Not mine. First part of a two-parter, the second of which will be John/Bobby-centric. Let me know what you think of this half, though. I've never really played with OC's before.
John knew a thing or two about playing dead. He had learned them when he was fourteen, in a rough district of New Orleans.
Bang. John didn't even flinch, he'd heard that sound coming from behind him so many times. Cop guns, gang guns, angry father guns, they all sounded alike from behind. He didn't understand why he was down, sprawled in the closest side street he could find, couldn't remember why he'd split from the path, even though he had decided to do it a few seconds ago. Fire. He concentrated. He knew fire, fire didn't hurt him, if he could just focus hard enough. But the fire didn't stop, he couldn't make it stop. It wasn't until he saw the blood creeping onto the pavement that he knew he'd been shot.
John was a fighter. He tried to swear, tried to make words, tried to push himself up off the ground. But his brain, his limbs, they were too busy trying to contain the uncontainable fire. In the background, in some distant life, he heard the shouts of his pursuers as they saw him but kept running. Left him for dead.
What felt like hours later, but was probably only a few minutes, he heard a shout. "Peter!" a familiar voice cried in pain. Peter. That was his name this time. The voice screamed again, this time no words to be found. Jeremy. John struggled to his feet, grasping the brick wall on his left for support. He staggered out of the alley, down the street, into the night, toward that voice. He reached the alley where they had him after the fourth shot, the third scream. He watched, unable to voice his own scream, as Jeremy shook as he tried to rise again, dark clothes darker as red stains spread. One in the leg, that must've brought him down. Two in the stomach. One in shoulder. They were playing now. Kicking him as he fought to focus, fought to stand. John stumbled forward, still voiceless, as Jeremy stopped moving. John closed his eyes, holding the sight behind his eyes as he felt himself drawn to the streetlights, the trash cans, the family furnaces. Every hint of light in the dark city. "Help me," he whispered to them as he raised his hand and sent out the most urgent distress signal he knew – a column of pure flame.
John had held it in place, keeping his hand outstretched, eyes closed, long after the gangbangers had fled. He held it, determined to do the only thing he could.
"Peter!" a voice called to him, deeper this time, somehow softer even though it was as loud. Strong, thin arms wrapped around him, careful to avoid the bloody patch on his back. "Peter, nod if you can hear me."
John nodded, eyes still closed, power pouring through him. He felt the sigh of relief at his ear.
"You have to stop holding it, the others will be here soon."
"They can help," his whispered hoarsely, starting to lean against those arms.
"No. Peter, he's gone. Stop the signal." An arm touched his, fingers on his fingers.
"No. They can help. They know how to do things," he panted as the column widened.
The voice sighed again in his ear and entwined his fingers with John's. "You can help him. Channel the force into him."
John nodded again, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. "I understand, let go." The arms released him as he moved the column over the body. He opened his eyes, watched as everything that was Jeremy went up to heaven. He watched as even the ashes burned into themselves and flew.
The arms came around him again. "Done. The others are around the corner. Close it and close your eyes."
John nodded and allowed the fire to return to the furnaces, the trashcan, the streetlights. He closed his eyes and let his personal darkness consume him. He heard dimly as footsteps approached again. Heard the voice explain it all away – Peter had been shot, was unconscious now, had managed to light Jeremy's body in a gasoline puddle for help first, that was why it was so big. The tone was authoritative. John heard no more questions. No one knew, not even the voice, that he had only survived by playing dead, by being a coward.
Later, John had awoken to more fire in his back.
"Don't move," ordered the strong voice, before he even had thought to move.
"Scotty?" John asked softly, refusing to open his eyes. He felt something move in him, then the unique clink of a bullet landing in a tin can. "He's really gone?"
"Yeah." He could hear the pain in the older man's voice. "That's a good sign. You remember me?"
"Naw, I call everyone 'Scotty' when I don't remember jack-shit," he tried to joke but nearly screamed when he tried to arch and look at his friend.
"Now, here I thought I was special," he said, teasing gently. John heard the flick of a lighter. "You want me to do this or do it yourself?"
