Just Like Old Times (John, then open)

[Bobby Drake]

(( OOC: Hope this isn’t too confusing… this thread is starts in Bobby’s room after “Tyrrany of the Clock” ends, even though it hasn’t ended yet, and while the X-Men are waiting around for Storm to arrange transportation to France. Bob has left the room (when Warren called Storm and she called the X-Men) and is now coming back (as it becomes clear that nothing is going to happen very soon), and is going to be interrupted here when the Invasion begins ))

It feels weird wearing his old X-Man uniform again… he hasn’t worn it since he first learned how to ice up his body. (He hastily shoves aside his memory of what he was doing when he learned that trick; he’s having a difficult enough time dealing with his emotions around John as it is.) But since he can’t armor up anymore, some kind of protection will come in handy. It’s tighter across the chest than he remembers, probably because of all the working out he’s been doing since Alcatraz, but it still fits.

He doesn’t even try to be quiet as he returns to his room for his ceramic rifle (well, OK, actually Logan’s rifle, but he’d worry about that later). His uniform had been in his locker, but he’d been keeping the rifle taped under his bed for a while now (and the fact that he sleeps better with it there is disturbing, but that’s something else he’ll worry about later). He turns the light on and slides under the bed to get it, checks that it’s fully loaded, rummages through his stuff for additional cartridges.

Of course, he has no reason to believe Magneto is responsible for whatever’s happening in Paris. On the other hand, he remembers the expression on Magneto’s face when he mentioned John’s relationship with Bobby, just before his shoulder gave out, and he suspects that if there’s anyone who would consider it appropriate to start an attack on the X-Men by taking out Warren and Josh on a date, it’s Magneto.

And if it is him, I intend to be prepared. Assuming, of course, that Storm even lets him come along. She’d called him along with the other X-Men when Josh and Warren had sent in their “mayday” signal, which was a good sign… but that was worlds away from sending an unpowered kid into a potential combat situation. Not that he intends to be left behind if Josh is in trouble, even if he is powerless. He’s still closer to Josh than anyone but Warren, he’ll be good for something… and besides, he owes Josh and Warren a rescue.

He finds the extra ammo and stuffs it into the pockets of his uniform, makes sure the safety on the rifle is on and hangs it on his back… no point in trying to conceal it this time. Only then does he take a deep, calming breath, and sit on the edge of his bed to await the call. He’s already operating on almost no sleep, at least he can try to relax while he can.

[Pyro]

(click… click… click…)

John’s not used to feeling useless.

Okay, maybe that’s a lie. Even ignoring the limitations nature decided to stick in place, and the frequent sense that everything’s careering out of control, it’s still not true. Being sidelined while the decisions are made, and waiting around for the action to kick off, that much is familiar enough. But with that there was always the certainty that it was going to be Brotherhood action, and the re-assurance that he was sort of important as their top arsonist… and there wasn’t this sense that maybe one of them wasn’t going to come back, because it was just something that happened there (whereas these are the good guys; they don’t meet messy, pointless redshirt type deaths on a daily basis), because there were never really these lulls of *real life* (only the campaign and the cause and the constant siege mentality), and because he really never cared all that much when it did. This, hang everything else, is a whole ‘nother matter; Bob – not even Iceman now, stupid de-powered flatliner scarily breakable Bob – has dashed off to deal with something ’not good’, something so not good he didn’t even pause before leaping into action the way that frickin’ hero complex means he always will, and he’s stuck doing the whole *anxious* thing, which doesn’t even make any sense because he’s supposed not to care if Bob wants to risk his neck, not be regretting that the last thing he got to say was that he was fucking Rogue senseless (which isn’t even true, so now Bob’s going to get torn to shreds thinking some fucked up lie…), not be… well, not be here.

(click… click… click…)

He should just turn over and go to sleep. No point worrying, even if he had a reason, or the right to. Which he doesn’t. Obviously. This is X-Men business, after all, and he’s just their pet lost cause…

(click.. click.. click..)
… Damn straight he shouldn’t be here. He’s on the team, isn’t he? Or is he being stupid again?

No, course not. Bob had said as much, really, hadn’t he? All the stuff about how the shield would come in useful, how he and Josh were keeping Bob’s place warm until the cure wore off?

(click.. click.. click..)

… shit… think about it, idiot. Who has a reason to attack the Institute? A specific grudge, even, against Warren and Josh? Someone who Bob would have the up-to-date information on?

Fuck. Obviously that’s why he’s been left out. They don’t trust him not to run back to Buckethead as soon as he descends and clicks his fingers… Okay, so he wouldn’t trust himself, really, not in this sort of situation, not with a load of random goons let alone with classmates, colleagues, friends… whatevers… But seriously? He’s just meant to sit around and wait it out like a good little contested shiny little poster boy for whichever cause finally claims him?

(click.click.click)

Fuck that.

He can pretend his intentions are noble, that’s the great thing about being a hero again; people believe it when you come out with crap like how you don’t want them to take a bullet for you (…. Oh, sure. He’d rather take it himself. The sharp dart of pain in his right shoulder points out how great an idea that is), that it’s your fight, that you can’t sit by and watch people get killed when… bla bla bla. As it is, it’s something far less noble, something Bob and the Balls and Bayonets Boyscout Brigade would no doubt not consider *fitting*, but something which, he knows full well, tends to get the job done.

Time’s ripe for some revenge.

