Seeing what fits...

[Bobby Drake]

> " Ain’t gonna happen, Icicle. I’m done waiting for that particular miracle."

The response startles Bobby, and it takes him a minute to figure out why.

Back when he’d first arrived at the Institute, he and John’d stayed up late into the night all the time talking about mutations and what would be cool and what would suck… mutant super-sex-appeal and Scott’s weird eye-blasts thing (and what happens when he can’t find his glasses in the morning?) and telepathy and whether you’d really want to know what people think about you and all that stuff. John’s thing had always been being able to start his own fires, instead of having to rely on lighters and things… Bobby’d forgotten about that, but he remembers now.

And the surprise is that he’s still hung up on it, all these years later, when Bobby’d half-expected him to make some derisive comment about how it was all kids’ stuff. And the fact that John’s way of telling Bobby it’s still important to him is by saying that he doesn’t care about it anymore doesn’t even register as noteworthy in Bobby’s mind, because that’s just the way John is: everything’s reflected and upside-down with him, but after all these years Bobby mostly has the hang of translating.

"Oh," he says. "Right." He wants to say something encouraging, suggest a training regimen or something to make it better, because it just sucks seeing John wrapped in on himself like that. And there are things that might work… if he practiced affecting smaller and smaller flames, maybe he could work his way down to microscopic energy fluxes or something weird like that… hell, even if that doesn’t make any physics sense, maybe it’s just a mental block that keeps John from doing it, and if he thought about it differently… like Josh when he learned to fly…?

But this isn’t the time to mention it, he’s pretty sure about that. Whatever’s really on John’s mind, it isn’t how to start fires with it.

> " What’s on your mind?"
> " Nothing… why, should there be?"

John grabs a T-shirt like it’s the prize in some competition and pulls it on… then settles back into that weird little fugue state, his now-clothed back still turned in Bobby’s direction (and that really ought to make him less distracting, except it really, really, doesn’t).

"Well, no reason you should, I guess… but you haven’t finished changing yet, and you’re getting into clean clothes without showering first… and, unlike some people in this conversation, you actually do sweat, and --" he winces at the sound of his own voice, at the little shiver in it that’s altogether too familar, and realizes this is just not the conversation he should be having… except, of course, for all the ways it really, really is, none of which matter anymore. "—and anyway, you’re just kind of, I don’t know, moping or something like somebody just killed your best friend. Which I know isn’t true, because --" and he hesitates, not sure if he should really finish that sentence or if he’s about to cross the line again, and then decides Hell with it, we’re still that much, aren’t we?, "—because he’s – I’m – right here and breathing… well, breathing most of the time, anyway."

Which turns out to be much harder to say – or, more accurately, much harder to have said – than Bobby expected, and now he’s the one looking intently at his shoes, at his locker, at anything but John as the silence grows awkward.

He knows he should say something innocuous to break the silence, but his mouth is suddenly stuffed with all the things he’s wanted to say for weeks now, none of which even remotely qualify as “innocuous.” And finally the silence is too much, and the weight of things left unsaid too oppressive, and so he picks one and to hell with innocuous.

"Hey, so I’ve been wondering. Back last November, after you helped rescue me from the Brotherhood, and before everything went crazy with the military and the MGH and everything – why did you pretend you and Rogue were together when you weren’t?"

And that turns out not to be nearly as hard to have said as he thought it might be – certainly not as hard as some of the alternatives, like “Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on instead of injecting me with that damned needle?” or “Why’d you get so weird when I finally recovered from the MGH?” or “Why don’t you love me anymore?”— although the truth is he’s suddenly not at all sure he wants the answer.

[Pyro]

< you haven’t finished changing yet, and you’re getting into clean clothes without showering first
John frowns, twisting to look sidelong at Bob – because seriously, what the fuck? – ignoring the rising sense of apprehension at what he’ll say next (because Bob’s a great many things, but random isn’t one of them, not usually, and when he starts babbling like that it’s usually filler, the precursor to something he doesn’t want to say and John will probably be equally ecstatic to have to hear) and cursing the fact that he can’t just make light of the enquiry as neither of the comebacks which spring to mind – not questioning the sudden interest in how he gets dressed, not teasing that Bob only wants to see him naked – are in any way, shape or form at all appropriate to who they’ve become and where they stand.

