Westchester Park (Pyro) - Warning; Explicit Slash

[Bobby Drake]

I'm not supposed to be here.

The thought makes him laugh... he's come around to where he started, it seems. Except with his eyes just a little bit more open. Which is good, right?

Bobby is sitting on one of the swings, rocking idly back and forth without exactly swinging. It's dark, with just a few shards of light from the streetlights behind the trees, a bit of glow from the waning moon. Just enough to see by. Not that Bobby relies entirely on sight.

He wonders if John is going to show. He can't quite decide if he'll be disappointed or relieved if he doesn't.

He wonders what will happen, if he does. Will they fight? Talk? Come on, Drake, you can say it in your own mind at least: Fuck? Will he bring the Brotherhood with him to point and laugh? Or to kill him? He's not sure which would be worse.

It occurs to him that he should have left a dead-drop message or something, like they do in movies, to tell everybody what happened if he disappears. Not that he has any idea how to do that. Then again, if he was making a list of things he should have done, "not showing up" would probably head it.

I'm not supposed to be here.

[Pyro]

"Someone’s breaking curfew”

John (yes, John. No use pretending because there’s no way Pyro would play things this way… besides, if he’s not Pyro the only betrayal would be failing to show)’s customary smirk is firmly in place, though that’s pretty much all that’s even halfway typical about this. The nerves – or, at least, the fact he’s acknowledging feeling them – definitely aren’t, though it’s still easy enough to blame them on the ride rather than worrying whether Bobby will stand him up, or show, and being unable to decide which is worse. The journey is almost enough to distract him from why he’s making it; Sherridan’s been flashing the cash recently, and Magneto seems to have decided an ‘Acolyte of the Month’ award for ‘Spirited Cure-clinic torching’ is long overdue (his inner cynic seems to think it’s got more to do with finding him a distraction other than Wanda than rewarding loyal service, but whatever). It’s not quite the bike he was eyeing up – he has to be kept in his place, after all, and they can’t make the others more jealous than is necessary – but still, it’s awesome. And turning up on that, in the new standard-issue leathers, does make for one hell of an entrance, which makes this whole thing feel more like a movie and less like the bastard progeny of a bad romance novel and his worst nightmare.

The leathers weren’t part of the original plan. Nothing thus far has been, from receiving Bobby’s email through cutting Wanda’s ‘lesson’ short (he doesn’t know whether it was disappointment or pleasure he read in her features when he failed to last as long as last time, bringing himself to the end line so he could make a getaway in time for this) to turning up at all. If this is a film, it’s one without a script, which makes everything a weird mix of liberating and absolutely fucking terrifying.

He doesn’t quite dismount, just repositions himself on the now-static vehicle, reluctant to rush in for what is probably the first time in his life. ”I wasn’t sure you’d show” comes out as more of an accusation than a greeting, the ansty side trying desperately not to betray any sort of weakness, but at least some sort of words are coming, which is a good sign, one up on last time.

[Bobby Drake]

> "I wasn’t sure you’d show"

Bobby isn't startled by John's presence, or the words... it's not like the motorcycle was stealthy, and even if it had been both the cycle and John radiate an astonishing amount of heat.

He's surprised by them both, though. He's there, for one thing. Bobby hadn't expected him to be, even after that last email. And... no sneer, no insult, no swagger. No Pyro. Just John. For just a moment, he can convince himself that the last year didn't happen, and the two of them are still roommates, still friends, just sneaking out to do something they shouldn't be doing.

For just a moment, and then it's gone, and it's strange but that makes him angrier than he was the first time around. He wants to snap back something like "Since when do you care?", the words and the sneer to fling them with are just a thought away.

He lets them go by. It's like he's trying to tame something wild and fragile that will flee if approached and break if taken by force... which hardly describes John (except for the fact that it so does), but still the feeling is there, and he respects it.

He gets up from the swing. "Yeah. Same here."

Silence stretches for a bit and he adds "I'm glad we did." He turns to face John, finally, and looks him over. A small smile plays over his lips at the leathers, and he lets another snide comment go by unuttered.

"You look good." Which is true: something about the bike and the leathers transforms John from the scrawny half-crazed boy he saw at Mimi's into something integrated, something almost understandable. Which is no doubt a dangerous illusion, but Bobby's pretty sure he left safe behind quite a while back.

