Looking for a new flame (Pyro)

[Bobby Drake]

Bob can tell that John is getting irritated, but if there’s one thing he’s learned about John in the last few months it’s that he doesn’t object to being ordered around nearly as much as he thinks he does. (Of course, he’d learned much more than that, about both of them… and for just a moment, as the flaming wall roars heat at him and sends sweat stinging into his eyes, he thinks maybe now is the right time to remember it all. Then he remembers the fireplace, and the needle falling to the floor, and waking up in – and he shakes his head to clear it, returns to the here and the now.)

He nods at the fire-wall and picks up one of the objects at his feet – a softball. "Good. Now let’s see what we’ve got." He hurls it at the wall and grins as it turns to ash before reaching the other side. "Excellent." He repeats the exercise with various other objects of increasing durability, finally working his way up to another revolver, which discharges a stream of bullets uselessly into the wall.

"OK… so, think fast, hotshot." Another few stabs at the menu and the ceiling above John suddenly buckles, cracks, and starts to rain down in huge chunks of steel and concrete on both John and Bob. Boy, I hope this works…

[Pyro]

For some reason it’s easier – though still not categorically *easy* per se – to keep the wall in place once Bob starts pitching things at it, easier still once those *things* graduate from random objects to something that’s actually a threat, and this time it’s not quite as obscene to let that demented pride surface again.

< think fast, hotshot
Bob's excitement at anything like power advancement (because he always was that wierd sort of geekishly into all that, wasn't he?) and the almost-banter-like edge to the nickname, start pushing this into 'Just Like Old Times' territory, and...

"Shit!"

The rush of disbelief outpaces everything else for near enough to a split second that the wall wavers, thinning out and tinting blue-ish like when a lighter runs out of fluid – and that lapse will worry him later, when he has the ‘luxury’ of re-running this, because if this whole defection / realignment thing has taught him anything halfway useful about anything it’s that he shouldn’t allow himself to be surprised by a supposed ally (because Bob’s still on his side as well as his *team*, right?) doing something like this… but that’s later when it isn’t raining metal – before the wave of Oh shit kicks in and handles things the way it inevitably does (and maybe later he’ll dissect that as well, because trusting in instinct probably doesn’t count as a particularly great tactic…), re-establishing the shield and buckling it over backwards to form something nearer a semi-domed roof.

It takes another second or two for him to dare to breathe, wide eyed and unusually tense, conscious thought having trusted in the more human (and largely futile) reaction to duck and shield himself with his arms… and still another for that to ebb enough for him to think about anything other than his own survival (and that’s something which refuses to be left til later, the shift there from the reckless just as long as he gets out semi-heroism of the escape back to me first, everyone else second, and part of him’s sad, sure, but part’s equally relieved in some weird way he shies from analysing) to even bother checking that Bob’s covered, and to extend and re-enforce that cover.

The actions are simple enough, and over fairly quickly, but the tangle of thoughts and tangents and *best not explored* signs takes a little longer to sort out, and a few more moments pass in silence, save for his breathing which is on it’s way back to un-panicked a little too slowly for his liking, where he watches the debris vaporising above them - a private starscape of flame and rubble and ashes which, in some weird way, is probably more fitting than anything else – before, re-assured that it’ll hold, he spares a side-glance (or rather side-wtf?!-half-scowl) in Bob’s direction.

”That ‘excellent’ as well, Bob? ‘Excellent’ enough for you to stop trying to kill me? Hate to think you’re bringing anything ‘unprofessional’ to the table here…” And maybe that’s uncalled for, but fuck, so was that latest little display…

[Bobby Drake]

Bob watches the wall flicker and fade, and the thought Oh shit, I just hospitalized both of us again has just enough time to pass through his mind before it bursts back into health and reforms as a dome, to be followed by Nope, just me… as a few smaller chunks hit around him and he dives to the ground, before the dome stretches to cover both of them.

