A Very Cyber Valentine's Day (John)

[Bobby Drake]

It doesn’t quite seem right starting this experiment in his own room, but Robert dismisses the irrational thought with a trace of annoyance: it’s as reasonable a place as any other, and he’s less likely to be interrupted here than most places. Especially since it’s Valentine’s Day, and St. John Allerdyce had implied he’d be having a romantic evening with Marie D’Ancanto, which ought to keep both of them occupied for several hours.

He frowns as a pulse of interference distorts the dataflow connecting him to the Institute’s network. That’s happened before, from time to time; he has confirmed that the problem is not with the network itself, or with his technopathic linkage, but rather with his own subconscious mind. Eliminating unreliable resource-consumption spikes in his conscious mind was relatively easy, but the rest of his mind has proven less amenable to optimization… especially when strongly emotional topics, such as his former association with those two, enter into his analyses.

No matter. A few minutes of cognitive error-correction is sufficient to re-establish an optimal data-flow, and he returns his attention to his current project.

In the months since he gained his new powers, Robert is aware that they’ve been growing stronger and more reliable; however, lately he seems to be running up against an insuperable barrier: however quickly he can exchange data with the network, there’s an upper limit to how quickly he can assimilate that data. It takes him milliseconds to access an encyclopedia entry, but it takes seconds – sometimes minutes! – to convert its content into a form his mind can work with.

However, his experiments with the microphones he’s placed around the Institute have been remarkably successful... by downloading into the sensor a remote copy of a simplified version of his auditory cortex, he’s been able to build sensors that store recorded sound in the same format his own mind does… which in turn has allowed him to access that stored sound as if it were his own memories, with almost no processing lag.

He has suspected for some time that a similar solution can function for other kinds of data… for example, video from security cameras, text from archived reports, and so forth. It would be like having a whole second copy of himself working full-time on data analysis, and sharing its memories with him.

That would be the perfect solution… but a much more difficult problem. A copy of his entire cerebral cortex is more than the Institute’s computers can reliably store, and creating a “simplified” version that still accomplishes his goals has proven extremely challenging. Still, he thinks he’s worked out something viable, and today is the day he puts it to the test.

Slowly, he withdraws his awareness from the room and his body, focusing it as much as he can on his analytic mind. It’s rather the opposite of traditional meditation, he muses, but not significantly simpler. He knows he hasn’t fully managed it, but after some minutes he knows it’s as close as he’s going to get.

Then he opens a connection to the server he’d previously reformatted for this experiment, and carefully begins to upload the contents of his awareness into it, editing as he goes along to compress areas that aren’t continually needed. To do this right he’ll need a lot more hardware, but he wants to have a proof-of-concept to show Ororo Munroe before he requisitions the additional storage.

This is the part of the process that requires solitude: any interruption stands a chance of ruining the flow, creating an imperfect copy whose “memories” are incompatible with Robert’s own cognitive processes. So of course, now is when the door to his room is unlocked and opened, revealing to the new arrival an unmoving Bob lying on his bed, unnaturally still, his eyes rolled up into his head and his breathing so shallow it’s hardly detectable at all.

[Pyro]

John doesn’t know why he felt the need to keep pretending he and Rogue were at it like the proverbial things which copulate enthusiastically and often…

… fuck that, yes he does. Since Baxter, it’s been the only weapon left, the last shield between him and admitting the reality of how things stand, and today (February Fucking Fourteenth - he allows himself a small, humourless laugh at the cliché) something’d broken and he’d decided he wanted – needed – that shield to come down and the truth of the situation to be made clear. Needed to know either way whether there was anything worth hanging on to, or whether he should start mourning *his* Bobby now. (… another cliché or three. Brilliant. He should make this a drinking game, except even then it wouldn’t begin to rival the amount he’d need to make this stop fucking with his head). So, he’d played that card, and Bobby – no, sorry, Robert – had… not given a flying fuck.

