Fandom: X-Men Movieverse
Series: Love and Lust Outtakes #6, post-Elemental
Codes: Bobby, St. John/Bobby
Rating: NC-17, slash
Summary: A not entirely accidental meeting in Canadian snow.
Author Notes: Don't ask. Unbeta'ed.
Archiving: Kylie's Data Annex, Indulgence. Ask otherwise.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I accept this with very little equanimity and much pulling of the hair and grinding of the teeth. Metaphorically speaking.
Feedback: Adored with coffee products of all kinds.

Fragment

by jenn

There was the way people fragmented, like safety glass in a late model car during an accident. Not broken shards that cut through flesh and search for blood, but just--vast traces of fine lines arrowing outward from the center, visibly shattered, but still intact.

Like life, relationships, missions that started good and went bad. So bad. So very very bad and God, did his head hurt. Like a tap dance by an elephant with bad coordination and oh wow, he was he might he could just lay here and *see* pink elephants in metal-heeled shoes right now and it wouldn't surprise him at all.

Ten minutes ago, he'd hit the ground with something like relief, or God, a hundred for all the hell he knew, and there was a cut on his forehead that bled vivid red on the snow the last time he checked.

Long damned time ago, really. He could, maybe, be bleeding out, right here and right now.

He could see the color if he opened his eyes, but that was just a stupid idea, wasn't it? He was thinking metaphorically and he might be dying concretely. It'd never been easy, granted. Not to be a superhero, not to be Bobby Drake, and it really did make him want to laugh, maybe throw up, maybe both, depending on the state of his stomach if he tried to move. Thinking about it was quite enough to taste bile slicking on the back of his throat.

"Idiot."

Swirling snow like shattered glass swirled over his face and Bobby grimaced at the broken sound of the voice overhead. Snow, ice, cold air, natural habitat for the boy on the ground who'd passed his twenty-eighth birthday and still didn't see a man in the mirror when he looked.

Reflection in other people's eyes weren't any different, though, so he maybe couldn't be blamed, not really.

"God, you just--fucking *lay* there." Disgust and frustration, and a lot of old, familiar energy and heat somewhere to the leftish. Subtle wrongness of feeling so fucking high right now, smiling like an idiot into the blank whiteness. He could be dying. So far, it wasn't going too badly, either. "They left. You. Here."

Bobby coughed, raising a gloved hand to his face. The air was colder than he liked to admit--probably concussed and he was Iceman, remember, so shouldn't he like the cold or something? Crap. Pressure trail over the wound on his face, the widened edges of torn skin and muscle beneath, blood slick and probably freezing--ten below zero and dropping and--oh, yes, concussed. So fucking concussed. Odes of concussionary things could be written. In his blood, come to think of it.

"Crap. Dammit, you--." And a hand on his face, brief and fast and *hot*, like a branding iron or maybe just human flesh compared to where his body temperature was right now, which was to say not even *near* the human norm. "You're just--all of you. Are. Fucking. Morons. Can you walk?"

Heh. What an idea. Bobby opened his eyes, staring up, but only white snow and vivid blue eyes, everything else a predictable smear of uncertain color. His uniform felt scratchy, like it had suffered more than he did, and he wondered if changing form and changing back so fast damaged it in some unknown way he'd never tested. Wasn't like he could anticipate every known situation, after all. Blame Scott. *He* should have anticipated it, fearless leader-type person and premiere strategist and--

--they left? Without him?

Concussion, Bobby. You can be as idiotic as you want. Kind of a relief if you think about it.

"Shit. You can't freeze to death." But there was a trace of uncertainty, and an arm looped beneath his shoulders, pulling him upright on the snow. Low hiss that Bobby couldn't help with the shift and the arm jerked him closer, sending another sharp arrow of pain. Broken clavicle? Dislocated shoulder? Who knew? Biology was a *hell* of a long time ago, like a lot of things, but then again, also like a lot of things, it seemed to be around the right time to revisit.

Body warm--hot--hot, kneeling in the snow beside him, melting around them, and Bobby laughed, hard. It should melt, that was what things were *supposed* to do when they came up against this man. God.

"Concussed and the idiots *left*. Shows where you stand in the hierarchy, don't it, kiddo?" A ghost of feeling over his face, then easy motion of being tilted somewhat south and Bobby groaned. "Dislocated shoulder, too. I'd think you were trying to die, but hey, guess the hell what? I like you living. Go figure."