< you’re just kinda moping like someone killed your best friend
He turns back at that, just a little too quickly for it to be anything than hastily averting his gaze, with a mumbled protesting ”Fuck off...” at the idea that he’s somehow moping. Yep, definitely heading down the road they shouldn’t be anywhere near. Shit.

< which I know isn’t true
But it is, he wants to be able to say (but knows full fucking well he can’t). Someone, or something did. And then someone or something brought him back, and it’s hard to tell which part of that’s harder to deal with. Which is ridiculous, because he’s had long enough to get the hell over all of that.

< he’s… I’m…
Fuck off – John’s heart, almost skip a beat at the correction? No fucking way. That’s fools talk, sappy stuff he wants no part of. And by the same ruling that’s definitely not a hitch in his voice before he speaks, and the carefully teasing ”Who says you’re my best mate? Little fucking presumptuous there, Drake” isn’t uneasily cautious or slightly – stupidly – melancholic.

< why did you pretend you and Rogue where together when you weren’t?
Uncomfortable and awkward as the silence was, John can’t help wishing it was still going and Bob hadn’t asked that question. Not that there are any questions he can think of which would be both pressing and any less uneasy and raw, but still; avoiding the issues is what they’ve settled on, isn’t it? Which makes it fucking unfair for Bob to change the rules without any warning and…

Fuck.

Okay, so the rules have changed (John runs a hand through his hair, drawing a long hissing breath, the *oh shit, what do I say now?* sort) and it’s all openness and honesty and not caring if it’s raw? Fine. The words take a while, sure, coming in fits and starts, the spacing all irregular, but they’re there and they’re real and maybe that’ll be enough and Bob’ll let it lie. Unlikely, but maybe he’s learnt to back the fuck off by now. Maybe.

”You went somewhere, after…” (‘after I betrayed you and Magneto tortured you and you got dosed up on cure’ sounds like an idiotic end to that sentence, doesn’t it? Because he’s chastising himself with No shit, Sherlock, what did you expect?, so fucks knows what’s going on in Bob’s head) ”Wanted to see what it’d take to bring you back.” John shrugs, as if it really is that simple… then sighs, frustrated, the snipped edge to his tone born of an obvious desire to get the fuck away from this tangent as quickly as possible… and something more defensive and indignant, because who is Bob to start asking those questions? Maybe once he’d have had the right to judge, but now they’re no longer together? ”Not like it matters now”

[Bobby Drake]

One of the great things about summer, as far as Bobby’s concerned, is fresh corn on the cob. He never liked corn much when he was growing up, but it was always canned corn, overboiled and just sitting there in a sodden lump. He rediscovered it at a cookout Storm had once, shortly after his arrival at the Institute, and it was a completely different thing: crisp, juicy kernels bursting juice into his mouth with every bite, clinging to the cob and rewarding the effort of ferreting them out. That whole summer, he went through corn-cobs like a human buzz-saw… no butter, no salt, no nothing, just the sweet, pure corn.

On the other hand, he really hates those stringy strands of husk that always seem to surround a fresh corn-cob, no matter how careful you are about husking and rinsing, how they get stuck between your teeth. Irritating, like nails on a blackboard or a papercut that just won’t heal.

He’s gotten pretty good at husking and rinsing corn over the years, but mostly, he’s just learned to live with the annoyance in order to get at the kernels, because it’s worth it… and every once in a while Bobby finds that perfect cob, and that’s great… but really by now it’s become part of the whole experience, part of how he knows he’s not eating his mom’s overboiled canned cobless corn.

> " Who says you’re my best mate? Little fucking presumptuous there, Drake"

John, Bobby decides in that moment, is quite a lot like corn on the cob. And these dumb little lies and evasions and half-truths, they’re the little stringy bits of husk. Annoying, yes, but they’ve become part of how he knows it’s really John.

Which doesn’t mean he needs to humor it, and all at once he’s not really in the mood to. "Right. Name three other people you’d have quit Magneto for." He almost winces as the words come out, more abrupt than he’d meant, but in retrospect he won’t take back a word of them. He fully expects a “That was then, Icicle” in response, but he’s made his point, and he’s pretty sure they both know that this is just dancing, now. It’s just the little stringy bit in his teeth, and it’s annoying, but it’s part of the whole experience.

> " You went somewhere, after…wanted to see what it’d take to bring you back "

And every once in a while, Bobby finds that perfect cob.