He wonders if John dressed up for him. He wonders if he dressed up for John, for that matter. Not by normal standards, anyway: a ratty denim jacket over an old flannel shirt and a pair of torn blue jeans, and Chinese slippers does not a fancy ensemble make. But he'd definitely dressed in anticipation of having to armor up and shatter yet another outfit. So maybe that counts. Does that make this a date? He smiles a little more broadly at the thought. Maybe next time they'll actually go to the movies.

'Next time'? Two weeks ago he wasn't even sure John was alive, and now he's making plans for their next date. Crazy. John's right... Bobby's not entirely living in the real world these days. Which, on reflection, isn't such a bad thing. Nothing is realer than a graveyard and he's spent his share of time in those lately. This is better.

He reaches down for the duffel bag leaning against the swingset's base, lifts it off the ground and tosses it at John's feet. "I brought some stuff you left behind." He enjoys the feel of his own muscles as he makes it a single, graceful, fluid motion. If the last month or two have done nothing else, they've hardened him physically. It occurs to him that he's actually trying to show off for John, and he laughs outright, because that's more absurd than everything else put together.

Bobby keeps expecting to be overcome by the urge to run away, or fight, or rip John's clothes off, keeps expecting police to appear or monsters or giant robots to come out of the ground, keeps expecting something to happen that takes the choice of what to do next out of his hands. It slowly begins to dawn on him that it isn't going to be like that this time... that it might not be like that ever again. Which really seems like it should be more comforting than it actually is.

"Where's a good dissociative disorder when you really need one, huh?" And OK, so maybe everything isn't quite so under control as he thinks, because he's pretty sure he hadn't intended to say that out loud.

Then the weight in his jacket pocket reminds him that he didn't pack everything of John's. He pulls out the half-empty flask and the two candle-holder-shot-glass thingies he'd found in John's dresser drawer, and flips one casually in the other boy's direction.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink."

[Pyro]

< I'm glad we did
John wants to be able to say something like Me too, but even inside the privacy of his own mind it doesn’t sound sincere, so there’s no way Bobby would be fooled by the actual words. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be here, except in the general way everyone shies away from difficult moments (and hell, this one is the textbook definition of bloody difficult). It’s just… he’s not glad of any of it, because it’s really, really fucked up. Everything since Boston has been, in some way or other, and although he never cared before that in many ways only makes things worse because it never seemed to matter back then and now has fucked up the one thing he absolutely can’t afford to get wrong…

Shit, he’s starting to sound like a fucking romance novel… and Bobby’s flannel-and-blue-jeans combo isn’t helping, because what with the, um, scuffle at Mimi’s it’s all gone a bit Brokeback (he shouldn’t be feeling so pissed of about that outfit… because he absolutely did not dress up, and therefore it doesn’t matter whether Bobby made an effort or not).

In the end he just settles for a slight smile, which probably says more than enough.

< You look good[/color]
Though John might be having trouble finding words, Bobby seems to be suffering no such handicap. Rather he’s full of words – the meaningless ones you use to plug up the silence. John’s never been good with them, but Bobby’s a natural (having met the guy’s parents it’s not really a surprise), churning out the old chestnuts as if he doesn’t really know how stupid and pointless those little clichés are. It’s catching, it seems, because against his better gesture, against his own nature, against everything he’s ever been, he finds himself babbling. He could blame it on the awkward silence, and how he can never keep from breaking them, but it’s still not quite natural hearing himself stumbling over “casual” conversation as he tries to dismount in a manner which looks like he’s been doing this for more than a day ”Got corporate sponsorship now. New guy, looks like a cat, keeps flashing the cash. We’re going legit. Or at least as legit as a terrorist organization can”

It’s a mistake, he realizes, to bring any of that into it. Because that – the Brotherhood, the X-Men, and what it means when they run into each other – changes everything about this, and while he can’t claim to be comfortable with this script it’s better than the alternative that tangent presents. Probably. He thinks.

Luckily Bobby moves things on…

< I brought some stuff you left behind

… well, not luckily, not really. It’s a nice gesture, sure (which doesn’t help matters. This isn’t meant to be nice. It’s meant to be sordid. Or clinical. Anything that’ll let him move on, make it so none of this was ever really real) but also a huge one, if it means what it has to mean; Bobby’s finally accepted that he’s not going to come back and claim his side of the room. Which should mean something big for their ‘relationship’ (which this absolutely is not and never will be)… but all John can think is how the only thing he halfway regretted leaving has improved in his absence, which he notes with no small thrill (though whether that’s down to the view, or the idea that Bobby’s been punishing himself, is up for debate)…

No. Fuck no, even. He’s not going there (which raises the question of where exactly this is going. John’s not going to admit that he doesn’t know, of course, because that’s not how he works. Much, much better to just wait. Not commit to anything. Because if last time is anything to go by things will handle themselves, and he’ll be able to blame something, anything else rather than accept any sort of responsibility for how things end up).

