A/N: So yeah, the first fic. The first very crappy fic, since I'm currently drunk off of life therefore have no sanity, right now. You know that Mountain Dew Code Red stuff? Keeps you up like, ALL night. And it's already one in the morning. Ah well. Reviews would help. Hint. Hint. Cough. Splutter.
Disclaimer: You wish I owned X-Men. Or at least, I do. I'd be the ruler of the world, wrapped up in a nice big box with a lifetime supply of Code Red. Hehe.
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Italics – thoughts, onomatopoeia
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Beautiful Sin
Chapter One – Goodbye
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I thought I could resist you
I thought that I was strong
Somehow you were different from what I've known
I didn't see you coming
You took me by surprise and
You stole my heart before I could say no
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Click. Click. Click.
He gazed into the lone flame, steady and bright even after all this time. It had been so long – what, eight months, two days, a year? It all felt the same to him; what did time matter to him, anyway, when he had fire? The colors in the flame's glow fought against one another, striving for predominance. Oh, how poetic. He simply watched as the light reflected in his eyes, vaguely aware of the repeating movement of his thumb.
The untouchable; that was fire. And he had conquered it, controlled it, molded it with a tenderness and passion everyone believed was reserved for the fire, his fire, and that fire alone. Idiots.
He quenched the flame with another firm click, then started it up again. Brushing his hand against the fire, he smiled slightly as it greeted him with a warm vigor. Funny, wasn't it, how he always seemed to be attracted to the untouchable, the impossible? And how, in the end, he ended up doing the impossible, and becoming more unique, more set apart, from humans and mutants alike? It was all a game, playing with the untouchable; without the risk of pain, there was no fun in trying to catch it. And when he did – hey, being different never hurt anyone. Well, not him at least. Least of all him.
What was 'it' anyway?
Fire, and being able to caress its crackling fingers; being able to embrace its warmth and escape unscathed from its grasp. Flames, while they scorched and devoured every other thing in sight, seemed to take a liking to him right away. He was allowed to touch it, to tell it instinctively which way to go and what shape it should take. And that made him feel...special, in a way, that it would choose him, of all people, to show that kind of devotion to. That it would choose him to make him different, stand out from the crowd. That was what he'd always wanted, wasn't it?
Click.
But there was another 'it', an 'it' that haunted him in dreams and in consciousness, an 'it' that he hadn't mastered yet, itched to, but never would. 'It' was so different from him, and from fire, yet so much the same. They were all lonely, misunderstood; something that he could have changed, if 'it' had given him the chance. 'It', something that evaded his grasp every time he dared even to think that he'd finally won. The 'it'. 'It', the thing, the person that had run away from him, for good that last time, though he'd been the one to walk out that door.
It was time to face the truth, though he'd never really turned his back on it in the first place. He missed Marie.
Was it possible to miss something that had never been his? She'd always loved Bobby, and it wasn't much of a secret; it had never been meant to be a secret, and the perfect couple had gone around flaunting it off – so obvious. She had gotten 'the cure' for him, and he was the one she had chosen on the jet so long ago. She had stayed with her boyfriend, leaving a certain pyrokinetic to walk out into the cold, the cold that was so alien to him.
Click. Click. Click.
She had never liked to see him playing with the lighter. She was always afraid that he would get hurt, somehow. As if. Fire was his friend, something to be loved rather than feared. But he had never told her that directly to her face; he appreciated her concern. But that never stopped him from playing with it. It was addiction, instinct, habit. It didn't matter what you called it, it just gave him something to turn to, something that was always there. The lighter was as much a part of him as fire was, because as far as he was concerned, it was his power. It gave him a sense of security – something else you could call it.
But not as much as Marie had. Never as much as she had. Marie. For that was how he thought of her, as Marie. Everyone else had called her Rogue (or 'Kid', in Wolfman's case, he mused), even Bobby. But to him, she had always been Marie, and always would be. My Marie.
Click.
