Disclaimer: I own almost nothing. Except for my doggie. Not X-Men, though.

And Then There Were Two

John/Pyro

Fuck.

That about sums it up, I think.

I have this, I don't know, this urge to set the world on fire, to watch it burn and laugh. It's not a new thing, not by any stretch. It would just creep up on me, whenever I sit still too long, stay in one place too long, let anyone too close to me. Then I'd start hearing whispering behind the closed doors in my head, which would grow to persuasive, seductive murmurs that were so hard to say no to, so hard to ignore.

The Professor tried to help me, tried to keep it quiet for me, but they didn't like him, and I didn't like him in my head, so I would lie. I'd say I couldn't hear them anymore, or that I could deal with them myself, and then go pick a fight with someone. Usually Bobby.

I think that he knew I was lying.

It isn't fair that they're here. I had them, for a while. Under control, sort of. They would listen to me when I said shut up, and I could just ignore them when they told me what to do. No one tells me what to do, I would think. (That was a lie. Everyone was telling me what to do. Even sticky, slimy Toad had orders for me.) But now they're back and I have no buffer, no shield of flames to build in my mind, because even the fires in my own head have gone out.

I can't stand it, it's driving me insane. I used to be able to stave it off, with small fires or, sometimes, big ones. They'd always start as small fires, though. I found that so… appealing. These things would start off, small, useless, powerless, and then they would grow and grow and grow until there was nothing but the fire. It was consuming.

Christ, I sound like a certifiable loon.

When there was fire, when I held fire, I wasn't fuck-up little unwanted St. John. No, I was… I don't even know what, I just was. I was something bigger, more powerful, than myself. I was more worthwhile, because people looked at me. And then screamed, usually, but they were looking at me, not another nameless kid that would disappear into a cheap, broken down house every day until one day he just doesn't reappear. People really fucking care, when your hands are like an un-extinguishable flamethrower.

But apparently it can be extinguished. Anything can.

The flames had made me a person, and now they're gone, and I'm back to being nothing special, back to being someone you could find ten more of, anywhere you looked.

Bobby turns onto his side next to me, and I smile bitterly. Not like him. No, he's stupid goddamn one-of-a-kind, 'prep-school' Bobby, with his perfect family and his perfect face and that stupid, infuriating smile. Even being a mutant is alright, like he's some sort of little hero, instead of the crazed vigilantes that we all really are. With me, with anyone else, it's 'freak', but give him five years and there'll be a fucking action figure, I swear to god.

I'm really the flaw here, that one little jarring, unfortunate detail.

I shouldn't be here, we shouldn't be… there shouldn't be a 'we'. It should… Fuck it, I don't even know. Maybe one more bout of world-saving I guess, or the stupid white picket fence and two-and-a-half kids, white-bread little American dream. Maybe he could stay here and nobly be an inspiration for persecuted, disheartened little mutant kiddies everywhere.

This should… it shouldn't make me feel so angry.

But I'm here anyways, marring the picture, spoiling the symphony, angry as shit and powerless, with more holes in me than goddamned Swiss cheese. I'm incomplete, we all are; the missing link between humanity and whatever we're supposed to be next. I feel a moment of hatred and envy for him, wishing that I could be perfect and seamless, or at least look it, instead of half broken and missing pieces, like some stupid kid's puzzle. Incomplete.

Funny how names seem to define me. St. John is the loser, the unwanted little shit that I, ironically, am still trying unsuccessfully to ditch. Other people found it so easy.

Pyro is who I turn into when to urge (burnburnburn and fuck-you-all, even now I can hear it) is too strong to ignore.

And John is... well fuck it; I still don't know who John is, who I am.

Trying futilely to distract myself, I wonder if he's still talking, and whether I've missed it.

Turning, I realize I needn't have worried. He's managed to slide from sitting on the bed upright to lying on his side, fast asleep, all without me noticing. His head is about level with my chest, and he's smiling.

I wonder why. What's worth smiling about, anymore? I wish I could have the peace he's got, but then I wonder is it's worth it. Would being that way mean I would lose something intrinsic about myself? Or would I just be less… angry, all the fucking time? Could I stop mistrusting everyone and everything around me, stop believing and assuming the worst, stop thinking about how much better things would be if they were on fire, or is that just who I am?