Attention returned back to the bag, he picks it up, nodding slight thanks. He misses his last comment because stupid little things like walking are taking far more effort and concentration than usual and returns to something nearer awareness only just in time to catch whatever it is Bobby’s thrown…

A shot glass. Disguised as a candleholder. With a shark on the side. A shot glass that until recently lay in a closet with a partner emblazoned with what was once a spider’s web and will forever be a snowflake…

Nice. Fate’s a cruel bitch, but she’s got an interesting sense of humor. Because this is one hell of a joke, throwing those in. Bobby probably doesn’t even remember what they’re for, what happened last time they saw daylight (which is a stupid phrase since then, as now, it was dark). It’s so ridiculous, and though it’s not a funny joke, not in the slightest, he can’t help but laugh, especially as for the first time in all of this he knows exactly what he’s meant to say, the words coming out between bursts of laughter.

”You, Drake, do not drink”

[Bobby Drake]

> "New guy, looks like a cat, keeps flashing the cash."

Bobby stiffens, recognizing the description as the psycho from the mall... how many cash-flashing felinoid terrorists can there be in Westchester, after all? And Kaine seemed just the sort of mutant sociopath Magneto would recruit. (And what does that say about John? He shies away from the thought.)

But it doesn't matter, really. Not now, anyway. He files the information away for future reference, in case they end up going against the Brotherhood again, then forgets about it. Because the last thing he wants to talk about right now is the Brotherhood. That's a Pyro conversation, and somehow (he's still not really sure how) he's having a conversation with John again and no way is he gonna screw that up.

He realizes, now that it's happening, that he'd pretty much lost hope of ever seeing John again. He'd been willing to settle for visits with Pyro, like visiting the grave of an old friend hoping for a glimpse of his ghost. And now he's not sure what to do. He wants to hold on, but knows enough to know he can't... that ghost or not, John will slip through his fingers if he tries to grab on, turn into nothing but flame and air.

("There is no Dulcinea... she's only flame and air... and yet, how lovely life would seem if every man could weave a dream to keep him from despair..." Bobby'd mostly laughed his way through that movie, but as it comes back to him now it's more true, and sad, than anything else. Because sometimes it isn't that easy to tell whether the whore or the lady is more real. Not that John's a lady even in Bobby's twisted mind.)

> "You, Drake, do not drink"

The wave of deja vu is disorienting... there's something tantalizingly familiar about all this, but Bobby can't put his finger on it.

"You, Allerdyce, have no idea what I do, these days."

It's pure bravado... for all that the Institute has been treating Bobby like he's about to go Unabomber any moment, the truth is he's not really all that different. Not where it matters. A little less controlled, sure, more things slip out than used to, but right now he's pretty much in control. For good or bad.

He wants to add something dramatic sounding, like "We've all had to do things we didn't expect," but it's suddenly so good to see John laugh again, laugh for real, not like a knife or a shield but just like a laugh, that he can't help but join in. And he's nervous enough, and relieved enough, that the laugh just feeds on itself, resuming just when he thinks he's gotten it under control, going on for a long, long time.

When he finally gets it under control he's sitting back on the swing, and he kicks back, letting momentum bring him forward. He hasn't been on a swing since he was a little kid, and suddenly he wonders why... it's still fun, letting the air breeze past his face, building up altitude with each swing.

And it lets him put off even further the question that's been hanging in the air since he first heard the bike: What are we actually doing here?

Well, that can wait. He gestures to a second swing nearby. "How about you, John... do you swing?"

[Pyro]

… just when he thought he’d got the laughter back under control.

Bob clearly has no idea what he’s just said, which makes it all the more entertaining, straight-laced Drake coming out with that, here, now. Though it’s an odd sort of entertaining, knowing that he hadn’t meant it that way… not that that is John’s aim or anything. Course not. He definitely is not thinking about that, doesn’t even know what that might be, thanks.

