Rating: M – language, language, language. Tsk tsk.
Pairing: Jobby, (Bobby/John, Iceman/Pyro)
Warnings: Slash. 7000+ words (I thought it was fair to warn it's not exactly a quick read.)
Disclaimer: Marvel owns.
A.N.: I felt NY,ILY left a few things unresolved for the guys, which really bugged my plot bunnies. I'd say that it's a recommended, but not required read for this fic. I think, with this, I've exorcized all the Jobby in my brain. For the moment. God, I hope so.
A.N. 2: I tried to do my best to consolidate the screwy Iceman timeline from "Breakdown." Please no flames about that, it's confusing business. :/
A.N. 3: Why a Christmas fic in April? My brain demanded a sequel. I'm also pretty pedantic about consistency, and terrible with titles. As such, the majority of my fic titles are also song lyrics/titles. A quick search through my iTunes revealed eight songs about New York other than the LCD Soundsystem track which named the last fic, one of which was the Pogue's Fairytale of New York , the only Christmas song that doesn't make me want to stab out my eyes with fake reindeer antlers. Everything just sort of snowballed from there.
______ - indicates P.O.V. change.
Fairytale of New York
The drive from Westchester County to Floral Park took just under an hour under normal conditions. If the traffic and speed traps were light, Bobby Drake could make it from the Institute to his parents' house in about forty minutes. Yesterday had been a white knuckled three hour trek through a sleet storm, crawling along the freeways even with the four-wheel drive, passing cars abandoned and half buried in the icy ditches. At one point, he had completely spun around on the NY-117, manoeuvring wildly to narrowly avoid a semi. He had briefly thought he might die. And yet, the whole thing had been infinitely less stressful than the current activity in his mother's kitchen.
Every drawer was opened; his mother's tiny frame half hidden in one of the lower cupboards, muttering to herself. Pots bubbled dangerously close to spilling over on the stove. The counter and modest table were nigh invisible under stacks of cutlery and Corningware. "Now where did I put it?"
Bobby had eaten years worth of meals in this kitchen, the apple border faded but exactly the same as it had always been. The marks which measured his height were still slightly visible beneath the fresh coat of paint his dad had slapped on last summer in an effort to quote "spruce things up." It was comforting and claustrophobic at the same time.
Thank God he was living back at the institute. It had been his home since he was nine, when his powers had manifested. When he had first gone, his parents had been delighted with Xavier, at the whole prospect that he would be able to continue on as normally as possible. They really did just want what was best for Bobby, though sometimes they could be sort of overbearing. His relationship with them had improved considerably since that day Logan and Hank had knocked on his door nearly a year ago now. They had always been basically accepting of Bobby's mutant status, it was his almost being killed on a semi-regular basis status that worried them. The fact that he continued to live quelled some of their negativity toward the X-Men. Bobby had been here just two weeks prior for the eight nights of Hanukkah, and was beginning to think he'd had just about enough of his family and the holidays. He loved them, he really did, but...well, the crazy could be a bit overwhelming.
Madeline Bass-Drake was Jewish, and one would assume that Christmas day would be a rather relaxing and uneventful affair for his mother. Of course, one would be quite wrong. Marrying into a staunchly Irish Catholic family who subtly and at every opportunity disapproved of her had only served to firm her resolve. She held an impossibly elaborate dinner each year for his father's seven siblings and their families. In four hours, their home would be crawling with cousins and aunts and uncles.
"Robert Louis Drake! I told you to beat the whipped cream, not eat it all before everyone else gets here."
Bobby tried to look innocent, a difficult task to pull off with a beater in his mouth. "But I'm done." He held up the bowl of frothy white peaks for her inspection. "I was just doing some quality assurance."
"I'll quality assurance you." Spoken like a true mom. Nonsensical threats were the cornerstone of his childhood. She hit her palm against the back of his head. "Now, have you seen the can of cranberry sauce?"
"You asked me that already. Still no. If I lock onto its elusive trail, I will let you know."
"You get that smarm from your father."
"What did he get from me? Dapper good looks?" His father sauntered into the kitchen, reindeer antlers perched slightly askew on his head. Bobby was unsure of how he had spawned from possibly the goofiest man on the planet. "Ooo, whipped cream!"
