OK, I went to go see The Last Stand last night, and I have to say I left the cinema feeling very unsatisfied. The whole film just felt empty, as though half of the things weren't explained. One thing that annoyed me was that it was never said whether Pyro lived or died at the end. So I've taken it upon myself to write this as a missing scene. It's from Bobby's POV, and takes place just after Bobby goes to see Rogue at the end, when she takes his hand.

NOTE: mild slash undertones. But you have to have such a mind to really notice it. I think...

I close the door behind myself quietly, so as not to wake Rogue. She fell asleep as I was stroking her hair, still grasping my hand. I have a feeling that she's going to want to be touching me all the time now that she can. It's like she never realised what she didn't have until she got it, and now it's almost a revelation for her. To be able to touch someone and not fear for their safety. I suppose she'll get used to it after a time.

Walking down the corridor, I pause at one of the windows and gaze out over the grounds. Kitty and Storm are standing in front of the three gravestones, and I can't help but wonder what it is that they're thinking. It seems such a shame to bury two people when nothing of their bodies remains. It just seems… I don't know, a bit empty. I've never been good with funerals or gravestones. They've never held much meaning for me like they seem to for everybody else. I mean, just looking at Kitty and Storm proves it. They can stand there, both in silence, just staring at the headstones, and see the people that they represent, have full conversations with them inside their heads. I just see three lumps of granite with writing on.

I don't want to think about them though. Any of them. They're dead, we're not. It's as simple as that. Talking to a headstone won't change that. I turn away from the window and continue down the corridor, past the open door of Piotr's room. I spare him a nod of the head in greeting, then carry on. I don't think any of us will be quite the same after Alcatraz. We're all grown up now, we'll never be able to laugh and joke like before. It's all so banal, looking back on it.

I stop at my room, and hesitate at the closed door. I had left it open when I went to find Rogue. Turning the handle cautiously, I'm suddenly struck by just how paranoid Alcatraz has made me. Shaking my head to clear it of anxious thoughts, I push the door fully open. And decide that I have every reason to be paranoid.

John's stood looking out of the window, his back to me, his right hand twitching compulsively. No, not John I remind myself. Pyro. He stopped being John when he got into that helicopter. I rein in the urge to freeze his hands off, because despite the rage thundering through my bones, I don't think that he would have been let in here without being interrogated first. I stare resolutely at the floor to keep from hurting him, but I have to look up when I hear him move. I've always had to watch him.

He's heard me come in, and turned around. A quick glance at his right hand proves that the mechanism for a constant source of fire has been removed, though his fingers are still flicking the empty air involuntarily. I'm not sure if that's just because of me, or if he'd be doing that anyway. I'd like to think the latter, but I'm not convinced that's the case.

For a long while we just gaze at each other. I don't know how long it lasts, but I can't take my eyes of him for some reason. He looks exhausted, his eyes dull and darkened by the fatigue. Across his left temple is a gash running from his eyebrow to just above his ear. It's blue and black around it, and I have a nasty feeling that I caused it. Indeed, there seems to be ice permanently frozen into the cut. After what seems like an eternity, but was probably less than five minutes, he looks away from me and sits down heavily on his bed. The spell is broken, and I sit down opposite him.

"You were right." He says weakly, and I almost have to strain to hear him. He sounds so bereft, so unlike himself, that I don't feel the impulse to freeze his balls off anymore. It takes me a while to organise my thoughts into any semblance of order. He has that effect on me.

"About what?" I finally ask, my voice oddly quiet, as though I'm scared to break this fragile truce in this room. I get the feeling that it won't be the same when he's confronted by the rest of the school and I'll be the only one sticking up for him. I watch as he swings his legs up onto the bed and stretches out, staring up at the ceiling, where he had painted fire onto the plaster. There were a few scorch marks where he had got bored one evening and decided to burn the ceiling for authenticity, and ended up setting off the fire alarms. The adults hadn't been particularly happy when all the children had been turfed out of bed into the snowy night, but John and I hadn't been able to stop laughing.

Not John. Pyro.

"I never should have left."