(Though even though he definitely doesn’t know what that is, it’s hard not to think about it with Bob there. Whatever it is he’s been doing – the fact, as he so clearly points out, that John has no idea exactly what that might be nowadays stings more than it should – it’s doing some good)

Laughing isn’t something he’s had a lot of time for lately. Not genuine laughter in any case. It feels… alien, not just the laugh itself but the idea of being that relaxed, letting go of that much control. But it’s better than the alternative, which is to stop letting the weirdness of the situation strike him with eccentricity rather than menace and admit that it’s really bloody terrifying being here, with him, talking and thinking about that, especially in light of what happened last time (or, indeed, the times before that, which he’s promised himself he’s not going to think about. They both did things they had to but shouldn’t have)

”Sure, Bob” he says, deadpan, once the laughter is back under something close enough to control (which, this being John, is closer than average but not close enough for his liking). ”I swing. Swinging’s great.”

The control is strained just a little more as he takes a seat on the swing next to Bobby’s (not really swinging yet, more twisting the seat), which makes the casual tone of his enquiry something more of a challenge. ”The question is, since when did you?”

[Bobby Drake]

> "The question is, since when did you?"

Bobby is caught up in the swinging, flexing his knees and hips in rhythm, constantly returning to the same spot but each time just a little further, a little higher. "Oh, I've always enjoyed --" he gets that far before the tone of the question penetrates and he gets it.

He forgets to pull his knees in, and the swing comes to a skidding stop as his heels dig into the sandy ground. He's pretty sure he's blushing furiously again. "Oh." He gulps. "Well..."

He wants to dodge the question, or pretend it hasn't been asked, or joke it off. None of which is going to work, he realizes. Or, worse yet, it might, and John might leave. Again.

Well, you did ask for this, Drake, he reminds himself. The question is, were you serious? Or was John right when he said you were all talk?

Well, just what was he scared of, anyway? John didn't seem to be about to kill him, this time... and the other stuff he might be about to do isn't so scary, is it? People do that all the time.

People other than Bobby, anyway. At least, that was true until Mimi's (wasn't it? right this moment, it's hard to tell what's memory and what's fantasy). And Mimi's was completely fucked up, but... he lets that thought trail off rather than think about the way contemplating just exactly how fucked up Mimi's had been makes him shudder, and how many times he's thought about it since, and returns his attention to the here and now.

The thing about having this conversation with John, he realizes, is that it means having the conversation on John's turf. Because whatever else may be true of John's background, it includes way more experience than Bobby's... well, that kind of experience, anyway. It requires, he realizes in a flash of insight, actually trusting John.

So? Isn't that what you wanted him to do, back at Mimi's? Trust you?

But it's not the same thing, dammit! That he is literally arguing with himself like this probably doesn't bode well for his mental health, he realizes. Then again, that ship probably sailed quite a while back. He can trust me, and I don't know if I can -- he cuts off suddenly, realizing just how absurd that line of reasoning is, especially in light of what he allowed to happen to John after Alcatraz.

If this is ever going to work (and even now, he doesn't let himself think too much about exactly what 'this' is), it's going to have to work on John's turf, on John's terms, and Bobby really is going to have to give up control.

Can I do that?, he asks himself, but he doesn't answer directly. Instead he swallows hard, looks John straight in the eye, and finishes the sentence he started what seems like an hour ago: "...since now, I guess. If you want to."

He tells himself he's doing this for John's sake, to build up trust between them. He almost succeeds in convincing himself. But the alternative is admitting his real reasons, and so "almost" is good enough for now.

[Pyro]

The blushing he was expecting, can deal with. What he’d never seen coming was... oh hell. That. Never in a million years. Not from Bobby. Bobby avoids the issue. Bobby plays innocent. And Bobby never...

Except that he just has.

Fuck.

”If I want to?”

He’s stopped whatever strange variation of swinging his half-arsed attempts were (which would, no doubt, fail to meet with Bobby’s approval – the enthusiasm the guy has for it betrays just how much of a child he still is), and the stillness probably looks just about as alien as it feels because John doesn’t just stop like that, is always in some sort of motion even when he’s doing nothing... but Bobby’s words hit, and stip all of that away, stop him dead. For a moment or two dead seems the most believable part of this, because there’s no way Bobby could have said that without reality imploding, but a heartbeat passes and the world is still there. Somehow. Which means he has to say something.

Reality has room for a lot more than we give it credit for... The words buzz around for a while until he realises who said them, and decides that, just maybe, he can risk finding out just how far reality will stretch for him. ”What if I did want to?”

[Bobby Drake]

> "If I want to? [..] What if I did want to?"