Fuck. I'm having a stupid, overdramatic little pity-fest, and I can't seem to stop myself. It's disgustingly addictive.

I slither my way down until I'm at about eye level with him, twist onto my side and prop my head up on my hand, looking at him curiously. I wonder if the circumstances we find ourselves in have anything to do with karma. I was probably an absolute bastard on the last ride on the cosmic merry-go-round, to deserve all this. I guess I get why people want to believe in gods, or karma or… or something. Even the thought that you're being punished for something you haven't done yet, or don't remember doing, is better than the possibility that there is absolutely no rhyme or reason for any of it, that your suffering is as significant as a one tiny bit of hay in a universe full of haystacks, and about as individual.

He curls closer to me, almost burying his nose in my shoulder in a very dog-like gesture, and I know that I'm screwed by the way that my traitor heart leaps, up apparently to catch my breath in my throat. I wonder when I got to be such a sucker for him. Probably it was inevitable. Fucking Drake.

I try to fall asleep for a while, unsuccessfully. Just after I've given up, with copious cursing of course, I find myself in what could only be a dream, because I don't remember boarding a jet plane. Or that jet planes had chocolate fountains in them (what the hell?).

I try to grab onto the dream only to find it dashing into the misty distances of my mind, and I'm awake again. Or, at least, I'm probably awake. Either way, Bobby is looking at me. "Hey. Good… morning? No, more like afternoon, I think. Well, whatever. You should probably rest, I'll go, I don't know, make you some real food, I remember how crap the food they let you have in here is."

I appreciate the thought, (sort of) but there is a reason that he is unofficially banned from the kitchen. "Right. Bobby, do you actually remember what happened last time you tried to make food? It was the largest and most impressive bit of non-mutation-related damage to the building in… ever."

"You're exaggerating. And anyways, maybe this time-"

"No, not this time. Just ask someone else to do it for you."

"But that would constitute a fatal injury to my manly pride, from which I may never recover! Would you be able to live with that?" I pretend to consider it for a moment. "I would if I had some edible food to eat while I watched you die what would undoubtedly be an overdramatic and amusing death." He brings his hand to his heart (I'm-wounded!) and then laughs raucously, and my stomach did not just fucking flip-flop. He swoops in, kisses me and rolls off the bed onto his feet.

Or I think that that was the intention, anyways. The first half goes off without a hitch, but his calculations must have included more bed than was there (turns out I'm a bit of a bed hog), and ends up sitting on the floor on his ass, looking (adorably) perplexed. I start snickering.

Trying to stop laughing, or at least catch my breath, I say, "Wow, that was really… graceful." When I can finally look at him without bursting into laughter, I glance over and am surprised to find him smiling instead of wearing the 'stop-fucking-laughing-you-bastard' look that generally accompanies my laughing at him. That look, incidentally, only makes me laugh harder, so it was probably wise of him to abandon it.

He just keeps smiling faintly at me as he gets up and I have to wonder if I have something on my face. Wiping at it surreptitiously, I turn away for a second. When I look back, he's walking out. I pull myself wearily out of bed to go wash up.

Afterwards I look at the mirror warily, half-expecting another Grim Reaper moment. Not this time, luckily. I just see me. Sometimes I feel dissatisfied with that. I feel like I ought to be… more, somehow, or maybe less. But I can never think what other thing I should become, either, which is pretty useless. I trace the lines in the mirror with a fingertip, thinking. Maybe this is just typical teenager, or frankly typical human nature. Always wanting something different, never just satisfied with what's already there.

One particular typical teenager thing that I appear to be lacking, though, is sex. That's not to say that teenagers often have it, but it's certainly the general preoccupation. There is a strange lack of it in my relationship with Bobby. It's really weird. You've got two teenage males, attracted and so on; it follows almost without question that sex will occur. But it hasn't.

I wonder what that means. If it means anything. For him, it might not; I don't know, the whole saving oneself for marriage deal, or something like that. I wouldn't put it past him at this point.

But me? I've never exactly been one for moving slowly before.