"My case in point."
"Come they told me, we're eating a goose." His father wrapped his arms around his mother as he sang horrifically off-key. If parents were being embarrassing, and there was no one there to see it, is it still mortifying? Yes. "How goes the dinner preparations?"
She never let on how much work she put into this. "They're going."
"Is there anything I can help with?" William Drake was a disaster in the kitchen.
"Oh no, it's alright, hon. Bobby's giving me a hand."
"Okie dokie artichokey. I'm going keep trying to program that GPS you gave me, sport." He winked at Bobby, took the other beater out of the bowl when his mom turned her back, and left the kitchen. Bobby heard him singing down the hall. "Come they told me, I got a TomTom. It tells me where to go when I drive in my car. I will have real time maps..."
He groaned and began peeling the mountain of potatoes.
"So, did Kitty go to Illinois to see her family?"
Bobby resisted the urge to groan twice in a row, but he was sorely tempted. His mother loved Kitty Pryde. He could practically see the grandchildren fantasies in her eyes. Due to proximity, at some point or another, most of the X-Men had been to Bobby's parents' house. Kitty had made quite an impression during her one visit. It had been the first year the institute had accepted a large class of mutants, among which were John Allerdyce and Kitty Pryde. Bobby had been so excited that there were people near his own age; it was all he could talk about on his phone calls home. He hadn't even minded having to share his room. It was with John and they had become fast friends.
That year, Christmas had fallen over Hanukkah. Most of the students were planning to go back to their families for the holidays; only those who had made the institute their home were staying, which meant a lot of veterans and teachers and not many others. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, John had been nothing but distant and downright mean to Bobby. It finally erupted on the last day of the term. After some truly pathetic grappling, and a lucky hit from John that resulted in a black eye, Bobby had finally pinned John and made him talk. Shamefaced, John admitted he didn't want to stay at the mansion over the holiday, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. Upon his power manifestation, his parents had outright disowned him. That injustice had broken Bobby's thirteen-year-old heart. It still did. With a little bit of pressing the next day, Bobby had gotten his parents to agree to have John stay with the Drake family over the holidays.
An hour before Scott was scheduled to drive the two boys, they were in the common room with their bags, playing a fierce game of foosball. Kitty had come in crying. John had rolled his eyes, but Bobby endeavoured to translate sobbing teen girl to English. She had just learned that O'Hare International had been shut down because of a blizzard; her flight home had been cancelled and she would miss out on Hanukkah with her family.
This was how the Drake's ended up with three mutants in their home that holiday season. Kitty had been all politeness and good manners. Her family had called and profusely thanked them, the two moms talking for almost an hour. His mother had absolutely adored Kitty. John... well, not so much. He had been trying to help, but he wasn't all that skilled with his powers at the time. What had started as a controllable grease flare when the boys were cooking breakfast had ended with the fire department. Xavier had graciously paid for the repairs to the cupboards, but the damage had been done.
"Yeah, she comes back on the thirtieth."
As he got older, he wondered if her mild displeasure with John really stemmed from that incident--Bobby had accidentally frozen and shattered a good many important things around their household and she still loved him--or if it was because she had seen something between the two boys that week, well before Bobby realized it. It was another overzealous attempt to try and protect Bobby from being hurt. In hindsight, he probably should have listened to his mother about John, not that he would ever admit it to her. He hadn't even told her when John had left the mansion; it would just prove her right.
While he tried his best not to lie, Bobby had learned that not sharing everything with his parents was often a good strategy. During this visit, for example, he had been casually evasive at avoiding thinly veiled inquiries about several things, including but not limited to how many times he had been knocked unconscious in the course of the year, whether John was still his roommate at the Institute, and if he enjoyed the private parts of other males in addition to females. His parents were relatively liberal. He knew that if he admitted to the mixed gender of his sexual interests, it wouldn't change how his parents saw or treated Bobby. It was a comforting thought. However, he also knew that if he broached the subject, John would inevitably come up, and he would be forced to deal with the wound John had left two years ago and reopened when Bobby saw him in the fall.
"You should invite her over. She's such a lovely young lady."
Their meeting in the fall--in the grocery store, in the diner—John had done it again, raised and then dashed his hope to pieces. He hadn't dealt with it properly; it festered still in his stomach when he wasn't being careful about forcing himself to ignore it. "Okay, mom."
