Seeing what fits...

[Bobby Drake]

(( OOC: This is vaguely “now” – that is, a few weeks after CTF, et al, though before the graduation party))

In the months since coming out of his coma, as he’s worked on regaining his earlier capabilities and exploring his new ones, Bobby has frequently been surprised by how surprised and excited he can get by the most quotidian milestones, things that hadn’t seemed so impressive when he learned to do them the first time around.

Getting his field-precision back down under half an inch had been like that: back in his sophomore year, when he’d first run into what seemed like a hard lower limit on precision, he’d been incredibly frustrated by it; a few weeks ago, bringing himself back down to the same limit felt like a huge victory. Learning to speed-skate again, to control the slipperiness of his surfaces to alternate between push-off and slide, had left him chuckling smugly for days.

Neither of those holds a candle to the profound smugness he’s feeling right this moment, though, as the zipper of his old X-Man jacket slides home under the collar and the fabric of it wraps around his freshly-showered torso, firmly but comfortably. "Yes! It fits!!!" he shouts exultantly, suddenly glad there’s nobody else around at this hour (at least, as far as he knows). Of course, he’s noticed (and privately exulted in) his belly slowly melting away and his slowly improving muscle tone, but this moment still feels like a sudden triumph.

Granted, getting it the first time around had been much easier, back when he’d been so screwed up he’d ignored pretty much everything except his sessions in the gym and the Danger Room. This time had been more effort, scheduling tedious exercise sessions in between classes and tutoring and an actual social life. And shaving, he adds ruefully, running his gloved hand against the stubble on his chin. The ability to grow a beard had been an unexpected and entirely welcome side-effect of all the hormone treatments he’d received this year, but he’d decided pretty quickly that actually growing one involved way too much itching to be tolerated, which made shaving a daily chore he’d been putting off for a while.

Of course, he isn’t actually authorized to wear the uniform, not really… he’s still off the active roster. But he’s getting there: his control over his power is improving steadily and he’s catching up on his classwork – not fast enough to graduate on time, which galls him, but still, progress is progress – and he’s getting himself back into the kind of physical shape it takes to go out in the field again. I’ll make it. Probably by the end of the summer… maybe sooner, maybe later. But I’ll make it. He grins confidently at himself in the mirror and strikes a pose.

All of which suddenly feels humiliatingly narcissistic when he hears the sound of a locker being opened, and whirls around to realize he’s no longer alone.

[Pyro]

If Bobby’s in what seems like the best shape ever, then John is… probably at the opposite end of the scale. Not physically, of course – the Danger Room sessions with Rogue have continued to pay off – but in everything else? Totally fucked. The imminent graduations and associated celebrations aren’t exactly distracting him from how he’s no doubt only ever going to leave in a body bag (though now the place seems to have its own cemetery on site… yeah, looks like it’s a forever thing. Shit), and as for the Rogue situation? If she’s noticed he’s taking longer to get back to her after each session, buggering off more often and generally continuing to screw her over then neither her predictable politeness about the whole affair nor the decreasing number of B’s in his personal litany serve to make it any less of a betrayal, and there’s no way even the most tactful tact can make how her company’s less exciting than discovering an extra cold setting on the changing room shower sit right.

Take now, for instance. It’s late – late enough that she’s given up waiting on him and headed off somewhere, probably to her room. More than late enough that there’s no real excuse for his hanging around (because claiming to want to run another Sim isn’t a real excuse, however weirdly therapeutic failing miserably to beat a virtual Magneto turned out to be). And yet hanging around he predictably is – or, more accurately, leaving the Danger Room at god-knows-what-o’clock, yawning hugely and stretching out muscles he until recently didn’t realise could ache quite this much, uniform jacket draped casually over one shoulder as the thin salt sheen over his skin dries in the cool air of the changing room (it’s not like there’s anyone around, after all, even if John were the sort to be weird about wandering around like that, his only real regret about showing skin being how the previously pretty damn impressive scar Jolt left has dulled back to just the ghost of its former self).

It being that late, then, it’s more than a little surprising to find, once he’s reached his locker, that he is not alone, the sudden triumphant yell at first startling and then, once the source is identified, met with a dismissive headshake and eye-roll. For whose benefit the show of disdain is meant isn’t exactly clear – if Bob’s posturing is anything to go by, he’s escaped notice thus far and isn’t exactly eager to attract it, there being some weird guilty thrill he’s hesitant to either fully acknowledge or hastily dismiss in this, though whether that’s down to the voyeurism of it all or to how Bob’s not the only one appreciating the subtle changes in tone and… fuck. It’s a sick thrill, he knows (and maybe the sickness is part of it, feeds the flame?), because the time when the sight of Bob in leather might have been conceivably greeted as anything other than a non-event is over, has been for some time, but still… even trying to view things objectively, it’s hard not to have to admit that he looks good – though he’s totally unflustered, of course. Totally – John Allerdyce might not be a badass terrorist any more, but damned if he’s going to turn into a jibbering wreck. Especially over fuckin’ Iceman. No fucking way. Now, if he can just get the locker open and make a stealthy exit…

