Fic: Prodigal Son
There's an advanced math class, listlessly stabbing at pieces of cake, morose and teacherless.
There's a stack of newspapers, piled up on an otherwise abandoned table in a dining hall, getting another day's edition tossed dejectedly on top of it.
There's a folded page torn out of a newpaper, stuck inside a faded jeans' back pocket.
**
St John is unaware of exactly how long he’s been waiting when the blue car pulls up, but he’s sure that with the 613 mile distance between Salem Center and Oak Ridge, Cyclops must’ve done more than break a few speed limits.
The people buying and selling vegetables and meat at the small town square market all turn to stare at the fancy car and the haggard-looking man climbing out of it. St John gets up from his fountain edge spot, glad that this part of the journey is over, if a little apprehensive of his teacher’s welcome. When he actually gets a look at Mr Summers’ face, however, he takes an involuntary step back and has to swallow hard in a futile attempt to hide his shock.
“You look like shit.”
The market vendors who’ve actually spoken to St John eye Scott warily as he approaches the teen and deflects his words with a hoarse
“Why thank you, tough guy.”
Taking the few necessary steps towards the boy who against all odds has agreed to be, still, his charge, he is all too aware of all the times Storm and Logan have berated him for not shaving, not eating, not going outside, not sleeping; also aware of the one time Logan threw a fit at Charles for not making him. He knows, and is not proud of the fact, that he’s been going on barely functioning autopilot, worrying the hell out of his friends and scaring the children.
“That your stuff?” he asks, indicating a small backpack, and it’s mostly to avert St John’s attention from stubble, pale and shallow skin, and the dark rings under his eyes, too pronounced to be hidden under ruby quartz glasses.
“Yeah,” St John says, and Scott picks it up.
“Get in,” he says, motioning towards the car that is even now sporting faint, barely visible scorch marks. “Not the passenger seat - seven hours behind the wheel have made me officially unsafe. I brought your license, you drive.”
An incredulous look on his face, St John catches the keys and tries not to wince at the state he put every student's favorite car’s paint job in. Slipping inside, he waits for Scott to fasten his seatbelt, gives a short wave to the surprisingly friendly if inconveniently curious market people, then turns on the engine and makes to leave the small town, feeling a little dazed, a little shocked, and immensely relieved.
**
The first hundred miles are spent quietly. There are a lot of trucks on the road, so they can't go very fast. As Scott dozes in the passenger seat, St John smirks at the thought that whereas Wolverine compulsively had to do everything by himself on the infamous impromptu trip to Boston, Cyclops has taught Pyro to handle the machinery of the blue car wonder himself - the radio being the very deliberate exception - and thus, trusts him to drive.
After about two hours, Scott wakes up a bit and rummages around the glove compartment for something to eat. While St John waits for an opportunity to overtake a particularly trying, orange tractor, the older man consumes a sandwich of questionable date of expiry.
"We've set up cameras around the entrances," Scott says once he's finished wiping his fingers on a handkerchief. "They're connected to screens in the teachers' offices and a section in the TV-room, so that any of you can check them at any time - outside school hours, obviously. We've got Jones watching them at night."
The annoying tractor finally turns left, and St John steps on the gas pedal.
"We're installing new doors at the entrance to the dorms. It took Forge a while to get ready, but it should be done in a week or so. They're similar to those that lead to Cerebro in the basement, but will recognize all the students, staff, and some of the parents."
St John snorts derisively at the 'parent' part, thus confirming to Scott that he's listening - judging by the ferocity with which he doesn't take his eyes off the road in front of them, quite intently at that. Scott hopes that the frequent visits that an admittedly disturbingly small number of family members pay the Mansion, have paid ever since the attack, will eventually convince St John that while rare, it is possible for mutants to fare better than he or Rogue or Bobby did, both in regard to parents as well as siblings.
"We're having weekly meetings discussing ideas for traps some of the children come up with - I'm sure you won't be surprised that your friend Jubilee has proven herself especially devious in that department. We're also stepping up everyone's combative training."
Scott lets the next ten miles pass by in silence, giving St John a second to process what he's said thus far, and maybe even think of what these changes will do to his schedule. Then, he says in a voice that is still quiet but startling in its intensity: "But most importantly, we won't ever split up like that again. Hank has agreed to come when we call him, as has Warren, and two others - a human father and his brother who’ve both been trained in the military. From now on, there will be at least two trained X-Men at the Mansion or wherever you kids go off to at all times, even when Ororo and Logan and I have to leave on a mission."
