Title: Christmas Dinner
Rating: R for language and one semi-graphic scene.
Continuity note: Sometime after X2. The Atrocity That Was The Third Movie hasn't happened, and I think it's best we leave it that way.
It probably said something profoundly disturbing about his life when he had to decide if Christmas dinner should come with frozen corn or a coupon for half-off his next Swanson purchase.
St. John Allerdyce was not the type of person to mope, to sit around and bemoan his impressive number of troubles, so there in fact wasn't anything especially troubling to him about standing in the frozen section of a tiny convenience store pondering whether or not to give up corn for the promise of a future discount. Why did he have to choose anyway? Why did his life always come down to choices? He needed the coupon and the saved money, but he wanted corn. He needed the socks his grandmother used to send him on holidays and birthdays, but he never stopped wanting remote control cars and G. I. Joe figures and that really cool R2-D2 radio his cousin Jake had. He'd really needed to stay at Xavier's, but he wanted to go somewhere he could feel completely independent. And for that matter, he knew that he needed to quit thinking about school but, deep down, he wanted Bobby. Not just in a sexual way, though that would certainly be welcome as well, but just as a friend, someone to hang out with and share dirty jokes. But no, life and its stupid endless parade of choices got in the way, always making him pick between two impossible options.
Suddenly angry, John tossed the box in his right hand back into the freezer. He could do without the coupon; fuck it all, he thought to himself, he really just wanted the damn corn, and that didn't seem to be asking too much.
Farley's wasn't usually anyone's first choice for a place to shop, but as it was the only twenty-four hour convenience store within walking distance of John's apartment, and the only one seemingly in the entire state that was still open at eight o'clock on Christmas Eve, it had a virtual monopoly on anyone seeking junk food or a late night beer run.
John followed the sound of the Jingle Bells tune to the front of the store, finding the music's source in a small radio on the shelf behind the counter. He dropped the frozen dinner on the counter, reaching for his wallet with his free hand.
"Pack of Marlboro red," he half-mumbled, leafing through his wallet and finally upturning it to spill its pitiful contents across the tiled surface.
"Box or soft?"
John looked up, eyebrows raised. "Soft. Man, how many times do I come in here?"
The clerk, obviously jaded to John's and other teens' barbs, replied in kind. "And how many times do I gotta tell you I don't sell cigarettes to minors?" While rustling through receipts and random scraps of paper, John produced a surprisingly authentic-looking ID, to which the man snorted. "Please, kid. That thing's about as real as Pam Anderson's tits."
The store's namesake was something of a town celebrity. He'd spent the past thirty-some years as a Florida state trooper, then retired to a small community on the east coast of the state, where he lived next door to his daughter and her family. Retired life didn't agree with him as much as he'd hoped, so he opened up a small convenience store with exactly two gas pumps outside and a primary revenue coming from cigarette and beer sells. Having a former lawman around gave many people the irrational belief that they were perfectly safe in their homes, and things weren't helped any when he pulled a shotgun on a teen who tried to rob him five years ago. The kid tried to run away with a case of beer; Farley shot him in the leg and proceeded to lecture him while he bandaged the wound and waited for the cops to arrive. No one bothered to point out that shooting someone for stealing a box of booze was a little extreme, not since he'd purposely shifted the gun so that the bullet just grazed the teen's calf.
And this kid. This kid reminded him too much of that same teen: all mouth and attitude and apparently not much to back any of it up with. He had the same smirk, the same way of standing as though the world owed him a favor. Farley thought maybe it was a coincidence; maybe he was just out of touch and this was how all teenagers looked these days.
"Look, pal," John started again, practically begging. "It's Christmas Eve. I have nothing to eat. I'm out of cigarettes. And I haven't stolen anything lately. Cut me a break, will ya?"
Farley looked down at the ID with a frown, then glanced back up at John. "Be straight with me, kid. How old are ya? Really?"
John sighed softly. "Seventeen. But I'll be eighteen next week." Met with a raised eyebrow, John turned indignant. "Swear to God, man."
"You know," Farley started, tossing the dinner and the cigarettes into a small plastic bag, "I used to arrest people who sold stuff to kids just for the fun of it." John nodded as though that was the most interesting thing he'd ever heard. Farley grinned. "So if I get put up, will you come and visit?"
John reached for the bag, waving his hand dismissively. "Sure, man, whatever." He moved toward the door, stopped when the man yelled for him again.
"Hey, have a merry Christmas, kid."
John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll do that. You, too."