It’s a wonder, really, when he’s this unflustered, that he fumbles something that simple, the door not so much sliding as clanging open – Fuck, no way that’s gone unnoticed – and he whirls back to face an equally stunned looking Bob. Shit. Fuck fuck fuckedy…

A few seconds pass in goldfish-silence, before the ridiculousness of the situation sinks in, followed by a rush of something like anger – wasn’t this all meant to prevent him looking like an idiot in front of Bob? Fuck’s sake, this is pathetic – and an attempt to re-establish his cool, leaning back against the locker and running a calm glance over Bob (a glance which, for good measure, ends in another eye-roll and a more definite disparaging snort) before he speaks, first a defensive ”What?” followed by a more customarily nonchalant ”Go back to preening, Icicle. Nothing halfway as interesting to see here.”

[Bobby Drake]

It somehow figures that it’s John Bobby just managed to embarrass himself in front of. After all, if getting the uniform to fit is symbolic of all the personal-growth milestones Bobby’s managed to achieve, John is the living symbol of all the ones he’s utterly stuck on.

After all this time, after all the hours he’s spent talking Sean’s ear off about all the tedious details of their whole screwed-up Romeo-and-Juliet-Meets-Fight-Club fling romance relationship fling stupidity thing, he’s supposed to have some kind of closure on it, isn’t he? He’s supposed to have gotten over it by now, at least enough to be happy that two of his best friends have found some kind of happiness together. Right?

But he hasn’t. He hasn’t stopped looking for Rogue every time he sees John, or vice-versa, or feeling that pathetic little twinge of glee when they aren’t together. He hasn’t been able to think of them together, let alone see them, without feeling like someone’s kicked him in the stomach. He hasn’t been able to seriously think about dating anyone else.

And he certainly hasn’t been able to get through moments like this one, seeing John half-naked and sweaty after what he assumes is a Danger Room session, without feeling like a post-pubescent virgin with his first Playboy. Not for the first time, he’s thankful he doesn’t sweat… he’s probably being obvious enough as it is.

> " What? Go back to preening, Icicle. Nothing halfway as interesting to see here. "

OK, scratch the “probably.”

"That’s entirely a matter of opinion," he throws back without thinking, then blinks a little stupidly – it had sounded completely different in his head than the way it came out, and he wishes now he could take it back. Instead he just sighs and points at John’s fading scar. "That seems to be healing pretty well…"

[Pyro]

It’s enough of a struggle to keep his own mortification at sort-of kinda admitting that Bob’s interesting under control, so when deeply-uninteresting-leather-clad Bob starts talking about it being a matter of opinion as to whether he’s in fact more interesting it’s no surprise really that that control shatters just long enough for a spluttering, stifled laugh which, cut off as abruptly and reflexively as it is, sounds more like another dismissive snort than the nervy-stunned splutter it is.

”Right…” he tries, lamely, clearing his throat. ”Well…”

< That seems to be healing pretty well
Bob’s words cut his attempt at covering the jarring slip-up over short, and John darts a quick glance in the direction of the point to see what he’s… oh, right. That. ”Yeah.” (no, that isn’t a sigh, because there’s no way he’s disappointed they’ve moved away from the interesting tangent) His attempt at keeping things light doesn’t come off much better than the cover-up – ”You’d think I’d have learnt not to run into old friends by now…” – and this whole thing seems to be threatening to turn into one big competition as to ‘who can get their foot furthest down their own throat'… Fuck, things were so much easier when we were still avoiding each other.

Take two. Another attempt at something as near bright as’ll sit comfortably, this being John, and at re-establishing casualness. ”Still, the legendary Iceman’ll be back soon enough, right? Now you're back in uniform? I can fuck off back to the B-team an’ stop risking my neck for this lot.” For all his affected nonchalance, though, the edge is distinct, if hard to place – a nervousness over what Bob’ll say, definitely, but whether it’s worry that he’ll lose his place or the team, or that they’ll keep him on anyway, even he cannot quite say with any conviction.

[Bobby Drake]

Bobby isn’t quite sure what to make of John’s reaction. For a second there, it’s the same see-how-much-I-don’t-care? routine he remembers so well from their previous life together (which is an odd way to describe it, perhaps, but between Magneto and MGH and coma and this new fleshless-Iceman thing it really does feel that way sometimes)… and then it’s just a dismissive snort… and then it’s a little of both, interspersed with fragments of what he’d previously learned to recognize as the “shut up and fuck me” look, and a certain amount of embarrassment covered by anger covered by… Bobby really doesn’t know what. Maybe this was easier when I was still braindead….