Everyone mistook his need to protect her as stupidity. That time at the food court, with the guys that were hitting on her – I did it for her. And at the Drakes' house, when the police had come – I did it for her. It had always been for her. She never understood that, and he had never really bothered to explain. She should have been able to tell. Or, at least, she would have, if she hadn't been too preoccupied with her precious Bobby.
He didn't want her getting hurt, ever. That time with the police cars, when Wolverine had been shot. He hadn't wanted Marie to go down with him, and he'd wanted to protect her from that. She'd been so scared, more scared than she ever had a right to be. Bobby couldn't protect her, being the paranoid security-freak he was, and Logan was looking busy acquainting himself with the floor, so he'd taken it upon himself as his duty to do what he had to do, to protect Marie. No one could hurt her, not while he was around. It simply couldn't happen, because he wouldn't let it. Whether she liked it or not.
Click. Click. Click.
She had stopped him, of course. Girls. Too soft for their own good. But that was why he loved her, wasn't it? Not to mention a whole lot of other reasons, but he didn't need to explain himself to anyone. She had her faults, but in his eyes they were perfections.
So she couldn't touch. What did that matter to anyone? She touched enough anyway, simply with her warmth, her understanding, her love, her presence alone. So she couldn't be touched. He gave her something worth more than physical contact. I gave her love, didn't I? Love, the thing that conquers all, yet another thing that was denied him, forbidden. Because she took it away; she took it away, absorbed it with the last of her powers, then gave it all to Bobby.
Click.
Bobby. Perfect Bobby. Smart, nice, polite Bobby. Safe Bobby. Secure Bobby. Precious Bobby. Bobby, his once best friend and always her boyfriend, her love; ever since he'd frozen the fireball and given her a rose. An ice rose. Don't make me laugh. But it had always been about Bobby, always would be. He'd always had her heart; her mind, body, and soul. My Marie. But who would want him when they could have perfect Bobby Drake?
Click. Click. Cl –
His hands shook. He didn't feel a change in his face, and his eyes were as emotionless as ever. But his hands shook, betraying him and his inner self to the rest of the room. Raven was too busy to notice. She was still always too busy, this time with government paperwork and not with the trouble of being Magneto's dutiful servant. At least she had taken him in, when he'd showed up on her doorstep a month ago. She had always thought of him as her adoptive son, and she had been the only true maternal figure he'd had for a long time. Raven's face, a mental image fixed to his mind, was quickly replaced with Marie's. The flame quivered. Click.
She had asked him to stay.
He loosened his grip on the Zippo, but still held it in his hands. He looked at it for a minute, the source of his power. The beginning and the middle, because there never would be an end, really. He couldn't decide whether to smile or frown at that, so he took the alternative and kept his face blank, void of all emotion. Life is so messed up.
Click. Click.
But she had asked him to stay.
And he'd almost done it. Being stupid (and not for the first time, either), he'd almost given up everything in that one moment. Given up everything: his dreams, his sanity, his power, all for her. But he'd found common sense in the end. Even if he'd stayed, she and Bobby would still have been the Golden Couple of the Century, as they were now. She would have had eyes only for Bobby, her perfect boyfriend, as she did now. He would have only been the third wheel. Again. And he'd had enough of that, back at the mansion, with them.
He couldn't let that happen. But he almost did.
Click. Click. Click.
He got up from his seat, then pushed the chair back to its position with a grating noise. He pocketed his lighter casually, and headed for the door. He felt once-yellow eyes on him, their gaze glued to his back. And for a second, he wondered what she would do. Would she let him go, or would she force him to stay? That ever-calm mask of indifference was so hard to interpret. For that second, he hesitated.
"Goodbye, John."
He turned around to look at her, Raven Darkholme, the woman that had once been Mystique. He simply looked. Then, without any warning whatsoever, he flashed her that infamous smile. She stared back at him in that puzzling way only Raven could. Still grinning, he turned the knob of the back door.
St. John Allerdyce was going home.