From the driver's seat, the only response is an increased pressure applied to the gas pedal.
**
Another hour behind the wheel, and St John hasn't commented on anything Scott has told him. He's focusing intently on the road, there's no-one in front of them and he's going really fast now. The fact that he hasn't said anything doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it, though, and it all comes down to this: The account of the school's security improvements only underlines what he already knew last night when he left Mystique and Magneto, what he knew when he picked up the Oak Ridge public phone; if he hadn’t, he'd never made the call. Despite everything, he still trusts Scott, it's one of the reasons he's even here.
Increasing the speed further still, he gives in to another, far less funny memory of the last time he was in this car, recalls the horrible, gut-clenching mix of panic, bewilderment and anxiety. A glance at his teacher sitting calmly in the passenger seat leads to the realization of how different things would have been if Scott had been with them.
Rogue may have trusted Logan, may have had her reasons to trust the Wolverine more than anyone else in the world, but for John and Bobby, it would've been better if Scott had been with them. Scott might not have gone to Boston at all, would've found a way to maintain contact with Piotr; Scott would've contacted Jean faster, and
"You'd have known either not to inflict us on or how to handle Bobby's parents."
Smiling sadly but not answering the statement, Scott waits a beat and then offers, "Kitty and Jubilee have started reading out fairy tales as good night stories for the younger ones. Everyone slept in the dining hall for about a week, your room still looks mostly like it did, though that may also have something to do with Bobby bunking on a mattress with Sam and Pete."
**
After St John has covered about eighty miles in a third of the time permitted by the laws if two different states, they switch places. Scott has chatted on and on about what little of the younger children's antics has penetrated his Jean-induced haze. He's surprised at how aware he's actually been of his surroundings, that while both he and everyone else has thought him nearly completely cut off from the world, he can actually give St John an idea of what to expect once they arrive at the Mansion.
For the last three hours, they've maintained a fairly one-sided dialogue. Scott has yet to ask a single prying question, and it seems pretty clear that he won't, either, so maybe that's why St John starts talking shortly after they've entered Delaware.
"I get that you probably don't like them very much," he says with a hint of belligerence, and Scott knows he's talking about Magneto and Mystique. "And I know why, and I know what they did, way back when to Rogue and now to the Prof and all those humans, but - they saved my life twice, and I won't pretend they haven't treated me better these past few weeks than any of my previous so-called families."
Only the index fingers going rigid on the steering wheel betray how much Scott dislikes the notion when he nods his acknowledgement. They cross the border to New Jersey before he ventures "Can I trust you to understand that I - all of us - want you at the Mansion even if I ask you a question?"
St John grits his teeth and stares out of the window. For the first time since pocketing a bic and placing his zippo on the temporary safe house’s kitchen table, he regrets not having a proper lighter. Scott, who is slowing the car down at the sight of a long line of cars blocking the roads on their way to Philadelphia, can barely hear the mumbled "'kay", but it is there.
"If they treated you that much better, why did you leave?"
St John is silent for the entire 45 minutes it takes them to get out of the traffic jam. There are two reasons there, and one of them he can't tell Scott about without a lengthy and tedious explanation. The only person who would get it in the two short sentences he's prepared to say about it is Bobby, who is not here. Both reasons are tightly connected to names and newspapers.
"I've run away from five different places, from people who sometimes started out caring a little but ended up giving a shit about me," he says eventually. A clear picture of the file in his office drawer in his mind, Scott works out that the count includes neither the X-Men nor Magneto. Thirty more miles fly by, and then,
"No-one's ever wanted me back before."
**
There's a folded page torn out of a newspaper, stuck inside a faded jeans’ back pocket.
There’s a stack of newspapers, piled up on an otherwise abandoned table in a dining hall, getting larger by the day because no-one’s had the energy to clean it out yet.
There’s a blue car, rapidly approaching the state of New York, its headlights a lightning bolt in the darkness.
**
Whoa, long! Well, compared to the previous parts.
If anyone's interested, this is the route of Scott and John's road trip. Oh, and the X-Jet can dodge radar. In consequence, Scott doesn't get photographed breaking speed limits. (All the police officers at the road sides were asleep? Everything's on automatic? Just go with it, please...)