> " You’d think I’d have learnt not to run into old friends by now…"

Not too long ago, Bobby’d either have spit back something harsh that he doesn’t mean, or just let the comment lodge itself in his gut and wrap himself around the pain ‘till it festered, not sure how to respond. So he’s somewhat surprised when he replies both more promptly and more honestly than he’s entirely prepared for. "Do you regret it? Us running into each other last year? I mean… well, you’d still be with Magneto now if we hadn’t, right? Or, well, with the Brotherhood," he corrects himself… it’s still hard to think of Magneto as being actually dead, though. "Because, honestly, I don’t regret it at all. I’m sorry it didn’t work out with us, sorry like you can’t imagine, but, well… I’m still glad you’re back. You never belonged there."

> " Still, the legendary Iceman’ll be back soon enough, right? Now you're back in uniform? I can fuck off back to the B-team an’ stop risking my neck for this lot."

Bobby laughs at that, not unkindly, and for just a moment it’s like old times, and he’d almost forgotten how those vulnerable moments used to grab at his heart… and there’s no mistaking the vulnerability there, under the affected nonchalance, at least not for someone who’s known John as long as Bobby has.

"What, you think you’re my replacement? In your dreams, Sparky. They’re still holding the legendary Iceman’s number. I’ll be back in the field before you know it." For the first time, he manages to say it with no defensiveness and no uncertainty, just as an observation, and he can feel his own anxiety about it fading as he grins. "And heck, they’re going to need someone out there to melt my messes, right?"

For all his newfound honesty, he still can’t quite bring himself to finish that thought… to talk about how much he wants to be out in the field fighting with John, instead of, well, fighting with John. It’s a little too close to the things he promised himself he wouldn’t say, not while John and Rogue are together, because there are some things he just won't do to his friends.

[Pyro]

< Do you regret it? Us running in to each other last year, I mean?
… million dollar question, that. One he’s totally unsure how to answer, so he turns to avoid eye contact with Bob, trying to distract himself with pointless little tasks – hanging the jacket inside the locker, retrieving his t-shirt (another of the surprisingly vast slogan collection, today’s pearl of wisdom ‘If in doubt fireball the whole room’), slipping it on in an attempt to counter the sudden feeling of nakedness which comes with no good reason and refuses to go away (not that he’s sure he wants it to, because it’s not bad even if it is undeniably wrong for reasons which he still has to tell himself sit anything like right, but there are still lines that have to be observed and this way he can pretend it’s not an issue rather than face it down…).

Part of him wishes he could say that yes, he does regret it, because that sort of venom’d be a clean break, would prove ‘all that’ wasn’t still bugging him. And part wishes he could say that no, he doesn’t regret it at all, which is probably nearer the truth but far, far harder to admit to now. And the rest is flitting between the two, because if anything it’s not the meeting he regrets (definitely not) but what came later when things started going wrong. Some half-sentence starts to form about how he’d change how things played out but not erase the fact they did, but that doesn’t make sense and things have gone too far down this fucking godawful road they find themselves on to let him make that kind of statement. A shrug, and a muttered ”I don’t know” are all he can come out with, and that’s perhaps the most honest answer for all that it’s furthest from the one he’d want to give (whatever the hell that is, because he clearly doesn’t have it figured out yet).

< Or, well, with the Bro-
”With Magneto.” All hesitance is gone when it comes to correcting that one, as John shoots back his response without missing a beat, cutting Bob off (though it’s not harsh, not snapping that he’s wrong… more suggesting the *niceties* of the correction are unnecessary because how it is is, well, how it is). Because… well, that’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it, even if admitting as much is uncommonly honest? Sure, the Brotherhood ideology, such as there ever was one, was (and still sort-of is) a far better fit than this ‘hero’ crap, but when it comes down to it they both know that it’d never have been reason enough for him to leave, that when it comes down to it he was… ‘seduced’ sits more than uncomfortably, but that doesn’t make it any less fitting.

(And that’s not even touching on the whole other level he’s pointedly not-thinking about; that if he hadn’t left, Magneto probably wouldn’t be dead. Which… again, sits somewhere beyond awkwardly, given that he still hasn’t really sorted out the minefield which is “how John Pyro John feels about Erik Magneto Buckethead all of that").

< Because, honestly, I don’t regret it at all. I’m sorry it didn’t work out with us, sorry like you can’t imagine, but, well… I’m still glad you’re back.
And that’s the same old acutely intimate, oddly intense, intensely focused stab it always was with Bob, the knife sliding politely, but still fatally, between his ribs.