It takes him a moment after that to realize that John actually had protected them both. In retrospect, he wonders whether he’d been setting out to test exactly that. He’s not entirely sure, really. Either way, he’s relieved it turned out to be true.

> " That ‘excellent’ as well, Bob? ‘Excellent’ enough for you to stop trying to kill me? Hate to think you’re bringing anything ‘unprofessional’ to the table here…"

For just a second it feels like old times, John’s little snide comments starting arguments about… well, about anything at all. But they’ve both been through too much since then, and they aren’t really kids anymore (at least, not the same kids), and Bob’s response as he picks himself up off the ground is tired, matter-of-fact, and without heat: "Yeah, John… I set up a deathtrap for you and put myself in it too, because I’m just that stupid. Next time I’m going to jump out a high window to land on you as you walk by."

He shakes his head, then grins and adds "It was pretty cool, though. I wasn’t sure you could pull it off… glad you did. And it’s good to know we’ve got another shield generator on the team, what with me on the bench. Josh’s TK-shield is a pretty good trick, but it doesn’t work so well against hails of bullets and stuff like that. " It occurs to him that this is the first time he’s referred to John as being on the team without stumbling. It’s probably a good sign.

The “unprofessional” dig does sting a bit, though. Much as he’d like to claim otherwise, Bob knows he’s bringing all kinds of personal baggage to this training session… he supposes that’s what Storm had in mind, actually, like forcing Josh to go through that Alkali Lake sim. Get them talking about… stuff.

Which isn’t a bad idea, really.

"So…" he starts out. Followed by an awkward pause. " Um…"

OK. So maybe it isn’t a good idea, either.

"…turns out your powers work pretty well in defensive modes, not just offensive. Good to know, next time some trigger-happy c-crazy starts waving a gun around." He’d almost said “cop,” and really the last thing he wants is to bring that up again.

"Probably a good place to call a halt for now… gonna think about it some, see if there’s some way you can get some velocity out of your powers… maybe a rocket boost or something like that. And look into the whole oxidation thing a little more. As for the defensive stuff… well, ‘ro just wants me to get you thinking out of the box with your powers, trying new stuff, so I guess it’s up to you whether you want to follow through – um, I mean, whether… well, you know, you want to practice and stuff." He’s not sure why he’s stumbling over this, or why he can’t quite seem to meet John’s eyes. "But, um… if you want to, and you want any help or whatever… give me a call."

[Pyro]

< Next time I’m going to jump out a high window to land on you as you walk by
”Plenty of easier and less tragically desperate ways to get my attention” – and, with the half grin and the mix of deadpan and snark it almost, almost comes off as just another snide John-ism, another hah, Bob’s after my nuts again just like old times, but somehow it… just falls short, really. And not just in the obvious way. Possibly the odd, slightly hopeful edge underscoring it, a melancholy-flavoured wish you would… least that’d mean… something which would explain the ”though most’ve those’d mean admitting you ever wanted it” which sneaks out under his breath, and which he opts to ignore rather than chase of as things move on almost too quickly for him to notice it, and hopefully by extension too quickly for Bob to pick up on anything other than same old John.

< I wasn’t sure you could pull it off
”I’d say faith wouldn’t kill you, but…” This time it’s a full grin as he nods upwards, though the come on, this is me we’re talking about which should follow gets cut off because even he can’t not respond yeah, exactly before the words form… though he’s going to pretend that’s more about power parameters than, y’know, betrayal or anything, erm, ridiculous like that.

< … on the team, while I’m on the bench
John’s not sure whether the transition from ‘enemy’ to ‘team member’ going so smoothly is as good a thing as it seems, because it’s like it’s just… happened, just been assumed. He definitely can’t remember anything being said about it – he’s coming back to complete the year, that’s what was agreed, nothing to do with joining the X’s or anything – but everyone (including, most of the time, him) has just fallen into thinking that way… which could mean it’s just natural, but still feels sort of… disorientating.