That’s the thing about John: the honest moments are rare, but there’s no mistaking them when they happen. Sometimes they’re like a brass-knuckle punch to the jaw and sometimes they’re like a blowjob in a speeding Camaro but either way there’s no mistaking them and there’s nothing like them. It’s only when Bobby’s chest starts to burn that he realizes he’s stopped breathing, and his flesh body doesn’t stand for that for very long. He has no idea how long he spends just staring off into space.

He wants to throw something back at John, to force those words back down his throat, to reject the very idea that Bobby’d been the one to go away. But it’s true, and he knows it. He’d been a zombie after he got away from Magneto, just going through the motions. And he wants to kick himself for it, but he’s been through it all too many times, both on his own and with Sean, to fall for anything that easy. Post-traumatic stress reaction, Sean had called it, a perfectly ordinary reaction to being kidnapped and tortured and crippled. (And it’s interesting, Bobby realizes in retrospect, that a baseline human like Sean would describe it as “crippling.” Talk about empathizing with a patient!)

> " Not like it matters now"

And that’s true, too.

It’s not honest, granted: what John’s telling him is that it does matter, has always mattered, and Bobby knows that, knows he’s being given an opening to ignore everything else and make a move.

It’s not honest. But it’s still true. Somewhere along the line, while Bobby’d been off wherever he’d been, dealing with his kidnapping and Cure and the Invasion and the Baxter Building and six months with his head shoved into the Institute’s motherboard, what had started out as a way to get a reaction out of him had turned into something real. Fragmentary and half-broken and unsatisfying, if Bobby’s instincts are at all reliable, but still real, and worth respecting while it’s there.

Finally, he nods. "You’re right, you know. I did. Go away, I mean." He shrugs, and turns to close the locker behind him, then turns back to look at John again. "And now I’m back."

[Pyro]

< Name three other people you’d have quit Magneto for
He tries. He really, really does. Because there has to be someone or something else, doesn’t there? Bob’s not that important, surely. So he tries. And predictably draws a blank, which is beyond frustrating, so his response is far less nonchalant than it should be, far nearer a snarl, his frustration at being unable to provide a convincing counterargument clear. ”That’s not the point.”

…

< Not like it matters now
There’s a horrible-wonderful moment, right after the words are out, where it could still go either way. Where he’s praying Bob notices the opening he swears to himself he hasn’t deliberately handed him (it’s just… something that happened, something neither of them can be blamed for, because if that’s how things play out then that’s just how it is). Come on, Iceman. Make a move

Right up until Bob opens his mouth, he can almost believe it.

Once the words start coming, he definitely can, because it feels like Bob’s building up to something. If this was a movie, there’d be swelling music and then…

But this isn’t a movie. If it was, a script that lame wouldn’t have got through editing, because someone would have pointed out how dumb a punchline ‘And now I’m back’ was and demanded the explosion the audience are waiting for. Fuck, if it was, they’d never have split… or else it would have been a much neater affair and over and done with without any of this complicated crap fucking everything up and making both reconciliation and escape equally impossible.

Not that the brutal and inescapable real-life nature of, erm, reality is any excuse for Bob being this fucking blind. Granted, they were never especially psychic as far as the inner workings of the other’s mind were concerned, but sheer force of will should be more than enough to impress on Bob that for fuck’s sake, I can’t be the one to make the move here. You pushed me further than this before … and knowing that makes it worse, really, because if there’s no way he could have failed to get the message then he’s electing to actively ignore and / or reject rather than just missing the point. Having only just gotten over (… yeah, totally not lying to himself there) the disappointment of Bob failing to come back from wherever when he needed him, instead (as John saw – and okay, still sees, despite repeatedly trying to point out how fucking ridiculous and selfish it is – it) waiting until it was all far too fucking complicated to make his grand return, the sting’s made worse because, having failed him once, it’s just beyond cruel to do it again.

His frown deepening, his tone flattening to pointedly not-amused, John tosses back ”Yes. You’re back”, not bothering to disguise the disparaging edge because if Bob’s routine thusfar has been anything to go by he’ll equally pointedly block that out… nor the pathetic *last chance* so very poorly hidden in the mix of disappointment and venom which follows ”I should go. Rogue’ll be wondering where the fuck her boyfriend got to.”

[Bobby Drake]

> "Right. Name three other people you’d have quit Magneto for. "
> " That’s not the point. "

Bobby doesn’t respond to that, because he really doesn’t have to.

