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FIC: Conversations Take Four: Evening: 1/1: PG-13: St. John, Rogue, St. John/Bobby

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  • Jenn
    Title: Conversations Take Four: Evening Author: jenn (jenn@igg-tx.net) Codes: St. John, Rogue, St.John/Bobby,(pre-L/R) Rating: PG-13 Series: On Love and
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 26, 2001
      Title: Conversations Take Four: Evening
      Author: jenn (jenn@...)
      Codes: St. John, Rogue, St.John/Bobby,(pre-L/R)
      Rating: PG-13
      Series: On Love and Lust at Mutant High #13
      Summary: St. John has a little talk with Rogue. Bonding over blankets.
      It's always fun.
      Author Notes: Sare for a thought that hasn't quite dissipated yet. And
      for promises of bathtub and handcuffs fic. Trust me, hon, that's
      Archiving: List, otherwise ask
      Feedback: With coffee this morning, and perky thoughts. Though my coffee
      sucks, and I think I'll be switching back to apricot tea.


      "Are you mad at me or somethin'?"

      St. John looked up from his bed, a little startled, shifting so he could
      see Bobby as he got dressed. Jeans, nice shirt, hair still wet from the
      shower. Very delicious. Question asked. He had to answer. Was he?


      Shit, he wasn't sure. Was he mad at Bobby?

      Bobby, however, took it at face value and finished dressing, grabbing his
      shoes from the closet and dropping on his bed to put them on.

      "You sure you don't wanna go?" Nothing more than curiosity, question
      dismissed from mind. St. John had said no, therefore no issue of anger.
      Didn't occur to Ice Boy that maybe St. John wasn't even sure of the answer
      to the question. Sometimes, Bobby-boy had all the sensitivity of a goat
      chewing on aluminum cans. St. John shook his head quickly (imagery of
      Bobby chewing thoughtfully on a can notwithstanding), turning back to the
      magazine, but the thought wouldn't leave his head, and why wouldn't it
      anyway? It was a simple question that he hadn't been able to find an
      answer to. Was. He. Mad. At. Bobby. Question mark. Damn, he had no

      "Okay. We'll be late, so I guess I'll see you at breakfast." Looking
      uncertain. Maybe a little nervous, and St. John nodded absently, waving a
      hand goodbye while he kept his focus on the magazine like it was the most
      interesting thing on the planet, not realizing until several seconds later
      that it was upside down. Damn, don't let Bobby see that. A pause, then
      the sound of Bobby's feet going to the door, the door opening and closing,
      and down the hall Bobby went, to club and maybe make out with Kitty.

      Shit. He rolled on his back and closed his eyes, letting the magazine
      slither to the floor.

      This was so not the person he wanted to be. St. John did not sit around in
      some sort of weird Dawson's Creek-esque brooding thing, waiting patiently
      for his Joey--or whoever the hell was with whom these days--to figure out
      the Meant To Be portion of the show that was pretty much self-evident to
      everyone but the one languished after. He was a mutant, not a teen angst
      victim, and there it was.

      Grabbing his pillow and a spare blanket, he got up and decided to find
      something else to do. Like, now. Before he caught himself doing something
      worse, like pulling out that damn picture and using it for recreational
      purposes, and *why* in the name of God had he asked Rogue to do that?
      Though it was a damn good picture. She could really draw.

      Five steps out the door, right downstairs, it was a warm night, he'd go
      outside, maybe meditate or contemplate the trees or read his magazine--the
      magazine that was on his floor and shit, now he'd have to go back for it.
      Shit. Turning, he stormed back halfway down the hall and was startled by a
      sound that he knew--*knew*--he could not possibly have heard. Because
      Kitty and Jubes were clubbing with Bobby and Remy, and Rogue was probably
      trying to convince Logan that she'd love to be drawn naked or whatever the
      hell it was they did behind that door, and while it might not be sex or any
      variation thereof, he knew it couldn't all be sleep.

      No one could sleep that much.