*****

… Uniform’s probably still on order, the way Logan had *joked* it would be way back on the jet before Alkali. But the bike leathers should serve more than well enough. If he can ever get the bloody things on, that is. They’re hardly a lucky suit, or anything – last time he got shot, the time before… well, until the events leading to the getting shot, that might well have made it the lucky suit. Right now it’s an unwelcome memory… and he’s caught up enough in trying not to think about that, and to put all those feelings down to some kind of pre-battle adrenaline rush, or something (which isn’t a bad excuse, really, because it’s that sort of cross between stoked and shiveringly-nauseous, just turned up to 11) that he misses Bob’s return, stuck as he is with his back to the door, balanced kinda-in the closet and trying to unsuccessfully to get the fucking zip to work because it feels like he has to dislocate his shoulder to get a hold on it and he's going perhaps a little more quickly and clumsily than is wise so he's ready as soon as possible and...

”Fuck!” It jars, and John has to grit his teeth to make sure the cry ends there because seriously… isn’t that meant to have healed by now? (Okay, so it’s not a totally reassuring sign…)

[Bobby Drake]

With the closet door open its interior isn’t visible from the door, nor from the edge of the bed where Bob is sitting, although he’s aware of John, no longer in his bed, rattling around urgently in there. He could change his position to watch John more closely, but he doesn’t.

Instead he takes a deep, relaxing breath and stays where he is, trying to keep some emotional balance, get some rest before the action starts. When curiosity arises as to what John is doing in there, with all that banging around, he continues to sit and breathe… tries to let the curiosity rise and fade with his breaths, just like he’s been taught. (As always, the idea of learning emotional control from Logan of all people strikes him as funny… though, of course, who needs it more?)

When it’s replaced by more pointed curiosity about whether John’s alone in there, he’s aware of raggedness at the edges of his breathing and an increase in his heartbeat. But he stays where he is, letting each breath pass through him without interruption. Even the inevitable resentment at no longer being able to sense what was going on in there, at being limited to eyes and ears and nose, isn’t quite enough to shake his control. He lets it rise, and waits for it to fade.

He’s rather proud of that, actually. He knows that pride is supposedly beside the point, too, and he ought to let it pass through him just like curiosity and jealousy and resentment, but he lets himself indulge in it anyway… he’s getting good at this meditative-trance thing!

So it strikes him as odd, briefly, that when the pain and frustration and helplessness in John’s strangled cry drive him to his feet without perceptible hesitation, it doesn’t feel like a failure. But that whole introspective chain of thought is forgotten at the sight of John, half-in and half-out of those motorcycle leathers, an arm pulled awkwardly behind his mostly-bare back.

"John? What are you doing in th--" no, he’s not going to say that, "in there?" He takes a step closer as John appears to lose his balance, grabbing his uninjured shoulder to help stabilize him, suddenly very aware of the contrast between the black pseudo-leather of his glove and the red of John’s jacket.

"Are you OK?"

[Pyro]

John, of course, is somewhat lacking in the ‘Zen training’ department (and, let’s be honest, probably wouldn’t have made any where near as good a stab at it even if control had been a priority in what passed for his training), but even so his heart really shouldn’t leap with that pathetic infuriating mix of relief, disbelief and something a whole lot harder to place (though that’s probably got more to do with refusal, rather than inability, to tag it). It shouldn’t surprise him that Bob’s come back; even if it seems like suicide for him to be caught up in ‘mutant’ action now, how much was really going to happen without John knowing something was up any of the flashes and bangs?

(He doesn’t add that if it had happened, if there was a chance Bob might not be making it through, then there’s no way he’d still be sat here, even if that’s obviously because they’d need his newly kick-ass skills on the team rather than because of any heroic instinct. Same as he doesn’t even think about what Bob coming back here before anything kicks off, or the concern in his enquiry, really means, because obviously the answer to that is ‘nothing’. Obviously. And even if it did, for it to hit would make him all kinds of pathetically needy… and delusional).

With all the remembering what he’s meant or not meant to be thinking, and the startled!relieved!whatever, and the fact that he’s still caught up in these fucking things and now, more than ever, needs to hurry up and sort them out, little things like balance take a backseat and…

< Are you okay?
Ohfuckohfuckohfuck… It might have been a whole lot better if he’d taken a pratfall, because the fact Bob catches him really doesn’t help with any of that stuff, and John bristles as if the hand had landed somewhere, erm, else on the bullet-hole rather than his uninjured shoulder, hating that Bob’s had to come to his rescue though more than a little pleased that he still will because… fuck, he’s not meant to be the weak one, not meant to need, or want, Bob to have to worry about him.

… and okay, playing this as I don’t need any help from a flatliner is twisted, and the fact that he can still even think of that as an option, even if it’s no longer quite *instinctive*, is sickening and doesn’t help with convincing himself that he belongs as one of their team instead of that one, but it’s the best only excuse for why Bob touching him’s fucking with his mind, right?

”I’m fine” he reluctantly shrugs off Bob’s touch, both tone and gesture perhaps a little more forceful than is necessary or desired, going back to trying to sort out the leathers to prove that yes, he is fine, and doesn’t need Bob’s help, not with getting in or out of them, not with anything. The whole charade’s a little too bleak, a little harsh, for him to not try and cover it up / move things on / lighten the tone / whatever (all of those being very good reasons for it, sure, and the thing itself obviously having nothing to do with catching sight of Bob in that (newly snug?) X-uniform toting a rifle – which, he reminds himself notes, is a disturbing image).

”I’d ask if you’re pleased to see me, but fuck, that really is a bloody huge gun.” It comes off a fairly decent mix between genuine surprise and mostly-not-quite-fake snark, though he’s glad the challenge of continuing to try and fiddle with his leathers, and avoiding any sign that he’s somehow at all in need of Bob’s assistance/concern/any sort of attention, provide some distraction from having to look at Bob, said gun other gun and that uniform… If it did need covering up (which he’s still not sure about, unable or refusing to either fully regret coming out with it or pretend it’s not awkward) then the definitely-genuine (although clipped by biting back any further winces, and perhaps more uneasy than he’d like) interest in the next few words ”Who’s ass are we kicking this time?”