The ‘on the bench’ comment carries a more obvious sting, though it’s not a total downer, right? ‘On the bench’ means he’ll be back in the game eventually, doesn’t it? It occurs to him that he should probably have asked sooner about the prognosis as far as all that goes, and then a second later that no, he should probably avoid the topic beyond a ”Mhmm.. me n’ Josh can keep the seat warm ‘til you’re, y’know, back in the game” that’s as near cheery and optimistic as he can make it despite it feeling kinda hollow like he’s talking idly about the future with a terminal patient or something… except that obviously Bob’s going to get his powers back. Obviously. The cure’s got to wear off sooner or later. Sooner would be better, but it’s not permanent, right?

(Somewhat more selfishly, the idea that he’s just on the team as a sub, or a provisional trial, or something, makes this all easier to deal with)

His own awkward silence after that carries on through Bob’s stumble, through the unintentional and irritating leap his heart makes before Bob hits his stride and takes the topic away from whatever that deluded organ thought it was going to be, through the pre-wince and relief when c- comes out as ‘crazy’ and not ‘cop’ and the babbling about where to go from here… and on until… shit.

It should almost be funny, how weirdly charmingly awkward Bob’s being about the whole prospect of another meeting. Should be. Definitely shouldn’t, however, push him to somewhere between giddy schoolgirl-ish at what might be said (ick) and, again, oddly melancholic at knowing it probably won’t be... shouldn’t be so unable to meet Bob’s gaze (or so distracted by this not to notice that he wouldn’t be able to anyway)… shouldn’t be struggling for words. ”Sure..” he says, eventually, though the word comes out more as a throat-clear than anything else, a preparation for the (mostly) perfect deadpan of the rest of the sentence. ”Guess we could, y’know, hook up again. You know where I am, after all…” – and of course that’s just an innocent let’s do this again because there’s no way he could ask anything else, even if he wanted to which he can’t be sure he doesn’t. Brushing it off, John glances up again ”Maybe you should turn that off, though…” (a convenient distraction there, if ever there was one, to give Bob something more pressing than questioning his previous words) ”Shit.. how much ceiling is there?”

[Bobby Drake]

> " Plenty of easier and less tragically desperate ways to get my attention"

Really? Didn’t seem that way back in the medbay. Which is really what brings home to Bob how much he’s changed since that “date” at Baker Mansion, because the kid he’d been before then would’ve just blurted that out, no matter how vulnerable it made him. He’s learned something since then, anyway… pity the price was so high. If he’d been better about keeping his mouth shut in the first place he’d still be an X-Man, instead of an ex-mutant benchwarmer.

> " though most’ve those’d mean admitting you ever wanted it "

That throws him, a little. Not the words, so much as the tone… it’s doesn’t really sound like John. From John he’d have expected them to be an invitation, a tease, a challenge. Instead they were a complaint… almost a whine. Trying to make me the bad guy here. As usual. Well, in case you need the instant replay, John, I’m not the one who screwed up here. He almost spits that out angrily, except for a strange weakened place in that anger that whispers aren’t you, though?. And he doesn’t even know what that means, not really… but it throws him off his stride, puts a crack in the armor he’s so desperately trying to build, lets one of the questions he’s been bottling up slip out.

"OK, John… you want to talk about what we want? Fine. How about you start with this one: did you decide to break me out before or after Magneto kicked you to the curb?"

He regrets it as soon as he hears it comes out of his mouth. He’d wanted it to sound rhetorical: angry, bitter, judgmental. He’d have settled for matter-of-fact, curious, detached. What he got was sincere and wounded, and that gives away more than he’d wanted to. "Not that it matters," he adds hastily, reaching for that detached distance and almost making it. "You’re where you belong now. I was just… curious."

> " I’d say faith wouldn’t kill you, but…"

…sometimes it’s the only thing that can, he completes mentally, but this time manages to keep his mouth shut. He’s supposed to be coaching John in using his powers here, encouraging him to stick around, not making him feel bad about the events that led up to his return. The fact that he wants John to feel bad about it is beside the point.

