Just a little idea I had, and an exercise needed to get me back in the writing groove. Post X3, no slash. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything from X-Men.
John had noticed him first, felt the familiar drop in temperature as he nursed his beer, his arms supported by stained wood. It had been vomited on more times than John could count, especially when he'd first started coming here, but thankfully, that phase was over. He turned his head and used his right elbow and hand to hide his face, but he couldn't do anything about the slight raise in temperature.
He should have realized that this was a mistake, because the freeze burns on his hands had never completely healed –probably due to lack of proper medical care– but Bobby would have figured it out eventually. He looked like he was on the hunt, searching for something; if he was expecting John to be there, then he would find him.
Drake slid smoothly into the seat next to him in the same suave way as always. John suddenly felt cold, and he flexed his fingers unconsciously, his nerves remembering a long ago pain.
Bobby would break the silence. He always did, but John refused to look at him. He was afraid of what he would see, afraid that he would actually be afraidof Bobby, the ex-friend he should have been able to kick across Alcatraz and back.
So why hadn't he?
"Haven't seen you in a while."
John almost snorted into his drink. Trust Bobby to start with the most generic and impersonal statement possible. He downed the rest of his beer, ignoring him, and enjoyed the slight decrease in the temperature, a sure sign of Bobby's irritation.
But maybe Bobby had become an even more full-fledged, mature X-Man than before. Maybe he was trying to psych him out with that little warning. Well, high school's out, and John didn't need to rise to the bait anymore.
"You can't ignore me forever, Pyro. We're not in high school anymore."
All the better reason to snub him.
"John."
That made him look up, eyebrow arched, to see Bobby's expression defiant, challenging. Daring him to refuse the name like he'd done the last time they'd met, denying –in Bobby's eyes– who he was.
"How's the girlfriend?"
"She's your friend too."
"Was."
Bobby's mouth opened, but John got there first.
"Enjoying your close up and personal time? Rubbing bodies and all that?"
He closed his mouth.
"Six years after Alcatraz, figured you must have fizzled out, what with her having new prospects and all, bunch of boys wouldn't mind touching her now, would they?"
"We took a break, right after, to figure things out," Bobby said quietly, almost humbly. "There was –there was a lot of stuff going on. But we're back together now."
Stuff that probably hadn't included John. Mourning the Professor and Jean and everything. Not the traitor, not the crazy.
Not the one left to die.
John shifted his right leg, which, like most of him, had never been the same again after Alcatraz, after being buried underneath rubble and chunks of concrete walls. He couldn't remember exactly how he'd gotten there, but when he came to, he had not been in the place where he and Bobby had their mock epic showdown, where Bobby had cheated out with a stupid head butt. A head butt. He'd felt the death as profusely as he'd felt the fire, stray embers littered throughout the battleground, lining what had once been the Golden Gate Bridge.
He'd been spared. Jean had spared him alone, destroying everyone else; he still didn't know why, but he figured he'd take what he could get. John hadn't been happy with being alive at first, left to drag himself across the bridge with a broken, bruised and frozen body, useless for such a long time. Couldn't go to the hospital, couldn't find Magneto, couldn't entertain the fact that they would take him back. Bobby had clearly demonstrated the result of an attempt to return.
For a long time, he'd been so cold. No amount of naturally high body heat seemed to rid him of the memories etched into his scarred hands, the smell of flaming cars and the paralysis of solid ice. He had rarely slept, both out of necessity and to avoid the dreams of Bobby turning John into an ice sculpture and smashing him apart into little crystal shards.
"What are you doing here Bobby?"
The blonde took a violent swig of his beer, detecting a weariness that sounded out of place. John was fire, ever burning. Bobby wasn't sure what he had been expecting when Storm had located this bar, confirming it as one that was graced by John's frequent patronage –but it wasn't this. He'd expected him to look old, and he supposed he did, in a world-weary way, but he could still see the old John in him, the anger, the continued feeling of slowly losing control. Still, if anything, he looked much better than when Bobby had seen him last, calmer, healthier. His clothes were nice, his hair brown and kept, all evidence of satisfactory living standards.
"Just seeing how you're doing, John."
John really did snort this time. "That's bullshit, Iceman, and you know it. Wanna go out back, finish what you started? Am I not dead enough for you?" He held up his right hand, ignoring the wince of pain as he stretched out his palm. "I've got enough scars, thank you."