And it had been easier to run than stay and face that, and so yes, he’d gone to Rogue, because she was still probably his closest friend at the ‘stute, even if actually going to her was all sorts of fucked up given the game he was playing. And they’d… talked. Shit, they’d practically held a wake for Bobby… and, like all good soap-operas, a load of uncomfortable truths had come out. Ones which needed to come out. Put simply, she’d told him a few things he’d needed to hear, and somewhere in there (he still isn’t sure where, because the further away from the conversation he gets, the blurrier the details, and the more insane the fact he was heading towards this overblown melodramatic… whatever, become) it had been decided that the thing to do was get his head out of his ass and try and get something, anything, from whatever little time they had left. Because for all he knows, in spite of all Hank and Reed are doing with their vials and test tubes and big shiny machines John can’t name let alone understand, this was Bob’s last February Fourteenth. And much as John hates the smothering saccharine schmoop… shit, that has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Which is why he’s standing in the doorway (… isn’t that from some stupid film Rogue made the pair of them watch – or watched on a date with Bob, which kinda… amounted to the same thing?) trying to figure out what the hell he can say that just might break through, get… something. Anything.

… fuck it. It’s only when he tries to over think things that it all goes to hell, right?

Right. The best bits – the bits where it was the pair of them, and it was good, and they might have had a chance – where when he pointedly didn’t think, trusted in instinct to carry him through, after all. So, after a brief pause to try and gather something like thoughts (as opposed to the current random explosions going off in various parts of his brain) and take that last deep breath - the one you snatch before you sink beneath the surface - he plunges in, and…

It hits like a knife to the gut… no, more like a kick to the balls; localised, but totally paralysing. Bob.. Robert… fuck, whatever he wants to be called right now, Bobby… shouldn’t be doing that. Or rather, isn’t doing what he should be doing, because no one should be that still. No one. Regardless of whether they’re turning into a machine or whatever, that’s just… not..

Shit. No. Not now.

Fuck being prepared for this. Fuck convincing himself that he’s ready to watch Robert slip away, that he’s already lost Bobby so it’s not like a real death any more. Fuck the whole thing because… shit, this hurts. Really, really hurts. Like he’s died himself, because he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but stand and stare and…
It occurs to him that it’s not helping, doing nothing. That he has to do something because if he stays here he’ll just… implode. John doesn’t know much of first aid, really, certainly can’t rival Bobby’s calm, collected knowledge of what to do in a crisis…

… has seen plenty of medical dramas and mindless actioners and other figments of fantasy where the hero’s punched in the chest a couple of times and returns to life like nothing ever happened…

… has been there often enough to know that it doesn’t work like that…

… and is still standing here and doing nothing, while Bobby…

… fuck, Bobby. He can’t be dead. It’s just… no. He can’t. No way John is going to let him, when it comes to down to it. No. Fucking. Way.

He’s gone from still to frenetic in an instant, crossing the room far faster than should be possible given that he is no speedster, and springing up onto the bed, dropping a leg either side of Bobby so he’s knelt over him, hands crossed *just like ER showed him* and resting on his chest but not actually daring to compress just yet, as if what’s left is some frosted shell of Bobby and touching it will make it shatter and disappear, watching with a shaky franticness for any sign of life. ”Bobby? … For fuck’s sake, this isn’t funny. You are not dying on me. Not now. You hear me? Don’t fucking die on me”

[Bobby Drake]

Robert isn’t entirely sure what’s happening, other than that his data-flow has been interrupted by external input and emotional spikes, corrupting his auxiliary cortex. Frustrating. He tries to correct the spikes, but is unsuccessful; eventually he is forced to delete the stored binaries and abort the operation.

That process takes several seconds; re-establishing linkage to his own sensory inputs takes almost no time at all, and reveals St. John straddling him and babbling frantically.

> " …hear me? Don’t fucking die on me "

"That wasn’t my intention," he replies calmly. "In fact, rather the opposite: I suppose you could describe the process as reproduction. " He looks down to note St. John’s weight resting on his chest, and indicates it with his chin. "Is that entirely necessary?"

[Pyro]

The initial rush of relief at finding that Fate’s been unusually kind and it is, in fact, not that today today sort of… stalls, because despite carrying on like everything’s a-okay and refusing to let the world at large think it’s fucking with his head (because… that’s what he does), there’s no way he’s used to the cyber-stuff yet, so it’s partway just totally freaky in its own right, and partway feels (in spite of the numerous attempted explanations of cyber-logic trying to convince him that’s just how Bob thinks now – a genuine inability to emote rather than a callous lack of emotion) like the coldest, harshest rejection he’s ever had the misfortune to be on the receiving end. Even if he wasn’t still shaken by the whole affair, he probably wouldn’t have a clue what any of the first bit means – reproduction?? – though the ‘not intending to die’ is chalked up as another small victory on the side fighting for something other than disappointment at the revival; surely his reaction should be far more melodramatic and less numb?

