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FIC: Kept Awake: 1/1: PG-13: Bobby/St. John, Rogue

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  • Jenn
    Title: Kept Awake Author: jenn (jenn@igg-tx.net) Codes: St. John, St. John/Bobby, a little Rogue, (pre-L/R) Rating: PG-13, slash Series: On Love and Lust
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 21, 2001
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      Title: Kept Awake
      Author: jenn (jenn@...)
      Codes: St. John, St. John/Bobby, a little Rogue, (pre-L/R)
      Rating: PG-13, slash
      Series: On Love and Lust at Mutant High #1
      Summary: Rogue's appearance among the kids of Mutant High causes issues.
      St. John takes some action. Boys being boys with boys. Always fun.
      Author Notes: I just feel slashy today. Dedicated to Nacey for introing
      the pairing well enough for me to get a feel for the entire concept and
      partially in response to Shade's challenge to write something that isn't
      L/R (sorry, Toad doesn't make an appearance). Rogue cameos. I like her.
      Thanks to Ann and Beth for the quick on-line critiques.
      Archiving: List only, otherwise ask
      Feedback: Smiled over with coffee, used as muse-food, and generally keeps
      me perky.


      St. John was on the unvarnished wood floor outside Rogue's room for the
      fifth night in a row contemplating the plaster wall opposite him. At least
      this time, he remembered to bring a blanket, covering his slim body and
      tucked around his feet. So it wasn't the most comfortable place in the
      world. So it didn't make the top ten list for places to hang out. He was
      here, and the plaster was pretty fascinating. Really.

      The dorms were more than merely the metaphorical warehouse for superheroes
      in training to be stored--they were the closest to family most of the kids
      had anymore. It was no surprise how quickly normal human social structure
      was adapted for use in the new environment, the cliques that developed, the
      stormy relationships born more of proximity than compatibility. Kitty and
      Jubes' close friendship, for one--however the hell they managed to get
      along was a mystery.

      New mutants came in without expectations of anything at all except a vague
      hope that sleeping wouldn't be a dangerous occupation any longer and
      regular meals becoming more than a rare luxury. It took time for them to
      awaken to the simple fact that just because they were mutants didn't
      exclude them from being adolescents.

      When Rogue came, however, a lot of things changed, and not only because she
      was young and pretty with an attractive number of issues and an unconscious
      knack for making men fall over themselves to protect her. Not because her
      classification was alpha and she was temptingly dangerous in a way that men
      tended to find more irresistible than repellant, and not because she slept
      badly and had the boys lining up to comfort her through her
      nightmares--including St. John's erstwhile roommate Bobby, the whole reason
      St. John was on the floor right now contemplating the plaster. She threw
      things because she was the one who among them had lived the longest on her
      own--didn't someone say eight months?--and in her short time among them had
      survived two near-death experiences and managed to walk away with nary a
      scratch on perfect porcelain, highly toxic skin.

      In short, she was their first living taste of their future career of choice
      and that just made them all settle down to think a little more than
      strictly healthy. Excluding her wasn't conscious--if anything, her
      mutation made her more one of them than many of the other, less
      genetically-enhanced mutants that wandered around and actually had a pretty
      good chance of a normal life without having to be paranoid about loosing
      themselves on the world without warning. Which every alpha knew
      intimately, normal life was never gonna work for them, no matter how much
      they wanted it or how they tried.

      St. John supposed, as he crouched outside Rogue's door while Bobby
      comforted her through another nightmare, that resenting someone as nakedly
      scarred as Rogue was like trying to resent his cells for doing their little
      genetic polka in the wrong direction. DNA strands were about as impervious
      to hate as they come--how do you fight yourself? As a rule, St. John liked
      himself pretty well, fire-starting capabilities notwithstanding, and if he
      lost his abilities tomorrow, he'd miss it with the same longing he'd
      attribute to any other sense. So hating the girl was not an option, even
      if sometimes when he heard Bobby shuffling out of their room after a long
      day of training, he would have cheerfully covered her head with a pillow
      and left Jubilee a note to take it off when the girl fell unconscious.

      Faintly, he could hear Bobby, talking her down while she tried to switch
      back into a language they could understand--half the time she had no idea
      what she was saying and they didn't have a resident interpreter to tell
      them what the problem was when Rogue woke up with someone else trying to
      speak through her mouth. Sometimes German, Polish, crossing into British
      English without effort, and the rare occasions she screamed in Japanese
      that really couldn't be attributed to Magneto, and St. John wondered if
      someone should maybe inform Wolverine that if he spent a few hours with
      Rogue, he might find out more about his past than he would at burned out
      missile silos on the other side of the country.