Bobby looked at him strangely, as if he was just seeing him. He didn't like that look.
"I don't want pity, you bastard. Just showing you that you've done enough. Leave me the hell alone. Haven't heard of any deadly arsons in the past six years, have you?"
"How –how did you –"
"Escape that island?" John laughed. "Funny story, actually. Everyone had been so scared of that place, thinking it was haunted and shit, but it actually worked out for me. Took me three whole days to drag myself even close to shore, but there on the other side were huge loads of people and police. So I took a dive into the water –that was fun– and dragged myself to shore. Overall, lots of dragging."
He still remembered how the salt water had bit into and consumed his body, his wounds, his blood. His fire.
"John, I'm so –"
"No. Stop. I don't need you to say it, I don't want you to say it. Best thing for you to do is shut up and leave. What were you expecting to find? A doused Pyro, just waiting for the right opportunity to come back with my tail between my legs? No thanks, I didn't need you then, I don't need you now. I take care of myself."
"And how is that? Being an ex-terrorist and all, it'd be hard to find work."
John smiled. "You always were unimaginative."
"Then enlighten me."
"What do you want from me? It's been six years, Bobby, why now?"
"Because we were friends. Because you left."
"You left me to die. I'd say we're pretty even, don't you think?"
To his credit, Bobby didn't flinch. But his eyes adopted a sadness that came with age. With guilt.
"I know."
"See? Told you."
"But if it were me knocked out, would you have saved me?"
John played with the glass rim of his cup. "No," he said finally. "Probably not."
He sensed more than saw Bobby's disappointment.
"But someone would have gotten you. X-Men don't leave their people behind." He laughed. "No one came back for me. Wasn't anybody left, but still."
"You threw flaming cars at us. Were you really expecting a rescue?"
"I expected better of you. We both know I'm not the best guy, or friend. That's your job."
"John –"
"Rogue likes reading, doesn't she?"
Bobby blinked. "What?"
"Rogue. Reading. Books. Paper."
He scowled. "What about it? Glad to see you're calling her by her name, at any rate."
"There's a new book out by a well known author. Instant bestseller."
"There's a lot of bestsellers, John. What –"
"It's under a name you probably thought was extremely stupid."
Bobby did remember Rogue raving about a new novel under that circumstance, but he honestly didn't know where John was going with this. "I know what you're talking about."
"Did she like it?"
"Yeah." He was confused; wasn't he supposed to be the one with the prepared retorts, seeing as he'd sought John out, and not the other way around? "She said it was a good romance book, but it had other stuff too. 'Underlying themes' or something."
"Now that –that's pure irony. I think you just made my day, Iceman. Completely makes up for years worth of headaches." He stood up, throwing some money down on the bar. "Drink's on me."
"John, wait."
The urge to walk out the door was strong, but despite whatever he wanted, John needed to hear this. He needed to know that it was worth it, that Bobby had experienced at least part of the pain he'd felt physically and mentally. He needed so badly for the guilt to have eaten him up inside, the Boy Scout in him disbelieving what he'd done, hadn't done. Because even if he had betrayed them first, if he had tried to kill them, John had always relied on Bobby. To not change, to stay stagnant and stable as John was unpredictable.
The good guy.
"I never wanted you dead. I had hoped so badly that you'd made it somehow, even if it meant that you would come back and kill me. I deserved it."
John stared out at the frosty night beyond the open door. "No you didn't. I wouldn't have saved myself."
"But you still did."
"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly thinking coherently. Survival instinct, basically. Still, I think it worked out okay."
"Yeah."
John adjusted his leather jacket before turning around, smirking. "Oh, and if Rogue ever wants a signed book, I'll be here."
Bobby stared at John's retreating figure, turning the corner and fading away into the night. He fingered the engagement ring he'd found the day before, glinting with promise in the dim light. Once, in a drunken state, Bobby had admitted his love for Rogue, and expressed a desire for his pyromaniac roommate to be his best man. John's answer had been to clink bottles and begin a screechy rendition of "Here Comes the Bride."
How could that had been only three days before Stryker's attack on the mansion, before everything had changed? Before they hadchanged. And still, despite everything, despite betrayals and pain and loss, they still found themselves in the same place, only a little older, with scars they had inflicted on each other. Full circle.
Besides, what were the odds of John Allerdyce becoming a romance author?
Bobby smiled.
John had always had the last laugh.