Curling fingers around his good shoulder, and there was another jerk. On his feet, swaying and the body was flat against his. Hot. So hot he wanted to draw away and wanted burrow closer, and the wet was refreezing onto him, into him, and he stumbled.

This was so pathetic. Iceman indeed. Call out the codename pickers and tell them oh God how you fucked up. He felt like he was made of water. Tired water at that. Waterboy. *That* would strike fear into the hearts of the bad guys.

And bad guys were such relative things right now.

"Fuck. *Fuck*. Come on, Bobby, get with the program. I sure as shit don't have time to babysit."

Bobby grinned, knowing he looked like an idiot and not really caring. Johnny was always so--elegant when he slipped into profanity. Something to do with Australian origins and the way the accent sometimes invaded his voice without warning. Or, you know, concussion again. Heh.

"Like you're so busy, Pyro. Ass up and lost again." Couldn't help laughing, and his ribs ached with it. "Note the Brotherhood is gone too, buddy. Nice to see we're both deep in the shit."

"I can take care of myself, Drake. Come on." Arm around his waist, supporting every step, and Bobby let him lead. Always did, come to think of it, and it was frighteningly easy just to close his eyes and go with it, second after second after second of dragging steps and melting snow around them, and was there somewhere to go? "Fuck, Drake, come *on*."

It could be hours and Bobby was still laughing, even after he stopped.

--"You, too."-- Soft traces of something not fully American in the low voice, then a sideways look at the Professor, challenging and suspicious and wow, how could someone *not* trust him? "I--we done?"--

God knew where they were, but Bobby was relatively conscious when he took in the hard dry thing he was laying on and the heavy blanket tossed across him like an afterthought. Damp blanket, but hey, you took what you could get, and it was probably better than nothing. Lifting his head, a spike of pain arrowed outward over his eye and down into his chin.

Oh wow, that hurt. A *lot*.

Eyes closed, with only a glimpse of dancing orange and shadow, welcome to Waking Up, X-Men Style, where there's always the possibility that you *won't*.

"Awake?"

Familiar voice, rougher than he remembered, but that could be the concussion and near-death or whatever happened to him, and Bobby groaned softly, closing a now bare hand over his forehead with care. Rough cloth expertly applied and bound, like Jean had taught them, and the traces of wet blood were congealing even now. His body felt heavy but he was alive, or at least, very close to it.

Heat beside him again--intense heat, Memphis summer or maybe a Kansas heatwave a long time ago, easy to identify because he'd fucked in heat like this once upon a time, and Bobby opened his eyes again and looked up.

"Pyro."

"We're being formal?" Twist of Johnny's lips into a smirk and Bobby half sat up, rotating his arm before he remembered something had happened to it. Residual soreness, but nothing he couldn't handle, and there were vague memories of screaming and tears that flickered in the very back of his mind. Touching his cheek, he felt the salty remains streaked into his skin. "I got it back into place. Bruised ribs, a little muscle strain on your back, no biggies. Okay except for your head--what, you wounded mid-change?" A ghost of touch on his face and Bobby nodded.

"'Stique packs a punch when she's pissed." Couldn't do better than that, not now. Memories were still dim and soft and well, he liked it that way.

"Raven doesn't like to be fucked over. Boys are getting the hide peeled off them by inches thanks to today, by the way. I'm sure she's aching to do the same to me real soon now. Good thing I'm not there. Should thank you, I guess."

"Shoulda known you'd have an ulterior motive for being here," Bobby answered, and coughed a little. Gentle, achingly familiar hands lifted him upright when the cough didn't stop--strengthened, even--and blood was thin and iron-sweet on his lip, but he was pretty sure that was just residual, nothing damaged inside. Limp as a dishcloth--Dishboy? Hehehe. Therapy in his future.

"Always, Drake." Slow, calming circles on his back, and Bobby opened his eyes fully. Blue eyes, mess of dirty brown hair around a tanned face. Golden skin even in winter, though Bobby remembered vaguely the rumor of a recent Brotherhood operation in Australia that went badly. Blood dried in patches on his face and uniform. Old lines of a jagged scar at the point of the strong jaw, and Bobby reached out, running the tips of his fingers over it. Johnny didn't flinch. "Long time ago."

"You okay?"

Slow nod, careful not to dislodge his fingers either. A soft sigh he didn't try to hide.