"Don't roll your eyes at me." It was uncanny she could tell that with her back turned. Bobby chopped with renewed brutality, trying not to think about John, feeling his eyes grow hot and wet. She came over, rubbing his shoulder gently. "Geez, kiddo, what did those potatoes do to you?"
He blinked back tears, glad she was standing behind him. "Eyes gave me a dirty look."
"Right." His mother pulled out a chair and seated herself at the table with him. Considering her meal preparation fervour, Bobby must have looked relatively devastated. He cursed his utter lack of a convincing poker face. "I didn't mean to push you about Kitty. I... you just don't always tell me what's going on with you. I'm sorry if I said something out of turn. A boy your age has...well, I just want you to know that if there's someone special in your life, anyone, they are more than welcome in our home. You don't have to be ashamed or hide anything from us. Not just Kitty but..."
"Really, there's no one, mom." The next chop embedded the knife a quarter of an inch into the cutting board.
"Okay, I promise, no more questions. But you're officially off of vegetable duty." She hugged him. "Apparently the cranberry sauce I bought has evaporated. Would you go to the corner store and see if by some Christmas miracle they have a can?"
Bobby stood, glad at the opportunity to take a bit of a breather. "Sure."
"Just grab a ten from my purse. It's in the bedroom. Oh, can you pick up some ice for the coolers too?"
"Are you kidding me?"
His sheepish grin had been inherited from her. "Sorry. Could you go out to the garage and fill the coolers with ice before you go? You can take the station wagon if you want, it's gassed up."
"No prob." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Operation: Cranberries took up a good hour of his time, enough to calm himself down as he drove around the small town in the lightly falling snow. He had found them in the eighth convenience store, the can dubiously missing part of the label and dented. They would have to do.
A strange car was parked outside of his parents' house when he returned, more rust than metal. Probably the neighbour kid's. He hung his coat behind the door, noticing with a tightening in his stomach the other, more beaten up bomber with the embroidered 'X' which hung there. Also his coat. His coat he hadn't seen since September. His coat that John had stolen the last time they met.
Oh God. His parents. "Mom! Dad!"
His mother rushed into the hall, waving the wooden spoon like a sword. "What's the matter, Bobby?"
"I... oh. You're alright."
She looked perplexed. "Yes."
"I just thought..."
"Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Drake, but I'm having a bit of a fork conundrum. Which one goes on the outside again?" John. John was in his house. John was in his house casually conversing about flatware with his mother. And he was wearing a snowman tie. Apparently Bobby had died on the cranberry trip and what-the-fuckery was one of the levels of hell. The smirk on John's face stretched into both of his cheeks. "Oh, hey, Bobb-o. Merry Christmas."
_________
"Bobby, I'll take those cranberries from you. Why don't you go help John in the dining room? It'll give you boys a chance to chat." She was beaming at her son. John suppressed a laugh and weaved back through the hall, not bothering to make sure Bobby was following him.
They had been working their way around the table for about five minutes, but Bobby hadn't said anything yet. With the way he was snapping the napkins as he folded, it might have had less to do with John and more to do with some personal vendetta against the linens. He wasn't going to get his hopes up though. When he was angry, Bobby could be the most retentive, passive aggressive person that John had ever met. As roommates, John was always flying off the handle about this or that, but Bobby just held it in and held it in until he exploded and brought up things that had happened months ago. He'd lost more lighters that way, idly clicking and whooshing as Bobby studied and John pretended to study until Bobby couldn't take the noise and froze it. Ninety percent of the time, John wasn't even doing it on purpose. He was certain Bobby was going to give himself an aneurism someday. "So... how ya going?"
He could've sworn he saw a vein in Bobby's neck twitch. His voice was a tight whisper, choked and angry and... something else that John didn't want to place. "What the hell are you doing here?"
John had asked himself the same question less than an hour ago, standing on the front porch, trying to work up the nerve to press the doorbell. There were two Drakes listed in the Floral Park phonebook. The house had seemed vaguely familiar when he passed, but the giant S.U.V. with the X hubcaps parked in the driveway had been the giveaway. Xavier was never subtle about his accessories. It was the wind that had forced him to ring, the cold air on the back of his neck like Bobby's breath sometimes got when he was too excited and forgot to control his power.