He left before any other false pleasantries could be exchanged, tugging his jacket tighter around himself as the door shut behind him. He'd always been under the impression that people in Florida could go swimming on Christmas, but apparently that wasn't the case at all. It was forty-five degrees, windy, and drizzling rain, which classified in John's book as the shittiest Christmas Eve weather in history. He splashed through puddles that had been deepening all day with the rain, shivering as a blast of wind shot rain into his face.
Stopping at the curb, he watched the reflections of cars and overhead lights flickering in the wet, shiny surface of the pavement. When the pale yellow light of the streetlamps was all he saw in the asphalt, he continued across the street, not daring to raise his head for fear of being pelted with icy cold rain again.
Upon reaching his apartment building, he punched in the security code and wrestled the ancient door open, trudging up the steep stairs and listening as paint flicked off in large chips and fluttered behind him. When he reached the fourth floor, he paused in the doorway and tried to regain his breath; maybe he should have listened to his junior high health classes when they drilled it into his head that smokers and steeply inclined steps did not mix nicely.
As he walked down the hall, he was vaguely aware of the noises around him that had grown depressingly familiar over the past few weeks: Mrs. Neely, the old lady who lived in the first apartment on the left, was a sweet woman but completely insane, and tonight was evidently throwing china against the walls, probably trying to kill a nonexistent spider again. Mr. Carpenter, the middle-aged man who lived next to her, was deaf in one ear and thus felt the need to keep his television at max volume; tonight he was watching Wheel of Fortune, if the 'big money, big money!' chants of contestants was any indication.
John continued to his room, passing by Christina Schiff's apartment, the single mom who worked as a secretary at an accounting firm a few blocks away; Carter Henderson and his obnoxious football buddies watching sports and yelling at the television as if it could hear them; Paul Lykins and his girlfriend, both college students with a weakness for pot and stray animals, despite the complex's adamant no pet policy; the pair of twins who lived next to John, one of whom was convinced she was an honest-to-god witch and was always bugging him for various spices and asking him to go buy her white mice from the pet store because her sister wouldn't take her. She'd tried ordering off Ebay, but found it was both illegal and that mail-ordering live animals probably wasn't the brightest idea in the world.
Finally reaching his apartment, the last one on the floor, he unlocked the door and made his way inside, flicking on the light and flinching when it sparked and died.
"Goddamn it," he muttered, stumbling in the darkness until he reached the kitchen, reaching under the microwave stand to retrieve a box of spare light bulbs. Thanks to the apartment's ridiculously low ceilings, he merely had to stand on his toes to reach the overhead light and replace the burnt out bulb. When he turned it on again, he shut his eyes instinctively, not used to the sudden brightness around him.
He pulled the frozen dinner from the bag and tore the top off, opening the plastic container inside with his teeth and sticking it in the microwave, hitting a button and letting it go while he tossed the cigarettes onto the kitchen table and moved to the bedroom, already stripping as he went; all he wanted was to eat his dinner, watch a bloody horror movie, and go to bed. That was all. Instead, just as he pulled his soaked shirt over his head and turned on the light, he noticed Bobby lying on his bed.
Oh, right, and of course he had to be naked. And erect. And smiling.
John blinked, mind reeling, before he angrily threw his wadded shirt at his visitor. "Fuck off, Mystique, I'm not in the mood."
"Are you sure?" she asked in Bobby's voice, his smile playing on her lips. John sneered, turning to leave but stilled by a hand much too rough to be a woman's on his bare back. He stopped short, trembling with anger and utter humiliation when he felt his body react instinctively to the touch he'd dreamt about ever since leaving Xavier's.
"Get out," he ordered through clenched teeth, fists balling at his sides. The hand snaked around, dipping down behind his jeans, cupping him through his boxers; he unconsciously stepped into the touch, breath catching in his throat.
"Oh, I don't think you mean that…Johnny."
Before he could react, John found himself pulled forcefully backward, Mystique mounting him with a body that felt eerily familiar. He gasped as she began grinding against him, and before he knew what he was doing, he had Bobby's face in his hands, his tongue ramming itself possessively into Bobby's mouth, his legs wrapping around Bobby's waist. Mystique replied instantly, arching into him and shoving a knee between them, rocking slowly against the hardening bulge in his pants.
"Fuck," John whispered, shoving Mystique off him and scrambling back against the headboard, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and ignoring his body's desperate pleas for him to go back to whatever in the hell it was he was just doing. His body knew nothing of right or wrong, just what felt good. And that, deceptive or not, was as good as it had ever felt.
Mystique - Bobby, whatever - crouched at the end of the bed on all fours, grinning lecherously at him. "You want me, John. Stop fighting."
"You're sick," he growled in response, digging his lighter from his pocket and, with practiced, startling speed, sent a fireball flying at Mystique. She immediately retaliated by freezing it in midair; it sunk to the bed between them, a heavy chunk of steaming ice. John glared first at it, then at her, and then made a disgusted noise and got to his feet.