The thing nobody mentions is how the Prodigal Son’s brothers must’ve felt when everyone made such a big deal over him coming back, when they’d stuck around and brought in the harvest and lived through the famine years. Yeah, the sudden return is dramatic… but drama isn’t everything, is it?

> " Mhmm.. me n’ Josh can keep the seat warm ‘til you’re, y’know, back in the game"

Got to give the boy credit for an effort, anyway. Sure, he makes it sound like Bob’s dying of cancer or something (and deep in the back of Bob’s mind a venomous little voice suggests that as far as John’s concerned, he might as well be dead as be “just a flatliner”), but he’s trying to be cheerful about it, and that counts for something, right?.

Right?

> " Guess we could, y’know, hook up again. You know where I am, after all… "

Bob is sweating, suddenly, and it’s not entirely because of the fiery shield above them. He’s just not sure where this conversation is going, all of a sudden, or what’s going to happen when it gets there. And while there was a time he’d have thrown caution to the winds and taken the dive, he… he just can’t do that again. Not now, anyway.

"Do I? Last I heard you were going up to Marie’s – sorry, I mean Rogue’s room… are you still there?" Which was cheap, because Bob knows perfectly well that he isn’t, but he isn’t about to admit that he’s been keeping track. "Is she feeling any better about losing y-us, um, losing her “psykes”?"

And there, again, he’d given away more than he’d intended. Because sure, it had hurt that John had been the one to console her for the loss, but that was swamped by the guilt he felt for having barely even cared about it at the time. And sure, he’d just lost his powers, been kidnapped, tortured, almost killed, and he’d needed someone to console him just then, and it didn’t make him a horrible friend or anything, except for how it kinda did. And –

> " Maybe you should turn that off, though… Shit.. how much ceiling is there? "

"Huh?" It takes Bob a moment to realize the “cave-in” sim is still running, dumping a continuing rain of stone onto their heads. "Shit! END PROGRAM!"

[Pyro]

< OK, John… you want to talk about what we want?
”Right now I’d settle for just talking. Anyone’d think you were avoid…” John starts – and there’s still that whine there, but the fire more than compensates for it, making it more of an accusation than a plea, and that’s close enough to the bite he’s aiming for that he’ll get there by the time this ends up wherever it’s going... or would have, if Bob hadn’t cut in.

< Fine. How about you start with this one: did you decide to break me out before or after Magneto kicked you to the curb?
That floors him, though out of the reasons for that flooring it’s the he didn’t dare just say that flare rather than the shit, what do I say? which he latches on to (really, though, what does he say? Because he can’t pretend that question’s not been nagging at him; if he hadn’t been kicked out, would he still have made a move? And all the sickening chivalrous shit about how sure, he would have, because it was Bob and it was the right thing doesn’t mean squat because part of him knows that no, he wouldn’t, he needed that final push… and it doesn’t matter how he tries to spin it, it’s still there and it’s still sort of true…), flavouring everything with a righteous indignant edge because… well, what right does Bob have to ask that? John got him out, didn’t he? Surely that’s the important bit? ”If it was after, do you really think he’d have kicked me out?”

(Somewhere in that pique there’s an unintentional threat, a not so subtle reminder of exactly what the life he gave up – gave up for you, bastard another voice pipes up, though luckily that comment at least passes unspoken – was, who he used to be, the whole prized protégé thing… and shit, maybe even some really twisted pride, none of which should still be lingering…)

< You’re where you belong now
He’s floored again at the sentiment – or more clearly the absence of it, because it’s damn hard to read what Bob’s spelling out here, the implication in the words contradicting the detachment in the tone – though he refuses to let it raise anything like guilt at what still feels like fully justified umbrage… And it strikes him as sort of odd that he’s had the same conversation with Rogue (or rather that she’s brought up the same issue, because this, now, is clearly a non-conversation sort of thing) and that… what, he was more honest with her? Or just a different sort?

