Title: You've Got To Go There To Come Back
Author: Iris, "sleepall-day" at Livejournal
Rating: Fairly tame, around PG-13.
Timeline: Directly after Alcatraz events of X3.
Summary: After the fight at Alcatraz, Pyro is found and brought back to Xavier's mansion. For his criminal actions he has been given house arrest at Xavier's School and he must learn to adjust.
Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men or any Marvel characters used in this fanfiction. This story is just for fun, and any resemblances you find to actual people, living or dead, shows that you have strange friends.

Chapter 4: "Don't you think so!"

All right. I'm almost laughing at myself now. I know that if anyone else knew what was going on in my head for the past week, they would be. So only four days ago, I had dinner at the school potluck, getting my first taste of real home-cooked food in… lord. Since I left the school in the first place, probably. Damn, I'd really been missing out. And I'm laughing at myself now because whiny, "just leave me alone to sit in my room and eat microwaved food" John had become, "could really use some actual food" John. So much that I was, yes, willing to leave the room.

It was nearing lunchtime, but classes were still in session so there wouldn't be too many people poking around in the kitchen. It's weird. That night on Alcatraz felt like the whole world was coming down on me and like nobody could ever forgive themselves for whatever it was they had to do. But kids were going to classes again, and doing homework and making food for themselves or each other. Not like nothing had happened or that everything was going to be okay. Lots of them still had a somber look about them. It was more like everyone was coping. Dealing. Like I had to do if I wanted some real food. Among other things, but I decided to just start with the food for now.

The first day I arrived at the mansion as its prisoner, I saw Wolverine in the kitchen as I was being shown around and given some guidelines. He'd told me that any basics, food included, would be paid for by the state and the DMA. ("Department of Motor… Automobiles?" "The Department of Mutant Affairs, you punk!") I was allowed any food in the kitchen that didn't have someone else's name on it, and I could order groceries too. I could order stuff I need later, but I checked the kitchen to see what I had first.

The next five minutes were spent opening and closing every door in the kitchen. Cans of soup, cans of tuna, cans of all kinds of things, mac and cheese boxes, bags of pasta, sacks of rice – not to mention all the spices and herbs I found in one of the pantries. I opened the refrigerator. Nearly everything in there had a name on it. I recognized a lot of names that were scrawled across milk cartons, packages of cheese, and frozen chicken. Undaunted, I dug through the freezer and… score! An unlabeled bag of ground beef. Now, what was I supposed to do with it? Defrost it, of course.

I sat at the kitchen island with the bag in front of me for a good minute or so before I had the idea to look for a cookbook. I saw some books when I'd gone rummaging through all the pantries, and picked out what looked like a good one. Leaning against the island, I flipped through the pages to see what I could make with ground beef, and checked the table of contents. There, above the word "Table" was handwritten the name of the book's owner: Jean Grey.

I felt a little odd, holding a book that belonged to a dead person, like she wouldn't have wanted me reading it. She probably owned a lot of things in this kitchen, actually. She was one of the most patient teachers I had while I attended this school, and wasn't the same person at all when Magneto picked her up. No one would know I felt this, but I was afraid of her. I had never been afraid of her at school. I guess it was that Jean Grey, the one that called herself Phoenix, that I was stupidly afraid would tear me apart for using her book without permission.

I shook my head, wondering why I let my mind wander so much lately. Then I looked at the still-frozen beef on the counter. Come on, John. It's because you've given your mind absolutely nothing to do, that's why. And so I set to work on cooking the first meal I'd made for myself.

I struggled a lot with the casserole I tried to make, and while it looked nothing like the picture, it still tasted okay. I took it over to the TV and was about to sit down when who should come in but Time For Dinner, holding a large pizza box. Before I could even put my food down, she'd taken the seat I was planning on sitting in and turned the TV to a channel showing baseball.

You know what, John, I told myself, just remember what you came down to the kitchen to do. And that was to deal with my new situation one step at a time, and the step I was taking today was making food. Not conversing with – oh my God, with freaks who are smaller than me and can consume an entire extra large pizza by themselves.

I resigned myself to the kitchen island once again. Every so often Time For Dinner would cheer or boo at the television. Before I could finish eating – oh, no. It was Bobby and Rogue. I hadn't seen either of them at all since I got here, but I was bound to sooner or later. Our eyes met but nobody said anything, as Bobby strode over to the refrigerator.

If there's one thing I hate, it's an awkward silence. I'm almost positive Bobby does what he can to add an icy chill to it. I hate silences more than confrontation, so I do something about it. "You two been enjoying the cure?" I sneered. Rogue gave me a dirty look, but didn't say anything.

Bobby glared at me and said, "You'd better watch yourself around here, Pyro." I cringed a little inwardly, trying not to show it. If I were really Pyro anymore, I was a handicapped Pyro. "Anything you do could land your sorry ass in jail. But you know that already, don't you?" he continued.

"Bobby, Bobby. I thought you were always afraid of a fight, but I guess I was wrong. Looks like you're willing to take me if you're safe in the mansion with lots of your little X-Men here to protect you!" I shot back. Bobby was wrong. They couldn't stop me from talking.

Bobby planted his hands squarely on the counter and leaned his glare in closer. "You left, and don't you forget it. And don't fool yourself into thinking that every mutant is welcome here. Just so we've got that clear."