"I don't know what the hell's wrong with you, but I want you out. Now."
Mystique seemed ready to fight, then shrugged and returned to her normal form. "I was just going to give you a Christmas present, kid, jeez. I didn't think you'd go all moralistic and self-righteous on me."
John sputtered wordlessly, anger broiling again. "What did you think I was gonna do, you crazy bitch? Did you really think I wouldn't know that Bobby didn't just miraculously show up to throw himself at me for no reason?"
"Of course I never expected you to think that. I just thought that maybe, for just one night, you might be willing to forget about that and just accept a gift for what it is."
John's brow knitted, anger gradually giving way to confusion. "But why? Why would you do that? Are you that desperate to get laid or something?"
A shrill laugh filled the room, making John cringe. "Believe me, I could have anyone I wanted. But maybe I just felt like being nice for once."
John snorted in disbelief, self-consciously drawing his arms tighter around himself; he still felt uncomfortable in his own body, always feeling as though he looked far too skinny and sickly, a feeling he thought should have disappeared once puberty was over. Like the weather in Florida, though, it had defied his expectations and proceeded to kick him in the balls, just like life was wont to do.
"How'd you get in here, anyway?"
Mystique smiled with deceiving innocence. "One of your neighbors was nice enough to let me in behind him upstairs, and your door's lock isn't the most challenging I've ever run across."
Shaking his head, John grabbed a dry shirt off a chair and pulled it on. "Well, whatever. I don't care how you got here. I just want you to leave."
She shrugged again and changed into a form John didn't recognize, an unassuming woman in her forties with graying hair and glasses. As she neared the door, she reached into an ashtray on the nightstand and tossed something at him. He caught it, dusting the ash and grit off to find two quarters in his palm. She said nothing else, just smiled sweetly and left.
"Why do these things always happen to me?" he griped quietly, turning the quarters over and over in his hand before grabbing his jacket and pulling it back on, not bothering to lock the door behind him as he took off down the stairs. The rain had eased slightly, mercifully, though the wind was still blowing as hard as ever. He kept his jacket closed tight around him while he walked to the corner and tried to take shelter in the narrow casing of the payphone, pushing the quarters into the slot and pointedly ignoring his trembling finger as its moved completely of its own volition, punching in a series of numbers burned into his brain. He twisted the wire coil in his hand like a nervous girl calling a boy for the first time, breath stopping altogether when someone finally answered on the fifth ring.
"Xavier Institute, Scott Summers speaking."
Oh, of all the damned luck in the world…John made a concerted effort to disguise his voice, taking it down a couple octaves until it bore little resemblance to his own, or so he hoped. "Bobby Drake, please."
Pleasepleasepleasepleasegodpleasedon'tlethimaskforaname…
"May I ask who's calling?"
Damn. "…Ronnie."
"Okay, hold on a second, please."
John smacked himself mentally, wondering why that had been the first name he'd blurted out. Of all the possible names…He didn't have time to dwell on the remark, however, as the other end of the line came to life suddenly.
"Hello?"
Clutching the phone until his knuckles turned white, John swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and closed his eyes, letting himself imagine, just for a moment, that he was there in the room with Bobby, that he wasn't actually on a street corner, wet, freezing, and hanging onto the phone in a pathetic display of need.
"Look, Ronnie, I know you're there, so just - "
"It's me, Bobby."
Well. That shut him up. John tightened his grip on the cord and waited for a response, which was completely not what he'd been expecting.
"Bastard."
He blinked, certain he hadn't heard right, but Bobby, apparently knowing this, made sure he was understood clearly.
"You miserable bastard! It's been a year and a half and you just now get around to calling? The hell's wrong with you, man? We've all been worried about you, wondering if you were okay, if…fuck, if you were even still alive. You could've fucking called before now, or written a fucking email, or something, or…God."
John smirked to himself. Evidently, Bobby was working on filling his shoes as 'biggest potty mouth' around school. He wisely chose to remain silent about it, though, and try to calm his…what would Bobby be? His friend? Enemy? It made his head hurt to think about.
"I just…I didn't think you'd really wanna hear from me."
As soon as he said it, he knew it had been the absolute worst thing to say. He could practically feel Bobby seething at the end of the line.
"You know, Lee was right about you. She kept saying you were just an inconsiderate asshole after you hadn't called for a month. I told her that maybe you were just scared, or mad, or something. But no, she was right. You're just an inconsiderate asshole."
"Are you done now?"
"Yeah. I just needed to get that off my chest. Thanks."
"No problem."
