The Tyranny of the Clock

[Bobby Drake]

(Josh John and Bobby’s room, early morning, Dec 2 2006)

Bob isn’t really sure what woke him up this time… it doesn’t really matter, he hasn’t been sleeping well anyway. It might have just been a dream. The alarm by his bed reads “1:53,” and he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

He opens them again. “1:54.” Tries again, harder this time.

He opens them again. “1:56.” "Oh, the hell with it," he mutters, throwing the blankets to one side and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He slips his feet into his new slippers and turns the lights on, puts on some music, grabs Practical Chemistry, 7th edition and flips to a bookmarked page. There are some advantages to having a room of his own, anyway… at least he doesn’t have to worry about waking up his roommate.

Not that it’s strictly speaking a single, either. Sure, Josh may have officially moved in with Warren – not that it would have mattered tonight, with both of them in Paris – but supposedly John had moved in to take his place. Except John is never around at night... at least, not until really late.

In Marie’s room, I guess. Rogue’s. He feels funny correcting himself in the privacy of his own mind, but if there’s one thing the last couple of weeks have made clear to him it’s that he never really understood either of them that well, and he intends to remedy that, so… if she wants to be “Rogue,” then Rogue she’ll be. Even in his mind. Sure, it’s a classic case of locking the barn door after the barn burns down, but it’s better than nothing.

Besides, worrying about names keeps him from thinking about everything else. In particular, it keeps him from thinking about John, and Mar-Rogue, and how everything just blew up in his face just when it seemed like it was all going to work out. About how, when he’d somehow convinced himself that love conquers all, he’d never bothered to ask “whose?”

Or, well, actually it doesn’t stop him from thinking about that at all. But he keeps hoping it will. Just like learning about redox reactions, and stepping up his gym workouts, and setting up Danger Room simulations, and everything else. None of it really helps.

On the other hand, it beats lying alone in the dark.

Several pages of abstruse chemistry later, he yawns and looks at the clock again.

“2:42”

Well, may as well try to get some sleep tonight. He turns off the lights and the music, advances the bookmark, wraps himself up in his blankets.

“2:43”…

[Pyro]

If what John’s managed to piece together is to be trusted, it’s somewhere near three weeks since he got back, and something closer to two since he came back. Days don’t really fit together like they should; measuring time from the last clear meaningful event’s too raw, and there’s nothing noteworthy to measure it running up to, and given that he’s got what remains of this semester to *sort his head out* before any more formal structure’s introduced when it comes to sorting between days it’s all a little hazy. Within in them, though, there’s some semblance of what’s almost a routine, alternating between avoiding and seeking out, prodding and ignoring, and otherwise giving Bob the carefully-attention-grabbing-cold-shoulder. (Not that it’s anywhere near as tactical as that makes it seem, just the inner brat getting its exercise, whining and stomping and careering between leave me alone! and well, don’t ignore me…).

‘Officially’ he’s back sharing with Bob… which swings between seeming like a good idea and a really bad one. Given that Josh has moved in with Warren without any apparent objections he keeps finding himself thinking, when Rogue’s had one of the nights which still give him a real reason to go up there and keep him overnight out of something like habit, that maybe if he brought up the idea of their sharing more permanently it would work…

…. and then things go back to the way they were, and he can’t see giving up being able to sneak back in; there’s always that point - late enough that it still counts as not spending the night, and therefore sends out the appropriate ‘totally meaningless’ vibe, rather than that she’d be getting up soon anyway and he doesn’t want to sleep-in in an empty room. And it’s a petty, stupid addiction, and a fairly crappy and painful sort of high, pushing at Bob like that… but it’s not one he can see himself quitting any time soon unless the reality starts matching up with the impression and leaves him too swept away to give a damn about Bob any more…

… which isn’t how it’s playing out; the touch thing doesn’t quite work, even if the soul stealing thing is a charm…

Anyway… This is just a night, just like any other, and just at that dead space before it starts to bleed into early morning. John’s not worrying about waking Bob up, though there’s a strange artifice to the yeah, whatever since he’s almost worrying about failing to (not that Bob’s ever usually asleep, but the art is in pushing him so he stops it becomes obvious pretending to be, partly from the *wanting to piss him off*, partly from being scared eventually there will come the night he’s actually managed to fall asleep). It shouldn’t be this hard to find something to fall over, except that he hasn’t got anywhere near enough personal effects to create a John-like chaos and Bob’s side has stopped trying to seem anything other than Bob, but compensating for that with a leaden wow, I’m really drained quality as he drops into bed, followed by shifting around in a no, this isn’t the one I’m comfortable in sort of way at the centre of the huddle (which he almost doesn’t need any more, the radiator war sort of moot now Bob knows what cold is again, but giving them up would be admitting a sort of sympathy, letting him turn the heat up to a John-like level rather than keeping it at a no, let’s compromise, rather than oh! I forgot! You’re broken now, aren’t you?) should be enough to make the point without a look! I’m making a point! neon sign descending.