It's the pause that catches Bobby's attention first... the incredulous stare, the way John freezes in his tracks. Bobby still isn't quite sure what game they're playing, but he's pretty sure he just scored some points in whatever it is. And that has to be good, right?

Of course, the question is now back in his lap. And sure, he'd already answered it, sorta, but John seems to expect more. What that is, he's not really sure. It's like whoever moves first loses, or something.

Is that it? Is this just some elaborate version of the "gimme-five-too-slow" trick, where John leads him on until he says something he can't take back, then laughs at him? No... Bobby's pretty sure that's not it, not after the look on John's face just then.

Maybe it's just more trust-games, he thinks. Maybe John's just making sure Bobby's serious. But there are limits, and it's John's turn.

"Do you?"

It occurs to Bobby that this would all be a lot more impressive if he weren't spinning back and forth on his swing like a kid who needs to go to the bathroom. So he stands up, tries his best to stand still, fails. And he finds he can't quite meet John's eye, so he settles for pouring a shotglass out of John's old half-empty whiskey bottle. If nothing else, it gives him something to do with his hands.

[Pyro]

”Maybe I do.”

Seconds out, round two. Whatever game this is – and John’s not sure either of them understand the rules, or the aim, or anything beyond the broad command Do not submit – it’s not exactly easy. Sort of (he notes with first amusement, then something more bittersweet at how Erik’s still managing to intrude) like what’s supposed to be so great about chess; the strategy, the calculated losses... Speaking of which, he’s going to have to chart up a substantial one if this is going anywhere other than stalemate. It’s not surprising he has to take the lead, since Bobby’s never been down this road he knows like the back of his hand, but it’s not exactly comfortable being the one to take on whatever’s lurking down there without really knowing whether your companion has your back or is planning on stabbing it again.

Because this whole thing is still sort of unreal, isn’t it?

And at the same time… uncomfortably, inescapably really real.

Which is confusing. And frustrating. And a whole host of other emotions which would no doubt drive him insane if the sight of Bobby and the memory of what exactly he’s said weren’t already doing the job.

It’s all about trust, really. Which, he realizes, is what’s making this so complicated, because he doesn’t trust. He follows, yes. He’s very good at following, because that’s a pretty good way of protecting your neck. But trust is something else, and he’s never really managed to trust anyone because he knows full well that everyone fails sooner or later and trying to convince yourself otherwise is a protracted suicide note.

Can he trust Bobby? Probably not. Pyro definitely can’t, not after what happened Post-Alcatraz. But this isn’t about Pyro. And keeping all of this straight is making his brain hurt.

Two things might help that pain. He holds the shot glass out to receive one of them – the less challenging one, provided Bobby’s still the sharing kind when it comes to alcohol. The other is more difficult to achieve. Some words help, and the next few aren’t bad, considering.

”Maybe I’m making sure you want to, so we don’t make the same mistake more than once. Or maybe I liked that mistake and want to keep on making it. Who knows?”

[Bobby Drake]

Park:
100mtoanchorage.proboards98.com/index.cgi?board=othersville&action=display&thread=1158079122

Bobby leans over and carefully pours John a shot... that much, at least, is simple.

Something ought to be, after all.

> "Maybe I’m making sure you want to, so we don’t make the same mistake more than once. Or maybe I liked that mistake and want to keep on making it. Who knows?”

It takes Bobby a minute to parse that, and even so there's parts that don't make sense, but the basic jist is clear. It's funny, at first, to think that John is worried about the same thing he is.

And then it isn't funny at all. Because somehow, for all this time, he's forgotten just how much alike they are underneath all the particulars. And that's just about the most sobering thought he's had for a long time.

He sits down heavily then, careful not to spill his drink, and takes a sip of it. He's learned something since their first drinking bout together, an infinite number of Christmases ago (a night whose details are mostly lost to drunken oblivion, but fragments are starting to drift into memory, and Bobby realizes suddenly that John was quoting himself a minute before, and is surprised -- and, he has to admit, pleased -- that John even remembers), and doesn't gulp the stuff down... his tolerance for alcohol will never match John's, he's sure, but at least now he knows what he can handle. Sort of.

He considers replying "Would I be here if I didn't?" but John would probably respond with some variation of "I don't know, would you?" and even if Bobby has gotten better at the Questions Game lately that doesn't actually make it any fun. They're playing a different game, now, and it's Bobby's turn to raise or fold.

Do I really want to do this?

