The train worked its way slowly through the landscape while John tried to work on his notes but he kept wandering. From the window he could see a steamboat working its way upstream and remembered an article in the newspaper that the Order of Watt was working on developing flying machines. The world became smaller and smaller every time he returned to civilisation and soon no one would read his books anymore because everyone could simply travel there for themselves.
John tried not to think too hard about that. As if it hadn't been difficult enough to find a publisher in the first place, after all he had been Pyro, right hand man of Magneto, leader of the New Order. They had wanted to explore new technologies, electricity and combustion, which had been a sacrilege in the eyes of the Church and the Order of Watt and the annihilation of the New Order had been short, efficient and thorough.
It still remained a small miracle that they hadn't executed him for treason or at least exiled him. Everyone, however, knew his name and it would be impossible for him to find employment should his books stop selling.
For now he was back from another journey and on the train to Boston, where they would arrive in a few days. John smiled to himself when he thought about Bobby and the trinket he got for him this time. Once he was back in the place he considered home he would be able to work on his book more easily than here on the train where his thoughts liked to stray.
/
Like nearly every child Bobby Drake had once dreamed of faraway places and adventures. When he had grown older reality had intruded into his dreams and he had found that he liked to stay home and listen to other men's stories.
He had dreamed of becoming an engineer, an inventor but the civil war between the Order of Watt and the New Order and the subsequent victory of the former had prevented anyone who was not part of the Order of Watt to achieve that profession. And Bobby was reservist for the Keepers, a group that monitored the peace between the Church and the Pagans. He couldn't have gone to university if he had wanted to.
Resigning himself to his life he had begun to work in a tavern had turned out to be one of the best things that could have happened to Bobby because here he met John.
At first he had thought that John was just another drifter, travelling through the country with the seasons to find work but then one night when there had been nothing else to do Bobby had asked him what he did and the next day Bobby had bought his books. He liked them a lot. John had a witty humour and was very descriptive of the things he had seen but not condemning unusual rituals or morals. It was refreshing compared to all those presumptuous travel novels written by missionaries or businessmen.
John himself was a lot like this: open, funny, clever. He didn't just see Bobby as an audience but asked him questions about his own life, remembered details Bobby had told him even when he had been on another journey in between.
And John brought him little things from his travels: a book with designs of inventions from the ancient world he had found in Greece, a magic box from Japan that let things you put inside it disappear, a silver bangle with inlaid lapis lazuli stones that formed snowflakes from Afghanistan, a traditionally made quilt from Peru.
And all Bobby gave him was a place to sleep when he was in town and an open ear for his stories. John liked to tell tales but with his history he knew that every fictional novel of his wouldn't make it past censure, claiming it to be New Order propaganda.
Bobby never knew when John would come back, once he had been gone a year and a half and most places John travelled to didn't have mail but he knew that John would come back.
"Hey." John said when he walked to the bar. He looked rugged and tanned but tired, Bobby thought when he smiled back and answered, "Hey."
For a moment or two they simply stood there and smiled at each other, it was a good feeling.
"Where have you been this time?" Bobby asked. It was early afternoon and he had only a handful of guests, which Marie could handle. He walked upstairs with John to his room.
"The Near East."
"But I thought the Ottoman Empire forbids Westerners to go there."
"They do. I disguised myself and I know enough Greece and Arabic to fool them."
"I bet your new book is going to read like a spy novel." Bobby said, fascinated.
"I don't know...I mean it would be the perfect set up for a cloak-and-dagger story but..." He trailed off. Both of them knew that this story would never leave John's head for anything but to tell it Bobby in the safety of his room.
"Here." John rumoured through his bag: "I got this for you." He put a thin book and a little box onto the desk.
"The Heart of Darkness," Bobby read from the cover. He looked questioningly at John: "Wasn't that the title of the story you told me when you came back from Africa?"
"Yes, do you remember that I told you that I came up with it together with this Polish guy, Joseph Conrad? Well, he published it. He even credited me, indirectly." Bobby opened the book and read the inscription on the first page:
To a good friend
Don't let reality get in the way of a good story
There was something wistful in John's eyes that made Bobby cross the room and sit down on the bed next to him.
"Hey, at least you have this." He put his hand on John's bag which was no doubt filled with notebooks full of John's experiences of a country that was forbidden for them.
"I know. Only sometimes it doesn't feel like it's enough." He gave Bobby a valiant smile and Bobby fought the urge to put an errand strand of John's long, dark hair behind his ear. It wouldn't be appropriate, even not for such close friends as them.