[Bobby Drake]

The commingled smell of leathers and John is rich, heady, distracting, and above all familiar, strangely comforting despite the tenseness of the situation. Bob takes a deep breath to take it all in, feeling his chest expand against the too-tight leather, savoring it like a wine connoisseur would a freshly poured goblet of some rare vintage: not just leather and flesh, but the grace-notes of charred wood and grass and dirt and motorcycle grease and oranges and hay and motel-room disinfectant and so many other things, and if those trace scents owe their origin more to the overwhelming power of suggestion than to the inadequate power of laundry detergent, right now Bobby could care less.

And of course, the familiarity and the comfort run deeper just the smells… there’s the way the zipper sticks a bit just below John’s shoulder-blades, and the small tear in the leather between the clasps in the collar, and the slightly brittle white mark near his left hip, and… Bobby hadn’t thought he’d paid all that much attention to such small details before, but they come back to him now in a rush of memory, and his jacket is suddenly not the only part of his uniform tighter than he remembers.

Most of all, there’s John himself… the irritation coupled with pleasure in his voice, the almost-undetectable hesitation before he shrugs off Bobby’s hand followed by overcorrection afterwards, the way he leans forward while backing away… it’s all so very familiar, even though Bobby’d thought he’d never see it again.

> "I’d ask if you’re pleased to see me, but fuck, that really is a bloody huge gun."

Bobby grins, despite himself, at the John-ness of that, and he feels himself responding to it. His eyebrows itch to climb into a suggestive leer, he contemplates a response like “Would you like to handle it?” or “I’d be more pleased to see more of you” or just peeling John’s leathers off of him like the skin of a grape, carrying him onto the bed, or pressing him against the back wall, or… well, whatever comes to mind. His body is quick with suggestions, and his breath grows short for reasons that have nothing to do with his jacket, and he takes a step closer.

But memory is a two-edged sword, and all at once the image that overtakes him isn’t of their previous nights together, but of their last one… the sharp stab, the guilt, the encroaching blackness… the old, hate-filled eyes that seemed almost to glow as a giant’s hand, cold and merciless and irresistible, crushes Bob in its grip… and most of all the shame of breaking down before the enemy, of being revealed as not only powerless, but weak.

His second step never happens, his hands drop to his sides, he stands puzzled, uncertain, distracted… enough so that when he hears the dorm-room door kicked open, he doesn’t really care. Probably Logan pissed that I have his rifle, he thinks without particular emphasis.

By the time he realizes that the fast, stealthy, aggressive footsteps crossing the room aren’t Logan, aren’t anyone who belongs there, it’s almost too late to respond. Almost. The helmeted, black-clad commando slides into sight with a weapon already raised and Bob moves without hestitation, the way Logan trained him – left-leg-forward-tilted/twist-at-the-hip/back-flat/right-leg-bent-swings-KICKS. Unfortunately, the gun doesn’t go flying, but it’s knocked out of line for long enough for Bob to continue the spin, plant-right-leg/straighten-out/close-range/NOW and his elbow strikes satisfyingly into the intruder’s Adam’s apple and sends him staggering back.

Bringing the gun to bear from where it hangs on his back and clicking the safety off isn’t as smooth as Bob would like, but at least he doesn’t fumble or drop it… one might get the impression he’d had more than a couple of weeks experience with it. His satisfaction with that is overwhelmed by a profound sense of oops, though, when he notices out of the corner of his eye that the intruder had friends in the hallway, already bringing their weapons to bear on him and preparing to fire, and that there’s no way he’s going to be able to dodge in time.

[Pyro]

Hang all the pretence – just for the moment, though if he’s reading this right he won’t exactly be hurrying to reinstate it – because there’s no way denial is going to work and he’s way past wanting it to; Bob’s reaction, the subtle way his breathing changes (which he’s equal parts amazed he both remembers and notices and stunned he thought he could forget), the step forward… it’s fucking intoxicating, knowing - wait, isn’t this about not lying? – confirming that they still do that to each other, and this *second skin* feels far more restrictive than it should (and thinking about that, and by extension about not-wearing it, only makes it a million times worse… but it’s a good worse. A very good worse). John’s surprised for a split second that he still knows how this should work, doesn’t have to think which shoulder to drop, what angle to set himself at so that if Bob keeps on that track they’ll lock *right*… Sure, he should be more concerned about whatever mission this is, but the giddy mix of Bob, here, now, same as it ever, never thought there’d be another… tosses that aside and besides, if they’re going back into hell then damned if he’s going to put any faith in human skill to give them another One last chance without knowing if Bob still at least tastes cold, whether he can still tear out his name rather than an incoherent noise (and fuck, it’s been forever since he finally managed it, proof the world didn’t end the way it felt it had, and possibly should have…).

(S’not bad, shortfry, not at all – body says she’s 16, face says 40 or something – lived that many lifetimes at least, sure - thinks he looks like her little brother and can’t stand seeing him shaking – Stings a little but it’s worth all the shit, because it shuts the demons up, makes the world fall away… for all the poetry it’s a memory he smacks back down, back where it belongs, because no one’s allowed to interrupt this even if they do roll in masked in something like profoundness)

He doesn’t bother hiding the slight ripple, not of disappointment so much as some crossbreed between concern and resignation to the fact that sure, there’s one hell of a wall between them right now (understandably given what happened last time they were anything like as close), looking sidelong and questioning as Bob freezes up stops mid-step… Oh, right. Company. He wonders what the right tone for telling Rogue he’s going back to someone who can steal his soul and make him dizzy without touching is, whether he can let actions speak louder and all, not bothering to ask why he thinks it’s her; obviously she’d come here if there’s something wrong (and X-business usually counts as ‘something wrong’, doesn’t it?) when she’s this dosed up on him… Except that that’s clearly not…