Although, I don't know if that's really even the case. I mean the first guy I was with (and I use that term loosely), he wanted to 'try it out', and then never really stopped trying things. And then after that, everything was more physical than emotional. I guess I thought that that was just how it was, I certainly didn't mind. I guess that it didn't help that the last sort-of-relationship I had, occurred was while I was probably a little bit hung up on him, crazy-angry and looking for oblivion, or at least the kind of forgetfulness that one might find while looking through the bottoms of beer bottles.

It's still weird that we aren't humping like bunnies, though.

"Hey John?" Guiltily, I jump halfway out of my skin before turning to the door (Christ, I don't even remember leaving the bathroom).

It looks like my giant puppy dog is back, tail wagging and all. The smell coming from the tray couldn't normally qualify as heavenly – I think it's just some toast and egg – but it'll do, because all I've had for the last few days is the equivalent of hospital food, and I'm ready to die from the blandness of it all.

Hesitantly, I look at him and then start eating.

"So, why did you jump like that when I called you?" he asks randomly, a little while later. I pointedly don't answer, but I'm betrayed by my ears, which turn bright red as I consider the possibilities once again. He has no idea what I'm thinking, (I hope) but seems to be having a sympathetic reaction as he colours slightly and looks off to the side. "Ah."

"Oh, come on! I haven't even told you what I was thinking yet," I protest, exasperated.

He smiles at me sidelong. "Not exactly, but you got that look."

I cock my head, a little confused. "I wasn't aware of a look." He full-on smirks this time. "No? Well, you were looking. You were definitely looking," and something about the way he says it makes it very clear that he has an at least somewhat accurate idea of what I was thinking. It also forces me to re-examine my preconception that he has no idea what he's doing. I'm a bit glad to be able to discard it. This'll make everything so much more fun if we can ever manage to-

"You're doing it again." Shit. Randomly, I think that I really like his voice right now, the way it seems to have dropped half an octave. Now, though, I'm faced with a dilemma. Do I finish the food quickly, or not at all? And do I go over the table or around? Choices, choices.

All the while that I'm thinking this, there's a small, pissed off voice muttering at me, 'Typical. You think that you've got all these problems, but then as soon as the mere thought of sex appears, a mere possibility, then they're all yesterday's news.' I scoff and ignore it. Then I decide to reconsider somewhat, and resume eating my breakfast with what must seem, to an impatient observer, to be torturous slowness. This isn't because I'm cruel and sadistic, honestly.

Well, maybe it is, a little bit. But mostly I don't… I don't know. The anger and the desperation are still there, underneath, simmering just below boiling. And the wild-eyed fear, and this incredible frustration, it's all there, and I know that what I want right now is the wrong outlet for all the shit I'm trying to avoid thinking about, but I still want it, so fucking badly.

I want… fuck it, I want him, and I want to know that he wants me. Redundant, I know, but I'm having some self-worth issues. And my answer to that is the wrong answer, again, but that isn't changing anything. I realize I've finished my food and I look over to him. He meets my eyes and, screw butterflies, I've got a red-hot ball of lead in my stomach, sitting warm and heavy and making my hands and my head unsteady.

He's walking towards me, slowly, like he's moving underwater, and I feel strangely disconnected. Somehow all of this feels - surreal. I stand and turn to look out the window, thinking that for all that it's painfully stereotypical, this place is kinda gorgeous also. I hear him walk up behind me, close enough to touch but waiting, I guess, for permission. I relax my shoulders a little, and he rests his hand on my back, rubbing lightly. It's a very intimate gesture somehow and I lean back slightly into it.

He sighs, rests his chin on my shoulder. "Are you alright?" I twist around to answer him with a look. "What d'you think?"

"Yeah," and he wraps both arms around my waist. It's a strange feeling, because I'm expecting body warmth, and there isn't any, really. All I feel is a solid mass at my back. This feeling probably lent me unnecessary, unwise courage.

"I want to see her."

"Who?" he asks, twisting round to face me.

"Mystique," and he stops, probably running the last few words over in his mind, trying to figure out where that came from. Good luck to him, I don't even know. "Oh – kay, I'll just get someone to go wi-"

"No," I cut him off, "I need to talk to her alone."

"Alone. But, you can't…" he abandons that attempt at the mutinous expression on my face and then continues on a different track. "Well, do you want me to come with you then?"