Bobby put the book on the quilt and opened the box. It contained a leather chain with a bright orange and yellow stone as a pendant. When he touched it the stone felt smooth under his fingertips and looked like a small sun inlaid in another, white stone.
"I found it at a market in Egypt," John told him with a soft voice: "The man I bought it from told me that it was sun stone and made in old times when the Egyptians still worshipped the sun and the other stone is from a star that fell from the sky, a comet. I..." He hesitated and when his eyes met Bobby's something bright shone in them: "I thought it was fitting because comets always return to the sun, and I always return to you."
"Thank you." Bobby answered and slipped the leather chain over his head. The stone felt cold even through his shirt.
"Bobby!" Marie called and Bobby stifled a groan but stood up nonetheless: "I'll leave you to your notes."
"Sure." John hid his disappointment at the interruption. He had spend too much time alone and longed to talk to someone, but he could wait if he had to. Bobby held up the book John had given him:
"Maybe you could read it to me tonight?" He asked. He was a slow reader but he loved hearing stories and usually John indulged him and read every book for him that Bobby found interesting.
"I'll wait for you." John promised and made a shoeing motion that made Bobby close the door behind him with a laugh.
John crossed the room and sat down on the desk chair with an appreciative groan, pulling his notebook from his bag. The familiarity of Bobby's room eased his mind, made it easier to let his thoughts wander back to the places he had seen on his journey and spin stories away from the facts that he would later confine into a printed book.
He had never told Bobby this but before meeting him John hadn't told any stories that hadn't been true. Bobby was what the poets of the last century had called 'his muse'. John laughed softly at that thought because his mind came up with the pictures of muses he had seen in galleries. Scantily clad, beautiful women that whispered all the secrets of the invisible world into men's ears so that those men would clad them into books or poems, into pictures and sculptures. No, Bobby wasn't a muse, but John could easily picture him as one of the noble heroes that had defended Troy against the Achaeans, maybe Aeneas or Sarpedon, but John preferred to think about Bobby as Aeneas because he was the one who had survived.
John had often wondered why Bobby, who was so obviously intelligent that he could be one of the engineers working on the Titan, the flying flagship of the Order of Watt, wasted his time within the Keepers, monitoring the peace between the Church and the Pagans.
When he had asked Bobby the other had shrugged and said something about owing it to the Keepers but hadn't elaborated what he owed them for.
His fingers lingered over his battered notebooks, the pages well worn and the leather cover ripped and adorned with water stains but instead of opening his typewriter John pulled out the top drawer and took a sheet of letter paper out.
Dear Joe,
I just received your book when I sat my feet on solid ground again. Congratulations, you deserved it and I hope many of your adventures will follow...
He came down to the main room later and found his usual table unoccupied. Bobby smiled at him from the bar when he passed it and John smiled back. It was loud and busy, a couple sailors on shore leave sung rowdy songs until a man, who was apparently their commanding officer came in and put an end to it.
John revelled in the crowd but didn't join in. For now he felt content to sit here, listening to the familiar Boston accent and eating Piotr's excellent stew again.
"Hey, sugar, what can I do for you?" Marie leaned flirtingly against his table. In her crème and maroon costume she looked nearly like a proper lady and not like a tavern girl.
"Looking fine, are you going out?" John asked back.
"You were gone too long. You always miss everything." She complained to him. Her dark hair was curled and carefully tied up instead of falling loose and straight like usual.
"And yet you never complain about the coins I leave here." He replied easily. "I have to earn them somehow."
"You could work here. I'm sure Piotr would let you." It was an old argument. John couldn't stay neither here nor anywhere else.
The door opened and a man with shoulder long brown hair and an extravagant purple coat glided inside.
"Ah, Cherie, you didn't need to dress up for me like that," he winked at Marie, looking her up and down with his sly eyes.
"But I appreciate the effort," he whispered into her ear, having placed an arm around her waist.
"Hands off Remy," Marie slapped him and stepped away but she blushed slightly.
"Par de bleu, qu'est ce mes yeux voient! Le John Allerdyce célèbre, quelle surprise."
"Quel plaisir de te revoir," John replied dryly. Remy made a gesture for him to wait a moment, sauntering over to the bar.
"Robert, j'espère que tu me ne manques pas?"
"English, Remy," At which Remy rolled his eyes.