"Great. Fabulous. Dandy. Freezing to death by inches, thank you." Belatedly, he seemed to remember to pull away, but it was like slow-motion and easy to evade. Bobby couldn't give this up quite yet. The stubble beneath his fingertips was soft, addictive to touch.

"Miss me, Pyro?" he asked, and Johnny stiffened. Edging away, patented Johnny-doesn't-deal and Bobby had always understood why Johnny ran so fast. He had so much to run from.

"Don't start. Not in the mood, Drake."

It was--strange. Like the safety glass of time was fragmenting, wires going everywhere in his memory. Ten years and ten seconds difference, he supposed, and a concussion in the bargain, but right now the fight was a long way away and he shifted over on the mattress, pulling the blanket down. Everything was pretty wrong with the situation--cold in the snow, wounded in a fight he shouldn't have even been in, and locked in here, so hell.

"Come on--you've got to be exhausted. We're on truce, aren't we?"

There was a long silence and Bobby forced his focus. The blue eyes were unreadable unless you knew him well, and St. John Allerdyce was ten years away as Pyro now. Still. Different uniform and different hair, maybe, but the same movements of long fingers when he pushed his hair back, damp with sweat, and the lines of exhaustion stood out plainly on skin ashy beneath the tan. Closer to burn-out than Bobby had seen since--well, a damned long time ago. The heat in those eyes had nothing to do with the power that filled him, though, and it warmed Bobby more than any of Johnny's fires ever had. "Fire will be fine if you sleep, Johnny. Where are we?"

"Shit if I know. Canada. Somewhere. I don't control that fire. If we burn up, it'll be your fault."

"I'll take my chances."

St. John looked away, but he sat down on the edge of the mattress, leaning over to pull off his boots, and Bobby heard them hit the floor. Bobby studied the long line of Johnny's back, top pulled up to reveal a stripe of golden skin. Bobby fought the urge to trace it with his fingers, let them remember every line of bone somewhere besides the recesses of memory.

Johnny shifted his hips, looking down at him. It was there, all of it, and the bitterness was just as powerful as when Bobby saw it on his own face.

"I don't like you still."

"Duh. And duh twice. Come on. We can try and kill each other later. You couldn't light a match after all that cold."

Bobby was more amused than anything when St. John flattened a palm, a little spinning ball of yellow-gold appearing in the center of his hand. It flickered, and Bobby could see the beads of sweat, the way the blue eyes dilated, brow creasing in concentration before he closed his hand and sighed.

"Fuck you."

"Mmm. Not now." And there it was--laughter like good Godiva chocolate, thick and warm between them and Bobby shifted over until St. John was stretched beside him. Easy thing to shift closer and Johnny didn't jerk away, stiffening only briefly before melting, like the things he heated. Hard, warm body beneath the slick uniform, and Bobby rested his head against the strong shoulder blade, shutting his eyes.

There weren't any dreams.

Or there were, but they were real now.

--Bobby'd been seeing that kid again these last few weeks. The cold place Carol Danvers had made in him that Bobby recognized now. Hard to accept, that Johnny could be here, beautiful and brilliant and bright, but that didn't mean those other spaces weren't still there. But Bobby got it now, like he never did before, not really. Five people dead in Santa Fe in Johnny's fire, and Johnny was mourning for what he wasn't, what he didn't know how to regret.--

It was a--well, shack. Better word impossible, and shack might actually be kind. Four walls that looked like they were made of cracker rejects, roof that was doing a bare job of keeping the snow out, and a small stone fireplace that God alone knew how Johnny had gotten functional.

No sense of time, but it was dark outside, which could be a storm or nightfall, and really, did Bobby give a good damn?

Yes. Maybe. No. If he kept his eyes closed, he was eighteen, and the bed could be his at home. Could be. St. John would be curled up beside him, and Pyro would be only a future possibility. It'd be nice, that.

Reality sucked. Bobby was beginning to wonder if he should believe in it at all. Turning a little, he looked down, studying the hard features, hard even at rest. Solid and so bright even in the darkest parts of him, and still Johnny, down to the profanity used like croutons on salad and the cold behind his eyes that five years in Westchester had never removed, only hidden. Carol's protegee in the flesh, and Rogue had understood why he left them, in the end. Long before Bobby did. Maybe before Johnny did either.