< You never belonged there
That is a different stab, not necessarily more painful but… different. Twisting, deep and yet somehow more general, because there’s still that rolling, tightening, tense and low in his gut, the spark of protest that no, he did. Belonged, and was in the right place, and an almost-snarled ”Better there than here” escapes, thankfully mostly under his breath, before he can think better of it.

< What, you think you’re my replacement? In your dreams, Sparky. They’re still holding the legendary Iceman’s number. I’ll be back in the field before you know it.
… and never was a shift of tone more welcome. He can almost convince himself that weight’s really being lifted, believe that enough to quirk a slight grin, let out the first proper laugh of… shit, it feels like a melodramatically pathetically long time. ”Whatever, Popsicle. More to it than getting the suit on and prancing around the dressing room.” The grin broadens. ”Besides, Oldtimer, shouldn’t you be thinking about retiring disgracefully and letting the new kids have a shot? ”

< And heck, they’re going to need someone out there to melt my messes, right?
”Right. Just like old times.” he replies, because it feels like the thing to say, even if said ‘old times’ are a complete fabrication, because even when they were on the same team (which wasn’t ever anything like this anyway) it was him creating the messes and Bob doing the bailing out, wasn’t it?

[Bobby Drake]

If this were some kind of fictional moment, Bobby realizes, the whole T-shirt thing would probably be intended as some kind of symbolic thing, emphasizing a sense of distance or alienation or some other kind of thing like that. But it’s not, it’s just life, and it probably just means that John is cold.

Of course, John is always cold. Then again, John’s usually distancing and alienating, too. So maybe there’s something to that, after all.

> " I don’t know"

It takes Bobby a moment to remember what question that’s the answer to, and he nods in response. It’s not the answer he wanted, but it’s an honest answer, and an oddly gentle one, and it’s been a while since he’s gotten both of those from John at the same time.

>" you’d still be with Magneto now if we hadn’t, right? Or, well, with the Bro "
> "With Magneto"

Bobby nods, accepting the correction. "Yeah. With him. I guess it’s always been personal with you, huh?" It’s not an accusation – and, really, it would be too funny if it were, coming from Bobby of all people, especially after he spent two months using Magneto simulators for rifle target practice – it’s just an observation about the way things are, like Bobby’s comment about the scars healing a moment earlier.

A dozen questions come to his lips, wanting to take advantage of this sudden unexpected honest moment. Would John have helped torture him instead of helping him escape, if things had been different? (Stupid question, really – he’d never have gotten kidnapped if things had been different.) What had broken John and Magneto up, anyway? (Another stupid question – Bobby knows the answer, he just wants to hear John admit it.) Would he go back if he could? (Stupid question number three – John doesn’t know the answer.) So he just shakes his head and sighs. "Yeah. With me, too. But I guess you knew that."

>" You never belonged there "
> " Better there than here"

And that’s honest, too, even if it isn’t true, and Bobby wonders at it for a while. There’s a lot of things he could say in response, but he settles for a superficial change of subject. "So, how are you and Rogue doing?" He’s surprised, and somewhat pleased with himself, that he manages to get the question out without rancor.

> " Besides, Oldtimer, shouldn’t you be thinking about retiring disgracefully and letting the new kids have a shot? "

Bobby could point out that John is older than he is. Or that John’s never yet managed to beat him in an honest fight. Or that he’s been retired for over six months now and he’s eager to get back in the game.

He could.

Instead, he returns John’s grin doubled and redoubled, closes the distance between them, grabs the boy’s jacket from where it’s hanging, and offers it to him. "Well, I don’t know, whippersnapper… you think you’ve got what it takes to beat me? I’ve got twenty bucks and a combat sim says different… if you ain’t too scared to put your money where your mouth is." Bobby’s astonished by his own tone of voice, playful and relaxed, as if they were actually friends… he’d almost forgotten what that felt like, it’s been so long.

Something is bound to screw this up, soon… but I’m going to enjoy it while I can.

[Pyro]

< Guess it’s always personal with you
… and back to defensive he goes - ”Guess so.” – because it feels like an accusation, even if it doesn’t sound like one (maybe because it’s not really Bob doing the accusing, or something. Whatever). Though… it’s more than that, really, because there’s a challenge in the words too, daring Bob to make something more of the moment, push it just that little bit further because there are a million things that could follow from that, and that need to be said, which they both know full well John’ll never bring up on his own, and maybe that accounts for the slight defeated, disappointed tone when Bob fails beautifully to take the opportunity,

< Yeah, with me too
”Right… ‘course.”

< But I guess you knew that
That gets a pointedly apathetic yeah, guess so shrug, because two can play at missing out on a perfect opportunity to touch on ‘all that’; it should mean so much more, the fact that there’s any sense of connection between them, and cutting that off feels like a suitably punitive strike in return for… whatever slight it is Bob’s given him (if there is one… no, course there is. That’s why this so fucking frustrating. No other reason).