"No!" I protest reactively. The last thing I want is for her to have any sort of access to him. "No, I really want to see her on my own." He holds my gaze for a second, looking for something, then sighs in defeat and says, "Fine. But if you aren't out in 10 minutes I'm coming in to get you."

Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes I turn towards the door in the corner of the room. It seems much more ominous all of a sudden. Reaching for the door handle, I have a moment of hesitation, then exhale impatiently and twist.

Or attempt to, anyways. "Shit. It's locked," I mutter furiously, glaring at the small keypad next to the door. "Isn't it a fire hazard or something to have locked doors all over the place?"

Walking towards me, Bobby replies, "Um, no. And do you really want her behind an unlocked door?" Good point. He reaches me and edges me out of the way to get at the keypad. Without looking up, he explains, "I watched them unlock the door. I was considering having a chat of my own with her. Never did." A series of quiet beeps and then the door makes a satisfying unlatching noise. "If you still want to," he gestures towards the door, "then do it now, before someone comes to check up on you."

"Right. Thanks Bobby." He nods distractedly, and then walks away from the door very quickly. I turn back, pressing my palm into the cool metal of the door, and then push forwards suddenly, before my common sense can intervene.

The room looks like any of the three other private rooms in the infirmary; smallish, well-lit and very clinical looking, with a small cot as the definite centrepiece. I see her sitting in a chair in the corner, hands folded in her lap, and eyes shut. I'm surprised, for a moment, thinking that she isn't restrained, but then I see the thing clamped around her ankle. It looks like one of those parole ankle bracelets, but I expect it has some unpleasant consequences if she leaves the room or whatever. I'm a little surprised that I don't have one of those, frankly.

"Well? You obviously have something to say to me, or you would be out there with your little chew toy. So spit it out, Pyro." Despite myself I start, then go to sit in a chair opposite her. Not too close, though; I'm crazy, not stupid. My mind is suddenly churning, I don't know what I thought I was doing, and I wish I hadn't come. But it's too late to regret things now. "Why?"

She looks up and narrows her eyes, apparently expecting something else. "Why me?" I clarify. A long, sly grin slowly twists her face, and she looks quite mad for a moment. Her voice emerges as a low, quiet hiss, "So you can understand. So that you can feel the emptiness, the futility of it all, so you can have nothing… just like I do." Her voice drops to a hiss on 'nothing', and all I can do is stare at her, horrified and furious.

I mean, she has always been someone to be wary of, but she was also, bizarrely, the one person I could trust the most when I was with the Brotherhood. When I arrived, I was hurt, angry and lost, and Magneto was far too busy to bother with a confused, scared teenager. So was she, but she sort of looked after me anyways. She doesn't exactly fit the mother mould, but she seemed almost like an older sister: she could push you around if she felt like it, but god help anyone else who tried to do the same.

"You'll get it back, of course. You always were too strong for your own good." There's a contradictory hint of pride in her words. I feel something similar.

Then her words sink through my skull. "It'll come back? You don't know that. How could you know?" She looks at me through lowered lashes, fake-coyly, and says, "Yes. Almost definitely it will, although I'm not telling you what I know, or how I found out. That's my little secret," her voice becomes cold as she continues. "But now you know what it was like, when you left me behind. It was the same, but I was alone. Abandoned." I shiver involuntarily, imagining it.

Not meeting her eyes, I mutter, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to. I just…" I wonder how it is that the tables have turned, here. I walked through the door full of burning fury and anger that was as righteous as I can get, but now I'm sitting here, apologizing contritely to the same woman who injected me with the cure.

"You don't say no to Magneto, right?" Sheepishly, I nod. Looking at me sharply, she asks, "I don't suppose you'll take this thing off of me?"

"You know I can't." We sit in silence for a while. "Are you sure? That it'll come back, I mean?"

"Yes, it will. In a few weeks. Weak at first, then stronger." I'm so relieved to hear what she's telling me that I could collapse for a moment, and then I notice what she isn't saying. "What about you? You certainly weren't weak, and I thought it was the strong gifts that were supposed to come back." She looks away. "I'm a little bit different. It comes back, scale by scale. It hurts, and it will be years before I'm myself again. Just like the first time, except drawn out, over a long, long time. Or," her voice becomes barren, hopeless again, "this could be it." She reaches for the sleeve of her left arm, pulls it up to her elbow.