"Mm." Little shiver against him, instinctively shifting closer, moving the mattress. "Go back to sleep, amigo. Freezing to death is easier unconscious. A lot more fun, too."

Brown head against his chest, burrowed under his arm and so warm. Long line of his back and beneath the blanket, Bobby's hand touched a strip of bare skin, silky soft, edge of his top rucked up from sleep. Legs tangled through his, arm thrown around his waist.

Bobby remembered how Johnny liked to touch him.

"I don't freeze to death and neither do you." Bobby lifted himself gingerly on one arm, careful not to move Johnny. "I don't think I'm suppose to sleep with a concussion, though. Wake up and amuse me."

"Fuck you." Johnny burrowed closer and Bobby breathed out at the wet stripe of a tongue across his chest. Should have been a little shock, but it wasn't. Just--familiar.

"That would work too." Bobby thought about it, shutting his eyes at the next lick. Like being tasted. "At least, I'd be awake."

Blue eyes slitted open, checking him out.

"You're concussed." Mildly stated.

"So?" Bobby grinned, letting his hand slide up, falling in the matted hair. Patiently working out the tangles, dried blood flaking off his fingers, dirt falling. Slow, careful, rubbing his fingers deep into Johnny's scalp like he'd always loved, loved now, too. Moving into the touch with a little sigh and a low growl of appreciation like a cat. Arm tightening around him like he was worried Bobby would get away.

Bobby getting away, though, had never been their problem.

"I'm just that kind of guy. Random flash freezing to keep people on their toes too."

He felt Johnny's smile rather than saw it, curled his fingers through the thick hair and tilting Johnny's head up. Eyes closed, mouth curved in a grin, hint of white teeth. Moving down just to taste, no harm in that--quick and fast and so warm that he had to come back and try it again.

Open mouth and letting him in, licking inside. So warm and so good, like snow and heat and how fire had to taste, and Bobby sucked the offered lip, nipping the tongue when it came in range, sucked lightly. Little gasp of pleasure and pain both just like a goad.

Bobby pulled back and dropped a hand to the back of Johnny's neck, curling his fingers around to brush his thumb against the pulse.

"Aren't we supposed to be enemies?" Low, breathless, and no where near no. Bobby grinned as he tilted Johnny's head back, exposing the long line of his throat.

"Truce, remember?" Jugular, pulsing under his tongue. Bit down to get a full-body shudder that had nothing to do with the cold, bright-hot jump of heat in the room, and Bobby lifted his head briefly to stare at the fireplace. "You said you weren't controlling that fire."

"Lied." Johnny's hands were moving--sliding under the leather of his uniform, up his spine. Back down with his nails and Bobby shuddered. "I like to control everything."

"And that's supposed to be a surprise?" Bobby ducked his head again, sucking at the exposed throat. Down over the shoulder, and got a hand down to search for buttons or fastenings on the front of Johnny's uniform. "How the fuck do you put this thing on?" Stiff, like leather, but not quite. Smooth. His fingers loved it, but there were far more interesting things underneath.

"Just a--mmm. Yeah." And dammit, hands leaving his back, going to find whatever magical device held that top together, sitting up to pull it over his head. Oh. That was easy. "You--you, too."

"Right." Bobby sat up, fumbling the remains of his top off, tossing it beside Johnny. "I wonder what the penalty is for fraternization with the enemy?"

Took a second while Johnny laughed. Ten years all right. Different and the same. Too thin, like muscle tied to bone, skin stretched tight over all. All angles and sharp lines. Harder. Just beautiful.

"Bad. I think. Ask Erik. He fraternizes all the time. Or not, 'cause he doesn't call it that." Johnny grinned, leaning over him and finding a nipple. Bobby sucked in a breath, arching. "God, you taste good." Slow, casual licks, like he was tasting a popsicle and Bobby couldn't help chuckling at the bad metaphors he was employing. Too weird. Too, too weird.

Sharp bite and Bobby groaned, arching up instinctively.

"Harder." Johnny's fingers closed over his other nipple, twisting, biting harder, probably bruise and who cared about that anyway? "God, Johnny--"

"Yeah." Breath on his chest, cool on the mouth-dampness and Johnny straddled him, right over his cock, grinding down a little as he settled himself. Braced on his elbows over him, and Bobby buried his hands in the messy hair, pulling him down and taking the warm mouth. Wonderful, familiar, and God, he'd lived *without* this? Why the *fuck* did there need to be a war anyway? "I've missed you."