      Maybe if Wolverine was back, someone else could take up babysitting duties
      for their resident schizophrenic and Bobby would stop following her around
      like a puppy asking to be kicked. Vicious thoughts, and St. John bit his
      lip against them and tuned himself back down when he felt the heat begin in
      the palms of his hands that always signaled a flare-up that would turn on
      every fire alarm in the place (too fucking sensitive for their own good,
      damn it) and bring Mr. Summers running with a worried expression and Dr.
      Grey to hunker down beside him and poke him until she understood what set
      him off this time.

      This time. There wasn't going to *be* a 'this time', that was for certain,
      and shifting his legs he let himself slide to the floor and braced his
      forearms on his knees, waiting patiently until Rogue's voice finally
      stilled and another five minutes for Bobby to walk out.

      "Hey," Bobby whispered, once the door was closed, and the close-cropped
      blonde hair shone a little as he looked down, eyes lost in shadow. "You

      "Just a little insomnia," St. John answered, extending a now-safe hand for
      Bobby to pull him up, resettling the blanket over one shoulder. "She

      "Think so. Won't talk about it this time--guess it was the Lab again."

      The Lab. Didn't need more information than that. The Lab, the Statue, the
      Concentration Camp, the Big Ones so to speak, the ones that brought the
      resident telepaths awake until they'd disciplined themselves back to sleep
      through it. Rogue didn't accept comfort from Dr. Grey, from Professor
      Xavier, even from her friends--that she took it from Bobby was probably
      more because of his utter determination to be of use than any particular
      affection on her part. Vicious thoughts again, and St. John genuinely
      liked Rogue for the person she was, even if getting to know her was just on
      this side of impossible. She played with them and worked with them and
      joked with them, but everyone felt the slight and deliberate distance she
      kept, the fact that behind her eyes at least four different personalities
      were in a constant state of flux and no one was ever quite sure which girl
      would wake up in the morning or go clubbing with them in the evening or
      wake them up at night.

      Bobby seemed tired, no surprise with the fifth night running that Rogue's
      distress had pulled him out of bed, and St. John absently ran a hand down
      the younger boy's back--just past his eighteenth birthday and finally
      beginning to control his mutation well enough not to freeze random items
      under stress. Early days remembered with affection when St. John woke up
      to a room with Robert-specific air-conditioning and always knew that
      anything liquid in their room had a snowball's chance in hell of staying
      liquid for the night.

      A good reason St. John had never been tempted to buy a pet fish and always
      got up thirty minutes before Bobby to defrost everything so there would be
      no sign of a bad night apparent when the he finally woke up. Luckily,
      Bobby subscribed to the late morning way of life, making St. John's
      personal quest that much easier.

      "You're tense," he told him, and Bobby grinned a little as they walked in
      their room. Without much thought, he dropped on St. John's bed, nearest
      the door, and he proceeded kneel behind Bobby to rub the knotted muscles
      along shoulders and back, absently removing the shirt that covered him and
      Bobby equally absently tossing it on the floor by the rug.

      "Jean said she'd be getting better soon and it ain't happenin'. Shit, that
      feels good, Johnny. Don't stop."

      Normal human skin temperature was somewhere near ninety-eight point
      six--St. John knew his own fluctuated between ninety-six after a draining
      use of his mutation and tended to hop upward into the low hundreds during
      stress or before a fight. Bobby went the opposite--dropped under stress,
      and the skin beneath his fingers was marvelously cool and smooth. He
      enjoyed it more than was really necessary, lingering on the line of his
      spine, over the slim waist, and he didn't even realize how he gave himself
      away until Bobby half turned on the bed in surprise (shit, St. John you're
      way more tired than you thought, to slip like that) and his hands moved
      instinctively over the bare chest before a belated reality check made him
      snatch his hands down.

      They'd been friends for too long to be anything but at ease, even with the
      sudden shift that he really shouldn't have let happen like that--they'd
      shared a bed through their own nightmare days and picked up girls at clubs
      together and shit, they'd been around to watch each other lose their
      virginity, though Bobby's experience went a little less smoothly than
      anticipated and had pretty much cured him of bringing girls home who didn't
      get the reality of waking up with a guy who might accidentally freeze their
      underwear to the floor or a roommate who spent the morning patiently
      defrosting the leftover beer before pouring it out.

      Hell, there wasn't anything they hadn't done together--except comfort Rogue
      and this. And this was something that St. John was relatively sure Bobby
      wasn't within a good mile of being anywhere near ready for.