The truth is, he isn't sure. The truth is, he'd rather they were just friends again, would rather the last year just hadn't happened, would rather John not have left them behind to join the terrorists, not have tried to kill him, would rather he hadn't stupidly let the Feds take him after the fight in Alcatraz.

Except then he'd have to give up that night at Mimi's, and fucked up as that was it was also more alive, more real, than he's felt in a long, long time. It's all interconnected... if it hadn't been for the Cure, Alcatraz wouldn't have happened, and he wouldn't have realized it wasn't just Marie's powers keeping them apart, and...

Oh, hell. It's just too complicated, and it occurs to Bobby that he has actually reached the point where his fantasies are more work to maintain than reality could possibly be. Like it or not -- and honestly, he does both -- the last year has happened, and it's still happening. Reality is chugging right along, the way it always does, and the only thing he gets to do now (if that much, even) is make sure there's a place in it for him and the people he cares about.

Which brings Bobby right back around to the here, and now, and a question he's trying desparately to avoid answering. Because he can't just say 'yes' when he knows he doesn't really know what he's agreeing to (and he senses that it's part of the package, the not knowing. He's at the edge of that damned cliff again, and it feels like he keeps jumping off it but never quite seems to hit bottom, and he wonders if that's what flying is, or if it's just a sign that when he finally does hit they'll be picking pieces up off the pavement miles away), but he won't say no, and hedging won't get him anything but more hedging in return and he's tired of that game.

He takes another sip, to cover his confusion, knowing it won't work.

And finally he finds what looks like, if not a way out, at least an honest way forward he can live with. "I'm sure I'm not going to give you up again. I figure we can work the rest of the details out as we go along. Is that good enough for you, John?" He thinks a second and adds "Because if it's not, you're going to have to deal with it, because I'm not going away."

[Pyro]

Unlike Bobby’s tentative sips, John’s drink doesn’t touch the sides, is gone in a single swallow. And unlike Bobby he doesn’t react as if it was anything stronger than water. But that’s about where the disparity stops. Which makes things more than a little uncomfortable, because so far everything has hung upon their being different. Every reason he gives himself for why this is a bad idea is based on the fact that they are complete polar opposites, and now looking at it, it seems that was all wrong, that the only difference between them, really, is that each is the part the other can never sustain in themselves. Fire and Ice. It’s wrong, sure, but at the same time there’s something inescapably…

No, that’s a dangerous road. The important part of that particular headfuck is this; there’s nothing stopping them now. All arguments are null and void, so he’s going to have to think on his feet to escape this one. If he still wants to escape. Which is where the thorny issue really lies. Because with no reason to run he just can’t make his legs work, and that means there’s only one place this weird vehicle is going.

Bobby’s speech should be sobering. It’s deadly serious, far more so than any of the shit he’s come out with (and make no mistake, it is shit, because this sort of talk will never be his forte, while Bobby seems born out of a bad romance novel, making his replies not only sound *right* but actually make something like sense), and at the very least should make him feel something other than the urge to laugh. He’d blame the laughter on the drink, but there’s no way he’s had enough, and in any case it seems far more like laughter born of madness. Because that’s what this game (he refuses to call it love) is, isn’t it? A special sort of localized madness. And insanity’s great, because it makes reality just unreal enough.

If it’s cards on the table time, he’s got plenty of his own. Sure, Bobby’s terms make sense, but there’s no way he’s playing any rules but his own here. He’s not content to *figure out the details* because hell, those details have a nasty way of screwing things up. All or nothing is how he works, no muddling through or working things out bit by bit. All, or nothing. Which is what he’ll have of Bobby and what, in a way, he's offering of himself. No compromise. ”This whole thing is details, Bob. There’s no big picture we can fill in later. Unless you’re prepared to fuck the whole thing.”

Part of him is tired of the games, but the rest knows they can't settle for anything other than black and white. Reality might have gotten a whole lot bigger, and stranger, but there's still no room for grey.

[Bobby Drake]

> "Unless you’re prepared to fuck the whole thing"

Bobby shrugs, trying for nonchalant and failing utterly. "And if I do, then what? You go back to blowing shit up and trying to kill me? No, I'm not prepared to do that, John. And I bet you are if I let you, but I'm not gonna, and I don't think you want me to. So let's just stop talking about it, OK? It's not going to happen."

He takes a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order and failing at that, too. It's like everything he's saying is coming out of his mouth, without any planning, like thoughts and feelings he's been trying to contain and digest for months and finally just has to expel, even though he knows that saying them out loud gives them a reality they didn't used to have.