Whatever; thinking that doesn’t help much, because it starts a whole ‘why am I not?’ which he’d rather not look at, and because it’s damn hard to feel upbeat when asking yourself why you don’t… or something. In any case he’s still just sort of sitting there goldfish-impersonating and not doing anything useful (exactly what would be any sort of useful at the moment is a bitch of a question).

< Is that entirely necessary?
John blanches, realising he’s still in CPR mode (and it’s another little stab to think that it’s odd to be touching him now, just as it used to be the opposite way, a little spark of something nearer joy, whenever he could just do it incidentally and have it feel ‘right’) and pulls back to seated with a mumbled ”Sorry” – there’s something about the ‘new’ Bob, the way he speaks, his new ‘intelligence’, that can’t help but make you feel like the kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar even when you’ve done nothing wrong… and John’s not entirely sure he can claim that degree of innocence, even if he’s equally unsure of the whats and whys.

He’s still dazed enough that it doesn’t occur to him that straddling Bob might well be equally awkward ‘unecessary’ (truth be told, it’s more than that; he doesn’t want to move, because he’s spent long enough psyching himself up to have this particular talk he can’t miss the opportunity, and because he doesn’t want to have to watch Bob walk away (or, erm, to be forced to walk away from him, which is probably how it would end up, if cyber!Bob was up to something in the room…) when John still half expects him to disintegrate or ‘beam out’ or something).

… Uch. John tries to break the tension, dispel the atmosphere, with a shrug, a grin and a few throwaway words – ”Happy Valentine’s Day… glad you’re not dead” – but he knows (and you can tell in his tone) that’s not really going to cut it…

[Bobby Drake]

Robert sits up on the bed after the weight is removed from his chest and nods to St. John from an inch or so away. He’s a little surprised at the lack of personal space… it’s not a problem for him, but his experience is that other people are made uncomfortable by it.

Of course, it’s a special case with St. John; they’d been closer than this on a regular basis during their physically intimate moments… but that ought to evoke more discomfort with such proximity now, rather than less, now that he’s in another relationship. Certainly, prior to his cognitive refactoring Robert suspects he’d find this arrangement both arousing and disturbing, but .perhaps it’s simply an indication that St. John is aware of Robert’s change of mental state.

In any case, it’s hardly the highest priority issue to address.

> " Happy Valentine’s Day… glad you’re not dead "

He spends a while trying to decide how to respond to that, finally concluding that it was meant as humorously affectionate understatement. He nods pleasantly to indicate that he got it. (He’s been practicing that – it used to come naturally but, as with so many social interactions that used to be instinctive, they’ve become more awkward now. From time to time he’s experimented with allowing those instincts more free reign, to simplify such interactions… but the result is always the same, uncontrolled processing spikes that interfere with his primary functions. So he’s resigned himself to having to relearn those social skills from his new perspective.

"As am I," he replies, attempting to maintain the same lighthearted tone, though he knows he hasn’t really mastered it yet. "And ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ to you, as well. Why are you here? Was your date with Marie D’Ancanto completed early?"

[Pyro]

Bobby doesn’t really pull away, or push him away, and John can still just about kid himself that neutrality is less disturbing than a negative reaction (it’s not; it’s totally unnerving, and doesn’t help the whole ‘Bob’s dead’ thing; it’s like his soul’s gone, like there’s nothing behind the eyes because… there’s no spark – love, rage, fear, anything. Bob’s programmed them all out, and John really, really doesn’t like it).