Shit
Bob’s thrown himself into the thick of things almost before John can go for, let alone reach, his lighter, and seeing Bob doing that – even forgetting that he’s a flatliner, thinking of this as the old Bobby – is a weird mix of terrifying, horrific and mesmerising, because… that’s not him, and it drives how much things have changed since that first invasion way back when. It’s how Mystique was, probably how Logan still is… and okay, maybe Bob isn’t as helpless as the whole ‘depowered’ thing has (and yes, he’s ashamed to admit it, but there it stands) lead John to assume…

… though he isn’t thinking quite like that, or rather doesn’t think it necessarily true that Bob being able to handle himself is enough, or perhaps just plain isn’t thinking (this, of course, being John) when, lighter back in hand, he darts forward after. John doesn’t know what he is thinking, and looking back won’t know what exactly possessed him to move when he could just have easily slipped into paralysis, but maybe the Danger Room sessions are paying off because he’s somehow not surprised to see three guns trained on Bob. Two of the bodies behind that flesh are slightly more taken aback, however, when those impressive cannons they’re wielding lock up and refuse to fire, and a lick of red-gold deals with the third, sending him scrambling back before John’s failure to get three-out-of-three can reach his *teacher*’s attention…

… it’s hardly defeat, though, just a minor setback for the Strikeback Squad; these new expanded abilities are tricky enough to pull off against a sim. gun when Bob’s the one doing the shooting (though his way with that rifle is forcing John to re-assess exactly how far behind a *real* shooter Bob really is), and now aside from being real it’s hardly ideal timing as far as strength (… yep, another reason to regret helping Rogue out) and focus (for which he has to thank Bob…) go. But sheer reckless okay, fuckers, prepare to die enthusiasm has to count for something, right?

[Bobby Drake]

Later, when he has the leisure to analyze this fight the way Logan always makes him do with training sessions, Bob will chastise himself endlessly for freezing like this as the guns fire… or, rather, as they fail to fire. It takes him the better part of a second after the click-click-FWOOSH of the jammed and torched guns to realize he’s not actually dead, the rest of that second to regain his focus.

His opponent uses that pause to regain his feet and grab Bob’s rifle, pulling it out of line and driving a knee into Bob’s crotch; Bob manages to block the knee and drops to the floor, out of the line of fire of the three in the doorway, he sweeps his left leg to drop the commando, who jumps lightly to one side and keeps his feet and lands a kick to Bob’s ribs that he feels through the reinforced X-uniform, follows it up with a heel-strike to the throat that just barely misses as Bob rolls to one side and, desperately hoping John can handle the three in the doorway, comes back up to his feet.

Both guns are forgotten in the subsequent close-quarters combat, and Bob has no attention to spare for the other three invaders… it’s all strike and block and counterstrike coming faster than Bob had expected, but still slower than his practice sessions with Logan, and he’s beginning to feel some confidence that he can do this when he misgauges a punch… he knows what’s coming a second before it happens as his target dodges and he over-extends, just a couple of inches, but enough to provide an opening.

The elbow-strike to his ribs strikes just where the kick did, the spike of pain driving the breath out of him, and is followed up by a rabbit-punch to his kidneys. He goes down again, this time unintentionally, and time seems to slow for a moment as he sees the kick coming, knee rising and straightening out and the boot-heel slowly traveling to meet his jaw, but even slowed down he can’t seem to move fast enough to get out of its way. Time returns to its normal speed as his head snaps back and bounces against the wall, and he’s vaguely aware through the resulting daze that his opponent is picking up the dropped machine-pistol.

Still dazed, and with a now-useless reflex trained over years, he throws out a hand and wills the ice to cover his invader. Nothing happens, of course, except the pistol moves a trifle faster as the suddenly-nervous Strikeback operative squeezes the trigger.

[Pyro]

Take.
Them.
Out.

It’s hardly the world’s most complicated, or most well-thought out, plan. Hardly a plan at all really, not here with their holographic maps and endless platitudes and complicated numbered strategies for defence and offence and every other possible mission. But with three black-clad operatives seemingly focused on doing a similar, if more organised, job on them, it’s all John’s got, and, Boston and Alkali aside (which, really, are pretty damn huge omissions from any list of significant engagements, but whatever. He’s got used to refusing to think about either…) it’s usually worked pretty damn well, as far as survival goes. Anything you walk away from, right?

It’s… less difficult, probably (saying ‘easier’ just feels wrong), to trust that Bob can deal with the assailant who’d forced his way in, or at least not-die for long enough that John can cross that bridge when he comes to it. That leaves the three in the hallway. Which hardly seems fair, even factoring in the whole God Among Insects thing (which he’s trying not to, because it’s leaving more of a bad taste than even he can pretend to be comfortable with), but that’s how it’s going to have to play out… and fuck, why is he letting this worry him? Ethics are nice an’ all, but shit, could there be a worse time to develop a conscience about the torching?

Two still standing; he’s surprised the third’s still down, but maybe it makes sense. There’s something about them which suggests they’re way too green, not used to it. Sure, they know what they’re doing, but there’s still that reeling when someone dares strike back, that look of total disbelief when they come across a mutant in the flesh rather than some protocol. The fact that their eyes go wide and they take that split second to steel themselves gives him more than enough time to throw up a barrier before the hail of bullets begins, intent on letting them keep going until they run out so they can’t get a lucky hit in when it’s his turn, planning on exploiting their inexperience…

Shit, when did he start thinking in siege-tactics again?