"What do they teach you keepers beyond old scripts and even older morals?" He asked exasperatedly. "Ah, c'est pas grave, laisse tomber." He waved the question away just as Bobby opened his mouth. "A bourbon if you please."
"Only if you can pay." Bobby crossed his arms over his chest.
"Un moment," Remy glided back to Marie, saying, "maybe you could help me out, mademoiselle?" And pulled a coin out from behind her ear.
"Merci beaucoup," he said, kissing Marie's hand which she answered with a delighted giggle. Bobby rolled his eyes but accepted the coin, giving Remy the requested bourbon.
"A game to celebrate your return?" Remy asked, the cards already dancing between his hands.
"I'm fresh out of local currency."
"A friendly game then. I do accept other things than money as chère Kitty here can vouch for," He pulled Kitty, who had approached their table, into his lap. "When are you going to leave this place and run with me for the beauty of New Orleans?"
"A girl's got to eat." Kitty reminded him, getting up and smoothing out her skirt.
"I offer you the stars and the moon." Kitty shook her head, walking back to bar.
"Your charms have lessened I see." John grinned. Remy leaned in conspirationally.
"Every woman has to present an honourable face to the world."
"You're just a regular Dorian Gray, aren't you?"
"I never sold my soul and my pleasures are not degraded."
Suddenly the door was opened and someone bellowed, "City Watch! Curfew!" The men line up along the window side and covered every other exit including the door to the stairs. John cursed silently. If he hadn't been distracted by Remy he would have noticed the lateness of the hour and returned upstairs already.
Remy, of course, was gone without a trace.
A general grumbling spread through the crowd but apparently no one had drunk enough ale to confront the City Watch directly. Everyone lined up, rummaging around in their pockets for their papers and rolled up their left sleeves for inspection of any brands: mendax for liars, furis for thieves, occisor for thugs, coa for whores, homicida for murderers, stuprator for desecrators, nefas for pagans and peccator for sinners like John. They weren't allowed to be out on the streets after curfew.
Bobby gave him an alarmed look but there was nothing either of them could do, so John gave him a shrug. It wouldn't be the first time he spent in jail. They would keep him there a couple days, have their fun with him and then set him free again.
"Hey, you, move!" One of the watchers bellowed. Wordlessly John rolled up his left sleeve and held his arm out for inspection. The P had faded into white around the edges but a couple patches were still angrily red even though it had been years since he had been branded. The Church liked to make sure that the brands didn't fade too much.
"You're violating the curfew." The City Watch Captain told John as if he didn't know that.
"He lives here." Bobby had come over from the bar and stood in front of the captain.
"Do you have the papers to prove that?" The captain asked almost bored. To John's utter surprise Bobby didn't hesitate with his answer.
"Yes, here, "He gave the captain a passport that couldn't be John's because his was up in Bobby's room among his notebooks and it certainly it didn't say that he was living at the tavern. He couldn't. His mark made it nearly impossible for him to permanently settle down anywhere.
"Fine, "The Captain tilted his head towards his men, "let him go." The watcher that had been holding John's arm shoved him roughly in Bobby's direction so that John stumbled into him but Bobby managed to catch him quite easily.
The watcher that had held him spat on the floor. "Nice company you keep here." He sneered.
"He's a keeper, what do expect." Another watcher replied disdainfully.
"Is there a problem?" Piotr, who had come out from the kitchen for the inspection, crossed his arms over his chest and looked down on the watchers. He was easily a foot taller than anyone else in the room and built like a brick house.
"Let's go." The captain motioned to the door, clearly not keen on challenging Piotr to a fight. No one ever was.
But before he could someone else came in, also in a watcher uniform but it was the dress uniform instead of the regular one.
"I'm sorry I'm late," He addressed Marie before noticing anyone else in the room.
"It's your free day Logan, what are you doing here?" The captain asked bemusedly.
"Viktor," Logan acknowledged him but didn't answer his question. Instead he turned to Marie again, offering her his hand.
"May we go?" She smiled delightedly at his gallantry and took his hand. Everyone stared at them when they walked out. One look from Piotr made it clear that he wouldn't tolerate any more harassment and the watchers left as well.
"Here," Bobby pressed the fake passport against John's chest. "We can talk later." His fingers felt warm against John's chest especially after what had just happened and he really didn't want to step away from Bobby but he had to.
"Thank you," John said quietly before slipping back upstairs.
/
John studied the fake passport intently, sitting on the spare bed in Bobby's room, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders since it was already late autumn and cold winds came from the sea. He had spent too much time in too warm climates where the eternal sun had darkened his skin and bleached his hair.