He supposed the decision had started at yesterday's staff 'Non-Denominational Winter Holiday' party. John was working at a two-bit newspaper in Yonkers as a junior staff writer. He was more proud than he would admit of his meagre salary, of the fact that he could afford to keep himself afloat just above the poverty line with a normal job. Those fake transcripts from the University of Genosha had come in handy after all. He was glad he had gone with a phony B.A. in English. The day after his run-in with Bobby in the fall--B-Day, as he had coined it on the shameful and achingly lonely walk home--he had been called on his mobile for the interview. He'd been sitting in the bathtub, contemplating, when his phone had rang. Down the road, not across the street. The telly always got it wrong.
His boss clapped a meaty hand on his shoulder. The force had been enough that John had nearly spilled the pint of stout he was holding onto the hideous snowman tie that had been his 'Secret Santa' gift. "Where're you headed for the holidays, Drake?" 'Jonathan Drake' was his current alias. He was aware that it was vaguely pathetic, as was his secret hope that the real Drake would somehow see one of his by-lines and think of him.
"Well, you know, most of the family's back in Australia." 'And have changed their names and moved so I can't find them,' he silently added. This was not exactly an answer to his boss' question, but John had hoped he was tipsy enough not to realize that. It wasn't something you went into with your coworkers. No such luck.
"Ah, so are you going to a lady-friend's house? Young guy like you must have a couple of girls on the go." He could see the nostalgia on his boss' face, reliving what had presumably been a wild youth. The thought that the vaguely sweaty man with a paunch had once been attractive to anyone was somewhat terrifying.
"You know me, sir, I love the breasts." John tried his best to keep the trace of sarcasm out of his voice. Sexual orientation was also not something you went into in situations like this. His proclamation of an affinity for mammary glands was apparently a more sufficient answer.
"Very good. Merry Christmas Drake!" His boss chuckled inanely and moved on to terrorize another staff member. The conversation had set John thinking, a dangerous thing after a few pints, about his favourite but most vexing subject. He hadn't intended his brain to veer that way, he was just musing about who he'd like to spend the holidays with, about times when Christmas wasn't the prospect of heating up a frozen turkey dinner in the microwave and, of course, his mind led him where it always did: blue eyes and a wide, too-friendly grin. He hadn't wanted to walk away that night in the diner, but he'd had to. He did find himself regretting it more and more now though, wanting to talk to Bobby and maybe making things right for once between them. Of course, it would've been suicide to try to contact him at the mansion, but John knew he always went to his parents over the holidays.
John had made his decision to go to the Drake household on the stumble home, spurred on by hops and barley and yeast, stopping along to way to pick up a small box, some wrapping paper, and a flagrantly red bow. He hadn't taken his car to work despite the negative temperatures. One, he had been planning on drinking; two, the vehicle was held together by a complex system of bungee cords, duct tape, and praying, and he only took it out when it was absolutely too far to walk; and three, Bobby's jacket and gloves were exceptionally warm. Bobby's scent had almost faded from the coat completely--Axe and hair gel and ivory soap-- but it hit John like a brick in the close quarters of the dining room and the present.
John played dumb. "Uh, same as you. I'm setting the table."
"Nhhn." Apparently, this was no time for words... or vowels for that matter. "You know what I mean. Why are you in my house?"
"Well, your mum asked me to stay for dinner."
Bobby rubbed his temples. "It's not like she called you up and invited you over here."
"Well, no. I suppose not. But she seems to be under the impression that you did." When he rang the bell, John had honestly had no intention of staying any longer than the time needed to see Bobby, hand him his gift, maybe steal a quick kiss while he had the element of surprise, and then leave. It didn't work out like that. John was in the door, accepting a mug of hot chocolate from Mrs. Drake and helping Mr. Drake program a GPS unit before he quite knew what had happened. Bobby had inherited that from his parents, the ability to absolutely blindside and boggle John with politeness. It just wasn't something he was used to. Mrs. Drake had been almost ecstatic, going on about how she had just talked about this with her son (John somehow doubted that) and how she was so glad Bobby had decided to invite John and that Bobby would be home again any minute and if he was sure he didn't want some more marshmallows. Apparently, they were over the cupboard incident. "Did you forget to tell me? I mean I understand, you get busy saving the world and all... but really, it's common courtesy to--"
Bobby had him pinned against the wall by his wrists in an instant, forearms and elbows digging into John's own, frost creeping, his face close and livid. "Listen, I don't know what the hell you're trying to pull here, Allerdyce, but--"
It was at that moment that Mrs. Drake decided to check on them, the dining room door swinging inwards with a creak. Bobby's back was to his mother, but John had the pleasure of watching her face register shock and understanding and embarrassment in a matter of seconds. "Oh... my."