< I was just… curious
”Yeah, well… don’t be.” – that would be the Old John, more so even than any of the previous lapses, the dark-eyed child glaring out and almost snarling, outfacing any enquiry until it’s wisely dropped, because there are just some topics you don’t touch upon… and Bobby’d got to know the map of places not to go, eventually (but then again, this isn’t Bobby, is it?) – ”Cat’s got eight more lives than a flatliner and y’know how that story ends… wouldn’t want you risking it”

< … are you still there?
… that’s cheap. And it stings. And fully merits the sidelong disparaging glare, one eyebrow cocked as if to ask, incredulous, whether he’s seriously planning on playing it like that… which turns into equally disparaging sarcasm – and something darker, because he can’t convince himself to pretend this isn’t mostly, if he’s totally honest, about wounding Bob, scoring points back – as he replies ”Of course. Today’s the first time I’ve left… time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?” His next reply – to the question about psykes, which he should be taking more seriously and not just using to get another cheap shot in – is in the same vein, the casual shrug and ”Not sure. She’s… we haven’t really dealt with that yet” carrying an unspoken obviously we’ve been too busy to talk about things.

< End Program!
At least one barrage is back under control (and he’s relieved not to have to concentrate on the wall any more once the sim ends, because Bob’s getting to him he’s getting riled sparing that much attention isn’t really something he’s keen on doing just now), though it looks like this second one might just be getting started. And it’s almost like their old fights… or more accurately like back when they were official enemies rather than just taking cheap shots at each other. Like back at Mimi’s… only this time it can’t end with them rutting in the ashes as it all goes to hell, can it? (And no, he’s totally okay with that. Happy about it even… Sure. Totally happy.)

[Bobby Drake]

> "If it was after, do you really think he’d have kicked me out?"

Bob’s initial, instinctive reaction is guilt for having even considered the idea that John might actually have let him stay in there, if it hadn’t been for Magneto deciding he didn’t have what it took. It’s a pretty revolting idea, after all, and a real friend wouldn’t have thought it.

Except, before that guilt can fully take root and suppress the question, Bob becomes uncomfortably aware that John didn’t actually answer it. He’d just changed the subject. And Bob doesn’t have the stomach to press, because if it’s true he’s not sure he wants to know. Better the vague disquiet of uncertainty than the nausea of revelation… at least, that’s his choice today. He’s had quite enough nausea for one month.

> "Yeah, well… don’t be. Cat’s got eight more lives than a flatliner and y’know how that story ends… wouldn’t want you risking it."

Bob nods miserably. (See?, whispers the venomous voice in his mind smugly, He really does think you’re less of a man without your mutation. Told you.) "Yeah, you’re right… I’m sorry I asked."

> " Of course. Today’s the first time I’ve left… time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?"

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in, and it’s like a ball of molten lead in his belly when it does – too heavy to get rid of and too painful to stand. He can’t even bring himself to resent them for it… he’s been down that road with Josh and Warren, and while this isn’t quite the same thing it’s still the same basic question: is he really self-centered enough to believe it’s all about him?

Apparently, yes. But damned if I’m gonna let it show this time… making a fool out of myself that way in front of Josh was bad enough. If I can’t be a decent friend I can at least act like one.

So he forces himself not to show it, gives his best impression of a cheery smile. It’s a pathetic imitation, granted, but maybe John won’t notice. Or care. "Yeah, I guess it does. Good for you, then." He can’t bring himself to say anything more, and when he realizes he stupidly forgot to install an automatic shutoff on the cave-in sim it provides a welcome distraction from it all.

Afterwards, he resets all the props to default-state and asks tentatively: "So, um… you wanna catch a movie or something?" He adds hastily, before John has a chance to make his rejection more explicit: "I mean, you and Mar—Rogue?"