"Coulda fooled me," Bobby whispered, licking over one high cheekbone. Blood flaking there, no wound though. Sensitive skin of the temple, chin. Bit his jaw hard, leaving his teethmarks, and no question it would bruise. Made him want to mark Johnny everywhere.

"Not like you've been alone," Johnny whispered, letting Bobby roll him over. Long legs around his, heel digging into the back of his thigh as Johnny arched up against him, rubbing hard. Bobby took a breath--so hard and just, well, okay. This was could be maybe should be something near wrong, but why care again? Closed his fingers over Johnny's nipple and twisted, hard, watched the blue eyes shut tight, head going back.

"Being alone and being lonely are different things." Warm skin all over that chest, tight muscle to trace with his tongue. Rough swipes to take it all in, new scars his tongue found without hesitation, familiar texture of old ones. Pushed himself down for better access, and Johnny's stomach was there, close and silky soft skin, fine light hair he licked into place. A sucking bite beneath his navel and Johnny's hands tighten in his hair. Fingers trace the ridged line of scar tissue that dipped from waist to beneath the pants toward his hip. "Fuck. What happened?"

"Few years ago. Got on the wrong side of some FoH. Friendly bunch." Johnny hissed. "Touch--stop teasing."

"Impatient." There was so much to do--Johnny twitched everywhere, erogenous zones like no one's business. Bobby had traced them all once upon a time, and his fingers and his mouth remembered. Remembered even when they didn't want to, remembered on bodies that had never had them. Freaked him out sometimes, but it was body memory all the way and it was--this. Bobby found the zipper, thank God so obvious, jerking it down and peeling the material back. Like a second skin. "I like these pants."

"Fireproof too." Low chuckle and Bobby looked up. Johnny's eyes were closed, one hand slowly circling his nipple. Hot, so hot. "Multitask clothes."

"No underwear," Bobby whispered, and Johnny lifted enough for him to pull the pants off. Long, lean thighs, too thin, hard muscle there too. Scooting down, Bobby tongued his inner thigh. Sucked into the skin hard, licking gently over and pushing his legs apart. "When did you stop wearing underwear?"

"With *those* pants? Mmm. Think about it. Oh--yes, Bobby. Fuck." Hissed breath and Bobby grinned as he skipped over to the other thigh, holding it down to do some serious mauling. Sweat and the taste of whatever material those pants were made of, Johnny just beneath it all.

So--bare. Bobby sat up, lazily unfastening the leather he still wore, feeling Johnny's eyes on him. Reached down, scratching a hand over his own stomach, pushing the zipper down with two fingers and taking a breath at the raw flare of lust. And--

--and the room was getting really, *really* hot, and a glance at the fireplace was revelatory.

"Put it out, Johnny, or we're gonna burn down."

"My--control's better than that." Johnny sucked in a breath and the fire slid back down to embers and Bobby sucked a kiss into the inside of his thigh. "Bobby--fuck, teasing. You always tease."

"You always like it."

So open. Laying there just naked and there was more mistrust in this room than there was melting snow, but never with sex, not with them. Even to the end that still brought Bobby awake at night and avoiding the reach of dawn beneath his blankets like the kid he thought he shouldn't be anymore. Depressing if Bobby wasn't a mutant, hadn't grown up knowing that it was normal. He and the Professor, late at night. Glass of wine, and they didn't talk.

Just sharing the knowing. And maybe the missing, too.

Made him harder. He'd wanted more than that, and a long time ago, he had more. Well, fuck that. Reality was just a clever spin job anyway. So was happiness, come to think of it.

"You like everything," Bobby muttered, pulling Johnny over his thighs. Ass into his lap, shutting his eyes for a moment. Cock red and hot, so hot he could feel it with his hand hovering inches away, ghosting his fingers over it. Johnny stiffened, arching, and Bobby wasn't sure if it was the almost-touch or the words, didn't much care. Slow, careful drop of his head, keeping Johnny's eyes in his, locked together, closing his lips over the head. Salty-sweet taste, achingly familiar, sucking briefly before lifting his head. "Like that?"

"Bastard." His voice shook. "You know--"

Bobby grinned, ducking his head and licking the wet head, easy to go down, all at once, little trick that got Johnny off faster than anything, and man, the first time he'd done it, Johnny'd come before he'd even had a chance to enjoy it. Closed his hands over Johnny's hips, fingering the line of the scar, the hard bone protruding through thin skin, running his nails over every sensitive inch. Sliding beneath and hearing Johnny's groans, twisting up into his mouth, not enough leverage to just fuck.