Bobby's grip relaxed immediately and he turned to his mother; John couldn't have choreographed a more convincing look of guilt on Bobby's face. John bit his bottom lip hard, causing it to plump and redden. He sidestepped out of Bobby's arms, running a hand through his hair, looking to the casual observer as though he was trying to fix it, when in fact he was making it more dishevelled. His chagrin was convincing, and he laid on his accent thicker than usual. Experience had taught him that American women were powerless against it. "Sorry Mrs. Drake. We're almost done setting the table, we just got... kind of... distracted... a bit..." John looked down at his socks. He could practically feel Bobby's glare.
"No, it's alright. I'm sorry, I should've... Well, anyway. Bobby, can you find your dad and help him set up the extra chairs in the family room?"
"Where is he?"
His father entered as if on cue. Really, their whole fresh-faced family dynamic made John feel as if he had a bit part in a fifties sitcom. "Preparing super-secret patented home-made Drakenog." There were four glasses balanced in his massive palms, and he passed one to John first. Bobby also had big hands. All the rumours were true. The smell wafting from the cup told John the beverage was more whiskey than anything else. "There you go, John. Drink up." John had turned 21 over the summer, but he was a little surprised that they were encouraging Bobby to drink at 19. Though, they were part Irish. He watched Mr. Drake pound back the glass in about two gulps. He grinned wryly. Perhaps Ward was a closet drinker.
"I really shouldn't, I've got to drive home later." Though he'd come close in his former life, John had never actually killed anyone. He wasn't about to start with vehicular manslaughter.
Bobby's mother looked affronted. "Nonsense, we'll put you up in the spare room." Once again, John felt his resolve bending with the strange combination of kindness and guilt. "You can't drive all the way back to Westchester tonight. I won't have it." Bobby told them John was still living in Westchester? Tsk tsk. Apparently he wasn't as wholesome as the Beav. At this rate, John was going to sneak out the backdoor for a cig later and find out ol' June was a chain smoker.
"I'm sure John would be much more comfortable sleeping... not in the spare room tonight." To Bobby's credit, the outrage in his tone was nearly indistinguishable beneath the false cheerfulness.
The corner of Bobby's mother's mouth turned down, shooting a 'glance' at her husband. "Now, I know you're both adults and I'm not being a prude, but, Bobby, sweetheart, you only have a twin mattress in your bedroom." John wondered briefly if it was possible to die from holding laughter in. He'd never actually seen anyone flush as much as Bobby just now. She turned to him and John focused all of his effort on keeping a straight face. "I'll get you some fresh sheets, dear, and you can get yourself set up."
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Drake."
Fate, or perhaps Bobby's mother wishing to avoid a repeat of walking in on them in the dining room, transpired so that the two men didn't find themselves alone for the rest of the evening. Bobby's extended family was just like John remembered—raucous, loving, and willing to spill embarrassing childhood secrets after a few drinks. Bobby had always been a hero. Apparently, helmets fashioned from underpants were crucial to make-believe crime fighting. And there were pictures.
Bobby had been nothing but coolly civil to him all night. There were a few moments when he had cracked, when the whiskey and the laugher had permeated deep enough to show that comfortable warmth that John remembered and craved, but mostly he had been distant. What did he expect from a boy made of ice?
This was supposed to be different. The times he had envisioned their reunion, everything just clicked. Bobby was happy. He realized why John did what he did, appreciated the sacrifices he had made. His transgressions were forgiven, but not with that sanctimonious air Bobby sometimes adopted around him. Things just fell into place. There also may have been sex and unicorns and cupcakes. Of course, it was a fantasy, but he had still hoped for a bit more understanding than he was being given. Maybe his gift would change that. The small box sat snugly in his pocket next to his lighter, the corners digging dully into his thigh.