Up next: How to cheer up an advanced math class at around 1 am. Only, it might take me a while to write it. Oh, well.
There's a stack of newspapers, piled up on an otherwise abandoned table in a dining hall, getting another day's edition tossed dejectedly on top of it.
There's a folded page torn out of a newpaper, stuck inside a faded jeans' back pocket.
**
St John is unaware of exactly how long he’s been waiting when the blue car pulls up, but he’s sure that with the 613 mile distance between Salem Center and Oak Ridge, Cyclops must’ve done more than break a few speed limits.
The people buying and selling vegetables and meat at the small town square market all turn to stare at the fancy car and the haggard-looking man climbing out of it. St John gets up from his fountain edge spot, glad that this part of the journey is over, if a little apprehensive of his teacher’s welcome. When he actually gets a look at Mr Summers’ face, however, he takes an involuntary step back and has to swallow hard in a futile attempt to hide his shock.
“You look like shit.”
The market vendors who’ve actually spoken to St John eye Scott warily as he approaches the teen and deflects his words with a hoarse
“Why thank you, tough guy.”
Taking the few necessary steps towards the boy who against all odds has agreed to be, still, his charge, he is all too aware of all the times Storm and Logan have berated him for not shaving, not eating, not going outside, not sleeping; also aware of the one time Logan threw a fit at Charles for not making him. He knows, and is not proud of the fact, that he’s been going on barely functioning autopilot, worrying the hell out of his friends and scaring the children.
“That your stuff?” he asks, indicating a small backpack, and it’s mostly to avert St John’s attention from stubble, pale and shallow skin, and the dark rings under his eyes, too pronounced to be hidden under ruby quartz glasses.
“Yeah,” St John says, and Scott picks it up.
“Get in,” he says, motioning towards the car that is even now sporting faint, barely visible scorch marks. “Not the passenger seat - seven hours behind the wheel have made me officially unsafe. I brought your license, you drive.”
An incredulous look on his face, St John catches the keys and tries not to wince at the state he put every student's favorite car’s paint job in. Slipping inside, he waits for Scott to fasten his seatbelt, gives a short wave to the surprisingly friendly if inconveniently curious market people, then turns on the engine and makes to leave the small town, feeling a little dazed, a little shocked, and immensely relieved.
**
The first hundred miles are spent quietly. There are a lot of trucks on the road, so they can't go very fast. As Scott dozes in the passenger seat, St John smirks at the thought that whereas Wolverine compulsively had to do everything by himself on the infamous impromptu trip to Boston, Cyclops has taught Pyro to handle the machinery of the blue car wonder himself - the radio being the very deliberate exception - and thus, trusts him to drive.
After about two hours, Scott wakes up a bit and rummages around the glove compartment for something to eat. While St John waits for an opportunity to overtake a particularly trying, orange tractor, the older man consumes a sandwich of questionable date of expiry.
"We've set up cameras around the entrances," Scott says once he's finished wiping his fingers on a handkerchief. "They're connected to screens in the teachers' offices and a section in the TV-room, so that any of you can check them at any time - outside school hours, obviously. We've got Jones watching them at night."
The annoying tractor finally turns left, and St John steps on the gas pedal.
"We're installing new doors at the entrance to the dorms. It took Forge a while to get ready, but it should be done in a week or so. They're similar to those that lead to Cerebro in the basement, but will recognize all the students, staff, and some of the parents."
St John snorts derisively at the 'parent' part, thus confirming to Scott that he's listening - judging by the ferocity with which he doesn't take his eyes off the road in front of them, quite intently at that. Scott hopes that the frequent visits that an admittedly disturbingly small number of family members pay the Mansion, have paid ever since the attack, will eventually convince St John that while rare, it is possible for mutants to fare better than he or Rogue or Bobby did, both in regard to parents as well as siblings.
"We're having weekly meetings discussing ideas for traps some of the children come up with - I'm sure you won't be surprised that your friend Jubilee has proven herself especially devious in that department. We're also stepping up everyone's combative training."
Scott lets the next ten miles pass by in silence, giving St John a second to process what he's said thus far, and maybe even think of what these changes will do to his schedule. Then, he says in a voice that is still quiet but startling in its intensity: "But most importantly, we won't ever split up like that again. Hank has agreed to come when we call him, as has Warren, and two others - a human father and his brother who’ve both been trained in the military. From now on, there will be at least two trained X-Men at the Mansion or wherever you kids go off to at all times, even when Ororo and Logan and I have to leave on a mission."
