Cold
Whil-o-whisp
Starting time: 12:00
Ending time: 12:20
Fandom: X-men: Evolution, GambitxPyro
Word Count: 500 (quintuple drabble, not including opening statements)
A/N: I dunno about this. Kinda popped into my head. Dunno if they're together, dunno if they're simply weirdo friends, dunno nothing. Warning would be umn, if you don't like boys acting like they're together then don't read, kay? Oh, and bad austrailian accents. As soon as I learn how to type like one, I will make John talk more (if I make more GambitxPyro stories. I might.
Disclaimers: I do not own Mags, Piotr, John, Viktor, Wolverine, or Remy. I am merely using them for my own entertainment for I do not own any shiny toys of my own.
Translation
notes: Mon petite chéri – my darling little one.
Mon chéri
peu de feu- my darling little fire
ON TO THE SHOW!
St. John 'Pyro' Allerdyce was shivering as he lay beneath his sheets.
Despite popular belief, John's pyrokinetic abilities did not make him inherently warm, on the contrary; it was like a resistance to warmth. He didn't feel the subtle warmth of his jacket or his thin blanket. The air was freezing, clutching at John's skin and chilling him to the bone. His own body heat was nothing compared to the ever lingering cold of the mountain night. Why the hell had Mag's insisted on a mountain base? Why not a nice lake side base? Someplace where the members would not be freezing their asses off.
He'd complained all day about the cold, even drove Remy 'Gambit' LeBeau to a drive just to get away from the complaining sixteen year old. John now wished the man was here. At least then he could steal his warmth. He felt guilty about annoying the older male. Remy was one of the few who put up with him, actually cared about what happened to him, and he annoyed the hell out of him. What kind of repayment was that? Why Remy hadn't exploded him long before now he had no clue. Heck Remy accommodated him, something the others simply refused to do.
As if called forth by John's thoughts, he heard the door open and a familiar pair of boots stride forward and familiar Cajun drawl. "Mon petite chéri…" John felt the bed dip behind him as Remy sat, pulling off his boots and gloves. Remy pulled up the covers and John audibly groaned as cold air assaulted his back, slipping up the hem of his shirt. Remy laughed at him as he slid in behind the Aussie, draping an arm languidly over the teenager's waist. John rolled over, resting his head on Remy's other bicep, breathing in the deep smoky smell of cigarettes and burnt wood. "Did you miss me?" Remy purred and John shivered as the warmth seeped in, ignoring the narcissistic Cajun. "Yer warm mate." He muttered taking another deep breath. Remy suppressed a dry chuckle. John looked so small and young, like the child he sometimes acted to be.
Remy reveled in the pyromaniac before him. He could be so many things: a pyromaniac bent on human destruction, a lost, angsty teenager, a sweet thoughtful child, and a young aspiring writer all in one convenient red headed package. Remy loved to read John's work in progress novels and poetry when John thought he was out. They were thoughtful and interesting and fun. Everybody had their outlet right? Viktor Creed's was fighting Wolverine, Piotr read, Mags plotted the world's demise and how to screw with his son's head, Remy rode and John wrote.
Remy felt John relax against him, breath evening as his body regained warmth normalcy and slipped into a deep slumber. The Cajun reached up and brushed the orange colored locks from the boy's face, cooing softly as he too started to doze off. "Mon chéri peu de feu…"