"As for the rest of it... jeez, John, I don't know!" He realizes he's whining again, and wonders what it is about John that does that to him. Sure, he's attractive, but not that attractive (and a part of Bobby's mind wonders just when it became OK for him to think of guys as attractive... it hadn't been, once, he was fairly sure of that. But right now that's not what matters.), and sure, they'd been best friends, but was that really enough to crawl out on a limb like this for? John sure hadn't thought so when he walked away.

Except it wasn't John who walked away, was it? It was Pyro. John was the one who wrote him that message, and had those lost-stray-dog eyes back at Mimi's.

Which was frustrating as hell, not having a clear target or a clear ally. But really, how much worse did it have to be for John? After all, if Bobby was fighting one half of the boy's psyche for the other, then John was experiencing some kind of civil war in there. No wonder he wasn't prepared to offer much in the way of trust, no wonder he needs the terms spelled out ahead of time.

And it's easier, thinking of this as a way of forming an alliance with John, rather than... well, whatever else it is. But that still doesn't make it easy.

"John... look, I've never done this before." The reasonable voice he started with turns into more of a pleading whine much faster than he'd have thought possible. "JWhat details do you want? My favorite positions? Whether I top or bottom? Enjoy being tied up? How the hell should I know?!? You're the goddamned expert on this stuff."

Bobby can't quite believe he's saying any of this out loud at all, let alone as loudly as he is. Fortunately there aren't very many people out here this late at night. He finally manages to clamp down on his mouth, finally, and drains his shotglass before any more stray words sneak out there to embarass him further.

[Pyro]

< And if I do, then what? You go back to blowing shit up and trying to kill me?
”Yes, Drake, that’s exactly what happens. It happens whatever. Whether we fight or” – shit, John, are you really saying this? – ”fuck or” – or what? Buy ice cream… no, he wouldn’t understand, even if he got it… hell, especially if he got it – ”or whatever, we walk away and nothing changes. Got that Icicle?”

John’s got his own hipflask out now – no need to hide it any more – since Bobby seems pretty caught up with the other one, and doesn’t bother pouring a shot, just knocks back a draught, tasting nothing except the flame which, in his world at least, is what makes this shit worth drinking.

”I go back to international terrorism” (he wonders vaguely when that became an acceptable vocation) ”You go do whatever your lot do, and we stay enemies. Nothing changes” Some part of him which isn’t best pleased finding itself buried buy rather than burying the John psyche is fairly certain those words should be more comforting, sound something nearer sane. They don’t exactly ring hollow – the John part can’t help but admit it’s an inconvenient but inescapable truth – but it doesn’t sound like Bobby’s the only one he’s trying to convince of that.

He’s also nearer flattered, or more like something nearby which hasn’t got a name, by what Bobby’s saying than he should allow himself to be, an involuntary smile quirking at how Bobby ‘won’t let’ him slip away like that. It’s an easy emotion to smother, strangling it with a strange mix anxiety it’s somehow marginally less unacceptable to submit to. Because when you start thinking like that… suddenly things become very serious (and part of him wonders what he thought it was before it became very serious). This is alien territory, make no mistake, because John never builds anything he can’t trust himself to burn down. He know he can still walk away, but it’s definitely not getting any easier to pretend Bobby won’t be fool enough to follow.

< How the hell should I know?!? You're the goddamned expert on this stuff.
The next draught has to be doing something, something more than it should. Or maybe it’s that *playing* with Wanda has sapped all his strength. Whichever, the way he’s still tossing those words around means he can’t quite be firing on all cylinders and cruising through anything like his right mind. What happens next only confirms things. The him that passes for *normal* now would no doubt just laugh them off, or sneer dismissively, or something. Definitely deflect them somehow. Not anything even remotely like what he finds himself doing…

Bobby it seems is not the only one saying more than he should. ”Fuck, Bobby, you think I’m any the wiser here? I like it how people” – thank fuck something stops him saying *pay*, though it’s small consolation – ”tell me to like it. Never done it without instructions…”

He tails off – Oh bollocks – because sure as hell none of that was ever meant to come out. John’s praying Bobby’s too mixed up to untangle exactly what that means, but has less faith than usual in the efficacy of that prayer, and knows that whatever he’s gleaned from that outburst there’s still no way things between them can play out *right* (whatever that means, given how inescapably wrong all of this is).