From the driver's seat, the only response is an increased pressure applied to the gas pedal.
**
Another hour behind the wheel, and St John hasn't commented on anything Scott has told him. He's focusing intently on the road, there's no-one in front of them and he's going really fast now. The fact that he hasn't said anything doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it, though, and it all comes down to this: The account of the school's security improvements only underlines what he already knew last night when he left Mystique and Magneto, what he knew when he picked up the Oak Ridge public phone; if he hadn’t, he'd never made the call. Despite everything, he still trusts Scott, it's one of the reasons he's even here.
Increasing the speed further still, he gives in to another, far less funny memory of the last time he was in this car, recalls the horrible, gut-clenching mix of panic, bewilderment and anxiety. A glance at his teacher sitting calmly in the passenger seat leads to the realization of how different things would have been if Scott had been with them.
Rogue may have trusted Logan, may have had her reasons to trust the Wolverine more than anyone else in the world, but for John and Bobby, it would've been better if Scott had been with them. Scott might not have gone to Boston at all, would've found a way to maintain contact with Piotr; Scott would've contacted Jean faster, and
"You'd have known either not to inflict us on or how to handle Bobby's parents."
Smiling sadly but not answering the statement, Scott waits a beat and then offers, "Kitty and Jubilee have started reading out fairy tales as good night stories for the younger ones. Everyone slept in the dining hall for about a week, your room still looks mostly like it did, though that may also have something to do with Bobby bunking on a mattress with Sam and Pete."
**
After St John has covered about eighty miles in a third of the time permitted by the laws if two different states, they switch places. Scott has chatted on and on about what little of the younger children's antics has penetrated his Jean-induced haze. He's surprised at how aware he's actually been of his surroundings, that while both he and everyone else has thought him nearly completely cut off from the world, he can actually give St John an idea of what to expect once they arrive at the Mansion.
For the last three hours, they've maintained a fairly one-sided dialogue. Scott has yet to ask a single prying question, and it seems pretty clear that he won't, either, so maybe that's why St John starts talking shortly after they've entered Delaware.
"I get that you probably don't like them very much," he says with a hint of belligerence, and Scott knows he's talking about Magneto and Mystique. "And I know why, and I know what they did, way back when to Rogue and now to the Prof and all those humans, but - they saved my life twice, and I won't pretend they haven't treated me better these past few weeks than any of my previous so-called families."
Only the index fingers going rigid on the steering wheel betray how much Scott dislikes the notion when he nods his acknowledgement. They cross the border to New Jersey before he ventures "Can I trust you to understand that I - all of us - want you at the Mansion even if I ask you a question?"
St John grits his teeth and stares out of the window. For the first time since pocketing a bic and placing his zippo on the temporary safe house’s kitchen table, he regrets not having a proper lighter. Scott, who is slowing the car down at the sight of a long line of cars blocking the roads on their way to Philadelphia, can barely hear the mumbled "'kay", but it is there.
"If they treated you that much better, why did you leave?"
St John is silent for the entire 45 minutes it takes them to get out of the traffic jam. There are two reasons there, and one of them he can't tell Scott about without a lengthy and tedious explanation. The only person who would get it in the two short sentences he's prepared to say about it is Bobby, who is not here. Both reasons are tightly connected to names and newspapers.
"I've run away from five different places, from people who sometimes started out caring a little but ended up giving a shit about me," he says eventually. A clear picture of the file in his office drawer in his mind, Scott works out that the count includes neither the X-Men nor Magneto. Thirty more miles fly by, and then,
"No-one's ever wanted me back before."
**
There's a folded page torn out of a newspaper, stuck inside a faded jeans’ back pocket.
There’s a stack of newspapers, piled up on an otherwise abandoned table in a dining hall, getting larger by the day because no-one’s had the energy to clean it out yet.
There’s a blue car, rapidly approaching the state of New York, its headlights a lightning bolt in the darkness.
**
Whoa, long! Well, compared to the previous parts.
If anyone's interested, this is the route of Scott and John's road trip. Oh, and the X-Jet can dodge radar. In consequence, Scott doesn't get photographed breaking speed limits. (All the police officers at the road sides were asleep? Everything's on automatic? Just go with it, please...)
Up next: How to cheer up an advanced math class at around 1 am. Only, it might take me a while to write it. Oh, well.