I wanted to wipe that sneer right off his face. I couldn't just sit here and take it. He thought he was so self-righteous, the bastard. It would be so easy…

I remembered Wolverine telling me, "People like us, we don't get too many second chances." It didn't matter that this mansion was keeping me prisoner – it was better than any jail cell. I collected myself and told Bobby calmly, "I'm not here because I want to be."

"Then you don't have to be! No one wants you here anymore, you know why? You're a traitor!" Bobby yelled.

"Hey, hey," interrupted Rogue before either of us could continue. She looked more annoyed than angry. "You two jus' leave each other alone. Like there's not enough fightin' already."

I couldn't believe I used to go to school with such idealists. Her, Storm, everyone who thought I should be "rehabilitated." Always so convinced they were right, especially when it came to thinking anyone could be just like them, fighting the good fight. I got up to leave, and didn't even get a chance to before Wolverine showed up.

"Hey, you. Big shot. They want you in the office," he said.

"See ya, Bobby," I called out, knowing he wouldn't try anything in front of Wolverine. I couldn't take any more of this. Eventually I'd snap and hit Bobby in the face or something. I'd either have to avoid him or make up with him, and the latter was about as likely as Beast showing up telling me everything was a mistake, and I was free to go.

I walked glumly into the office, and as if to answer my thoughts, McCoy was standing there was Storm and a red-haired woman I didn't know. "Tell me something good," I said to McCoy, as Wolverine left.

"John, this is Miss Amelia Voght," he said, indicating the redhead, motioning that I should shake her hand. I did.

"Hi, John," she said.

"Miss Voght is a nurse, but has substantial amounts of work with mutant rehabilitation, mostly with those that had remained underground about their mutant status. She will be assisting you during your stay here."

Before I could ask any questions about why I needed assistance, she said, "I'm going to be like your therapist, John. Just think of me as a counselor. All I'm going to do is talk to you for an hour every two weeks to see how you're doing, all right? Nothing scary."

"I didn't ask for a counselor," I said hesitantly, without caring how rude it sounded. "I don't need one."

Hank answered. "Be that as it may, this is what the state is asking for, and it would do you good to cooperate with them. Remember what the court said. Your eligibility for parole is in three years, and counseling is one judge of how ready you are for that." Oh, yeah. I didn't even think of that.

"I know, John. Nobody wants to do these things," Amelia said sympathetically. I thought maybe she meant herself included, when she added, "I knew I had to do what I could to help when I heard about Charles. You know he would've wanted you back on your feet." I nodded, mostly because good behavior started now if I wanted to get out of here. "Now, I'm just here to meet you today, but we'll be starting our sessions tomorrow. I'll be here in the morning, so be ready."

"Yeah," I answered. We arranged to meet at ten in one of the staff offices, and I left the headmaster's office. I was walking down the hallway back to my room when I heard a faint groan.

It was Wolverine. He was on the floor with one of his hands on his forehead. "Where… where… I'm back at the school!" he muttered.

"Wolver – Logan?" I stepped gingerly towards him. "What are you doing?" He started to stand up as soon as he saw me coming, but seemed to change his mind halfway.

"Ugh…" he growled, and one of the doors in the hallway flew open.

"Logan!" It was Kitty Pryde. She rushed over and said, "Are you okay?" putting an arm around his waist.

"Kid…" he said, looking at me. "You need to get Storm!" He must have been a little dazed, though, because he started walking in the direction of her office himself. I rushed ahead anyway. I'd never seen Wolverine like this before. I started to panic. If something had spooked Wolverine, weren't the rest of us in trouble?

I knocked quickly on the door, and went in without even waiting for an answer. "John?" Storm said. Beast was still in the office with her, but Amelia was gone. "What's wrong?"

"It's Xavier, Storm! It's the Professor," Wolverine shouted.

"What!" Storm cried. I just looked at him. The professor had died!

"Oh, my stars. What in the world are you talking about?" Hank said.

"It's the Professor!" Wolverine just repeated.

"But what happened?" Storm said, getting a little worked up. She stepped in between me and Wolverine, and gripped his shoulders. "You must tell me!"

Wolverine caught his breath, and said, "I was just leaving the office. In the hallway. Then all of a sudden I'm in Sycamore Park! It's – it's like it was Nightcrawler or something, but I'd know that stink if I smelled it and I ain't smelling anything."

Kitty spoke up. "That's at least five miles from here."

"How very odd!" Hank said. "Are you sure of yourself, Logan?"

"Of course I am!" he growled. "I've been there before, I know the smells, and I was there two minutes ago. I was sitting in the park for five whole minutes wondering what the hell just happened, decided to walk back to the school, and then before I knew it I was in the hallway again."

"Did you see the Professor?" Storm pressed. "Did you?"

Logan paused, and then said, "No. I didn't. But it had to be him. Maybe his powers are messing around right now. Maybe he's trying best he can to reach out to me!"

Storm's shoulders sagged, clearly disappointed. "Then you don't know for sure that it was him, Logan."

"It was Xavier. It had to be!" Logan said through clenched teeth. "Don't you think so!"

I glanced at Kitty. She was giving me the same look that I was giving her. We didn't know what to think.