It was a good fake, even the sign of the Baron looked genuine to him. But, at least for John, it was obviously fake since his birth date was off by a couple years. Then he looked up to see his own face in the mirror and was reminded mercilessly that his life had taken its toll on his face. He looked older than he was old enough that few people would guess his actual age accurately. The date on the passport might not be real but it was truthful.
John attempted to take out one of his notebooks and start to transform it into the beginning of his new book but he couldn't concentrate on the words. After he had read the same page for about ten times without reading a single word, he gave up, sat down on the spare bed instead and looked out of the window. Since the last time he had been in Boston the City Watch had installed gas lanterns in every single street along the sea, making the city shine and sparkle at night like a star.
Slowly his thoughts wandered off, back to days where he slept in the desert, the freedom and fear of detection but one that he could evade with lies, not something that was burned into his skin. His fingers unconsciously traced the brand but as soon as he realised what he was doing, John wrapped his hand around his forearm, angry with himself.
Finally he heard Bobby's familiar steps on the outside.
"Hey," he said, closing the door behind him.
"Hey, " John answered, smiling.
"About the passport.." Bobby said straight away, then hesitated.
"It's a good fake," John told him, "but why would you…" he trailed off.
"I thought it would be nice. If you had a home again. I mean, you always come back here for the last six years and I thought…" He looked helplessly at John.
"Thank you." John answered sincerely. "Thank you."
John was smiling at him and Bobby smiled back like he always did but no one seemed to want to break the eye contact first. They were standing too close but Bobby couldn't remember when either of them had moved. It was as if they just gravitated towards each other.
Then John leaned suddenly forward, closing the distance between them by pressing his lips to Bobby's.
Bobby swallowed and tensed because he couldn't...he didn't...this wasn't what he wanted.
When the hell had they become this?
John stepped back from him, a look of pure horror on his face.
"I...I'm sorry...I didn't...I didn't mean to..." He was out of the door before Bobby had made up his mind on how he should react to this, never mind how he wanted to react to this.
The fake passport lay forgotten on the desk.
Bobby slowly sat down on the bed, unconsciously touching his lips. John's lips had been dry but there was a just a hint of ginger there, lingering from the soup John had eaten earlier.
He had been right not to call John back, hadn't he? This sort of behaviour was unacceptable, only a nasty rumour from ships and prisons and...Bobby choked when he remembered that John had been in prison before being branded and exiled. That must have been where he had picked this up because men...men didn't do this with each other.
Bobby shivered when another ocean current blew through the leaky window. He took the quilt, the one John had given him and for a moment he was tempted to throw it away along with everything else that belonged to John or had been a gift from him. Bobby was angry at him for making him question himself.
The rules were established to bring peace and balance, those were the creed of a keeper and those were the words Bobby lived by. It wasn't his place to question the laws of man. There was nothing wrong with them.
Was there?
/
John didn't even look where he was going. Stumbling through too bright streets with their gaslights and lack of privacy until everything around him was unfamiliar and dark again. It smelled like piss and rotten vegetable and dirt. He bought alcohol from a street vendor, cheap stuff that burnt his throat but half a bottle of it finally took the edge of, blurred his world in a way that made him feel detached from it.
He closed his eyes, leaning against the nearest wall and thought of someone with friendly, blue eyes, someone he knew he had no business fantasizing about, someone just out of his grasp...Someone he knew would never have him now that he was damaged goods.
Someone laughed, the shrill, drunken laughter of a whore trying to lure her customer away into the shadows and rob him.
His head hit the wall hard. He brought his hand up to brush away a stray lock that seemed to be stuck to the side of his face and his fingers came away bloody.
"Your money, sir," the man hissed with breath so bad John had to turn his face away despite the knife at his throat. And then the man's words registered and he laughed.
The knife cut into his throat. "Silence!"
"I'm no sir," John grinned. He couldn't stop finding the situation hilarious.
"Then your corpse will fetch a nice price for the uni-"He collapsed. John stared at him absentmindedly wiping blood from his throat.
When he heard steps he looked up to find someone else on the opposite side of the crumbled heap between them.
"Erik." Another giggle broke out his throat. Whatever the stuff was he had bought, it was good.
"Did you decide after eight years it's time to haunt me?" Erik hauled him away from the wall and head first into under a pump which he opened over John's head.
When John managed to scramble away from the water Erik was gone.