John closed his eyes and forced himself upright, ignoring the spinning in his head. "I got this." He held out his hand for the Bic.
He opened his eyes and saw a soft smile form under Scotty's salt-and-pepper beard. "You gonna want a mirror or two?" John shook his head. The older man nodded, handed him the small plastic and metal contraption. "I'll be back later to make sure you didn't fuck it up too badly."
John nodded again and waiting him to leave the tent. He flipped the wheel and ran his fingers through the flame. Six months he'd been in this hobo camp in New Orleans. Six months. He wrapped his arm around his body and felt the flame caress the skin of his back. Six month, five of them spent with Scotty as a medic's aide. He closed his eyes and guided the flame to the hole in his back, holding back a light scream as the flame seared away all the germs, all the hurt. He felt a fragment Scotty had missed melt and run down his back as the fire forced it out. It burned, like fire had never done to him before, but he deserved the pain, maybe even the warmth. He let it run further, deeper, over the rest of his skin. Let it purge him of the dirt, the grime, the blood, the fear, the hurt, the grief. He was so busy trying to cleanse himself he almost didn't hear the gasp at the door. John let him eyes fly open, saw the shocked look in his mentor's eyes before he looked down and saw the flames lapping at his skin, desperate to touch the object in the tent.
"Take it off, Peter," Scotty said. His voice was low, dangerous.
John tried. He tried to push the fire back into the lighter, into himself, anywhere Scotty couldn't see. He felt his pulse rise as the flames refused to comply. "I can't…" He almost thought he heard a whispered "please" in Scotty's tone before he felt the cold drench him. He felt the water drip over him, flames gone. "How did you-"
"Thought leavin' a punk like you with a light might be a bad idea," said Scotty, forcing a grin.
"I-" John stood, to leave or plead, he wasn't sure. His skin was just a light pink, like he was flushed.
"Sit," said the medic, a mixture of soft and hard in his tone. John complied. "Five months you've been workin' with me, right?" John almost correct "five and a half" before just nodding. "You like working with the flame, cleaning 'em out." John nodded, even though this was not a question. He had come to the camp because he hadn't eaten in three days. Jeremy had argued to let him stay. They had met before. John had stuck close to him, although he earned his keep in less… savory ways than he would have liked. Scotty had taken him in, protected him, given him a real place, after one morning he had played with the lighter and scalpel instead of leaving the moment he woke up. "I've seen you with the light, you like to touch it, guide it, it likes you. That's why it's your signal." John nodded dumbly again. "It's time for you to go." John jumped up, regretting it, but standing his ground.
"No." This was his… place. Not a home, but at least a place.
"The rumors will spread. Jeremy isn't here. I can only do so much with the young ones." John nodded, it was true. But he could fight, he could try. Scotty held up a hand as soon as he opened his mouth. "It will do more for both of us if you leave." John furrowed his brows. "I am not in a position to explain. Go north, to Canada if you can. I knew a man, once, who called himself Logan. He knew a thing or two about healing."
"But I'm not burned up!" He waved his still pink hands.
Scotty nodded. "Exactly. Now do as I say, Peter."
"It's-" John broke off, mid-sentence. Rules of engagement. "Okay." Scotty had saved him once. The man deserved his trust.
Scotty nodded, and gestured outside. The duffel bag was already packed – all his clothes, a few day's food, fifty dollars in singles and fives. His vision blurred. "Thank-"
"Go, firebug," said the older man. "The others will want to see me out there so I can't explain your absence later."
Two days later, Cyclops and Storm had picked him up in a bus station in Maryland by simply calling him "firebug." John had never asked how they knew.
Three years later, Gambit had told him that there was still an area in New Orleans, called The Column, where no gang dared venture because the indestructible Jeremiah roamed there, leaving pillars of flame in his wake. John had looked amused, asked if they had tried to find this mutant, but asked no more questions. That was Peter's life, Peter was dead. John knew how to play dead.
A year after Alcatraz, John was fucking sick of playing dead.