Privately, though, he suspects Rogue would have made the list. Except she would never have pushed the issue.

Of course, at the end of the day it was really Magneto who’d done the pushing, so who knows? Maybe John hooking up with Rogue would have disturbed Buckethead just as much, and she would have ended up taking that needle. Which would be only fair, in some ways: she’s the one who wanted the Cure, after all. That spawns off a whole new set of digressions: Can needles penetrate her skin now in the first place? If she were Cured and recovered, would she lose the new powers? Have she and John figured out a safe way to do it, even with her powers? Would she have ended up in Magneto’s cell?

And that last image is disturbing enough to terminate the entire thread, which is really just as well. (And really, that’s all it is, is disturbing. Not exciting in the least bit. Not at all.)

> " You went somewhere…"
> " "And now I’m back. "
> "Yes. You’re back"

He wants to burst out laughing at the banality of their conversation, except there’s so much going on underneath it he can’t even keep track of it all. The stray-dog expression of wanting to be taken in despite his own objections is almost familiar by now, as is the petulant buzz of wanting what he wants because he wants it, as is the anger in which everything steeps… but there’s a lot of other stuff going on, and most of it just goes right by him.

And sure, John carries a twenty-pound sack of anger around his waist all the time (well, not all the time, he remembers fondly) but John’s clearly mad at him for something specific. Probably for not taking him up on that unspoken invitation… at least, Bobby’s only other guess is that John’s mad at him for not having died, and he won’t think that about John if he isn’t forced to.

> " I should go. Rogue’ll be wondering where the fuck her boyfriend got to "

And he still can’t hear John say that without feeling kicked in the gut, though he tries not to show it. "Yeah… she worries," he mumbles inanely, just for something to say. But this time there’s no mistaking John’s resentment, the sense that he’d expected more, and Bobby’s getting a little pissed off himself. What do you want from me?!? Sure, me and Rogue aren’t as close as we used to be, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make a move on her boyfriend, even if he is the –

He cuts off suddenly as an I’m-being-stupid feeling crawls into his belly. Wait, wait, wait. Did he actually say they were dating? He tries to remember exactly what John’s said about it, and he can’t, quite. And it’s ridiculous to think this might all be yet another round on their stupid little relationship Ferris wheel, but no more ridiculous than everything else that’s gone on between them since John got on that helicopter.

And Bobby’s got to know now, because… well, because he just does. For lots of reasons, some of which are suddenly extremely compelling. So he adds "And, John? About Rogue… two things.
First, if this whole thing with you and her really is something, and not just another put-up job for my benefit… don’t dick her around, OK? Sneaking around behind Buckethead’s back was one thing; sneaking around behind Rogue’s back is something else again. She doesn’t deserve it, and we’re supposed to be watching each others backs here, not sticking knives in ‘em… y’know?
And, second: if it is just a put-up job, this is where you admit it. Sure, I’ll bust your face in for jerking me around for the last couple of months, but…" Bobby pauses for a moment trying to find a way to finish that sentence that’s both honest and doesn’t sound like a come-on, then gives up decides to just leave it at that, mostly unaware of the tiny grin flickering unintentionally across his lips.

[Pyro]

< Yeah… she worries
He’d be screaming out loud if he could… though the frustrated-enraged rush probably isn’t any less obvious sans vocalisation.

”Yeah.” (fuck’s sake, how banal is this conversation? It’s like he and Bob are having some stupid competition as to whose response is lamest. Though his probably loses out for being more ostensibly thinly-veiled bitchery than purely lame) ”No idea why. Not like anything’ll happen to me.” Damn straight that’s an accusation, and an invention, and a confession, and a million other things that add up to the silent scream escalating, and sharpening, frustration and need feeding the flame until it rages, though his tone stays (mostly) securely in that careful-flat range.

He’d have gone then, if Bob hadn’t started talking. Probably should have.

< First, if this whole thing with you and her really is something, and not just another put-up job for my benefit… don’t dick her around, OK?
That first part, granted, is easy enough – a simple glance back at Bob as he heads for the door, eyebrow raised, lip curled in a half-sneer as if to ask whether Bob really thinks he’s that stupid he’ll make the same mistake twice (and sure, it’s not that hard to believe that yes, he would, not just possibly but, fuck, probably… not just twice but three, four… hell, a million times. But that’s not the point). At least, that’s how it comes off, though he’d prefer to believe Bob reads it as indignation that he’d dare think this relationship with Rogue was anything other than real… because that might shut up the part of him which is sure it isn’t.