Maybe the hour for ghosts is over, he thought more soberly. John never cared for ghosts and he still had half a bottle left because being sober was the last thing on his mind at the moment.
But a strong hand wrapped itself around his wrist as soon as he tried to take another mouthful.
"Let me," John hissed, without looking who was trying to steal the only comfort he had left. The other one wound the bottle out of his grip and John went down to the ground.
"You're pathetic." John hadn't heard that voice in eight years but he still recognised it. Looking up from under his wet bangs he found Erik's cool green eyes on his. "Is that what has become of you? A drunkard in an alley?"
"You know nothing." John scrambled back to his feet. He was sober now, maybe more sober than he had been in years.
"I judge by what I see."
"You were dead." John hissed. Erik raised an eyebrow at that. "I had to leave you in the dark. It wasn't safe for me."
"And it's now?" John sneered. "In case you missed it, we're this close to an open war between the Pagans and the Church."
"That is exactly why I am back. I need to talk to you, show you something." He started to walk away but stopped once he realised that John wasn't following him.
"No." John said simply.
"Pyro-"
"Don't call me that. You're dead. It's over. We lost."
"As long as one of us is still alive we have not lost. We can still have our revenge, crush the Order of Watt and return to our righteous place."
"Revenge?" John asked with a mix of anger and disbelief colouring his voice. "If I wanted revenge I can have it right here." He pushed him against the wall, drawing a dagger, holding it against his throat. "You left Raven for the Order to find. Any reason I shouldn't do the same to you?"
"I can't think of any I haven't already told you. Can you?"
"Did you even stay long enough to see what they did to her?" When Erik remained silent, John shook his head, disgusted.
"You live and you are free."
"Free, "John scoffed, "Does this look like freedom to you?" He rolled up his sleeve, exposing the brand to Erik. "And as for being alive, do you think they didn't make me regret it by the end of it? Do you really think I was that lucky?"
John smiled, bitter and broken and Erik felt like he was back in 1894, sending John to die.
"I don't have time for this, Pyro. Have you forgotten everything? Have you become that complacent in your new little, unimportant life?" Erik's tone was snide, disparaging mixed with anger and the tiniest thread of fear that he had lost John.
"I followed you into hell." John yelled, furious that Erik would question his loyalty.
"Then why not follow me into life again?" Erik grabbed his arm. "They marked you. Will you just let that stand? Endure it like cattle?"
"You abandoned all of us eight years ago. I owe you nothing." But Erik's hand tightened around John's arm.
"I came back for you! Do you realise that?" Erik's voice became louder with each word.
"You came a little too fucking late! There's nothing left of me and the sooner you realise that the sooner we can forget."
"So you will all our sacrifices be in vain."
"What sacrifices have you made?" John sneered.
"I left you. I threw Raven to the wolves. I sent you to die. I stood and watched, unable to prevent the slaughter. Do you think it was easy to watch you die?"
Entirely the wrong time to know this. Entirely the wrong time to see each other again. No possible good reason for Erik Lehnsherr to find him on a dirty Boston street and save his life when John wasn't entirely sure that he had any intentions of surviving the night.
"Go," John said resigned.
"John-"
"I said go." He started walking away from Erik.
And once again, Erik let him go.
/
Charles Xavier knew things. He couldn't have explained how but he simply did. That was how he had become High Keeper despite his relatively young age.
He had always known that Erik Lehnsherr hadn't died during the Long Day.
"Erik," Charles greeted him, no surprise, nothing giving away that Charles couldn't have possibly known that Erik had survived the massacre eight years ago but yet did. "It is good to see you again my friend."
"You knew." Erik didn't sound surprised that Charles knew.
"I did," Charles replied. "What brings you back to Boston?"
"An old friend."
"And an old bill you have to settle?"
"No sermon, Charles," Erik said quickly with the hint of an exasperated smile. It had been eight years but yet talking to him Charles felt as if Erik had never left. As if they had seen each other yesterday.
"I only preach to those whose minds can still be changed." Charles walked with him along the portico that led to the private quarters. Rain fell heavily and drenched the world into shades of grey.
"How long will you stay?"
"That depends on my friend," Charles watched him closely in that moment. He wasn't sure but he thought that for a moment he saw insecurity flicker over Erik's face when until that moment Charles had been sure that that particular feeling was alien to Erik.
"High Keeper?" Erik asked without looking at Charles but staring out into the rain.
"You knew that or you wouldn't have risked coming here."