They remained in comfortable silence for a moment longer, then John cleared his throat and tried again. "So. How's it goin'?"
"It's goin'," Bobby answered, purposely oblique. John frowned hard enough he hoped Bobby could feel it on the other end. "I work part-time at Second Chance now."
Which was a used CD shop that specialized in indie bands no one had ever heard of, and John couldn't help but think Bobby seemed somewhat out of place there. But he feigned enthusiasm anyway. "That's cool."
"Yeah."
"Since you're still at school on Christmas Eve, I'm gonna guess you haven't made up with your family yet."
Bobby fell deathly silent, and John wished fervently he could take his words back. A quiet sigh, and then, "No, not yet. It's not looking likely anytime soon, either. I tried to call, but Ronnie hung up on me. So when Scott told me that's who was on the phone, I thought maybe he was…you know…"
"Sorry to disappoint."
Silence again, followed by a very quiet, "you didn't."
John looked out at the street, cursing the rain that started up twice as hard and began assaulting him with impossibly cold drops. "Hey, look, I'm on a payphone right now and I don't have much time to talk, but … uh, I just wanted to call and say, y'know, hi, and see how things were goin' and shit. So…"
"I miss you, Johnny."
As if he'd really needed another reason to kick himself for leaving. John lowered his eyes to the ground like a child knowing he was about to be chastised for something.
"I…"
And yet, however much he wanted to say it, he couldn't bring himself to say the same. He couldn't force the words past his mouth, couldn't swallow his pride and admit for once that he just might possibly need someone else for once in his life. Thankfully, Bobby had no shortage of guilt trips to share.
"I mean, you were, like, the best friend I had. I was so mad when you left, like you'd just walked out on me or something. I hated you for leaving, especially like that, not saying goodbye or anything. But I thought, well, I thought maybe you were just doing your loner thing, you'd be back in a couple days, you know? But you weren't. You didn't come back, and I felt like something was wrong and I didn't know how to fix it." He paused, the sound of his bed springs creaking filling the void. "I slept in your bed for a week because I couldn't stand to lay in mine and look across the room and not see you there."
"That's kinda creepy."
Bobby laughed quietly. "Yeah, it is." He hesitated again, pulling words from the air and trying to think of the best way to phrase his next statement. "Why did you leave?"
John hadn't planned on calling and divulging all his personal secrets. In fact, he'd only planned on calling and wishing Bobby a merry Christmas and hanging up. "I just…I felt smothered there, Bobby. I don't like being spoon fed and treated like I'm a little kid, y'know? I couldn't stand it. I felt so damn useless…that's why I left the plane. Mystique found me a little while later, offered me the chance to be my own person and still accomplish something…so I took it."
"…You're not coming back, are you?"
Insides knotting themselves, John buried his face in his jacket and tried to keep the rain at bay. "I…I don't think so, no. No, prob'ly not."
"I wish you would. I really miss you, John. Marie does, too."
And there it was, the mention of the person that had been steadily driving them apart for months before he left. John gritted his teeth and kept his unflattering remarks to himself. "Yeah. Hey, listen, I gotta go. My time's almost up."
"John…don't wait so long to call next time, huh?"
He nodded, knowing Bobby couldn't see him but not particularly caring. "I'll try not to." He stared at his surroundings over the top of his jacket, willing the dingy buildings and soaked streets to turn to wood paneled walls and polished halls. He wanted the jacket to be Bobby's arms, the phone at his back to be Bobby's chest supporting him.
"I, uh…I miss you too, Bobby." He could almost sense Bobby smiling sadly in his room, and he forced himself to keep from giving his address and begging Bobby to come visit him. Instead, he looked up at his kitchen window and remembered his dinner spinning around in the microwave and sighed. "Hey, I, uh, I gotta go, man."
"Okay."
Since neither of them wanted to be the one to say it, John took the plunge and forced it. "I'll talk to you later, Icehole."
Bobby laughed at the childish nickname John had created for him however long ago it had been, and retaliated with one of his own. "See ya, Flamer."
John hung up the phone, slowly, hanging onto the memory of Bobby's voice as he stared blankly at the receiver. He wished he could say he intended to keep his promise about calling sooner, but the truth was that he wasn't sure where he would be from week to week, much less if he would have access to a telephone or even electricity.
Keeping his jacket collar up to his neck, he fought the wind and headed toward a woman exiting his apartment building. She looked unassuming enough, in her forties, wearing glasses, with a certain swagger that he'd come to loathe from another woman who knew her appeal. He also knew for a fact that she did not live in the building. To hell with what was wrong and right; it was Christmas Eve, and he felt like taking Mystique up on her Christmas present after all.