”Forget it. This was fucked from the off. Major mistake, I’m going home” At least there’s enough of *him* left in the driving seat not to feel bad saying that – because the idea of having to apologise for calling the Brotherhood HQ that is stupid, right? – but he still doesn’t move from the swing. His mouth, it seems, is the only part capable of running away now, despite every other inch screaming to let it lie and just get the hell out. ”You should do the same. Find some mini-hero at the Leather Emporium to drill me outta you, shag him senseless ‘til you get bored, and run back to the Incredible Leech-ette again” – and really, how perfect is she, if this is what Bobby really likes? No need to explain his reluctance to touch, plenty of things *standing* between them to cover up the one that’s not – ”Word is Golden Boy Worthington should be good for a few rounds, and I bet you’re just his type”

[Bobby Drake]

> ”Yes, Drake, that’s exactly what happens. It happens whatever. Whether we fight or, fuck or, or whatever, we walk away and nothing changes. Got that Icicle?”

That hurts. The whole point of this exercise (or so he tells himself, anyway, and never mind how it seems more implausible with every passing day... Bobby's disbelief is most comfortable when its feet don't touch the ground) was for them to stop being enemies, was to get off the train-ride that ends with one of them dead.

His instinct is to retreat from the pain, take John at his word, give up, go home, resign himself to being nothing but a soldier and hope quietly that, when that train reaches its station, he isn't the one left standing.

A more confident man would ignore the impulse altogether. A more arrogant one would never feel it. A more experienced man would notice the hesitation in John's voice, the relative absence of cocky Pyro-swagger, the fleeting glimpses of flattered smile and fearful eyes, all at odds with the words.

But Bobby isn't any of those things. He's been through experiences most people never even dream of, but not the kind of experience that lets him see through John's emotional pyrotechnics. So what stops him, ultimately, isn't anywhere near that sophisticated.

It's actually a relatively simple realization: John lies.

”No... no, John, I don't.”

At this point, Bobby's never sure what his voice is going to sound like when he talks to John. A minute ago he was trying for reasonable and came out pleading. Now, when half his brain is desperately trying to pretend John didn't just say what he just said, he sounds calm and assured. Of course, he's known for a while now that he's much more along for the ride in his own brain than he is driving the bus... but it's still startling, and frightening, to be reminded of it like this. ”I don't 'got that'. And you know what? I don't think you do either. ”

It feels lke a random statement when it comes out of his mouth, and it takes Bobby a second to actually understand what he just said, and realize it has to be true... that John isn't driving his bus, either. ” I don't think you want either of us to end up dead. I don't think you have any more idea of what you're doing, or what you're going to do next, or what happens after that, than I do. I don't think you know why you're here... and I don't think you know why you're there, with them.” It all comes out in a rush, and in retrospect Bobby isn't entirely sure he believes what he just said.

But then again, he's not sure he doesn't.

> ”Fuck, Bobby, you think I’m any the wiser here? I like it how people -- tell me to like it. Never done it without instructions… ”

It takes Bobby a while to work through that, and before he's aware of having finished he's already feeling like the floor has fallen out from under him. John keeps talking, but it's like he's a million miles away... Bobby hears the words, even understands them, but has no attention to spare.

When he finally lets himself understand it, he's surprised by how unsurprised he is... on some level, he realizes, he'd understood that much since their encounter at Mimi's. He just hadn't put it together in his head, because it didn't fit with his image of John, of the confident boy Bobby'd half-fallen in love with when he first appeared at the Institute, the boy who never took any crap from anyone and did exactly what he wanted, who had seemed so much what Bobby wasn't and had so desperately wanted to be. Bobby still can't imagine that boy docilely following instructions, not like that... and finally his mind catches up with what his gut figured out a moment before, that that boy had never existed.

”It was always a lie, wasn't it? You've been just as scared as me, right from the start. I just never saw it.” He hadn't meant to say any of that out loud, but it seems somehow fitting that he did. And it seems like he ought to feel angry, betrayed, superior, something like that... but all he really feels is sad, at all the time and energy they've both wasted being something they aren't, and the realization that they're probably not going to stop.

”John -- ” he starts out, then chokes. It's like part of him knows what he's about to say and desperately wants to avoid hearing himself say it, knows that he's talking to himself as much as to John, or perhaps more. But it doesn't matter, he's no more able to stem the tide of words than he'd have been able to stop the flood at Alkali, whatever the stupid DR physics-simulator thinks. ”-- aren't you tired of running?”