"Bobby--"

Bobby grinned, sucking a little, keeping the control. All about control, in the end, he couldn't deny it. Fucked his own mouth, eyes closed and just enjoying it. Powerful and so hard he pressed a hand onto his cock through his pants to keep some sort of control, sucking a breath through his nose when he sped up his rhythm, and Johnny was going to come and come *hard*. Opened his eyes when he felt the tell-tale shiver and jerked his own pants down to his knees as he pulled back, closing a cool hand over Johnny's cock.

Johnny yelled something--Bobby's name, select profanity, something anatomically impossible and so hot, so damn hot. Twisting in front of him, sweat standing up in the dim light all over his body. Beautiful.

"Gorgeous," Bobby whispered, and Johnny smiled up at him, floating still. Hot from the orgasm, relaxed, and Bobby slicked his cock quick and fast, pushing two slick fingers inside Johnny. This would work--God it had to, it wasn't like he thought to pack a sex emergency kit but that was sooo going to be on the list for the next X-meeting, no question. And probably only the Professor would know why.

"Bobby--" Looked up, and the hazy blue eyes were staring into his. Moving on his fingers, so tight and spreading his legs wider, pushing up into him. Licking his lips. "Miss me?"

Pulled out--fuck, he was *shaking* now, all over his body, lined up his cock. Hot, so hot and tight and pushing, bracing himself over Johnny and holding those blue eyes.

"You left me."

And thrust *in*.

Oh God oh God, yes, never anything like this, like Johnny--not just hot but *hot*, a little less slick but still okay, still good, still *incredible*, opening himself with fists buried in the blanket they'd kicked off. Bobby leaned over, muscles flexing all along his body at the feel of Johnny so close, licked Johnny's open lips. Held himself carefully over him, getting one of Johnny's hands and pinning it beside his head, just staring down.

"I asked you to come with me," Johnny whispered, fingers tight in his. Legs going up and around his waist, heel digging into his back. Moving into him with that perfect knowledge that no one else, no one else anywhere had *ever* gotten right even by accident. Bobby groaned as Johnny's hand slid over his chest, scratching lines into his skin. "I wanted you to. You said no and you stayed the fuck with them. You *chose* that."

"You should have stayed." Pull out, thrust in, even better, and Johnny was gorgeous when he moved like that, long body writhing and getting hard again between them so fast. It'd been a long time. Too long, but so close. "You should have fucking stayed." Pushing his knees harder into the mattress, getting better leverage, setting up some kind of rhythm that kept this going, so good, so very, very good. His Johnny, like it was only yesterday. Ducked his head and bit down into the warm chest, hard, wishing he could draw blood. Kissing Johnny fast and hard before leaning back and just-- "Mine."

"God, Bobby...."

*Fucking* him, ten years and he'd waited and hoped and made himself miserable and it was, it'd been too *fucking* long to be fair. It wasn't fair, and that just made it hotter. Faster, harder, catching the rhythm he needed, heard Johnny moan and say things that didn't mean anything except they meant that it was Bobby fucking him. Black light and stars glittering in front of his eyes and the fire dancing full and powerful in the fireplace and the whole fucking place might go up in flames all around them and Bobby didn't give a good damn. Whispered into Johnny's skin, licking the sweat.

"Left me, Johnny. Always you. Always." A hard thrust that made Johnny yell and Bobby pushed his elbow farther into the mattress, getting leverage. "Just you." Loved, too, and hated him, but that was part of it. Not fair, not fair, not *fair*.

"Yeah, Bobby." Hoarse whisper and Johnny was hard against his stomach. Tense and tight around him, so close, both of them, he could hold on just long enough, he could--sucked in a breath and blinked sweat from his eyes. "Bobby. Please--"

A blur of feeling--just so hot and so fast and blackout and total, wonderful, endless feeling of release and Bobby couldn't stop moving. Johnny's fingers tightening on his and Bobby was yelling into the ceiling and the snow and the fucking world that he just this second didn't give a shit about.

So good. So, so good.

He'd asked that one, though. Two letters, an email, and a phone call. No, actually, scratch that. He'd burned the letters seconds after writing them, deleted the email, and looked at the phone for fifty minutes before burning the paper scrawled with a number he'd paid a small fortune to get.