< How are you and Rogue doing?
… hardly getting any less awkward with that particular topic change. Another shrug, this one more defeated, ”We’re… doing” – and that should perhaps feel like more of a milestone than it is, almost admitting that it isn’t all roses and mindblowing sex in the John-and-Rogue garden, but… no. It’s just a drag… and if anyone can understand that, it should be Bob, and so John appeals to that with a stunningly poorly-veiled can we just drop this? ”You know how it is with her.”

‘Course all of that is gone with the volte face into this weird playful-friendly tone (which, come to think of it, isn’t all that weird… at least, not in anything other than that it’s become alien), and he cocks an eyebrow – oh really? - in recognition that a challenge has been issued, and near snatches the jacket back, ignoring that he has neither the twenty dollars to throw at something this trivial and random nor, if he’s honest and past records are anything to go by, a chance in hell of winning. ”Scared? Fuck you, Drake… you could just give me the money and spare yourself the shame of losing.”

[Bobby Drake]

> " We’re… doing. You know how it is with her."

Bobby blinks in surprise at that answer. Not that he’s surprised at the reality, exactly… he does know how it is with Rogue, and with John, and while he’s been willing to accept the possibility that they’ve been making it work, he’s not at all surprised to hear that it’s having its rocky patches. What does surprise him is John’s willingness to admit it, rather than go on pretending to an increasingly implausible perfection.

"I guess," he replies, somewhat ambiguously. It feels too much like betraying a friend to say anything more, but on the other hand it feels too much like being a hypocrite to defend Rogue’s virtues as a girlfriend after the way he ended things with her. Of course, in Bobby’s case the real nail in the coffin had been discovering the person he really wanted to be with, whereas in John’s it apparently hadn’t been – and that wasn’t a path he was going to go down now, either.

So, really, it’s just as well that John accepted his challenge, as it gives this conversation somewhere a little safer to go. He plays tug-of-war with the jacket for a second, just for fun, then turns and jogs into the Danger Room.

(( OOC: This is an OK place to end this, if you want, or we can pick it up in the DR if you like… I don’t have any clever ideas about the sim, though ))

[Bobby Drake]

(( Fastforwarding to after the DR session… ))

" Ow… ow… ow… ow… ow…"

As he limps back into the locker room, Bobby is vaguely aware that his foot doesn’t quite hurt the way it’s supposed to. It’s always like that when he injures himself in ice-form… it hurts, but it doesn’t really hurt. Which doesn’t keep it from hurting like hell. None of which makes any sense at all, and he knows it, but that’s the way it is.

Hank and Reed have been arguing about it for weeks now. As near as Bobby can make sense of either of them when they really get going, Reed thinks it’s a purely psychological effect, like pains in an amputee’s phantom limb whereas Hank thinks it’s a physiological effect, some kind of disruption in whatever his ice-form uses in place of a nervous system. What Bobby thinks is mostly that they both have more important things to do than keep monitoring his condition so eagerly, but apparently they’re both anxious to detect any possible side-effects to Protocol G as early as possible.

He limps over to the bench in front of his locker and gingerly pulls off his right boot… then tries very hard not to scream or faint when two golf-ball-sized chunks of his cracked right foot fall to the floor and shatter into icy fragments, leaving a frighteningly huge hole behind. A bemused part of his mind quietly adds “throwing up” to the list of things he’s glad he can’t do in his ice-form.

" Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Oddly, it’s stopped hurting now… in fact his entire foot is strangely numb, as if it weren’t really attached to him at all. He can’t resist the urge to poke at the hole, like exploring a missing tooth with his tongue, but he feels nothing except the pressure on his fingertip. He peels his gloves off and drops them, exploring again with an icy hand… there’s a strange stickiness to the inner surface of the “wound”, though, and it takes a bit of effort to pull his hand away. When he does, his formerly smooth palm is rough and pitted, and the wound’s surface where he touched it looks like it’s growing icy moss, and he finds himself on the edge of panic again.

"OK, OK, don’t panic… be sensible, Drake, think this through." Bobby is pretty sure he’d be hyperventilating if he had to breathe in this form, but he tries not to think about that. " I’ve healed wounds when I transition between forms before… maybe this is no different? Maybe it’ll just… seal up… when I change back… right?" Except all the other times were simple cuts and cracks, nothing like this severe.

It takes a while before he can bring himself to examine his hand carefully. The palm looks like a sheet of ice after a warm rain… lots of little holes and pits. Suddenly inspired, he concentrates on smoothing it out, as if it were one of his ice-sculptures instead of his own hand, and actually laughs out loud when it works. "So what was that all about…" he wonders out loud, inspecting his foot more carefully, then practically shouts with enthusiasm when it occurs to him that the “icy moss” on his foot is just ice-crystals growing out of the surface. "It’s… healing?"