It’s like they’re not really living, just going through the motions; Bob’s light-hearted tone is faked, as is John’s not picking up on it, just carrying on like they’re having a real conversation, and if there’s a sadness underneath the pretence that he’s upbeat it’s probably subtle enough that Bob’s ‘Human Behaviour Protocols’, or whatever, will fail to pick up on it, or write it out as ‘human fallibility’ or something. Because he can pretend that the ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ is a cause for hope. He can. Really…

< Why are you here? Was your date with Marie D’Ancanto completed early?
That, however, is a little more than he can cope with, and the smile wavers a couple of times before he gives up on it and just goes back to what passes for neutral as far as John, with his near-permanent scowl, is concerned.

”No” he replies. Because they’ve gone too far for him not to just roll with the truth, right? And yes, that’s terrifying, because the one thing John does with any consistency is lie. But like the man said, subtle is never going to get through to Bob now, so it’s only spelling it out cleanly, and simply, that’ll work. If anything works. Truth is, he’s running out of options, and desperation makes you do some fucked up shit. The net result of which is that this really is time to bite the bullet and get his head out of his arse as far as whatever he and Bob have – had – whatever. ”There was no date. Rogue and I are not dating.”

…. Well, it’s a start.

[Bobby Drake]

> " There was no date. Rogue and I are not dating. "

Robert catches the emphasis on “Rogue,” and nods in response. "Right. “Rogue.” I apologize, S—“John”… I’ve been working on correcting that habit, but I’ve had very little success. The Institute’s databanks are indexed by full name, you see, and I’ve uploaded quite a lot of it, and that affects my own lexical access-paths. The simplest solution would be to add an index by preferred colloquial identifier, but I promised Ororo Mon—I promised Ororo I would not modify the databases until my new power was better understood. However, the project you interrupted should help with that – if all goes well I should be able to mirror the database in a format I can freely edit."

The implications of the rest of the sentence take a little longer to filter into his awareness, but they finally do. It takes another moment or two to work out a suitable reply. "Why are you no longer dating? Did you fight over something?"

[Pyro]

< I’ve been working on… I should be able to mirror the database into a format I can freely edit
John blinks a couple of times, trying to work out what the hell all that means other than ‘bla bla bla… technobabble’, which seems to be how most conversations with Bob are playing out now (Hank’d tried explaining it, but that wasn’t really much help considering he spoke the same way… and Josh had put it in simple terms, but that doesn’t make it any less weird, perplexing and frustrating) and… no, he doesn’t really understand any of it, and concentrating this hard is making his brain hurt, because understanding Bob… it used to be effortless, and now it’s more than often impossible. And feeling stupid next to Bob isn’t really anything new, but it’s never been this pronounced, or anywhere near this painful.

”Right… whatever that means. English, Bo-“Robert”, English… because Bob – “Robert” – whatever your ‘preferred colloquial-istic identify-icator’ is now, I can’t understand a fucking word when you go all cyber on me”

< Why are you no longer dating? Did you fight over something?
… that he does understand, obviously. And wants to scream at. Because… shit, how can Bob suddenly have a supercomputer for a brain and not understand?!

”For fuck’s sake, how dense can you…?!” he starts, before realising that that line is going to get him nowhere. It’s not the way to reach Bob and his newly programmed brain at all; if he’s going to get through, he realises, it’s going to have to be on Bob’s terms. So, John sighs and clears his throat, running one hand through his hair and trying to get his thoughts straight before re-starting. ”St. John Allerdyce and Marie D’Ancanto are not, and never were, engaged in romantic liason… ness. And” – he swallows, because here is where it gets difficult; ‘telling the truth’ was fine in principle, but bloody hard in practice, and the controlled tone wavers slightly into *for fuck’s sake just let me get the words out* breathlessness – ”any-implication-to-the –contrary-was-just-St-John-trying-to-elicit-a-response-from-Bobby-Bob-Robert-Drake.”

… yeah, that was painless (sarcasm? Him? Never…). Wasn’t confessional meant to lift the whole guilt thing?

[Bobby Drake]

> "I can’t understand a fucking word when you go all cyber on me"

Robert nods... he's been getting that reaction a lot. "I apologize. I only meant that -- well, the point is I ought to be getting better at calling you what you wish to be called, if I can complete the project I'm working on. And with respect to my own name, you may call me anything you wish... I have no preference."