There's a raged patch, maybe an inch square, of shocking blue scales. The skin around them is red and raw, and it looks painful. The muscles in her arm tense and then the scales fade until they are the same colour as her skin, then grow dark, shifting through a range of skin tones, and finally revert to bright blue. "But I have a hope. Eventually. Maybe."

I nod, acknowledging her words. "But what will you do now? I mean, you're stuck here."

"Well, I have a while to wait. Maybe I can make myself useful while I'm here, but I think I'll be leaving this place once I'm myself once again." Something about the way she says that strikes a sympathetic chord with me.

Wanderlust, that's what it is. I have itchy feet and a restless mind and I don't know who I am, and I hope that somewhere, out there, I can find out. "Right," I say. "I have to go, before," I smile, "'little sweetheart' gets nervous and barges in here. He's always had a twitchy trigger finger." She gives me a peculiar look, a cross between fond and threatening. "Just let him know that only I get to hurt your feelings."

"I don't really know what to say to her, so I just walk away. He, of course, is standing by the door, looking anxious. When I emerge he hurries over to me and throws a glare over his shoulder at the door. "Don't," I say reflexively.

"Don's what?" he asks me, bewildered.

"Ah, just, try not to hate her a whole lot." This earns me an incredulous look. "Are you crazy? She tried to cure you, she could have killed you!" He waves his arms, trying to communicate the urgency of this point to me- as if I wouldn't understand.

"Yeah, but she knew that I would be alright. …Eventually. And when I was with the Brotherhood, she looked after me. I know it's stupid, but there are only a few people that I can actually trust and for some reason she sort of makes that list. In a weird way." He sighs. "Well, I don't have to like her, or trust her. But if you don't want me to hate her, I'll… try. I won't promise anything." I take a deep breath and pull a face.

"I know." We stand there, looking at one another and I can't think of a thing to say. "Y'know, I am really tired of this place. Let's go."

"Where?"

"Anywhere." He nods. "Alright. Do you want to-"

"I am not going skating. Just so you know." He rolls his eyes, smiling. "Well then how about you tell me where I'm allowed to suggest and I'll say that?" I dig my elbow into his ribs. "Ow!" He bumps me. "Fine. Um, how about the mall? A movie? Uh, we could play pool? C'mon, help me out, there's nothing to do around here. Especially if you're almost broke."

Suddenly light hearted, I say, "Fine. If you can find an ice rink," he grins widely, and I continue, "a real one, then I'll go." His enthusiasm is only slightly dampened. "How pissed off will you be if I invite some of the others?"

I sigh. "Not incredibly," I say, regretting it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Then he smiles and his eyes crease up and I don't mind so much.

He found a rink. This is definitely me repaying a karmic debt to some bastard. So here I sit, trying with frozen fingers to lace up rented skates. Bobby really did invite the masses. He even asked Warren, who just laughed then said, 'picture me on ice,' which, incidentally, would be hilarious. Kitty is ready to go, wearing battered white figure skates and a sweater and bouncing with excitement, next to Peter who looks slightly less stoic than usual (because Kitty is standing next to him), Rogue and Jubilee are struggling with their skates and look securely bundled up against the cold.

Not as bundled as I am, though. A sweater, a jacket and two shirts, and I'll probably still freeze to death. I look over at the instigator of this ridiculous outing, preparing a suitable glare of death. Bobby, sitting next to me, just grins back and makes me want to strangle him. "Do you want me to help with those?" he asks, and now I really want to strangle him, because he is way too smug for someone who thinks that waltzing around on top of freezing water with goddamn blades on your feet is a good idea.

Marie suddenly declares that her skates are evil bastards and she will just stay and watch. Bobby protests, "Aw come on, we've come all this way," meaning an hour's drive, although it would have been shorter if we (that is, he) hadn't gotten lost, "you have to skate with us!" She sighs, and then relents. "Fine. But you're buying me hot chocolate afterwards."

"Good. Let's go then," he says and then without warning he carries through with his threat of tying my laces for me, despite my slapping at his hands. I find myself caught between mortification and appeased possessiveness, and I cast around for something to stare at other than him, anything to look at other than the top of his head which looks, from this angle, to be placed (very conveniently) in my lap.