It was two a.m. before the last of the aunts and uncles had filtered out, Bobby's parents ensuring that he and Bobby retired to separate bedrooms before going to theirs. John could hear their low murmurs through the wall. The murmurs had been snores for precisely ten minutes when the soft knock came at his door. John grinned to himself; he was timing fifteen on the bedside clock.
He crushed his lips into Bobby's, a soft moan escaping from the younger man as he did. Want tore through John, his thigh muscles fluttering in spasms. For a split second, almost involuntarily, the kiss was returned before he felt the spine stiffen beneath his hands. Bobby pulled away, not meeting his eyes. "Not here. We need to go for a walk."
Bundled in a stolen jacket and a borrowed scarf, John waited until Bobby clicked shut the deadbolt with his key before he pounced on the tender mouth again, an amazing testament to his patience. Except...everything was wrong. Standing there on the porch together, Bobby didn't resist, but he didn't participate either. John drew back, lifting Bobby's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. The dead look on his face clawed in John's chest. "What's the matter?"
At the words, Bobby shook visibly, his face contorting with bubbling anger, no longer stoic but not what John ever wanted when he pictured this moment. He erupted, shoving John off of the porch, storming down the sidewalk. "You really have to ask? You always do this! You think you can just walk back into my life whenever it's convenient for you and everything will be the same."
John's knees nearly gave out beneath him, shaking as he raced to match Bobby's pace on the icy, traction-less sidewalk. Bobby didn't slow. He just didn't understand. He needed Bobby to understand. John fought down the lump in his throat. "No, everything's going to be different this time. You have to give it a chance." He would have his job at the newspaper; Bobby could remain at the institute. It would be secretive, but regular, real, not just sustained on chance meetings and bittersweet memories. He wouldn't feel the need to save John, and John wouldn't have to leave to keep from dragging Bobby down with him. For once, it could work. Why didn't Bobby see that?
"A chance? I've given this more than enough chances, John." The blow to the chin caught John by surprise, a swiftly landed jab that had sent him reeling with as much force as the steady, hate-filled words. He lost his balance, his head striking the ice with a dull crack as he fell. Purple bursts bloomed at the edge of his vision. Possible concussion, John guessed, but he'd had worse. Bobby's reaction right now was worse. He felt the puddle of warmth spread beneath his head as Bobby straddled his stomach, knees on either side of him in the snow, pinning him. He leaned back. He wasn't going to give Drake the satisfaction of knowing he'd made John bleed. "I don't think you've done anything to deserve another one."
John's lungs sputtered; a sound suspiciously like a sob coming out before he could stop it. John had done everything. "I thought this is what you wanted, Bobby."
"No, it's what you want, John. Right now. Until you decide you don't again and you just leave. You just leave me with nothing." The words stung John--hurt and anger he hadn't seen from any other angle. He hadn't been trying to do that to Bobby, he'd been trying to do it for him. "Maybe this would be what I wanted if you thought about me instead of only yourself all the time."
Pity was swiftly choked out by indignant rage.
________
John bucked and twisted his hips, standing fluidly, flipping Bobby off with little effort. He landed awkwardly in the snow, cursing under his breath. The last time they had met, Bobby had easily overpowered him, but he had gained some of his weight and muscle back since then. Bobby scrambled to his feet, terrified by the change in John's face, the burning malevolence in his eyes, the lighter that flicked open in his hand that had seemingly come out of nowhere. "If I thought about you... if I thought about you!? Are you fucking kidding me, Bobby?" The flame pulsed with John's punctuation. "There was not a second I wasn't thinking about you!"
Bobby was too far gone for terror, though, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, sustained by his righteous malice. "Bullshit. When you left the institute without saying anything, without even saying goodbye for chrissakes--"
"You think I left for me!?" John's left hand was enveloped in fire. "Fuck Drake, you're even fucking dumber than you look. You had everything going for you, and I fuck up everything I touch. You never wanted to see that. You were always just going to swoop in and make things better. But it was only better for me, never for you. You were going to throw away everything for me and you were just a kid. Leaving was the only thing I could give you. It's the only fucking thing I have ever been able to give you."