< And second, if it is a put up job, this is where you admit it
That, too, starts in the same vein…

< Sure, I’ll bust your face in for jerking me around the last couple of months, but…
… and it’s there that the vein ruptures.

It’s not just the promise hanging on that ‘but’ (though… that’s a lot of it. A hell of a lot). And though a fresh spark of anger at how Bob’s handed the decision back to him is undeniably part of it, that’s not the whole story. Part (a rapidly diminishing part, true, as the full potential of that ‘but’ continues to spin out his imagination, but still… a part. Or a fraction of a part. A fraction of a fraction, even, but whatever) is the disarming honesty of Bob’s admission that he’d be pissed enough to ‘bust his face in’… because isn’t that what this whole fucking thing has been about, even back to after the Baxter Building? Shit, back before that. It’s all come down to just getting some small sign out of him that yes, it – he – matters enough to have some sort of impact…

… and that’s one sick joke. Congratulations, your wish is granted. Only you can’t take advantage of it.

Except… well, this thing in their way isn’t really real, not really, so…

No. Fuck, no. He’s not even thinking that. Stupid fucking Bob’s just spinning him out as per fucking usual.

”It’s real” And… it’s a fitting response, no, to dash his hopes, right? John’s response is quick, carefully sharpened, equally carefully devoid of any trace of how much having to say this is hurting him because that's not the point. And the afternote is much in the same mould - though perhaps not the wisest thing to say, if he's really going with this moral high-ground thing, it's a suitably cheap shot to let him know he's turning him down for something so essentially meaningless. ”It’s not true, but it’s real.”

[Bobby Drake]

> " It’s real. It’s not true, but it’s real."

Up until now, Bobby’s been relatively proud of himself for maintaining a relatively civil tone, however much he sometimes wants to smack John upside the head. But that last answer is too much.

"Oh, for the love of -- what the hell is that supposed to mean? I mean, it sounds great, all poetic and literary and everything, but…" he flails inarticulately for a while, not sure what it is he wants to say before finally continuing. "…can’t you for once in your life give me a fucking straight answer? It’s not that complicated. If you’re with her, if that’s what you want, then quit jerking everybody around and go back to – go back upstairs to your girlfriend. Tell her I say ‘hi.’"

He wishes he could keep the anger going, even knowing it’s just a cover for how much that had hurt to hear. And, it really shouldn’t have hurt… it’s not like he’d learned anything he hadn’t thought was true to begin with. When he thinks about it, it’s actually amazingly stupid… he has no excuse for getting upset at finding out that two of his best friends really are dating, instead of just pretending to date in order to see how pissed off he gets. It’s not even really like he’d expected a different answer, and it was still worlds better than “hurry up and die.”

But it did, and it does, and he can’t, and the just-this-side-of-losing-it whine he hears pervading his voice is embarrassing, as is the fact that he’s turning around to look at his locked locker door to get away from it, which is even more absurd than what John was doing a second ago.

So he turns back around. "No, on second thought, don’t tell her a damned thing from me. It’d just weird her out. Tell her you love her, that’ll make her happy. She won’t believe it, which is good, ‘cuz you don’t, but she’ll appreciate the effort. Buy her a flower or something – no, this is you, read her a story. One of those half-poetic incomprehensible things with no plot that you don’t want anyone knowing how much you love. Something that’s actually you, y’know? "

He has absolutely no idea why he’s giving his ex-boyfriend advice on how to romance his ex-girlfriend. None whatsoever. On the face of it, it’s the most absurd thing he can imagine doing at this moment.

"Cuz fuck, John, if it’s gonna be real then you’ve gotta make it real, y’know? None of this sneaking around in the shadows on-again off-again pretending it doesn’t matter lying to each other crap, we’re past that -- ” and only then does he figure out what he’s actually saying, and of course that’s when he chokes.

Because that’s the thing with John: the honest moments are rare, but there’s no mistaking them when they happen. And sometimes they’re like a brass-knuckle punch to the jaw. And they don’t always come out of his own mouth.

"Look, just take a damn shower and finish changing, OK? You look ridiculous like that, and you smell like a locker room. Don’t worry, I won’t fucking peek, OK?” He shoulders past John, hoping he can get away before he starts crying or something equally embarrassing, and not quite making it.