Determined not to think about what he should do while he's there, I look at the other crazies who consented to come skating. Kitty is staring, meets my eyes and then looks away. Jubilee looks suspiciously as though she is snickering into her scarf, Peter appears not to notice, and Marie is glaring down at her skates, yanking furiously at the laces. I look back down at the top of Bobby's head as I try to figure out what is bothering me (and I definitely don't think about the blowjob that should really be happening right now. Not at all).

Finally, I figure it out. They don't know that I'm... sick, I guess.

I'm sure as hell not calling it 'cured', I think mutinously.

I mean, Marie does, but no one else. I wonder how they have explained my absence for the last few days. More than that, though, it's kinda nice that no one knows, so that I can pretend things are normal for a while. As much as Mystique's statement was reassuring, I don't really know if she's really sure.

The second the door closed behind me, doubts began clamouring in my mind, quietly at first then more and more insistent.

He stands up suddenly, smiling sweetly. "All done. Can you walk or shall I carry you?" I hear a snort of laughter, and I punch him in the arm. "Fine, let's go," I mutter. Peter pushes open the door and a wall of frigid air hits me, causing a spontaneous re-evaluation of my sanity. I must be nuts, to let myself be talked into these things.

There are already a couple small kids and parents, but it's a slow day. Bobby steps out, and then speeds up 'til he's practically flying. I envy him a bit, because he looks so much more in his element out here, (no shit, Johnny) and much more graceful than he is on nice, solid ground. Kitty practically bounds onto the ice and skates furiously to catch him, and then they race for a lap or two. Peter skates more slowly, but he looks like a professional (with a stick rammed up his ass), and even Marie and Jubilee step onto the ice, holding each other up and laughing. This means that I have to go out.

I do, and the ice almost falls out from under me. Flailing, I grab the boards and cling for dear life. Righting myself, I wobble along the ice, glowering

Then some little bastard whizzes by and collides with me, though Bobby will claim later, trying his best to keep a straight face, that he barely touched me. Either way, I topple like a domino. I hear someone scratch to a halt next to me and I continue my string of muttered obscenities. "-cking son of a whore, nasty little f-"

"Hey, there are kids present. Here, I'll help you up," Bobby offers, pulling me upright anyways without my consent. I marvel at his balance even as I sulk, trying to restore my wounded pride. "Right, I'm going home," I declare. "This is enough ice and cold for a fucking lifetime."

"Aw, that's mean." I scoff. "Here," he continues, taking my forearms and turning around to skate along backwards, towing me along, "now push out to the sides instead of trying to walk forward." I glare uncooperatively. "Well at least this time you can't melt the rink," he murmurs to me. Incensed, I reply, "The official story was a heater malfunction, and I stick to that."

"Really. So it was just coincidence that it happened right after you fell over and that kid laughed at you."

Smirking now, I repeat, "I stick to the official version of events." We're still moving, far faster than I'd be comfortable with normally, and he's still got his hands on my arm. I hadn't noticed either, but then I realize some little kid's mother is looking at us, horrified. The joys of small town America are countless, it appears.

Well, screw you lady. I turn away and make an attempt to do as he says, despite the stupidity inherent to the idea of pushing sideways to move forward. To my surprise, and his as well, I find myself moving forward on my own steam. Unfortunately, I was already moving quick-ish, and this accelerates me well into the area that I call 'terminal velocity.' This is because my lovely forward motion has suddenly terminated, and I find myself flying forward and ice-ward.

Luckily, there is a cushion between me and the ice. Namely, Bobby. Sprawled out on top of him, I look down and turn his earlier sweet smile against him. "Yeah, skating is great Bobby." I sit there for a minute, savouring, then scramble awkwardly to my feet. He stands as well, rubbing his chest and looking at me resentfully.

"Jesus, how many coats are you wearing? I think you crushed my ribs." Kitty chooses this moment to glide to a halt next to us, asking him amusedly, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he mutters, not meeting her eyes. I wonder why, then notice the smile that she is trying desperately to banish from her face. I guess we weren't exactly being subtle there. I see her forming a remark and then Marie comes to his rescue, deciding, "That's enough skating, thank you. I want the hot chocolate you promised me now." He grins gratefully at her and shoots off down the ice, abandoning me to the tender mercies of Kitty.