It’s not a huge intuitive leap to try sealing up the hole with his powers, and it seems to work all-right… he can even flex his ice-foot the way he normally can. There’s a large crack running up his ankle under the cuff of his uniform pants, so he pulls them off and checks his leg for damage, sealing up a crack that runs most of the way to his knee. It’s not nearly as disturbing now… he’s actually starting to get used to it.

But there’s really only one test that matters, and Bobby suspects that if he waits any longer to do it he won’t have the courage. He notices for the first time that he isn’t alone, and looks up at John with his best attempt at a confident expression. "OK… here goes nothing!"

He somewhat ruins the effect by squeezing his eyes shut at the last second, tensing up as though he were about to be slapped; he destroys it utterly by refusing to open his eyes afterwards. He’s pretty sure he’d know it if the wound had reappeared in his flesh-and-blood foot, but he still doesn’t want to look. "I can’t look… did it work?"

[Pyro]

”So” John whee-says (definely doesn’t wheeze, no fucking way, because that’s for old sorts who can’t hack the pace beyond a slow shuffle to the grave and he’s a long way from dead yet, regardless of his body’s protests to the contrary), making his own way back from the Danger Room ”We’re calling that a draw”

Maybe it’s isn’t exactly a draw, but letting Bobby beat him for the third (?) time? Haha, no. It was definitely close – far closer than any of their previous scuffles, fights he’s trying his best not to remember (so stop fucking comparing this to them? a cynical little voice ventures, but is too deadened to press) the same way he definitely didn’t find this one in any way satisfying, nor chalk up the damage inflicted on Bob’s new ice form as a success – and Bob’s in no state to protest, it seems, so… yes, an honourable draw. Not bad going.

< Fuck…
”I’ll take that” – John doesn’t bother crossing to his locker the way Bob has done, instead dropping onto one of the benches, trying to make the semi-collapse look casual despite the way he’s catching his breath and aching like hell – ”as a yes.”

< fuck, fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, FUCK!
”Shit, Drake, steady on” he grins – or tries to, though it swings to nearer a wince as he yanks his boots off because it feels like it should be a wonder he has arms to do it, that whatever holds them on’s been stretched far further than it should have Oww… – ”Not enough trying to _{ow, fuck} steal my money with your _shiiiiit fuckin’ ridiculous claims, you have to steal my best lines too?” Boots off, he swings his legs up onto the bench. ”‘ro’ll be totally fucking livid I’m rubbing off on you”

… something isn’t right, though. Those are, in all seriousness, more his words than they’ll ever be Bob’s. He doesn’t look round yet, though, and keeps his tone light (or as light as it can be when he’s still aching and more out of breath than should be possible) ”You all right, Icicle?”

Bob keeps talking, though it seems to be calmer (… less expletive laden, certainly) and mostly to himself, and John shrugs, and pulls himself to his feet, and shambles over to his locker, leaning heavily on the doorframe as he rummages inside, and in the background Bob keeps talking and…

… and something in that arouses his… what? Curiosity? Concern? Something. Whatever; the edge to Bob’s voice, and the talk about things healing, is… weird, and he turns back for a quick glance, which turns into a longer one until how deeply wrong what he’s seeing is sinks in and he averts his eyes with a ”Holy fucking shit”, though they keep darting back to the hole in Bob’s foot with the morbid fascination such things inspire, the inability to look away even when ones stomach is tying itself in knots at the insanely high squick factor of the spectacle presented.

”Sorry…” is all he can think of to say at first, the lame apology accompanied by a short, nervy laugh, because it’s probably his fault (and because he should probably feel even worse than he is starting to about the rush of pride which swells for a moment or two at that) before a second burst of ”Fuck…” takes over as Bob sets about… mending? That, if anything, seems weirder, and more strangely captivating, and all in all it’s an odd mix of unsettling and fascinating, not just in the thing itself but in seeing Iced!Bob after all this time (after convincing himself so utterly he was gone forever, end of, no repeat performances) and wondering whether the minor differences he thinks he’s noticing are real or just born of not having seen it in that long.

< Okay, here goes nothing
John tries to return an equally confident smile, and a thumbs up, and misses Bob’s slip, caught up in a can’tlookcan’tlookohfuck moment of his own before Bob’s cautious ”Did it work?” forces him to, and he sneaks a glance, and a second, because ”Yes” (the first response is quiet, slightly shaken, the one which follows more confident and caught up in a half-laugh of relief) ”Think so, yes… No sodding great crater, in any case… Holy fuck.” He grins, seeing the healed flesh…

…quite a lot of flesh. More than he was expecting, now that he’s starting to notice how Bob’d removed… no, not looking. It’s not really appropriate any more, is it? And though he’s always been one to give ‘appropriate’ the bird as often as possible, it’s… uncomfortable isn’t exactly the right word, but close enough, and more so as, turning back to his locker, he awkwardly sets to changing back himself, slipping out of his jacket and taking far longer than necessary to put it back far more neatly than he would ordinarily in order to delay ‘stripping off’ that little bit longer.