Okay, maybe more of an issue is when he stopped. When y’switched from the side normally doing the invading, probably

Right. No regrets. Chalk the *pretending to be a good guy* up as a failed experiment and debate later. Dangerous mutant, remember? As evidenced by the gun-thing – which is still fairly cool, and gives a mad little rush, though it feels oddly clinical and lacks the pure mad exhilaration of proper flame – Bob’s done a pretty good job of expanding his repertoire, but you can’t beat the old favourites. Bob hadn’t quite *got* that yet, the idea that it *worked* better if the flame was let loose rather than controlled, refusing to put it down to anything other than John wanting to blow shit up as destructively and impressively as possible… and he himself had to admit, it sounded hokum, suggesting there were things fire *wanted* to do… but whatever; it fairly leaps into his touch with only the slightest of *calls* it’s still (worryingly?) easy to turn a flame on the two, and he thinks it might be better to just not bother trying to work out why he keeps it trained in slightly longer than strictly necessary… But he had to put them down, right? Guys with guns in a school? Sure, that played out well last time.

Logan would be proud The thought provokes a small dark smirk he can’t quite keep in, which is probably a good thing because, as CSI geek Bob (was there anything Bobby hadn’t geeked over at one point or another?) had gleefully informed him once, smiling suppresses the gag reflex… or something like that…

Shit, Bob! The thuds issuing from back inside the room are a whole different, and more effective, sort of sickening, and though it doesn’t make sense given that he’s kept himself mostly clinical so far he can’t help but visibly wince as, turning back, he’s just in time to see Bob’s head bounce off the wall, and it’s a whole different sort of knife to the gut as he throws out a hand, Iceman in his mind if nowhere else, and…

… why the fuck is he still watching?

”Hey, fucktard.” The operative’s head snaps round, the gun swinging from old to new target, and it takes a lot to stay cocky and smirking instead of cringing again at the bang It went wide, please… of course it went wide. It did ”You’re looking for the mutants, right? Well, you picked the wrong one.”

… and though the scorching and weird sweet scent and damp, gurgling shrieks are sicklier than he can remember it being since whenever the first kill was (and not being sure when exactly, and thinking that it was somehow less horrific at some point, makes the stab of nausea worse, but he can ignore it for now), and he’s not going to think about why he stays, and waits for the noises to stop, because there’s no fucking way this bastard’s getting back up again. Ever.

That done, and fighting a dizziness of his own, he turns back to Bob, who looks like he’s still dazed from that blow, and it’s his turn to be the one doing the steadying, hands on Bob’s shoulders. The words are you okay? stick in his throat, so there’s no way he can even dream of doing any of the other things which spring to mind, any of the stupid little displays of relief or anything else having Bob that close is suggesting. But the question’s in his eyes anyway, and once he’s run them over Bob and got something like an answer – that he’s not dead – he settles for dropping his right hand from Bob’s shoulder to flip the bird at the ceiling before, grinning (and it’s a genuine grin born of the sheer manic joy of them both getting through that), offering up a few choice words to ‘him upstairs’. ”Thanks a lot, y’foul git. This is not what I meant by setting the clock back.”

[Bobby Drake]

Bob is aware of John saying something to distract the commando for a crucial split-second, letting him dodge just enough that the bullet embeds itself in the floor rather than his skull.

> " You’re looking for the mutants, right? Well, you picked the wrong one."

And really that shouldn’t sting as much as it does, like John doesn’t even consider him worth killing. He didn’t mean it like that, he tells himself, and he knows that’s true… but he also knows that it’s false, that he really is less of a man in John’s eyes – and, if he’s going to be honest with himself, in his own – without the ice.

It seems likely that realizing that would be enough to make him nauseous, but that particular point becomes moot when his attacker goes up in flames. Not that it’s the first time he’s seen someone die in battle, even up close, but somehow it’s worse this time… the screaming as flame engulfs him, cut off with a choking sound as the faceplate melts over his face, the smells of roasting flesh disturbingly enticing before they’re polluted with the stench of burning plastic, the spastic twitching and the smaller, contained explosions as ammunition bursts, the slow agonized transformation from a human being to a shapeless, smoldering lump... all of it combines to twist Bob’s stomach, and suddenly he’s glad he didn’t eat breakfast because it takes all his willpower to get up without dropping back to his knees and adding to the mess on the carpet.

The hand on his shoulder helps stabilize him, both physically and emotionally… if only because he is not going to show this kind of weakness in front of John again. He manages to choke out a sincere "Thanks" without it being colored by his resentment of being “just a flatliner” in John’s eyes, or his disgust at the room full of smoldering corpses, or his terror at having to go through this again. Wasn’t the first time enough?

> " Thanks a lot, y’foul git. This is not what I meant by setting the clock back. "

That earns a laugh, both because it echoes his own thoughts so closely, and because he’d thought he was the only one who’d been yelling at God lately. "Careful… Kurt might disapprove." he mutters with a chuckle, appreciating the distraction.

He picks up his gun again, keeping the safety off this time, and heads towards the door. "OK… I don’t know what’s going on here, but we need to stick together and find the others… Rogue is in her room, right?" He fiercely suppresses the cocktail of emotions that want to bubble up, refuses to think about why he wants John around or how John would know where Marie is, refuses to think about anything but tactics.

"So let’s collect her, she’s the heaviest hitter we have now, and SHIT!" He walks into the hall as he speaks, only to duck back into the room as yet another team of invaders bursts into the hallway. This team is different, though… even from the brief glimpse he gets, he can see that. Instead of black Kevlar they’re wearing some kind of silver-plated battle armor; their rifles look like some kind of energy weapon; they move faster and more assuredly and somehow Bob knows they’re closing in on him – or, more likely, John and the now-dead invaders.

"Guess that was just the first wave… varsity team’s after us!" he calls out to John as he re-crosses the room and shoves open a window. A black van is parked below, right on Ororo’s flowers – at least this time it’s not my fault they’re trashed! he thinks frantically – putting a simple climb down the gutter out of the question… and something about the build of the van makes him suspect firebombing it would not be a good idea. If they know enough to use energy-weapons against John, either they learn real fast or they already know what they’re up against… I’m betting on the second, and that puts them one up on us.