An evil grin eclipses her features and I fear for my sanity. She begins asking prying questions, all of which I refuse to answer and most of which I tune out for the sake of my mental health. I glide, or rather wobble, slowly but determinedly towards the exit. Finally reaching it, I almost hear a distant chorus of hallelujah.

Yanking my skates off gratefully, I pull on normal shoes and hand the demonic, bladed footwear back to the attendant, who gives me a funny look. Thinking that this is an 'Oh my god, they're both guys' thing, I'm tempted to give him the finger but settle for a leer, which makes him look away hurriedly.

Huh.

Judging by the colour he just turned, it appears that I misinterpreted the look. Oops, I think unrepentantly.

Bobby returns, bearing a tray full of hot chocolates and begins handing them out. I grip mine gratefully, just letting it warm my fingers for a moment. Then I drink a few hot mouthfuls and feel the heat spread until I feel like a normal human being again. Well, sort of. Suddenly, and rather out of the blue, I feel an arm being flung across my shoulders. This is, of course, Bobby being an idiot. Again.

I look over at him and then follow the path of his uncharacteristic glare back to poor harassed attendant-guy, who is modelling yet another unusual facial colour. Of course. I elbow Bobby, suddenly very conscious of eyes on us. He flashes me the blithe, assured smile of someone who's never been unwanted in his life, but removes the arm anyways.

I'm struck by a sense of unreality, and blurt out unthinkingly, "Why is everything so… normal again?"

"What do you mean?" Jubilee asks me curiously. Cursing my own, idiotic impulsiveness, I bullshit furiously. "Well, everything. I mean, we were halfway to an all-out war with humanity a few months ago, and now I'm ice skating. What the fuck happened between then and now that made everything alright?"

There is silence for a minute and then Jubilee says, quietly, "Well, strictly speaking, you were on the verge of all out war, with us as well as them. And what I think we are seeing here is basic, and I use this term lightly, human nature. The crisis is averted, the," she uses air quotes here, for which I am grateful, "'bad guys' lost. All is, in theory, well. In normal circumstances we would see a lot more discrimination against the losing party, but there were mutants on the winning side as well; hell, we won the fight for them. And of course we've shown, quite convincingly I think, why it's a bad idea to provoke mutants as a community."

The silence that follows has a slightly more shocked flavour to it. "What? It makes sense to me," Jubilee protests defensively.

"No, no. You're right," Marie says placatingly, "it's just that you were so… serious, and normally you're... not. "

"Oh, yeah. Well, I had been thinking about the same thing," she glances sidelong at me, though I almost miss it. I wonder suddenly whether the half-hearted flirting I engaged in with her was such a great idea. It seemed like it at the time, what with Bobby and Marie hanging off of each other, and Kitty and Peter so being so glaringly obvious, but now it just seems cruel, considering I was never going to carry through.

Shit, now is not the time for me to finally grow a conscience. Way too late to do anything useful, I expect it'd just cause me unnecessary guilt at this point.

Bobby's looking at me again, in that seeing-straight-through-you kind of way, and why did he pick today to become perceptive?

I sigh and drop my head back against the wall behind me, pushing everything in my mind down and away, clearing space. For what, I don't know. I just feel better either, when it's quiet and I'm left alone, or when I'm truly in the centre of things, able to act without conscious consideration, to truly just be. I can't stand this middle ground that most people seem content to spend their entire lives in.

I look around me and think, pessimistically, that I've still got it. All it takes is a few sentences from me and a whole group of people are reduced to silence. Usually, it's pissed off silence, although I can't really tell in this case. This is a bit of a surprise to me. I mean, I had only lived with most of these people for three or four years. That is definitely a record, for staying in one place that wasn't my home. Staying there hardly counts. And here it turns out that I barely know them anyways. Probably this shouldn't surprise me at all.

"Hey, can we go back now?" I break the pensive silence, and resist the urge to address my question to Bobby only, like some kind of nervous, timid girlfriend. "Uh, yeah. Anyone have anywhere else to go, before we go back to the mansion?" A chorus of mumbled 'no's follows and we are on our way.