"I'm hardly younger than you and you already headed and lost a rebellion," it was meant as a joke, eight years should have been enough to joke about it, but Erik turned to him sharply.
"We were fighting for our freedom."
"What freedom?" Charles asked mildly.
"The freedom of choice, of the mind." Charles could see that eight years of exile and hiding had done nothing to Erik's conviction.
"You fought against the freedom we have given the people: there are no wars, no chaos. Society can develop unthreatened from upsetting factors until it reaches its full potential."
"You are like John. You have become so used to this world and its way of thinking that you cannot see what the human mind can accomplish when you let it off the leash. Or do you think the inventions and empires of the past were build by ordinary people?"
"They were built in wars and with the blood of innocents."
"And people killed as "heretics" for being the children or the wives and husbands of those in the New order that died with them? Weren't they innocent?"
"That was not the Keeper's doing." Charles reminded him.
"You knew it was coming. You could have warned us."
"We observe. " Just that, just these two words that people commonly accepted as the creed of the Keepers and Erik let the argument slide.
"Why do I even argue with a Keeper?" He asked self-ironically.
"Because you're a stubborn man, if there ever was one."
"Do still play chess?"
"Of course, "Charles opened the door for him, "I will come by later tonight, if you want."
"I would," Erik smiled softly and covered Charles' hand with his for a moment that Charles pretended not to notice.
"I will see you then."
No one had ever marked Erik and yet no one needed to. He was stained with his original sin. The inescapable fact of what he was and what he would always be. Erik couldn't change, Charles had realised that a long time ago and he had also realised that neither could he.
/
"Morning, Kitty," Bobby said when he came down. She was sweeping the floor, her long hair tied up with a handkerchief.
"Morning, Bobby. Can you scrub the floor?" She leaned the broom against the wall, stretching her back and loosening her neck. Bobby averted his eyes, looking at the floor. It wasn't proper to stare at an expecting woman.
"Has Marie come home tonight?" He asked, not wanting to ask if John did. He hadn't seen her but that didn't necessarily mean that she had stayed out.
"Very late, but yes, she did." Kitty smiled to herself. "Apparently they went to the Opera. That man knows how to treat a woman."
"Not if you believe Remy. All Remy needs are a few pretty words and a couple tricks."
"There are exceptions to the rule. Remy is...an adventure." She laughed when Bobby obviously didn't get her meaning.
"Marie likes Remy's attention but he's not a man, he's a spirit, an incubus if you like."
"That's Pagan talk," Bobby reminded her but Kitty merely shrugged. "Will you arrest me?"
"No, I want you to be careful. And incubi are demons. Are you saying Remy is a demon?"
"In the eyes of the Church he is, menda, furis, coa, nefas, peccator and probably more. It's a phase and afterwards we go home and marry a man."
"Was he that for you?"
"No, you were," she laughed again when she saw his face.
"But..but.." Bobby stuttered.
"Seven years ago a keeper seemed to be the most exotic thing I could dream of. That you're not allowed to marry only heightened my interest."
"I can't believe she's going out with a city Watch captain," Bobby said, changing the subject quickly.
"He's certainly a step up from you, Bobby." Kitty commented, winking at him. Bobby blushed slightly. His and Marie's romance if one could call it that had been short and looking back neither of them could remember why they had thought at the time it would be a good idea. It wasn't as if anything could have come from it except shame.
The first people were already coming in, the usual morning crowd that wanted to get breakfast before heading to the factories and mills or opened their shops for the day. Bobby was looking for John but in vain.
Piotr's cooking wafted through the room, bacon, eggs, tea and coffee with a hint of herbs and boiling water for the stew that would be served by noon.
"John will need that," Kitty mentioned in passing.
"John?" Bobby asked anxiously.
"He came back so drunk he could barely stand up. I made him sleep in the closet. He would have injured himself if he tried to climb the stairs," she shook her head disapprovingly. "I didn't think he would risk going out after everything that happened last night."
After everything that happened last night, Bobby swallowed hard. For a moment he remembered John's dry lips on his own, the faint smell of smoke and exotic herbs that seemed to follow him everywhere.
Then the moment was gone and Piotr called for him from the kitchen to bring out the food to the morning crowd while Kitty was already serving coffee and tea.
By noon John had still not shown his face but Bobby had seen him sleeping in the closet, his face half hidden behind his arm. The sight was alien and familiar at the same time.
The man coming in was a stranger, tall and good-looking with short, dark red hair and sharp green eyes. He moved with the elegant but barely restraint grace of a wild tiger, reminding Bobby of both Remy and John at the same time.