It occurs to him that he could simplify the process of using preferred identifiers, though, even without completing the mirroring task. With a fraction of his attention, he begins uploading a copy of name records from the Institute's databanks into his own laptop, sitting on his desk. Then he composes a remote agent to re-index those names based on preferred nomenclature. John? Pyro? Johnny? He's uncertain which to use... as he recalls, he's used all of those names under different circumstances, back when his social and emotional intuitions were intact, and without them now he's uncertain what names to use when. Finally, he decides on "John", as it seems safest.

> "St. John Allerdyce and Marie D’Ancanto are not, and never were, engaged in romantic liason… ness. And any-implication-to-the–contrary-was-just-St-John-trying-to-elicit-a-response-from-Bobby-Bob-Robert-Drake"

The uncontrolled processing spike that elicits corrupts the indexing agent he's constructing as he downloads it, and Robert frowns slightly as it reformats a significant fraction of his laptop hard-drive before he can terminate its processing. Ironically, the implications that his unconscious mind noticed immediately take far longer for him to process consciously.

Still, they aren't all that difficult to unravel -- there are only a few plausible explanations, really, and one seems far more likely than the others. "You mean, you were trying to make me jealous, yes?" He thinks about that for a few moments, aware of strong emotional responses flattening out outside the boundary of his experience. "Why?"

[Pyro]

He catches himself hanging on Bob’s words, reading way more into each frown, every pause, than it should probably ever be allowed to contain, because there’s no way it can mean what he so desperately wants it to mean… but that doesn’t stop him wanting it to, does it? And sure, it’s pathetic, but he’s almost resigned himself to being cast in that role now, because it’s no less than he deserves for fucking this up that spectacularly.

< Why?
… that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? Though the version playing in his head is less straight out question and more what the fuck were you thinking? Because if he hadn’t been such a fucking idiot… Oh no, that wasn’t a road to go down just now – thing are complicated enough without yet more what ifs and if onlys.

Sticking with the cyber-talk had been the plan – it’s still probably the best way of reaching Bob now, and having to concentrate on translating everything should stop him from thinking about anything else. Emphasis on the should, because like most things, it doesn’t play out the way he intends, starting whiny and spiralling further away from control the more he tries to bring it back.

”I’m… not sure. It seemed like the best course of action at the time, Bob… we’d just got back and… you were all weird and shit, I just wanted a response. And I thought that’d work, because I’m a stupid fuck.”

[Bobby Drake]

> " I’m… not sure. It seemed like the best course of action at the time, Bob… we’d just got back and… you were all weird and shit, I just wanted a response. And I thought that’d work, because I’m a stupid fuck "

"Yes, that was ill-advised," he responds matter-of-factly. It’s difficult for Robert to conceive of someone whose social intuition is less reliable than his own at the moment, but the evidence is undeniable. He cannot imagine a course of action St. John could have chosen that was more likely to result in alienating the object of his affections.

He continues to explain the error, in the same unemotional voice he’s been using all along, sounding rather like a bored accountant explaining the reasons for last quarter’s revenue shortfall. "You were attempting to inspire me to a more aggressive display of emotional intimacy, yes? I believe you misunderstood the situation, however. I was ‘weird and shit’ due to emotional trauma stemming from being kidnapped and tortured, and guilt over having emotionally broken down in front of Magneto, and anxiety over having my mutant abilities suppressed. Pretending to reject me simply compounded that anxiety and drove me further into a fugue state… which I believe was the opposite of your intention."

"Had you done nothing at all, my natural attraction to you would have resurfaced rather quickly, I think… even with your additional influence, I was prepared to re-establish relations rather forcibly when we were interrupted by that invading military force. Of course that’s essentially moot in my current condition. So why are you telling me this now? "

[Pyro]

< Yes, that was ill advised
If this situation was anything less than horrific, then Bob’s pronouncement – and John’s equally numb (though in his case in a defeated, rather than simply emotionless, way) ”Seems that way” – would probably be at least tragicomic. As it is, despite the bitter humourless laugh that dies almost in John’s throat, it’s just… well, it looks like Bob doesn’t need his original mutation to freeze him to the core.