[Bobby Drake]

> "Did it work?"
> " Think so, yes… No sodding great crater, in any case… Holy fuck."

Bobby opens his eyes tentatively at that point, then grabs his apparently restored ankle with both hands, flexing it back and forth firmly. "It worked!" he cries out joyfully, still more than a little weirded out by the whole thing but more relieved than anything else. "It worked! There’s still a scar, and it feels a little funny, but it WORKED!!!"

His voice fills the locker room with an incoherent squeal of glee, then trails off suddenly when he notices how John is uncomfortably looking away and paying an utterly unreasonable amount of attention to his jacket. "Sorry… I guess it is kinda squicky, huh? I’m still getting used to this new ice-form business, myself. Hey… you think maybe someday you’ll – " he cuts off abruptly before he can finish that thought.

He’d been going to suggest that John might develop a flame-body someday, the way Bobby did an ice-body, but that reminds him of what happened to Johnny Storm, and he’s suddenly rocked by the memory of the explosion. For a moment, it feels like it had happened yesterday, instead of over six months ago. Guess that’s because I was already dosed with the MGH when it happened… never really got a chance to process it emotionally. At least, that’s probably what Sean would say.

His enthusiasm gone, Bobby shakes his head and starts changing back to normal street clothes. "We can call it a draw, sure," he replies more seriously, albeit to an old question. "You nailed me pretty good on that last go-round, actually. Where’d you learn that firey-flippy thing you did?"

[Pyro]

< Guess it is kinda squicky, huh?
Squicky, yes. That’s all it is. Because it’s freaky and fucked up and… squicky, and that’s the only reason his stomach’s flipping and his throat collapsing – which is okay, right? It’s nothing to do with Bob’s escalating level of undress. Just an understandable reaction to… whatever the hell that was. Yeah. He glances back, nods quickly, flashes a grin. All very normal, and if he’s still a little quick to turn away that’s just because of the squick. Of course.

< … you think maybe one day you’ll…
Given that it’s just the squick it’s safe to sneak another quick look back at the question, that spark of vague curiosity flaring just a little bit brighter when Bob doesn’t finish it - ”I’ll what?” – before he turns back with a half-shrug.

His T-shirt is the next thing to be discarded – which is awkward, sure, but the cold air feels good against post-workout skin, and it’s less awkward than removing the lower half no doubt will be (fuck’s sake, none of it should[/u] be awkward…[/i] but chastising himself doesn’t help) – and, crouching down, he rummages in his locker for another as Bob continues.

< Where’d you learn that fiery-flippy thing you did?
… typical Bob, that, the idea that these things are trained and learnt where, for him, they’re just… things that happen, that aren’t born of tactics or strategy or deep thought about what can be done (and the realisation that there is such a thing as *typical Bob*, and that he’s admitting as much to himself and not still claiming he’s dead, is… kinda awesome – in the *jawdroppingly huge* and *humbling* sense as much as the *tremendous*). If he were being analytical, though…

”Mm? Came outta something you suggested. Back w…” – John stops, clears his throat, unsure how exactly to phrase *back before you became a robot when I was pretending to fuck Rogue and for some reason you were handling my training* - ”back before.”

[Bobby Drake]

> "… you think maybe one day you’ll…"
> "…I’ll what?"

Bobby considers lying about what he’d been about to ask. It wouldn’t be hard: all he really has to do is toss in some kind of insulting barb like “…make it to graduation?” or “…learn to stop telegraphing your punches?” and John’ll snap that up like a hungry puppy.

Except he’s really tired of lying to John.

"Oh… well, I was just thinking about this new ice-form thing of mine, is all. Still getting used to it. Pulling ice out of thin air is one thing, but… well, this is different. But, you know… I’ve been reading up on a bunch of power-use case studies, it’s not all that uncommon. Lots of mutants start developing new variations on their abilities as they get older. Storm told me once that when she was a little girl all she could do was make it rain… and now look at her! So, was just wondering about you, is all… whether you’re gonna pick up anything really new one of these days."

There. That’s a reasonable compromise… honest, without raising the whole spectre of the other pyrokinetic John, and where he ended up.

> " Where’d you learn that fiery-flippy thing…"
> " Mm? Came outta something you suggested. Back w…-- back before."

