Away from the fire

Pyro has changed his mind about working with Magneto, and wants a second chance at life in the Institute. Set a few months after the end of the second movie.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Or even much of this plot. I've seen similar (sort of) things done elsewhere.

The night is bitter, but the boy does not shiver from cold. Nor is it cold that pins him here, crouched in the shadow of a bleak stone wall as he gazes up at the building. There are no lights, there; the whole world is darkness and shadow, with no light or warmth or flame.

Cramp burns his taut legs, and at last he stands, hands holding to the rough stone as though it is the last thing holding him upright.

The doors are locked, the windows latched. He knows this without trying. But he remembers, as though from a past life, a life with laughter and friends and warm, safe metal tucked into his back pocket, the wobbly catch that will fall open if you hit the corner of the window pane just right.

He skulks through the classroom; the abandoned chairs and tables look like the skeletons of agonised death, beached bone white by the cold sharp moonlight. Into the corridor; his feet remember other such marches, filled with rebellion and shame, but never has he moved with such reluctance before.

The door; a dark patch of shadow in the dim hallway. But other doors along this hall aren't rimmed with light, like a portal to heaven, or the glitter of fool's gold. Fear freezes his hand, but desperation makes it fall, one sharp crack against the varnished walnut.

"Come in," The voice is unsurprised, almost expectant, and the ever-welcoming tone is like some dire homecoming; joy at the return, but some wistful pain at all that has been lost, like the reluctant dead after drinking from the waters of lethe.

It would once have been bravado that twisted his hand on the doorknob, but he can't afford bravado anymore. He slips inside.

"John," The Professor nods in greeting, but his forehead wrinkles slightly with concern as he waves his errant pupil towards a chair.

Johnny's eyes are wide and dark and wary, the only colour in his too thin, too pale face. He mistrusts this instant acceptance. It feels too much like the softness of spiders' silk; a beautiful, deadly trap. He sits anyway. His legs won't hold him any longer.

"I thought you had gone with Magneto, John." The Professor says this gently, without accusation. He leans back, relaxed, waiting, his book lying forgotten on the table. "Why have you come back? What happened to you?"

Once, St John was like an oil soaked torch; full of life and wit and explosive flame. But there is no fire in him now; his clothes are dirty and torn, his cheeks are hollow, and his eyes are empty and haunted.

"I've - come back, Professor," His voice, too, has lost something; it is hoarse, as though he has not spoken in a long time, and it is full of pleading instead of rebellion. "I don't want to work with Magneto any more."