The naked sorrow in John's voice had nearly cracked his resolve. Nearly, but didn't. The humiliation and shame and anger he had been pushing down for the last three months, for the last two years, rolled through him with the ice which was rapidly covered his skin. "And what about the diner, John? What you said in the bathroom, getting my hopes up? That was just being cruel." Bobby wasn't particularly careful as he aimed, freezing the lighter but also part of John's thumb and forefinger.
"I'm the cruel one?" John balled his fist, frantically blowing into his hand in an effort to defrost. "I just couldn't, okay?! Like always, I had nothing to give you.' He swore as he peeled the ice off with the top layer of his skin. "What did you want me to do? I was supposed to inflict my shit life on you when I understood, more than you ever, ever will Drake, how much everything you have means? When I know how fucking awful things can be without it? I was supposed to ask you to give that up?"
"You didn't have to ask. I offered. I would've for you; I didn't care about all that other stuff." Bobby's anger drained out of him as he spoke, as the realization that he really meant it fully hit him.
"Oh, you offered. You offered. You always offer, you self-righteous little shit, but you have no idea what some people would do to have just an minute of your life, what you're actually putting on the line. Hell, you said it tonight to me. You can't just go back to what you have here if you gave it up. And you would realize that eventually. And you would hate me for it, because I knew and I didn't stop you."
"I wouldn't hate you."
"Yes, you would. You'd hate me; you'd hate us; you'd hate people you didn't even fucking know for reasons you couldn't begin to pinpoint. You'd hate and you'd hate and you'd hate because nothing is ever fucking fair outside of the little safe bubble you live in now. You'd hate until there was nothing else left but hate inside you." John turned away before Bobby was sure he had seen tears on his cheeks at all. "Believe me, I know what it's like. I just didn't want that for you..."
Finally breaking contact with the fierce blue eyes, Bobby noticed now the dark rubies shinning in the snow, clinging sticky and matted in the blond hair. "Jesus, John, you're bleeding. Maybe you should sit down or som--"
"Stop it! For once it your life, just stop trying to save me, Bobby Drake!" John spun on his heel. "Do you know how it feels when you don't want it? The humiliation in it? The way it burns down to your core?"
"I didn't mean it like that. I didn't mean to make you feel--"
"Oh no, you never mean to debase me. It's always with the best of intentions." The sarcasm dripped from his bared teeth. "Well, it's my turn to save you, Drake, and we'll see how much you fucking like it!"
Bobby waited until the tail lights disappeared around the corner before sinking to his knees in the snow, chest heaving, staring at where John had been moments before. He had been real. He had been trying. And Bobby had ruined everything. The drops of blood sharpened into focus. One of these things was not like the other. He stifled a choked and manic laugh. A bright red bow on a tiny white box, his name printed in slanting capitals in the top right corner. It must have fallen out of John's pocket when he'd take out the lighter.
He tore it open. Nestled in green tissue paper, a single piece of cream cardstock sat, the same printing covering its surface. Ten numbers, two dashes, and three words: "Call me sometime." John had given Bobby the one thing he protected above all else: his anonymity.
Bobby frantically punched keys on his cell. It took five rings to get to voicemail, he wasn't picking up. "Hey, you've reached the mobile of Jonathan Drake..." His stomach tightened. "...Sorry I missed you, but leave a message and I'll get back to you in two shakes." Bobby pleaded with pseudo-coherence into the mouthpiece until the beep cut him off, words that meant nothing and everything. John would cringe at the clichés, chastise Bobby for being terribly unoriginal when he called back.
If he called back.
He wouldn't call back. Bobby curled into himself, sobbing until his sides hurt, until he couldn't breathe, until everything was blurred and softened and wet, but it didn't change anything. It didn't change a single damn thing. John was still gone.
Bobby wasn't sure how long he lay on the lawn, knees to his chest --a toppled and pathetic snowman, impervious to the cold. There was nothing external that was threatening him, but his body was responding just the same: the tension in his muscles, the fear, the overwhelming urge of his mutation to stay ice for protection. He fought that urge, won. He wanted to feel the blood in his veins--hot and viscous and volatile like John had been. But there was just numbness. There was just nothing. The sweat from the fight clung and froze to his back, his clothing growing stiff.