"I'm looking for John Allerdyce. Is he here?" He asked. His pronunciation and accent identified him as an educated man and as foreigner as well.
"Who are you?" Bobby asked wearily.
"An old friend," the man answered enigmatically. His smile was polite but razor sharp and creeped Bobby out slightly. "And an admirer of his books. I can wait for him if he's not here yet."
He turned to Kitty. "A bowl of your stew, please." He gave her slightly more than the stew cost and took his seat at one of the smaller tables from where he could observe both the door and the stairs.
Bobby kept an eye on him the entire time he sat there but the foreigner didn't do anything suspicious nothing to make anyone think he was after John for another reason than his books. Still, something about him unsettled Bobby even though he couldn't place it.
/
Bobby didn't notice when John woke up and left but when Bobby came back to look for him after the lunch crowd was mostly served, he wasn't there anymore.
Instead he came down the stairs about half an hour later in fresh clothes and with wet strands brushing his face. He steadily avoided as much as looking in Bobby's general direction.
Instead he focused on Kitty.
"Grant me mercy with a bowl of your stew," he exclaimed half-seriously, half-dramatically.
"I should let you suffer," Kitty sighed but still served him. John took her hand and brushed a kiss on the back of it. Kitty gently pushed him away.
"You spent too much time with Remy last night." John laughed, "Probably." He dug into his stew with the hunger of a starving man but, curiously, the stranger was only watching John, who hadn't seem to notice him, and made no move to catch his attention. Bobby continued to watch him as he wiped the tables and took the last empty bowls and mugs into the kitchen.
Piotr was chopping vegetables, adding them to the big pot on the stove, filling the kitchen with a smell Bobby had never smelled before.
"What is that?" He asked curiously.
"Borscht," Piotr grinned, "There is a new pub on the other end of the street. We need something special or people will go there."
His accent was heavy and as usual Bobby only understood half of the words and guessed the rest.
"Believers aren't known for their willingness to try new things," Bobby reminded him doubtfully.
Piotr waved his worries away. "No honest man can refuse good Russian food."
Bobby shrugged, why not? He and Kitty could still say it was a special stew if people asked what was in the soup, not that many did. Most of them ate what was put in front of them, no questions asked. John was one of them but Bobby guessed he had to, for all the strange, faraway countries he travelled to.
When he came back into the main room, John was gone and with him the stranger.
/
"I wouldn't have..." In the harsh morning light Erik looked sincere and muted, unlike last night when he had been savage and untamed. John didn't know what to make of the change.
"You wouldn't have what?"
"You seem to be happy here. I wouldn't have come if I had known that."
"But everyone else is gone, so I'm better than nothing?" God, he couldn't still be this bitter. It had been too long for the memory to hurt. And it wasn't fair to Raven either. He was not the man he once was. His trust had been eroded too many times for him to believe that anyone's word was unimpeachable.
And he wasn't happy. How could he ever be happy again when he had so thoroughly ruined the most important relationship he had found since Erik...The urge to run, to hide itched beneath his skin.
/
When John's voice – angry and bitter – faltered at the last words something fluttered inside Erik's chest. Hope. Selfish, cruel hope that there was still a part of John's heart that belonged to him. No matter how small. If things were different, if Erik didn't have a war to fight, if he didn't need John to fight it with him he would have John to be happy. Even without him, but the love burning inside him was selfish and possessive, screaming its rage and pain at the way John seemed to have let go of Erik, forgotten him. And all for a handful of people in a pub in an unimportant Boston street, serving food to Believers and Keepers and Watchers, the same people that had stood by eight years ago when the New Order was slaughtered during the Long Day. When the memories of that day became too much and Erik had to distract himself from it or he would have gone mad, he thought of John. He remembered the curve of John's grin, the softness of his lips, and how his eyes seemed to be ablaze with fire when Erik touched him.
Erik had lived for the last eight years for his revenge, he couldn't John let go of them, of him.
"Say something," John challenged him.
"Come with me."
"No," He replied with familiar anger in his voice. Erik had long since learned how to handle John's anger.
"So that is what you have become then: complacent and comfortable among the same people who wanted to see you burn." Erik's voice was cold and filled with disdain.
"You know nothing about them," John hissed. "They did more for me than you ever could have done, coward!" The last word hurt but Erik didn't want to show him how much. Instead he smirked, crowding John against the wall.