I copy his movement and lay down properly on my own bed, and I'm struck by the comforting familiarity of the situation, us lying on our beds, talking into the evening. I have to remind myself that this isn't my John, and this isn't comfortable, but it's getting harder. He has that effect on me.

"I thought you'd been killed." I admit without thinking, and wonder why I said that. It's true though – after Magneto was turned into a human, I was ushered away onto the bridge with Kitty and Colossus by Storm as Jean started to destroy the island. Storm had gone back to see who else she could help… but Jean had been destroying nearly everybody left on the island. It was horrifying to watch. And I remember thinking at the time that Pyro didn't have to die.

"Storm got me before the Phoenix could." John… no, Pyro replies edgily. "She told me to swim for shore, she'd come for me later. She said that the X-Men'd kill me if I approached them after I rained car bombs upon them."

"We probably would have done." I say sharply. "We were hardly pleased with you at the time."

"Why don't you then?"

The tone of his voice compels me to look at him, and I curse myself for never building a resistance to this boy. He's gazing at me with those dead eyes, practically asking me to kill him. I look away, because I can't bear to think of him dead, let alone at my hands. He has that effect on me.

"Because I don't want to."

"You seemed pretty pissed off with me on Alcatraz."

"Well do you blame me?" I explode, leaping from my bed to stand over him. He flinches and raises his right hand, his fingers twitching maniacally. I can't control the rage and despair roiling through my skin, but neither do I want to hurt my best friend – so I whip around and freeze the door to its hinges. And the wall. In fact, I freeze every wall and the ceiling. That seems to drain most of the anger out of me, so I look down at John. He's shivering. I suppose the freezing temperatures don't really suit a fire-based mutant. He's giving me a terrified look, and I feel bad now, so I yank open one of my bedside table drawers, and take out one of his old lighters, handing it to him.

"Why do you have this?" he asks quizzically as he gently melts the room. I lay back down on my bed as the soft flame ripples over the ceiling, perfectly controlled.

"It's been in there for over a year, since you got other one." I reply simply, and he doesn't press the matter. Instead, he puts the lighter back in my drawer. I expected him to keep it, stow it in his pocket to constantly flick around until he could build a new contraption. I think he's trying to show me that he's not going to blow me up in my sleep. As much as I hate to admit it, the plan is so far working. He has that effect on me.

"I don't suppose you know what Class you are, do you?" he asks me curiously, and if I reach back into my memory, I can remember Storm telling us all what we were a few weeks ago. Funny, it seems like so much longer.

"I'm a Class 3. Why?"

"Just wondering." John replies with a shrug, in a rather evasive tone. I turn my head and raise an eyebrow at him. He flushes and turns away.

"I know you're a Class 4, John." I say wryly. "Storm told me."

He blinks at me, and I realise that I called him John. I guess Magneto and Mystique would have only ever called him Pyro.

"Well then how come I couldn't beat you?" he asks, frustrated, sitting upright.

"Because you can't control your power."

"Yes I can!" he objects, and I can see his hand twitching out of the corner of my eye.

"No you can't. But you will be able to. Storm will teach you how."

"I don't… want… her to teach me." John says through gritted teeth. I turn my head to look at him. He's staring at the door. "Can't you teach me?"

"Not as well as Storm can."

"You'll do." He says simply, lying back down on his bed. We lay in silence, and this time it is meant to be comfortable, because this is still John, this isn't Pyro. I think my ice froze Pyro over and now we're going to have to start again with John. It shouldn't be too hard. He is my best friend, after all.

"Hey, John… I've been told that I tend to make the room temperature drop when I'm having nightmares. Just… don't get too cold, OK?" I ask him nervously, as I feel my eyes drifting shut. No doubt I will have nightmares for at least another week. I've certainly had them for the past few nights. One particular one froze the whole corridor.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine." John replies. I look over at him, and he's smiling. It's the first genuine smile I've seen on his face for a year. Funny, I never thought that I'd be the one to put it there. Just looking at him smiling make my body temperature inch a few degrees closer to normal, as opposed to ten degrees below it. I smile back, and my chest feels warm.

He has that effect on me.

It's my first X-Men fic, so please don't get angry if they felt a bit OOC.

Comments very welcome and much appreciated.

smokey