One of about ten thousand questions Bobby knew he was never going to get an answer for. Why he was mutant, what had happened the night Johnny had left.

Why he'd *let* him go.

Rolling over, Bobby enjoyed the slow, trickling heat, the total enervation post-orgasm that he sometimes thought he lived for. Johnny, fucked out beyond belief and limp across him, hadn't so much as shifted in response. Smell of sweat and sex and whatever else there was that Bobby was just too damn uninterested to identify. Mouthed the hand he was holding, twisting their fingers together to get to the delicate wrist, feel the blood pounding sluggishly against his tongue.

Everything ached in a wonderful way--his cock, his ribs, probably his concussion too, but hey, concussions turned out to be highly useful and Bobby was wondering if he'd been conditioned to get hard from pain. Something Johnny taught him, maybe. Along with the bitterness. Johnny'd always been multi-talented.

"Hey." Warm breath on his chest.

"Mm." Bobby answered, licking a circle into Johnny's palm. Bit at a finger, then smiled, kissing the back of Johnny's hand lightly before curling his fingers over the bare shoulder so close. Vivid red marks that would be bruises come tomorrow--or later today, or whatever. Such soft skin, like he was at eighteen. Soft and warm and so good. Bobby stared up at the ceiling. "They'll come back when they find me."

"I know." Open mouthed kiss to his chest, licking absently. More simple enjoyment than arousal.

"Need a ride back to the current secret hideout?" Bobby asked the ceiling, felt Johnny's grin and a quick, sharp-bright bite. Mmm.

"Funny."

"Maybe take a vacation instead," Bobby said, and Johnny stiffened. Tried to pull away, but Bobby was stronger, always had been in some ways. There was a flare of heat on that impossibly soft skin, and Bobby ignored it, waiting until Johnny settled back down. Stiff, but at least not fighting. "What? You have plans for new acts of mutant terrorism for the next two weeks or something?"

Low, reluctant laugh.

"Bobby--"

"I'm tired of waiting." It was soft and it was honest, which was a step in the right direction at least. Johnny didn't move--didn't even seem to breathe. Bobby stroked down the long back, the sweat drying into it, the feel of the lines his nails had cut.

"You're serious."

Maybe yes. Maybe no. Probably yes, though, and it was fucked-up, but hey, look at his life. He taught accounting to mutant kids and saved the world between classes. Breathed out and shut his eyes, just feeling. They--them--it was still here. Time didn't mean shit. Intact, fragmented, and *here*.

"Invitation's open, Johnny," he said slowly, and Johnny drew back. Pyro was in bed with him now, but that was okay. Lifting himself awkwardly on his knees beside him, staring down at Bobby with guarded eyes and stiff movements of his body as he dressed.

Johnny did denial like he did sex--very, very well.

"You're crazy. It doesn't mean anything." Bobby could count the bruises in the faint firelight, wondered a little what Mystique would say when she saw him. Grinned to himself.

"Still running, Allerdyce? Thought that was Logan's thing."

He could hear Johnny dressing, the soft pant of his breath, the stiffness of his body when he shut himself up inside, and there'd been others since him--not many, granted. Not enough to wipe the memories or submerge the need. And ten years? God. Ten years he didn't want to really live again, and so yes, he'd let Johnny go the first time, but he'd been a kid and so betrayed and so--God, so young. He hadn't known what he was giving up.

He wasn't sure he could do it again, even if he wanted to.

"Don't, Bobby. That's past." The room was getting hotter faster, the snow swept inside melting and Bobby opened his eyes on the ceiling, thinking quietly.

Ten years.

"How you getting home?"

"I'll figure something out." Johnny breathed out sharply. "It's been several hours. They're probably coming now. You'll be okay."

"You know standard operating procedure as well as I do," Bobby answered easily. "Any minute now."

Little, rough silence of breath and cold, and Bobby grinned as the room cooled, as Johnny brought himself under control, fire dying in the hearth. He stretched on the bed, knowing Johnny was watching. The door opened, more cold, and Bobby laughed, soft and strangely freeing.

"Bobby--" Johnny cut himself off, and Bobby closed his eyes. Listened to everything not said.

"Say no, Johnny. Say never again."

The door shut, leaving silence like a blanket of snow in the shack.

But he didn't say no.

The End

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