< You were attempting to inspire me to a more aggressive display of emotional intimacy, yes?
… that in mind, he knows full well any attempt to lighten the tone is not going to work… and so it’s not really so much that sort of attempt, despite the dead smile which accompanies it; it’s another confession, another little shout in the dark which he’s praying will reach Bob while knowing that there’s bugger all left that can. ”… if that’s cyber-talk for trying to push you into fucking me senseless, then yes. That was the plan.” And it adds a whole other level of agonising absurdity to think that this whole fucking argument was about Bob’s apparent emotionless-ness, given where they are now.

< I believe you misunderstood the situation, however
No shit, Sherlock.

He wants to protest that he sees that now, but that was then, and… that’s where the argument falls flat because seriously, how the fuck could he have read it the way he did? True, it’s tempting to just point out his track record when it comes to reading situations – the one that got them in this whole mess is one particularly glaring example of that, after all – but still… fuck, how much of an at best idiotic, at worst callous, bastard does that make him, totally failing to take into account that maybe Bob wouldn’t be exactly rushing to leap into his bed after all the shit with Magneto, that maybe it would take time and effort and forcing it wasn’t the best idea?

”… right, because you were the only one ‘traumatised’.” That protest, however – the voice whining that hey, he couldn’t exactly be expected to be normal either after everything that happened - slips out unchecked. And he hates himself more (if such a thing is possible, because it’s getting bloody difficult to find anything about himself that he doesn’t hate right now) for playing the sympathy card, because he can hardly claim to be an innocent victim or anything, but… well, it wasn’t exactly a bed of roses for him either, and he’s guessing that any excuse is something, at least, because he gets the feeling he’s going to be needing quite a few in the near future; if things keep going like this, yet more classic fuck-ups are no doubt inevitable. ”You knew, you fucking knew” – why the past tense? He’s not questioning it too closely… but it’s there, none the less, that acceptance (even if the rest of him hasn’t quite caught up) that that time has gone and the Bob that inhabited it, his Bobby, is dead already - ”that I’m a grade A fucking idiot when it comes to emotional shit…” – and yes, he can see the flaw there, expecting anyone to understand his thought processes when they’re so clearly insane… but if anyone would, he’d have thought it would be Bob, and having to admit that maybe he’s wrong to expect that stings, makes him doubt that they ever had what he remembers, and is clinging desperately to, their having had. And yes, the betrayal is totally the wrong thing to bring up, but also by far the best illustration, and something that just might reach new!Bob’s logic (as well as, though he’s trying to convince himself that he’s given up on vain hope, any of old!Bob lingering underneath) ”The same idiot who thought Magneto was the ‘safe option’ in the first place, remember?”

< Had you done nothing at all, my natural attraction to you would have resurfaced rather quickly, I think… even with your additional influence, I was prepared to re-establish relations…
Whatever fragile control he still has (the degree of which is debatable, but hardly the major concern right now) is stretched to, and beyond, breaking point at that. ”Oh right, now you tell me” he laughs, getting up off the bed, pacing, the laugh the stretched, demented ‘trying not to cry’ rather than anything born of genuine amusement at anything other than how incredibly fucked up the world is – and even that fragile amusement swings too quickly into something darker and more destructive. ”Stupid fuck, Bobby, why didn’t you say anything?”

< Of course, that’s essentially moot
Of course. The bungee his emotions are on flattens out at that, and he deflates almost as quickly as he flared, dropping back into a seat on the opposite bed.

< So why are you telling me this now?
… no use pretending now, is there? No use complicating it. He’d come up here to say this much, after all, and now… it doesn’t fucking matter any more, does it? All the pressure’s off because it’s never going to happen.

All the same, he has to take a minute to remember how to breathe, to steel himself to get the words out when it feels like his throat is collapsing in on itself… and after looking up to where Bob’s sat across the room he has to go through the whole thing again because shit, it’s still not easy, is never going to be anything other than hard and nasty. ”Because… it’s Valentine’s Day, and because you’re dying, and because nothing’s changed… except for everything.” He swallows, this uncharacteristic truthfulness not quite having room enough to admit that it’s almost-tears he’s choking on and only the residual sparks of anger which are stopping them becoming tears proper.

[Bobby Drake]

> "…if that’s cyber-talk for trying to push you into fucking me senseless, then yes. That was the plan."

Robert doesn’t entirely understand this “cyber” thing, although he’s been hearing a lot of it from (whirr…) John and somewhat less often from (whirr…) Josh. He’s clear that it’s a reference to his cybernetic linkages, but they seem to use it differently, as a general reference to his blunted affect and social awkwardness.

