash traitor, you--"
Toad's tongue lashes out. John can't move. His legs won't work. His hands keep clenching. He's not wearing his flamethrowers. Of course not, he was just-- Just being fucking distracted by his fucking whatever-the-hell-Mike-is. Dead it seems, because, there's that tongue, and maybe everyone is slow, not just him, because Mike is looking right at him when he reaches up and catches Toad's tongue, still looking right at him when Toad spins off his feet and smashes into the wall, still looking when the tongue snaps back, which might be funny some other time, except Mike just threw Toad into the wall and, what. the. fuck?!
"He's fine," Mike says. "Barely stunned. No one dies today. You understand that, right? No one has to die. Not any more. Not ever. Please, John."
"Pyro," John says.
"Pyro."
"No." He doesn't know what he's saying no to, just: no. There's fire outside. All those explosions. He doesn't need his lighter. He doesn't need any of this. No. Shoes. He needs his shoes. He pulls them on. Toad is breathing, he can see the jacket rise and fall. His shoes are on. The door's still open. Mike hasn't moved.
"You've ruined everything," John says.
"Not everything."
"You always-- You have to be fucking right about every fucking thing."
"Not everything," Mike repeats.
"I hate you." John turns away.
Except Mike is suddenly in the doorway, in front of him, dressed somehow, black leathers, Shaman armor, saying, "I know," and when John tries to shove past, Mike grabs him, pushes him back against the doorframe and kisses him, hot and hard and hungry. Response is instinctive, despite himself, lips parting, hands moving, tongues together, and John stumbles forward when Mike finally pulls back -- not just back, but completely away, turning without another word and striding off down the corridor, a half dozen places and then flying, and then boom, and gone.
No one dies. The battle is swift and brutal and over before he gets to it, and no one dies. A combined mutant, meta and human surprise attack, and no one dies, and Mike does not look his way again, not even when he's cuffed and bound, not even when he's being driven away. Some ditzy redhead is enthusiastically explaining something he doesn't listen to, just words like 'redemption' and 'morals' and 'new government pro-mutant policy movement' and 'Freedom Force'. John stares at the window, looking back, seeing Mike become smaller and smaller and never once looking his way.
No one dies, but it feels that way, all the same.
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