"John, look, I was gonna suggest this in the Danger Room later but there’s no time for that… we need to move fast. That fire-wall trick we were working on… I don’t pretend to understand how, but it’s kinda-sorta solid, it can hold weight… and it won’t burn you, right? So you should be able to use it like a kind of fire-slide, or a flying carpet, or something like that… I hope… to get the hell out of here, and…" his rapid-fire speech trails off then, as he realizes he has no idea what happens next. Get help? Warn someone? Whatever, it doesn’t matter, at least John’ll be safe. "…just go! I’ll hold them off…"

That last is a lie and he knows it; he won’t even slow them down. It doesn’t matter, though. He can’t walk safely on John’s fire, and even if he’d thought of the possibility of John carrying him he probably wouldn’t have suggested it for fear it might be too much weight and get them both killed.

The pettier thought in the back of his mind, that a heroic sacrifice will show everyone he isn’t useless, even as a “flatliner”, he doesn’t let himself think out loud.

[Pyro]

< Kurt might disapprove
In and of itself, the moment is totally surreal, the two of them snarking about a teacher as if they were still communicating in hasty notes in the back row of a classroom (or, more likely, skiving off and sniping over a sneaky Starbucks) with the carnage and the threat of whatever this is, but fuck, it feels good just to hear Bob laugh - because it’s been too long, and it doesn’t matter that he’s the cause of it (except that yes, it so obviously does), it’s just good to know he still can, that there’s still some of his Bob in there… that they’re on the same page about some things at least, no matter how completely bloody ridiculous.

< We need to stick together
Any flippant remark about Kurt’s approval, or lack of it, and what exactly a disapproving Kurt should occupy himself with, hitches (which would be disappointing if the hitch wasn’t so bittersweet, because he knows exactly how that would play out, how the last few word’s’d get lost and… false hope’s a bitch, right?) and John knows full well it’s not like that, it’s just a tactical decision and nothing to do with wanting keep him around as anything other than firepower or insurance or something, but still…

< Rogue is in her room, right?
… fuck tactics, he’s almost ready to snap back don’t bring her into this, not now. It’s a momentary lapse, and rightly shames him afterwards, but he’s not rushing to interrupt the first *real* moment he’s had with Bob (and it’s almost darkly amusing, really, to think that they need people shooting at them to strip away all the stupid little games), to slip back into pretending that he and Rogue have anything anywhere near as *real* (though he shouldn’t have to keep pretending, right? Not after this…) or to have her steal away his chance to save Bob again (because maybe next time’ll be enough… enough to prove to himself that he’s definitely back on the right side, and enough to prove to Bob… well, nothing like reckless selfless heroism to put you in a more positive light, right?). None of that, nor the spike of disappointment as Bob moves off, is any more appropriate to the situation than wasting time worrying about whether ”She figures something’s up, she’ll come here” comes off any better without the footnote that it’s because she’s dosed up on him or whether it’s the room or something else she-as-John would be running to…

Fate, of course, takes the chance to make it sound better out of his hands, because Bob’s shout reminds him this is both far from over and much bigger than their issues, and he ducks back into the corner like this is some bad spy movie - except that it’s a Zippo he’s got primed, of course, though the way his fingers curl around it is almost a childish approximation of a gun, flame licking around the ‘barrel’ in preparation for whatever’s about to burst through the doorway…

< Guess that was the first wave… varsity team’s after us
Pawns go first he thinks, sourly, though he manages to keep both that and any nerves at the sudden step-up fairly well under wraps, nothing but a strange, if slightly forced and deliberate, enthusiasm flavouring his response. It’s the ‘us’ which is hardest to ignore the effects of, really, both because yet again there’s that weird thrill and because of the darker underlying guilt that no, they’re not after them; no reason to send the Big Guns after Bob. This, he’s fairly sure, is mostly down to their wanting him neutralised. Bob’s barely collateral damage. ”Brilliant, a promotion… Almost makes up for the fucking insulting undestimat..” John trails off as Bob crosses over to the window, puzzlement creeping in at the edges. ”We’re running?”

He knows almost as soon as it’s out that no, this isn’t a we thing, and again he almost wants to laugh, a weird demented laugh, at how it’s that and nothing else which really scares him. ”I’m running?” There’s none of the enthusiasm now, only a questioning, an odd shaky vulnerability that any other time would annoy him and be beaten back into submission before it could seem he was weak, before Bob could see he was begging for the impossible turn around back to no, of course that’s not what I’m suggesting… but right now there are more important things to consider, and any pretence of control or detachment is totally forgotten after the ‘plan’ is spelt out and his fears confirmed.

”No!” It’s childishly indignant, tantrum-ish refusal to budge mixed with offence that it should even be suggested and panicked desperation to convince the one doing the suggesting that it’s not a good idea. Because Bob’s clearly gone totally insane if he thinks that even after everything that’s happened he has it in him to walk away and leave him to take the hit. Because it’s him they’re after, and because it’s his fault Bob can’t escape the same way or hope to outface them, and a million other reasons that should never have been allowed to become anything other than obvious. "No fucking way, Bob. Even if that wasn’t the most insane plan… ever, you’re not asking me to go alone and let you kill yourself, can’t fucking expect me to sur…” He stops short, because it’s still totally inappropriate to go there, isn’t it? Clearing his throat, he shakes his head. ”If we’re not getting out” – and fuck, he’s lost the right to put that emphasis on as well, hasn’t he? He’ll beat himself up if they survive this – ”then… the hell with that. We take as many of these motherfuckers with us as possible”

It strikes him as a waste of a good few ‘last moments’ to try and figure out what the hell that’s a reference to… but once placed it’s fitting, fuck ‘appropriate’ and ‘rights’ and ‘possession’, and if he has to die then, fuck those things again, it’s only right this is how it should play out. (And hell, maybe there's some hope they'll get out, because inspite of all that 'not worrying' he still can't quite bring himself to take that 'one last....' whatever it is he's not going to let himself die without, settling instead for flashing a shaky grin and taking his proper place next to Bob, a nervous swallow and tense shuddering shiver as he shifts, waiting for the blow to land).