(The local-reindexing plan seems to have worked, though it’s a little strange to hear his laptop hard-drive spin up every time he searches for a nickname, and he wishes he were able to upload that sort of information permanently into his brain. His power doesn’t seem to work that way, though, at least not without further bootstrapping, and (whirr…) Reed has made it very clear that bootstrapping his powers will accelerate the overload process, and he has promised him, and (whirr…) Sue, and (whirr…) Ororo that he won’t do it. So, he’ll have to keep accessing it remotely for now. At least it stays in local memory for a while… that’s something.)

Leaving that aside, the explanation makes sense. John wanted him to overcome his trauma and resume sexual relations, so attempted to inspire jealousy. A common theme. And, it follows, has been waiting for over three months for his plan to bear fruit, which demonstrates a surprising level of dedication. Clearly, this was important to him.

> "… right, because you were the only one ‘traumatised’."

Robert contemplates that for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Josh was wounded, and (whirr…)Warren – " he pauses for a moment, distracted. Warr? Angel? Worthington? What was the appropriate nickname? He settles on “Warren” for now and continues: "Warren was furious, and (whirr…) Rogue lost many of her personality-fragments, and you had gone through several significant – oh. You were being ironic, yes?"

> " You knew, you fucking knew that I’m a grade A fucking idiot when it comes to emotional shit… the same idiot who thought Magneto was the ‘safe option’ in the first place, remember? [..]Stupid fuck, Bobby, why didn’t you say anything?"

He nods. "Yes, that was foolish of you. And yes, you’re correct, I should not have accepted your reactions at face value without further investigation. But I did. I was emotional; that leads to foolish decisions."

> " Because… it’s Valentine’s Day, and because you’re dying, and because nothing’s changed… except for everything. "

Robert can make no sense of this at all initially, but tries to reason it out. Valentine’s Day is a traditional time to re-establish romantic and sexual relationships. If “nothing has changed”… and John recognizes that his former strategy did not succeed… perhaps he’s trying a different strategy?

"I’m not certain I understand. Do you wish now to push me into fucking you senseless?"

[Pyro]

< Do you now wish to push me into fucking you senseless?
For a second or two, John forgets how to breathe.

It would be a lie to say that isn’t what he wants – isn’t, at least in part, why he’s here and not still hiding out in Rogue’s room. And if that’s an offer (and he’s not sure if it is, because everything with ‘Robert’ is so monotone, and because most of the time he has to ask the questions most people just read the answers to as taken for granted) then he should be ecstatic; it’s long overdue, something he’d been half-expecting since back before Baxter… something he’d told Josh was being saved for celebration once Bobby was fixed.

… and that’s what complicates matters. Because by no stretch of the imagination is this ‘fixed’ – it’s more fucked up than it ever was.

Which makes the answer simple, even if, like most simple truths, it’s killing him to have to deliver it.

”No” The word doesn’t quite make it out, as if he chokes it back before it can get out, premature surprise at having said it cutting it dead, robbing it of breath, and so he has to pause, and force himself to say it again, more forcefully. ”No… I want Bobby to…” – and he stops again, unable to articulate exactly what he wants Bobby to do, because ‘fuck me senseless’ doesn’t come anywhere close, and he’s not even sure he knows what it is except that it’s somewhere closer to that than ‘turn into a computer and then die’.

… and the question is still hanging as to what he wants from ‘Robert’. Were he in his right mind he might have paid a little more attention to the ‘emotion = foolish decisions’ (might… probably wouldn’t, being John and never taking lectures that well, but might) but the fact is that he isn’t. It’s insane to expect anything less than a raw, visceral reaction, and when he finally manages to look at something other than the carpet, or his hands, and lock eyes with the impostor (because that’s how he’s coming to think of him – it’s easier that way, to just accept (or try to) that it’s not Bobby rather than hang on traces and fragments) his tone is somewhere beyond venomous, and rather than his usual flaming explosion seems to have picked up Bobby’s lost powers, coming out icy and dead. ”You, Robert are not him. All I want you to do is hurry up and die so I can get over him without having to face you.”