[Pyro]

Even if he’s focusing on trying to look like he’s not hanging on Bob’s words almost more, in some roundabout way, than anything other than the words themselves, John can’t quite miss the fake-ness, which feels like… getting points back, obviously. Nothing else. Not even remotely like disappointment that it’s nothing bigger at the “fact” he and Rogue have supposedly “shacked up” (though what in that he’s expecting any objection to, exactly, is complicated to say the least…); obviously he doesn’t want Bob to hate him for it, does he? That would be all sorts of fucked up (though the other options revolving around some sort not hating motivating any sort of discomfort aren’t much more sane, come to think of it – which is why he doesn’t try to). Seems like the memo hasn’t got quite round yet, though, because he can’t keep something like disappointment from framing his response, which comes off even (slightly) more curt than usual. ”Yeah. Good for us.”

(He doesn’t know why it should feel profane to use the word *us* about him and Rogue, why there should be any sort of boundary which makes him think what they have is… something else entirely)

The floor’s really seeming totally enthralling as Bob works through the bewildering array of interfaces… that and the wall, and the ceiling, and anything other than Bob which he can glance at as he waits (for what, he’s not sure), flicking the Zippo intermittently out of habit. The next series (well, pair) of about turns prove far more disorientating than they should as it bungees between the suggestion and the definitely not what you were thinking then, though. And he should stop at a semi-dignified ”Yeah, maybe” and walk away from this the bigger man, and not surrender to the snide and the bitter and everything else… but that’s not how it works, as if he’s worn out the censor already, or just doesn’t care enough to implement it any more. ”Thought you couldn’t fuck with hot and cold any more… s’not cute, Drake, and I’m somewhere near giving up on keeping up. Once you’ve decided on one or the other…”

He leaves it hanging – a mix of deliberate and incidental next to making sure y’don’t say anything else stupid (and, maybe, refusal to reject the idea outright) – and would make the step towards the door if only his feet would start obeying and not act all frozen just because those clearly can’t be anything like (albeit really well bitten back) tears (and even if they are anything even vaguely like that – which they aren’t, but if they were – then they’re more angry than anything).

[Bobby Drake]

> "Yeah. Good for us "

John’s disappointment at the tepidness of Bob’s reaction isn’t as well-concealed as he might have liked… but perceptiveness is no substitute for telepathy, and knowing John wanted a stronger response isn’t the same as knowing what response he wanted.

It’s possible that at a different time, in a different conversation, Bob would have remembered the most important principle underlying talking to John about emotions and relationships, namely: “John lies.” But here and now, that principle is forgotten, and Bob accepts John’s implications at face value and assumes he’d wanted more enthusiasm. Well, what the hell do you expect, John? You give me like thirty-five seconds to get used to you screwing me over and coming back to the fold before dumping me and moving in with my ex-girlfriend and you expect me to forget about everything and cheer? Fuck that.

Not that any of that comes out of his mouth… no sense making himself look more like a jerk than he already does. So, OK, John and Marie are a couple now, and he’s the cast-off third wheel. Fine. He doesn’t have to like it, but there’s no reason he has to let anybody see him suffer… he’s done quite enough of that this week, already.

> " Thought you couldn’t fuck with hot and cold any more… s’not cute, Drake, and I’m somewhere near giving up on keeping up. "

OK! OK! I get it! Bob wants to shout, and only his determination not to let John know how much it hurts keeps him from doing it. I’m not Iceman anymore, the “Hot and Cold” thing is over, I’m just a fucking useless flatliner you don’t want any part of. I get it. Will you stop rubbing it in already?!? He turns away abruptly, refusing to let John see his face twist up.

> " Once you’ve decided on one or the other…"

"Hell, John, it’s not like I’ve been left with much choice in the matter, is it? I don’t ‘run cold’ anymore, you saw to that, and now we’ve both just got to deal with it, so will you get off my fucking back about it already?"

He blurts it out without volition, his voice raw with pain, and he regrets it immediately. John hadn’t known there was Cure in that needle; Bob’s pretty sure of that. He hadn’t known he was turning off Bob’s powers.

But he’d done it.