[Bobby Drake]

Bob notices John’s annoyance when he mentions finding Rogue, but misreads it. Look, John, I get it, he wants to say, but she’s still my friend too, and one of the heaviest hitters we’ve got, so let it go for now, will you? He doesn’t get the chance before everything goes urgent, but John’s muttered " She figures something’s up, she’ll come here" stays with him longer than it should. It shouldn’t matter, not with everything else that’s happening all of a sudden, but it stings to be told Marie would come for John when he’s pretty sure she never would’ve come for him.

He shakes that off as he tries to come up with a plan B. John’s insistence on a last stand should annoy him; unless those seemingly insulated, bullet-proof armor-suits are just for show there’s just no way the two of them are going to manage against the second wave. (He carefully avoids thinking about how he’d intended to manage; “I’ll die and then he’ll miss me” just isn’t a thought he’s prepared to admit to, even to himself.)

Burning the floor under them would just dump them on whoever’s underneath... John’s fireshield/suppression tricks probably won’t work on energy weapons… The only thought that occurs to him is really only a mechanism for buying them a few moments; after a frantic paralyzed moment he realizes that’s the best he can manage right now. He rips the mirror off the closet door, tosses it hastily onto John’s bed, grabs John and drags him into the closet. "You can torch stuff from around corners, right?" he whispers, pointing to the dorm-room door reflected in the mirror, "I figure that gives us some advantage."

The word “us” almost chokes in his mouth. Right, us. Great team we make – John takes out all the enemies while I redecorate and hide behind furniture. The amazing NormalKid, that’s me…

[Pyro]

He probably shouldn’t be pleased Bob doesn’t protest, definitely shouldn’t be disappointed he’s not more thrilled at John’s refusal to outlive him (though it doesn’t seem quite as mad to be upset no one’s understood your *last words*, does it? How the fuck did he miss…? isn’t a great *final thought*, really). All that’s underscored by a slight edge that tastes uncomfortably like panic; for once tonight, Bob doesn’t seem sure, and given that he’s the one who knows what’s going on, who comes up with the plans and strategies and *creative displays of power*, that’s really scary. Because it hits home that shit, we might really be dying here…

… as he’s slammed back into the closet, wincing slightly as shoulder and fake wood collide, John wonders whether it’s a waste of breath to let Bob know some of that, whether it would come off patronising or insincere to let on that okay, maybe it’s not Iceman that any of them need but something else… that regardless of still having his mutation he’s still fucking useless without whatever that mysterious thing might be…

… in the end, the only thing he can decide (not whether to say it, not what the thing is…) is that he’s thinking too fricking much, and about the wrong things to be thinking about right now…

… yep, completely wrong things, because after he’s glanced out at the set-up Bob’s proposing, and nodded a shaky concurrence that yes, maybe they can hold them off for a few moments, his body’s quick with suggestions for better ways to spend those few minutes given that they’re inches apart in a closet, pointing out that those leathers really are a little too restrictive and really, do you want to die without finding out where the zip on that uniform is? He stops himself just short of checking where that might be, changing trajectory last minute so it counts as another furtive glance into the room rather than… whatever it originally was, the hand that might have been snaking to pull Bob in stopping and becoming one which holds him back as he takes in that shit, they’re getting close. And while he can’t pretend to understand anything about those guns except that they’re different, or recognise exactly what the armour will and won’t protect against, it definitely feels like a change of gear.

Fuck…

John pulls back again, tenser than usual grip muffling most the characteristic click. ”That as far as the plan goes? Death by dramatic irony and… whatever they’re packing? No dignity and no regrets…” It stikes him, with typically bizarre timing given how much more there is to worry about, that he’s almost babbling, quoting randomly again… and that hell, it doesn’t matter now, he’s not going to be around to be reassessed in that light… and that it’s odd, really, that he should have picked as potential last words not a rallying cry but a riff on desire, though he doesn’t continue with I want you, the *oh shit, we’re going to die* edition of existentialist literature instead offering a half-shrug, a small slow smile as he locks eyes with Bob for the split second before holding his gaze becomes awkward and the noises outside provide a convenient distraction ”There are worse ways to go, I guess.”

[Bobby Drake]

> " That as far as the plan goes? Death by dramatic irony and… whatever they’re packing? No dignity and no regrets…"

Bob stares incredulously at John, pausing briefly in his attempt to push the most flammable items of clothing out of the way (because the last thing they need is for the closet to catch fire while they’re inside), then shakes his head and continues. If you’ve got a better idea, hotshot, I’m all ears… he thinks resentfully, vaguely aware that John sounds like he’s quoting but not getting the reference.

But before he can say anything – if he was even going to – their eyes lock, and for just a moment it’s like John’s invented some kind of time machine, because it’s like none of the last month even happened and nothing matters except they’re both here, and together, and that slow smile of John’s must be another creative use of his power, because it burns through Bob’s mind and body like a flame.

> " There are worse ways to go, I guess."

He smiles in agreement. "I guess. Just… you should know I -- " his last words are inaudible over the decidedly inconvenient sounds of battle as one of the second wave of invaders charges into the room, ready to find and eliminate the mutants who killed his predecessors.