“Back before what?”, he really wants to ask, just to see what John answers. Back when they were still together? Back when he was still with the Brotherhood? Back before the Invasion, the MGH? Back before Alkali?

But there’s no point, really… it’s all the same thing. Back Before, When Things Were Different. It’s a tempting idea, but as far as Bobby can tell things are always different, every day. It’s thinking they’re going to stay the same that gets you into trouble.

And, all of that notwithstanding, it’s a kick to know that his bit of power-training with John has born some long-term fruit, and to get the credit for it. "Neat! I’d better be careful, then… I teach you all my tricks and you might just replace me, huh?"

He finishes tying the laces on his sneakers and turns around to see John crouched in front of his locker, ostensibly rummaging for a shirt, sweat dripping along his half-healed scars and the surprisingly corded muscle along his back and shoulders, and for a moment it really does feel like Back Before, When Things Were Different… like he could walk over and knead the knots out of his shoulders, and catalog all those new scars the same way he had the old ones that first night John stayed over.

But he can’t… or, at least, he won’t. Not while John and Rogue are together, anyway. Man’s gotta have standards – he’d said that to Sean once, talking about this whole mess, and it sounded so incredibly hokey, but it’s true. He’s screwed over his friends quite enough for one lifetime; he’s done with it now.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he can’t cool off the air near John’s locker, right? Him being all sweaty and everything, and the room being warmer and more humid than it really ought to be. That’s just a friendly gesture, the sort of thing he’d do for anybody. Right?

And John hasn’t really moved in a while, beyond desultory stabs at finding a clean shirt. He’s just crouched, staring into his locker like all the answers are in a crib-sheet he lost in there, like he’s waiting for something, or scared of something, or both. Something’s up with him, he realizes, more than just being squicked by my self-healing foot. I mean, it’s creepy, but John was there when Logan regrew a bullet-hole in his fucking brain… it’s not that creepy.

"Hey… Earth to John. What’s on your mind?"

[Pyro]

< Lots of mutants start developing new variants on their powers as they get older
Sure. And lots of people might grow up to cure cancer, reverse global warming, or find God down the back of the sofa. But none of them are ever going to be him. He knows full well where Bob’s going with this, and it’s away from *less awkward* even if it’s a different backstreet in the general area of *awkward*, which is stupid and petty and belies all his pretending he’s moved on and grown up from the bratty little punk who first landed at Xavier’s because for all that he’s changed and supposedly *accepted* it, it still stings to admit that this is as good as it gets.

< … whether you’re going to pick up anything really new one of these days
”Ain’t gonna happen, Icicle. I’m done waiting for that particular miracle.” Managing to get the words out without choking on them’s what Ororo would probably call positive progress. All the same, John wishes he could sound slightly more upbeat about this ‘moment of self-acceptance’ bullshit… or that the voice sly sniggering to itself about exactly what miracle he’d rather was a little quieter and less insistent.

< you might just replace me, huh?
Doesn’t look – or feel, more pressingly – as if that second wish’ll be granted any time soon, not when the glee in Bob’s tone makes him smile to himself the way it does, not when… other things respond to, erm, other things about Bob being there – for fuck’s sake, it’s like his body’s rebelling against him (and not, as that fucking irritating voice keeps suggesting, that he’s rebelling against it and against all reason…) Because he’s grateful Bob’s keeping his distance and respecting that that time’s gone and he’s with Rogue now and they can’t just… Yes, grateful[/u], and not wishing he’d take the opportunity, close the gap and…

< Earth to John
He jumps more than he should at that, and glances back at Bob with a what? sort of half-glare, no real venom (or at least none at Bob, because the scowl’s more at himself for drifting, and letting Bob notice that spaced-out-ness).

< What’s on your mind?
Loaded question, that. John’s attention snaps back to the locker as, newly defensive, he grabs the first shirt he can find (anxious to prove that there’s nothing wrong, that he’s fine and Bob’s seeing things that aren’t there in any previous hesitation) and pulls it on. He considers several responses in rapid succession, most revolving around either “What the fuck do you think?” or “That you have to ask that now” (the latter making him even more pissed off, because fuck, it’s stupid and nostalgic because they were never like that, never one of those couples who could understand each other that way, because they were always on totally different planets and… fuck, no, this is insane. Stop. Thinking. Now.), and settles on a clipped ”Nothing…” followed by a ”Why, should there be?” which slips out, more tentative than he’d like and before he can check it, because some part of him wants to know what Bob’d say to that, what the playing field is... hell, what game they're here to play.

(And it stings, that longing, because it's almost like before, like their endless circling 'do you?' 'what if I did?' 'what if I said that if you did it'd...' etc etc ad. inf. Almost, and not quite, and as per usual it's hard to tell whether it's the echoes or the disparity which hurts most).