[Bobby Drake]

Bob opens an eye, just a little, when the door creaks open. He wants to crane his head up to look at the clock again, but he doesn’t want John to know he’s awake, so he doesn’t. Why he pretends to be sleeping, he’s not entirely sure… it’s not like John seems to care either way. It just seems like the thing to do; like the alternative is to imply that he’s been staying up late waiting for him, and it’s not like he has any right to do that anymore.

The loud thump and the restless shuffling as John gets into bed give him an opening, though, and he makes a show of sitting up a little and looking at the clock. "Late night, huh? Hope you – " he hesitates, the words had fun sticking in his throat. He’s not sure he can get them out without the bitterness being evident, and the last thing he wants to do is ruin what’s left of their friendship by letting John see how much the current situation bugs him. "— hope she’s OK?"

It occurs to Bob, for perhaps the thirty-seventh time in the last three days, that the situation may not be as bad as he thinks. He wonders, for the thirty-seventh time, what would happen if he just got out of his bed and crawled into John’s. And for the thirty-seventh time, he shies away from the idea.

It’s not just the fear of John kicking him out… though that would be bad enough, really. It’s the fact that every time he thinks about being intimate with John, his mind flashes to that last night, and the needle, and Magneto, and the chains, and the way he broke down in front of their worst enemy, and the god-damned interminable cold, and being a “flatliner”, and everything, and he just freezes up. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be with John… at least, he’s pretty sure it isn’t… but he’s just not ready to deal with all of it.

He’d expected some awkward conversations about that, recriminations, maybe even a fight… but instead John had picked up with Marie before Bob had even been let out of the medbay. And sure, they’d fought… when they weren’t avoiding each other or being scrupulously polite to each other… but never about that. (Except it seems to Bob sometimes that really, they’re never about anything else.)

So, he tells himself tentatively, maybe it’s all turning out for the best. He’d thought they’d had something special, thought John would wait for him to… recover. Now he knows better. And maybe, if he’d been ready to just pick up where he and John had left off before John had shot him full of goddamned POISON and shipped him to the goddamned ENEMY to be TORTURED things got strange, he’d never have realized that.

So it’s OK, really. John and Mar – Rogue always understood each other better than he did, anyway. He’s happy for them… or, at least, he’s pretty sure he will be at some point, once he’s gotten over thinking everything is about him. And in the meantime, even if he can’t not be jealous, the least he can do is pretend.

And it’s easier to do that at night, like this, when John can’t see his face and he can focus his attention on keeping his voice calm, matter-of-fact, friendly. "Oh, and… are you feeling up to another Danger Room training session in the morning? I’ve been thinking up some new ideas we could experiment with, ways for you to move fast."

[Pyro]

> "Late night, huh? Hope you -- hope she's OK?""
No John wants to say She's not fucking okay. She's all wrong, no corners and angles and… wrong, but there’s a long dead space stretching back between now and when what he wanted mattered in any of this. “Sure… better than.” – because you know full well ‘it’ would be so much better than OK - "For tonight anyway." The comment about the danger room he ignores; he can’t opt out, even if he wanted to, because it’s part of ‘terrorist rehab’, and it’s better to let the remarks about Rogue stew than mute them by giving Bob easy points back.

"Oh." Better than... what? Bob doesn't have the nerve to ask… he's pretty sure it would be something snarky like "better than when she was dating you." And… well, it'd probably be true.

The pause stretches awkwardly… followed by an even longer, more awkward pause. "She really misses 'em, huh?"

John turns with a non-committal but vaguely affirmative grunt to face the wall instead of the bed opposite, as if he's trying to get to sleep… which is odd for a terminal insomniac, but if he and she had done what he still thinks he wants to imply then he'd be that drained. And pretending to sleep is just one thing; carrying on this conversation, there are just too many bloody masks for him to juggle.

"I guess. Hasn't explained much… didn't ask" i.e we weren't talking. Which is true… but not like that. John shuffles further down beneath the covers, hoping Bob will get the hint and leave him alone. Because the concern is nice, sure, and he can’t deny there’s a thrill in thinking he cares enough to comment on anything, but it’s not *knowing* for sure, and the risks are just too damn high right now.

Bob nods, essentially by reflex. Not that John can see it in the dark… which is just as well, really.