Shortly after dawn, a middle aged man passed with a golden retriever. Wasn't he Bill and Maddy's boy? Was he alright? Yes, he was. No, he wasn't. Bobby's limbs were pins and needles, but their muted pain was nothing compared to the chasm in his chest. The man helped him to his door, eying the blood in the snow cautiously, hesitant to leave him in his hallway. Bobby assured him, thanked him, closed and locked the front door on him. He had just pushed off his sneakers by their heels, hung the sheepskin bomber behind the door, lonely now without its twin, when there were footfalls at the top of the steps.
"Bobby, honey, is everything okay?"
"Yeah, mom, it's fine." His voice was strangely high. Bobby willed his dead legs up the stairs two at a time, his partially frozen pyjamas protesting with subtle cracking noises. "I was just saying goodbye to John. He had to get back to the institute; he really wasn't supposed to stay over last night. With everyone gone on vacation he's kind of manning the place." The lies about John always came so easy to him.
"Oh, I hope we didn't get him in any trouble." Bobby had reached the landing at this point, close enough for his mother to see him without her glasses, her eyebrows knitting with concern. "Are you sure everything's alright?"
"To be honest, I'm not feeling very well." This much was true at least, even though it may have been the understatement of the year. "I think I might be coming down with something. I know I was supposed to drive back today, but do think I could stay another night? All I want to do right now is sleep."
"Of course, you can always stay as long as you need." Her hand was on his forehead, maternal instincts kicking in before she remembered how useless the gesture was. Bobby hadn't run a fever in years. Still, the contact felt nice. "You get up into bed and I'll bring you the extra duvet and some ginger ale."
He pretended to be asleep by the time she came into his room, pulling the blanket up over him and leaving the drink. He thought he heard her mutter something vaguely mutinous about underage and whiskey and Bill as she closed the door. Bobby lay prone, focussing on the sharp pain working its way down his limbs as the heat returned. It was easier to think about that, the cold and hot at odds in his body. Always conflicting. Wetness ran down the sides of his face, over his ears, soaking into the pillow. Everything throbbed with exhaustion and Bobby eventually gave in.
It was dark outside when Bobby awoke, jolting upwards to the sound of his cell phone bleating on the bedside table. His long distance ring. He groggily fumbled for it, the display naming an 'unidentified caller.' Bobby's heart choked his throat.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Bobby!"
Kitty's chipper voice was a punch in the ribs. He sank back onto his elbows, trying to match the enthusiasm in her tone. His efforts were met with minimal success, but she didn't seem to notice. "Oh, hi, Kitty, how's it going? I thought you were still in Illinois for a couple of days."
"Yeah, but its past 10 and my parents are asleep already. When I agreed to visit for so long, I forgot that there is absolutely nothing to do in my home town."
He made a non-committal noise, which was all the encouragement she needed. Bless her verbal incontinence.
"I thought I'd give you a call and wish you a Merry Christmas. I know I'm a day late, but I didn't want to bug you yesterday when you were doing family stuff. How did that go?"
Disastrously. "Okay."
"Anything exciting?"
Kitty knew the majority of the sordid history between him and John. Bobby had not told her about their meeting in the fall, but she was familiar with what had happened at the mansion, had seen Bobby both elated and falling apart over John Allerdyce. It would be safe to tell her what had happened. She wouldn't rat to the others; Kitty knew how much it meant to Bobby. "John showed up and had Christmas dinner with my family."
There was a brief pause before giggles erupted on the end of the line. "Yeah, and Magneto lit the menorah with my dad. Geez, Bobby, you had me going there for a second." That was the one problem with being the group's prankster, when you needed to be serious, no one believed you. John had always been the only one who could tell. He decided not to push it. They talked for a few more minutes until she had to go, she had wanted to call the other X-Men before it got too late.
Bobby stared at the glowing screen, willing his fingers to dial the number he had already committed to memory. He would apologize. He would be articulate. He would fix this somehow. It was answered in less than one ring. "John, I--"
"The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again." His vision was already blurring. If only it were that easy. Just hit a key and start over. He made no effort to stop the hot tears as he resignedly and achingly pressed the red button, an ember in the dark bedroom, burning with the one word he didn't want to face: 'end.'