Fic: Rebuilding Burned Bridges (Part 1/9)
Title: Rebuilding Burned Bridges (Part 1/9)
Author: ms_jvh_shuh
Pairing: Bobby/St John
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Years after the events of Alkali Lake and Alcatraz, St John finds that you cannot burn all your bridges without rebuilding some.
A hospital burns.
Note: Goodness. This has taken me so long (and has taken time off so many times along the way) that I now feel quite nervous about posting. Lots and lots of thank yous to inootz for looking everything over for me!! The story is finished *sighs in relief* and will be posted as a mini-series over the next few days.
Rebuilding Burned Bridges
St John quenches the fire before he turns his back on the corridor, because while The Brotherhood was here is the message to be sent (along with stop the experiments and an ashen, screaming FUCK YOU), it will be easier on everyone if the humans outside the building don't actually get it before they're gone. Inside, there isn't anyone left in condition to blab. Not a sound, not even a sob, nothing left to do here save sauntering out.
A casual walk later he opens the door to the car Magneto parked in front of the hospital a mere half hour ago, starts the engines and lets the wheels roll gently through gates that don't look the least bent out of shape, not yet a reason for random passers-by to come investigating. The portiere is still sitting in his little hut; whether he's alive or not, St John doesn't know.
A soot-covered hand is raised in greeting at Madrox, who is straddling the motorbike St John drove here, and a salute flashed via the front lights at a small truck, behind the blackened windows of which he can barely make out Magneto. Three vehicles trail after each other for a few moments, then the gate slides closed and they split up, Madrox going left, Magneto straight onward. The next meet-up is scheduled one week from now, two days before the next mission. Watching the others disappear through the side mirror, St John slips a hand into his back pocket and takes out a note, glances at the address jotted down there in Mystique's neat handwriting, sets the blinker to right.
And then he drives.
He drives without taking his eyes off the road for even a second, only taking one sip from one of the bottles Madrox left him on the passenger seat. He pictures the safe house, which he's supposed to have all to himself instead of just the little room he's usually assigned there whenever they're using it for larger meetings before an attack. In his mind, he reviews the books he's got stacked there and only there, which means that due to the paranoid house shuffling scheme he hasn't been able to touch them in, what, almost a year now?
After two hours, the car's automatic system warns him to take a break, but he turns it off, never sparing the display so much as a glance. He ignores the exhaustion beginning to creep through his veins, the aftershock of all the heat he controlled today in order to ensure maximum damage without burning the wrong people, without the walls collapsing around them. Wearily, he thinks of his bed, the reason he hasn't tried pulling rank for a larger room at the place yet; of all the Brotherhood-owned beds he frequents, the single in safehouse eight is his favourite.
He drives, watching the road in front of him unblinkingly, impassively. His body feels overheated, the power behind the final display fully taking its toll now. He longs for the garden, which even has a little pond where annoying, suicidally cute little fish nibble at the toes of anyone bathing their feet.
On and on he drives, never taking his eyes of the road once.
*
An hour later, he parks the car in front of the campus, retrieves his rucksack and leaves the door unlocked, confident that even in a posh area like this someone will have conveniently vanished it by the time he returns. He doesn't look left or right as his feet take him to the right house, up three flights of stairs, not deterring from their path to one specific door. There are voices he doesn't recognize, someone's exclaiming "…you can't put the figures like that, it'll look confusing" but he's tired and doesn't care and he knocks.
At the sound, the voice inside the little flat stops. There's a short silence, then the shuffling of feet, and a few seconds later St John (Pyro, he thinks, for all the other knows, he's Pyro) stands face to face to Bobby Drake.
*
Part 2
Author: ms_jvh_shuh
Pairing: Bobby/St John
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Years after the events of Alkali Lake and Alcatraz, St John finds that you cannot burn all your bridges without rebuilding some.
A hospital burns.
Note: Goodness. This has taken me so long (and has taken time off so many times along the way) that I now feel quite nervous about posting. Lots and lots of thank yous to inootz for looking everything over for me!! The story is finished *sighs in relief* and will be posted as a mini-series over the next few days.
Rebuilding Burned Bridges
St John quenches the fire before he turns his back on the corridor, because while The Brotherhood was here is the message to be sent (along with stop the experiments and an ashen, screaming FUCK YOU), it will be easier on everyone if the humans outside the building don't actually get it before they're gone. Inside, there isn't anyone left in condition to blab. Not a sound, not even a sob, nothing left to do here save sauntering out.
A casual walk later he opens the door to the car Magneto parked in front of the hospital a mere half hour ago, starts the engines and lets the wheels roll gently through gates that don't look the least bent out of shape, not yet a reason for random passers-by to come investigating. The portiere is still sitting in his little hut; whether he's alive or not, St John doesn't know.
A soot-covered hand is raised in greeting at Madrox, who is straddling the motorbike St John drove here, and a salute flashed via the front lights at a small truck, behind the blackened windows of which he can barely make out Magneto. Three vehicles trail after each other for a few moments, then the gate slides closed and they split up, Madrox going left, Magneto straight onward. The next meet-up is scheduled one week from now, two days before the next mission. Watching the others disappear through the side mirror, St John slips a hand into his back pocket and takes out a note, glances at the address jotted down there in Mystique's neat handwriting, sets the blinker to right.
And then he drives.
He drives without taking his eyes off the road for even a second, only taking one sip from one of the bottles Madrox left him on the passenger seat. He pictures the safe house, which he's supposed to have all to himself instead of just the little room he's usually assigned there whenever they're using it for larger meetings before an attack. In his mind, he reviews the books he's got stacked there and only there, which means that due to the paranoid house shuffling scheme he hasn't been able to touch them in, what, almost a year now?
After two hours, the car's automatic system warns him to take a break, but he turns it off, never sparing the display so much as a glance. He ignores the exhaustion beginning to creep through his veins, the aftershock of all the heat he controlled today in order to ensure maximum damage without burning the wrong people, without the walls collapsing around them. Wearily, he thinks of his bed, the reason he hasn't tried pulling rank for a larger room at the place yet; of all the Brotherhood-owned beds he frequents, the single in safehouse eight is his favourite.
He drives, watching the road in front of him unblinkingly, impassively. His body feels overheated, the power behind the final display fully taking its toll now. He longs for the garden, which even has a little pond where annoying, suicidally cute little fish nibble at the toes of anyone bathing their feet.
On and on he drives, never taking his eyes of the road once.
*
An hour later, he parks the car in front of the campus, retrieves his rucksack and leaves the door unlocked, confident that even in a posh area like this someone will have conveniently vanished it by the time he returns. He doesn't look left or right as his feet take him to the right house, up three flights of stairs, not deterring from their path to one specific door. There are voices he doesn't recognize, someone's exclaiming "…you can't put the figures like that, it'll look confusing" but he's tired and doesn't care and he knocks.
At the sound, the voice inside the little flat stops. There's a short silence, then the shuffling of feet, and a few seconds later St John (Pyro, he thinks, for all the other knows, he's Pyro) stands face to face to Bobby Drake.
*
Part 2