"Yeah." Suddenly bold, he adds "Guess I envy that. The not asking." He waits a long moment, hoping John will ask him what he means, give him an opening… and finally adds, defeated, "I never really knew when to shut up, I think.""

He could ask what Bobby means by envying the not-asking. Later on, not knowing will most likely drive him mad. Right now, though, it’s more important not to give anything away, and instead he just waits it out. The line about not knowing to shut up is harder not to comment on, and a clipped (though warmer, more nostalgically indulgent than he’d like) "Never…" slips out… because shutting up'd mean backing away, wouldn't it? You and your fucking stupid clinging to lost causes The ”Still don't" is at least suitably terse, steeped in fuck off and let me sleep

He waits for Bob to apologise. To go to sleep. To pretend to. Anything, really… before, sighing, he turns back over, not quite to face Bob's bed but onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. ""Why're you awake, anyway?" Almost instantly John regrets the concern in his tone, and in the question, the sense that he’s still thinking about Bob when he should be like stone, and tries to make it sound less like he’s either begging him to admit to waiting up or giving a damn that there might be some other reason.

Bob nods miserably at the initial comment. He almost turns around then, to at least pretend to sleep, but refrains when John half-turns. "Dunno. Haven't been sleeping too well lately." He suppresses the urge to kick himself for that comment… Great. Now he's gonna think I'm fishing for sympathy, or something… and adds hastily, attempting (unsuccessfully) to sound casual: "I guess it's just from being cooped up all day, not getting enough exercise. Should be able to get back to my usual routine pretty soon."

""Oh yeah? So there's hope for the Iceman yet?” It’s a struggle to stay appropriately (heh) icy, but… dammit, how could Bob have not told him this sooner? Even if they’re not together now, it’s still huge news (and, some weird little horrifically deluded – and sort of just plain horrific – part of him chimes up, means they’ve no real reason to be awkward with each other, right? All the harm is undone… and Bob’s not a freakish distorted broken thing any more, because he’d be lying, much as it shames him, to say that there’s not a degree of disgust there, because it’s not overdramatic to say getting cured is probably the most horrific disfigurement John can think of, even if this is Bob and not just 'any old ex-homo superior') How soon?""

[Pyro]

Bob blinks, confused… then gets it, and wants to scream. No, John, nobody here but us flatliners. Do you have to make it so damned obvious that all you ever wanted was a mutant fuckbuddy? He tries to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but succeeds only in mixing it with something vaguely like an apology, which annoys him even more. "No, not like that. I just mean, like, you know... exercise. Like a normal kid." He's a little surprised by the bitterness that escapes on that last word. Nobody you'd be interested in. Just an insect among gods. "No more mid-winter swims in the lake, or anything like that, but still... beats sitting around all day. Hank got kinda crabby at me after I made my shoulder worse doing, um" No, I'm really not going to discuss my Brotherhood-assassination simulations with John "some DR sims, a while ago, put me on forced rest for a while.""

In between asking and getting a response, John’s got the Zippo out again, and has it lit, eyes on the flame. No reason now to hesitate about any of that, is there? No need to pretend like he doesn’t love showing off his superior genetic code around, well, anything with a pulse...

Oh, right. There is. "Oh." And dammit, he should have realised that he’s been more than stupid there. Much more. He’d have known, wouldn’t he (and if things really had decayed to the point he didn’t pick up on that, then he had no right caring what the answer was…)? Besides, there’s something so much bigger going on, the weight Bob puts on ‘normal’ driving home the ‘them and us’, the implication that the rest of them are goddam freaks. He snaps the lighter shut. "Right… Yeah, I guess… D.R sims? You still run them?" Another stupid question, with another unasked, but hovering: why? It’s not like Bob’s a mutant superhero any more.

Bob considers coming up with some lie, like "Well, you won't give me the time of day anymore, so I've gotta get my rocks off somehow, right?" but decides it's easier just to ignore the question. He turns to face the wall, huddling in his still-unfamiliar blankets, and tries to sleep… unsuccessfully. After a while of wrestling with the damned blankets, he turns back around to face John and tries to pretend to sleep, or at least tries to pretend he's not fascinated by the way John's flame highlights the planes of his face… and that's really no better. "So... howcum you're still awake?"