Bob’s pretty sure he could forgive that, eventually. Could even see calling it even… after all, it wasn’t all that different from what they’d done to John after Alcatraz. (Some still-raw part of him insists it’s not the same thing at all – they’d had more reason to trust the government than John had had to trust the Brotherhood... and John had just tried to kill him... and they were dealing with the Professor and Jean and the Brotherhood and everything – but Bob ignores all of that for now.) But for John to then turn around and give him shit for not being Iceman anymore, dump him and take up with another mutant, all within a week of his return? No… that’s just too much to take.

He can’t trust himself to say anything more; he doesn’t know what will come out of his mouth. He can’t trust himself to look at John; he doesn’t know what will show on his face. There’s really only one thing he can do, and that’s leave.

So, he does. He knows he really shouldn’t be leaving John alone in the Danger Room… he’s no longer an authorized user, it violates all kinds of security protocols. He doesn’t care. If this is all some kind of elaborate setup to insinuate a Brotherhood agent into the Institute, he’d just as soon find out now.

[Pyro]

< Hell, John, it’s not like I’ve been left with much choice in the matter, is it?
... what? It doesn’t make any sense, really; oh, sure, he’s the one forcing this whole stupid fucking situation to become the schizophrenic monster it is. Obviously. Nothing to do with Bob being all wounded one minute and numb the next and refusing to give any sort of clear answer on where the hell they stand (and no, that’s not even slightly hypocritical… and yes, he’d welcome a clear answer, of course he would. No reason not to want to know in excruciating explicit detail what’s going on, to have to tie things to one position or another)

… and then it clicks… but sort of doesn’t, because it takes a second or two to accept that yes, Bob really has totally missed the point… and that shouldn’t surprise him, should it? He should have learned to accept that they were never going to understand, well, anything about each other or be in the same volume let alone coming from the same page… or anything, really, that would suggest Bob would be able to make sense of his random spouting. But that’s not how he’s reading it just now, because it feels more like Bob’s skipped the totally straightforward and obvious meaning because, in his world, it’s just too preposterous to pick up on. And that’s like a knife between the ribs, a far more intimate sting than any of the other shots which have landed thus far.

And being stumped by that and watching him storm off is, of course, a perfectly justifiable response. For a moment it’s even tempting… but s’not going to happen. Letting him have the last word when they were doing whatever it was they had going back at the Park, back before that at Mimi’s (which was neither dating nor just casual fucking, really… there’s not a word which springs to mind, and part of him thinks that’s because it was too screwed up to be granted one and part that it was just incomprehensibly *right*) was one thing, and that still always felt weird because no, snatching that was always his job before (the fact that he was genuinely flatfooted most of the time non-withstanding, of course, because details like that are naturally so very easily forgotten when there’s a point to be proved). But now? No way he’s going to keep bending himself over backwards to accommodate what’s ‘rational’ now, because ‘rational’ is no friend to either of them and he’s done trying to be whatever John it is Bob wants because whoever that guy is he clearly never really existed… Bob’s got what he always supposedly wanted – he’s back, just like before, (and some really fucked up part argues that Bob should be grateful for more than that because hell, it’s almost like Boston never happened now, isn’t it? He can ‘try not being a mutant’ and crawl back home and have his perfect little life back and get that second chance which never, ever happens) – and that should be more than enough of a sacrifice for him.

”Fine” John storms not after but past him (just so it’s clear this isn’t about following you, besides the whole *storming* thing), all flame and blindness and outta my way elbows as he heads off to… wherever (‘wherever’ being fairly clear, in an abstract sort of way, because insinuation’s just not cutting it he’s got no reason not to now, right?). ”I’ll do that. You try getting your head outta your ass long enough to realise the rest of the world isn’t necessarily cut up because Iceman’s dead.” (and maybe that’s a little more brutal, and a little less clear, than it should be… but whatever. Even in this it’s not about not giving a damn, that much should be clear, it’s a for fuck’s sake see beyond that for once… or something).