"Could they accept what you really are?" He leaned closer until his body was touching John's and his words brushed John's skin. "What you really want?"
/
Erik kissed him. Kissed him like he used to kiss him, the same onslaught of emotions, like an attack, as if he wanted to smother him, steal the air from his lungs and devour John. There was nothing of the brushing, hazy fleetingness of his kiss with Bobby last night.
John's hand curled weakly against Erik's arm, tightened against the pain and the perfection and the disaster of it.
Bobby would never kiss him like this. Bobby would never kiss him at all. All those years, he had come back for Bobby, had resisted to drown in the anonymity of a foreign country with the wrong name and false words on his lips just to see him one more time, to entertain more daydreams about him.
His anger died out in his chest and his hand slid limply from Erik's arm.
"One day, I can give you one day."
"That was all I asked for," Erik replied. Something flickered in his eyes that made John look away.
"I will see you tonight." He added before leaving, walking away as if nothing had happened at all while John hid his face in the shadows of the wall and pretended there were no tears clinging in the corners of his eyes.
Erik smiled to himself as he walked out of the alley and joined the people of Boston in their daily haste. It wasn't perfect and no one was forgiven, Erik for leaving and John for not going with him, but it was a start.
/
Charles' favourite place was and had always been the library. All the books that had ever been written since the Keepers were founded were kept here. Even those books that the Church and especially the Order of Watt would've loved to see burn together with the heretics who had written them.
Charles found the heretic scripts the most entertaining. Partly because the majority of those books were nonsense, dangerous nonsense even that could have sparked ideas of chaos and unbalance but some were...brilliant. One part of the library was solely filled with works from the New Order: equations and blueprints and detailed notes on every screw and plate, chemical formulas to refine petrol, detailed maps of oil fields all over the world, socioeconomic tracts...
"High Keeper?" Scott was standing in the doorway of the library.
"Scott, what can I do for you?"
"It is about my bro- about Brother Summers. I fear he may be...overly zealous in his duties."
"Alex is still very angry, Scott," Charles reminded him. "Give him more time to find his place."
"That won't help." Next to Scott Armando was leaning heavily on his crutches. Charles frowned. He hadn't heard of any disturbances concerning Alex but if Armando was concerned so should he.
"What happened?"
"Nothing yet, but Alex stands out even among the others."
"Did he talk with you?"
Armando shook his head. "He still doesn't understand why I don't want every Pagans' head on a stake." Next to him Scott looked away. The Marginal Street Riot had caused a lot of bad blood and driven several Keepers into the arms of the Church and even to the Order of Watt.
"Even some of the Church's Believers are becoming wary of him." Scott added. He had to have spoken with Jean then. Most Believers weren't exactly fond of the Keepers and none of them would speak about internal concerns with one of them, unless they came from their order. "They say he's turning the Order of Watt into a too radical direction."
"I wasn't aware that Alex has gained such an influential status within the Order." As far as Charles knew Alex was still a Brother of Arms, the lowest status in the Order of Watt.
"The other Brothers listen to him." Of course they did, people always liked to listen to angry men with aggressive ideas. Erik was the best example of that.
"Thank you, Keeper Summers, you may go now." Scott nodded and left the room while Armando remained. Charles offered him to sit down with him but Armando shook his head.
"Too difficult to get up again." He said with a dry smile.
"What do you think of this situation? Do you believe Alex would go too far even by the standards of the Order?"
"If you asked me three months ago I would have said no but three months ago I would have also said that Alex would never leave us." Armando shook his head as if to get rid of the memories. "I don't know anymore what he's going to do and what not."
"What do you think?"
"Since when do Keepers trust their feelings?" Armando smiled more now than before the Marginal Street Riot, Charles had noticed and all of them seemed genuine which, frankly, made them more unsettling to Charles as if they had been fake because it was obvious that Armando was not fine.
"We trust them to lead us astray. And sometimes to reveal a truth we know but won't acknowledge."
"IN that case, yes, I believe Alex will break every rule in the book. And from what Scott was told by Jean Shaw uses this to gather more public approval for the Order. Marginial Street...it unbalanced too much. And there are rumours."
"What rumours?"
"Magneto and Pyro return from exile at the same time and some people say they've seen Remy LeBeau," The look Armando gave him made clear that he knew more than he said.
"Coincidences and hearsay."
"If you say so, high Keeper," Armando tilted his head respectfully. "I will leave you to your studies."
"Thank you." Charles told him before the door closed behind Armando.