"Because y..” – he checks himself, trying to phrase this in an accusing way, rather than admitting he’s getting some twisted kick from leeching even these fucked up moments with Bob – ”Because my roommate is, and he's keeping me awake… 'sides...” – before he can check himself (and heck, next to ‘just like old times’, isn’t that becoming his mantra?) it is almost like old times (heh), like back before when Bobby was insisting on his 8 hours and getting all tetchy that John was running on maybe that much a week. ”Sleep is for less evolved.. "

Bob flinches despite himself, and tries to cover it up by punching his pillow a few times. " Oh. Um... sorry. Guess you're, um... pretty tired. I mean, after, um, helping Ma-Rogue, and all." He's not going to ask what they've been doing all night. He just isn't. It's none of his business anymore, anyway.

”Yeah. Right.”

Bob stares at the ceiling, determined that this time he's going to win the outwait game, while at the same time knowing it's hopeless. When he speaks again he's not even surprised. "Is she... um, I mean, does she still have nightmares, and stuff?""

[Pyro]

Oh, sure. let's talk about R... No, that's selfish even for him. Because he does really give a damn about that, if nothing else. Really. It started out as trying to help her, after all, and everything else was just a convenient side effect (and some nifty epithet about the good intentions and highways to the inferno prods at the back of his mind, because he’s been there, done that, and ended up sharing a room with the souvenir). ”"Sometimes, yeah. Sort of. S'more that it's... really big in there, or something" He doesn’t know why, if hurting Bob is at least in part why he’s doing this, he hangs back from mentioning that the nights she has nightmares are the ones when he doesn’t skulk back in like this… or that she dreams about killing both of them, and enjoying it… or that half the nightmares in there don’t belong to her…

Bob is puzzled by the explanation for a moment, then thinks maybe he understands. I guess it's kinda like being at the Institute over Christmas, or something. He nods. "Yeah, I guess she's used to... sharing. Or something." He really doesn't want to ask the next question, doesn't want to hear the answer, but it comes out of his mouth anyway. "So it's just her in there now?"

The lighter’s back out and on for the first part of Bobby’s speech, because he can just sit and listen and distract himself and… he actually asked that? John glances at him for a split-second, disbelieving (and partially cursing him for not having the sense to leave it) and trusting that the flickering glow isn’t enough to betray any sort of interest on his part. "It was…"

Bob hates himself for a moment for the way he hangs on the end of that sentence, hoping it doesn't mean what he's sure it means. He doesn't want to know, and at the same time he absolutely does. He knows it's going to hurt and he can't seem to help but lean into it, because at least it's something.

John doesn’t know why he should have to go on the defensive - his tone having the uncomfortable whine of a reluctant apology lurking somewhere nearby - has no idea why he feels the need to justify himself to Bob about this, why it should still feel like cheating… why he should care, really. But it does, and he does, and it’s all just… brutal "S'the only thing I know how t'do, s'far as she's concerned. Because.. fuck, it makes no sense"

"Oh. So... you're... inside her, again?" He winces, unable to believe he really just said that. Your Freudian slip is showing, Drake.

Wincing himself at Bob's choice of wording, there's a wierd mostly-joyless dark smile which flickers for a moment across John’s features, though it could be a trick of the light as easily as anything else (it isn’t, unless anyone notices); oh, so he does give a damn about that?

… does he? He can’t be sure. Damn the darkness and the confusion and the way they have to play these stupid fucking games with each other. Damn that he can’t not know whether it bugs Bob, whether he’s still numb. The words themselves aren’t alien, really, that whole crass vulgarity as much a part of the old him as anything else, and the fact that in themselves they’re not a ‘real’ lie – it’s just up to Bob to read them as one – helps. Sort of. But it still feels wrong, really, either talking about her, and them, and that whole messy debacle like this, or (especially) talking about anything like that with anyone other than Bob… to Bob. "If you want to put it like that, yes... Penetrating the great big void, as it were""

Bob nods, trying his best not to think about it. Any of it. I asked for that; it's my own damned fault. After a too-long, too-awkward pause he adds, trying to sound somewhat positive, "Um... so... at least she's not so, um, alone, anymore? Then?"

(click. click. click)

"Guess not. She's got Mini-John to look after her now..." "

Bob's never been quite so grateful for the dark… even with John's lighter flicking around, he probably can't see Bob's eyes squeezed shut. Even so, it takes him a moment to get his voice under control. "Oh. Well, that's... um... ni —""

RINGGGGGG!

The jarring emergency-intercom ring of the phone nearly levitates him out of bed, sending the blankets flying in all directions, and reflex has him answering it before he even stops to think whether he even ought to, now that he's only nominally an X-Man. "What's wrong… WHAT? Josh… Warren… are they OK? Oh… that's not good… Right. I'll be right there. "

His conversation with John is, if not forgotten, at least conveniently ignored as he slips his slippers back on and heads toward the door, wondering more-than-idly if his old X-Man uniform still fits.