      Bobby's caught his hand, clear ice blue eyes wide and uncertain--knowing
      him as well as he did, St. John had expected something a little more along
      the lines of leaping from the bed in a single embarrassed movement and
      retreating to his own, and was already resigning himself to a morning of
      trying to unfreeze the clothes in their closet before Bobby woke up in
      abject humiliation at his loss of control. But the uncertainty was
      followed up with the lightest stroke across his cheek, eyes narrowing a
      little in thought and the lack of experience was obvious, when Bobby didn't
      know what to do.

      As stated, the devirginizing incident hadn't been as successful as hoped,
      though the sex thing had worked out well enough, that or the girl had been
      a champion faker.

      Experience was something St. John had, though, and in more than theory, and
      hell, opportunity was opportunity. He leaned into the touch, feeling the
      fingers, cooler every second, slide down his cheek, over his neck, slowly
      to the edge of his t-shirt. Keeping focus on the blue eyes, St. John
      reached down and pulled it up over his head, tossing it aside and turning
      his head enough to catch an inch of cool flesh between his teeth, feeling
      the jerk of the body before him more than seeing it. Keeping his gaze on
      Bobby, he ran a hand along the captured arm, following the line of bone and
      developing muscle, then leaning forward to brush a careful kiss against
      cool lips. Measuring the reaction through the tension of the arm under his

      Of course, Bobby never did the expected.

      Raising himself on his knees, he responded enthusiastically, always a good
      thing, and St. John was on his back with Bobby's tongue so far down his
      throat that it was a toss up whether sheer pleasure or his auto gag reflex
      would win in the end. Pleasure did of course--tilting his head to give
      better access, burying his hands in short blonde hair, the strong, hairless
      chest rubbing against him in a welcome coolness as he felt his temperature
      jump and fought to bring it down. Hands working the edge of his sweatpants
      and tracing all the skin in reach, Bobby's free hand buried in his hair and
      he'd never been kissed as if he was about to be eaten alive--and he
      couldn't say he didn't like it, even with a clumsy brush of teeth that cut
      his lip and the taste of blood thickening on his tongue.

      If he was ten years older or five pounds lighter, if he hadn't trained for
      three years, he never would have had the strength to roll them on their
      sides; Bobby's body was remarkably heavy. This put them back as equals,
      stroking the sweep of muscled back--but he didn't want to frighten him,
      which he had a good idea Bobby would be once the endorphins worked their
      way out of his system. Licking along the corner of Bobby's mouth, tasting
      the cool and sensitive skin of his throat, following the trace of the
      artery pulsing rapidly under the pale flesh.

      "Yes, Johnny, that's great," Bobby whispered, the fingers in his hair
      tightening and he bit sucked lightly just under one ear. "God, you're
      warm." Curious hands stroking every available inch of exposed skin,
      cooling him down better than any internal controls could have--there were
      advantages to touching someone with their own built-in refrigeration. He
      paused at the hollow of the exposed throat and Bobby was on his back,
      arching like a cat being stroked in just the right way, and there was
      nothing to do but grin and enjoy the body stretched beneath his.

      Another kiss, lacking the spontaneous strength of the first, a slow
      exploration of a mouth that tasted cool and almost minty, tracing the edges
      of teeth and twisting himself in knots just to get closer and see how much
      taste he could get. It was long and delicious and he'd lowered his entire
      weight on Bobby, cool hands massaging his back and sliding just under the
      edges of gray sweatpants and the touch against sensitive skin was enough to
      make him shiver.

      "Johnny?" Traces of nervousness, suddenly being snapped from the endorphin
      rush, and St. John lifted his mouth, stroking dampening blonde hair back
      gently and grinned. Without another word, Bobby shifted until he could
      pull the blankets from under them and John settled down beside his best
      friend in silence, with Bobby's forehead pressed against his shoulder and a
      cool hand on his chest.

      They didn't say anything, but with the shift of Bobby's body closer and the
      movement of one leg over his, St. John expected that maybe this could work
      after all.

      If only Rogue would just sleep through the night, damn it.

      The End.


      --Sociopaths are people too. And they generally enjoy life more.--Sare on
      Logan During Email Beta of "Illusions Part III"

      --There's a difference between logan liking the occational kill and him
      practically writing a treatise on how it's the perfect solution to nearly
      every problem under the sun...--Sare on Logan's sociopathic tendencies
      during AIM chat, same beta

      --"Have you ever found yourself so mad at someone that you had to either
      fuck them or kill them?"--Logan on being reasonable (A Reasonable
      Compromise by Fyrdrakken)

      -- "Oh, that. I *mostly* like women � I'm just willing to be flexible
      every now and then. Doesn't bother me any."--Logan on sex (A Reasonable
      Compromise by Fyrdrakken)
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