I rented skates, as did Marie and Jubilee. The others toss their skates into the back of the X-Men equivalent of a soccer mom-mobile. This time Marie elects to drive ('so that you don't get lost again, Bobby') and Kitty sits in the front with her. Jubilee sits behind them, and I squeeze past them to sit in the back row. Bobby glances around and then quickly follows me into the back, scooting onto the middle seat beside me and Peter wedges himself into the seat beside Jubilee.

I find the whole outing so juvenile suddenly as I watch Peter, who wouldn't look out of place in some weightlifting competition, smile embarrassedly at Kitty, who has just 'accidentally' phased herself through her own seat and onto his lap. Whoops.

I glare out of the window to my side and watch the city drift past. Marie drives so slowly sometimes that we could probably drive somewhere and back in the time it takes her to make one trip. I don't really mind.

My eyelids are drooping, and I feel myself teetering precariously on the edge between sleep and waking, when I feel someone lean against me, gently. He could be drifting to sleep and leaning over in the process, but I can see his eyes, half-closed though they are, and the… challenge, almost, flickering in them. Then he bumps his thigh sideways into mine, and I am suddenly not at all asleep. I can feel where he is touching me, like paths of flame. Somehow during all this covert manoeuvring, his hand has landed near mine. The urge to lace fingers together has almost overcome my pride, which is telling me, vehemently, in loud and inventive cuss-words, that this is a spectacularly soppy, girlish move. However, pride is no match for a brain that is almost completely overrun by hormones, and my fingers already almost itch to touch him.

I slide my own too cold hand over top of his and think that it's a sad state of affairs when I can steal heat from the hands of an ice mutant.

I gaze unseeingly out the window. This might be to hide the faint look of contentment that I feel on my face, not exactly a smile but certainly not a frown either. I rest my forehead against the cool glass, not thinking. I feel his hand tighten on mine and then release, and I squeeze back, now deliberately thinking nothing. I'm trying to preserve the moment, capture it like a Polaroid for the mind.

It doesn't last as long as I'd like it to (forever, or over in one brilliant, blinding instant), and presently I hear hushed whispers ahead of me, a muffled giggle. I turn to the front in time to see Kitty wrenching herself back into her seat. It looks as though she was craning around in her seat to peer backwards. Bobby hasn't noticed, as he's apparently asleep (for real this time), his fingers going slack against mine. I quietly disengage my hand and shift in my seat, seeking the fabled and elusive comfortable spot that all car seats are supposed to possess. I've never found one.

Jubilee's quiet, hesitating voice presents itself to my mind almost without my ears registering it. She is turned halfway to facing me, not exactly meeting my eyes. "So are you and Bobby…" she trails off delicately. I take pity on her, muttering "Yeah, I guess," instead of letting her squirm like I would have most people. I narrow my eyes and look at her challengingly. "Is that a problem?"

She turns to face me, and smiles softly. "It's a bit cute, actually. And weird, of course. Can't forget the weirdness of it all. Is this a secret, or am I just unobservant?"

"A bit of both," I reply and despite myself I find that I am smiling back. This causes her grin to widen. Then I see what must be a spark jump to her, and the windshield wipers turn on in the front. She turns red and I laugh, low and quiet. She whips around to face forward just before Marie calls back to ask what's going on. I'm still laughing.

A little while later, she whispers back, not meeting my eyes again, "I'm glad you're back. Even if I can't…" she stops, looking for the right words, then drops it altogether. "Well, it's good that you're here again. With us." Her cheeks flush to a vibrant pink, and she sits forward again.

I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that, or whether I'm supposed to say anything at all. But she was right, about the question I had asked earlier, though she answered it on a bigger scale. What's going on with the people around me, that makes it alright that I'm… well, that I'm here, is human nature. The easiest thing to do, the path of least resistance, is pretending that things are the way they used to be, and ignoring me if that doesn't work. Hell, that is the way things used to be.

Just shut your eyes, plug your ears, whistle loudly and pretend everything is all good. The same attitude that used to drive me absolutely crazy, used to make me furious, is now the one thing making my life liveable. Another classic example of grade-A irony.

I hate irony.

/\/\/\

So. Yeah. Here it is. Um, sorry for the wait? *hides* Honestly though, I re-wrote this a few times, and it didn't come out the way I wanted it to. I'm still not entirely satisfied, but it has been way too long (three months!) to not post anything. So here it is.

Colvine