((OOC: Rogue, hon? We could use your help here... * waves * ))

[Rogue]

Between generally not going to sleep 'till about two, and being woken up not long after by the emergency with Josh and Warren, and then being too edgy to do more then fidget when she did try to rest, she's just settling in to actually sleep a little ‘round seven in the morning – at least just a nap or something, so she's not totally a zombie for if/when she's supposed to go help. She’s not sure they’ll want her along, what with the way she seems to have made them question her mental stability – heck, she questions it too. Wouldn’t hold it against them if they didn’t want to risk taking her along.

But of course as soon as she's about to fall asleep, something's wrong. Sounds like a lot of people storming through the halls, and …gunfire?

That can't be right…She opens her eyes and glances at the clock, then around the side of the room she can see. Nothing seems out of place, nothing seems abnormal. She sits up, and listens for a moment…

Yeah, okay, definitely something wrong. She's on her feet quickly – throwing a jacket that's flung across the spare bed on over her bare arms and snatching up her gloves as she moves to the door, pulling them on.

She pulls it open a crack and peers out. Once sure it's clear, she's running up the hall before she really understands what she's doing. Taking a corner without slowing, she crashes straight into a man in black armor, literally slamming into him, sending him reeling, and her stumbling back a few paces as he points a gun her way.

She was bulletproof, before the whole ordeal with the psykes – or at least in theory, they hadn’t actually tested it or anything… – but now she’s not sure... But she still has the flight. She’s still stronger than she has any right to be. That part’s gotta still be there if the rest are.

It’s with a smirk that’s not entirely hers that she takes a deliberate step towards him, almost daring him to do something to stop her - and he fires. The bullet makes impact with her arm as she cringes automatically from the sound and tiny flash of pain – a sharp sting, but nothing major, nothing like what a shot should feel like. She shoots a glance at him, and he’s looking with almost-obvious surprise, despite the face-guard he’s wearing, at a bullet laying on the ground, looking a little misshapen, but not even bloodied.

Rogue doesn’t give him the chance to do anything else, a punch thrown at him properly knocking him cold before she even spares a glance at her arm through the bullet-hole in the jacket she’s wearing. It’s bruising, but nothing else. So she really is bulletproof, not just in theory…

But this, while interesting and all, isn’t helping anything. She’s still got to get down there, got to make sure he’s okay…

Reaching the hall just outside Bob and John’s room, she freezes. There’re about five soldiers – different from the one she encountered in the hall. There’re three dead (or at least out) of the kind she’s encountered, too. She’s not sure what kind of weapons they’ve got – they look…different, weird – but she’s pretty sure she can still handle them. She has to, she can’t let anything bad happen…

She touches at the part of her mind she’s come to recognize as the place that controls her flight, and she’s no longer touching the floor, hovering just barely over it. It’s easy to sneak up behind one of the rear-most soldiers this way, while their attention is all focused on the room and the one bursting into said room, and easy, aside from the shock and nausea that follows, to take him down, his head lolling at an odd, unnatural angle.

But this does draw attention, as his body falls, and in seconds Rogue has weapons pointed at her. She doesn’t know what these weapons will do – they don’t look right for normal bullets, so she’s not really sure what to expect – but she doesn’t surrender like they say to, moving at another without pause, because there just isn’t time to worry about that right now.

[Pyro]

The sound of someone bursting into the room wrecks the moment as John startles more than he should (which is, of course, why going off into your own little world is not the best idea at times like this) and flattens back against the panels eyes momentarily uncharacteristically wide - (shit, this is it…) – and squeezed shut for another as he steels himself before shooting a side-glance out of the slither between the doors, watching in the mirror as the figure tries to locate its ‘Target’. Closer up, though he still doesn’t know enough to fill in the specifics, it’s clear that that first instinct – that this second wave are more hardcore – was on the nail; they’re not just better equipped than the ones he’d taken out, there’s something just… bigger, more *real*, about them.

The soft sssh-pckz as he thumbs back the wheel is barely louder than a hushed breath, but not quite quiet enough, it seems, to escape unnoticed. Beneath the faceguard, a small hungry smile is quirked – of all places, the closet? – and John almost forgets how to breathe as the armoured man, intent on neutralising whoever took out his team mates, twists towards their hiding place like a melodramatically slow slasher-movie villain, predatory and darkly pleased.

Oh fuck… John glances over to Bob again, dying to know how that sentence would have ended… or rather… not dying. Deliberately not dying. Fuck, Bob, if I’m going to make with the thrilling heroics, and it turns out what you want to tell me isn’t that… well, in all honesty, he won’t care, because hearing Bob say anything, no matter how banal and uninspiring, would be worth fighting for, right?

The man’s close now, at the door itself, and at any other time his furtive glances and overlong sneaky movements would be ridiculously funny. Thank… whoever (not God, because he’s definitely screwing them over) for the compulsory fake-stealth… John’s rushing through a hasty, hashed scenario of what to do, trying to coax a spark from the used-to-be-human embers to give him a split second where the invader is distracted by something on the edge of his vision so he has at least the vague suggestion of surprise. Within the darkness of the closet, the flame he’s toying with curls around his wrist like a snake of crimson barbed wire, ready to be used but as under wraps as possible.

His planned distraction turns out, luckily, to be largely unnecessary, a shout from the hallway buying slightly more time as attention snaps towards it… because whatever it is (whoever, John’s guessing) it doesn’t seem to be boding well for the other agents. John recovers a moment quicker than the agent, and it’s that moment which counts, and which he seizes on. Now or never and all that.

John is neither particularly strong, nor stunningly quick. He’s a wiry sort of tough, though, and has both a deeper cause than *orders* and the freedom not to have to worry about official limitations or formal objectives or anything other than getting out. Which, it seems, is a hell of a lot more use than shiny armour and gun when it comes to crazy plans like slamming the door open and pinning the intruder between it and the wall.