      But there was that sound, and it sounded like he felt--which was bad and
      almost enough to make him walk by the girls' door. Almost. However, not
      exactly in the emotional peace and stability zone himself, there was
      something appealing about being able to share the misery. He pushed the
      door open to see Rogue curled on her bed, crying.

      And that stopped him, because aside from that one day, he'd never seen her
      cry. Rogue fought for what she wanted or she worked for what she wanted.
      Rogue just didn't cry. Period.

      Rogue didn't look up, didn't even react, which in some way made it worse,
      because Rogue of all people was hyperaware of her surroundings, always
      worried about someone coming too close--and all those reflexes of hers were
      good, damn good. Pausing, somewhere in him he knew she wouldn't like this,
      not at all, not being seen when she wasn't in control.

      "Rogue?" Fuck it. He felt like crap, she felt like crap, they should
      definitely feel like crap together. That's the whole point of having
      friends, after all.

      Head came up, so sharply he knew she'd definitely been too lost in her own
      misery to even guess someone else was around. Stared at him a second
      through red-rimmed eyes, startlement replaced instantly by anger. One
      hand, covered in the edge of her sheet, came out to swipe angrily at her

      "Oh fuck, get the hell out, Johnny."

      As bitchiness went, it was pretty subdued. For Rogue, anyway.

      He almost did too--he knew all about wanting to curl up somewhere and not
      let anyone see you. He could write the fucking treatise on the subject,
      truth be told. And so far as he could tell, it'd never done anything but
      made him feel that much worse and he usually ended up with an upper level
      temperature that required another hour of meditation to bring down, a
      headache, and a seriously nasty attitude for hours later directed at anyone
      who crossed his path.

      So instead, he hoisted his pillow higher and secured his blanket under his
      arm, Under Rogue's startled eyes, he walked across the room, climbing over
      her to sit against the wall, dropping his pillow beside hers. Gave her a
      speaking look before pushing her blankets down and sliding under them, then
      bracing himself on an elbow to look down at her.

      "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" She was too startled to be
      angry, which was good, because Rogue-anger tended to be verbal and lengthy
      and sometimes, on the training ground, ended up bruising. So to speak.

      "Talk." Settling himself, he found the edge of her blanket, pulling it up
      to his hips, and looked startled when she rolled over completely, reddened
      eyes staring reproachfully into his. "Look, if this is about the fire

      "Yeah, sugar, that was interesting." She straightened a little, then
      shifted so an arm was tucked neatly under her head. "How the hell bored
      did you get to start superheating metal like that? And where the hell did
      you do it? Even the sublevels went off."

      St. John shifted, looking innocently at the far wall.

      "Oh, you were down there?"

      An odd expression crossed her face.

      "Yeah. You're just lucky you didn't get caught. What, you and Bobby-boy
      decide to play game of chicken with the building or somethin'?"

      He'd figured she'd know what happened. Didn't guess why, and that was
      good. Let's keep it that way, Johnny-boy.

      "Where's Logan?" he asked, pushing one of her legs over and wishing he'd
      grabbed his bike gloves. Oh well--he had his blanket tucked between them.
      Glancing down at her, he took in the dark blue t-shirt and when he'd kicked
      her he'd felt the flannel pajama bottoms and the cotton socks she always
      wore to bed.

      Another odd expression.

      "Um--he and Cyke and Co went on a mission. They won't be back til later,
      so--I'm here tonight."

      Here tonight. Not asleep in Logan's room where they had a several-day
      streak of good-Rogue nights, not even a peep in the hall--either she was
      sleeping better or Logan did a better job than them at getting her up.
      Shifting a little more, St. John finally got comfortable and caught her
      eye. A delicate flush stained her cheeks and he suddenly wondered if she'd
      really taken the Leaders' little talk to heart. Shit, and she'd be pissed
      as hell if she knew they'd listened in on it, too, which meant approaching
      it directly was so out of the question.

      Before he could get a way to put the thoughts together, Rogue rolled over
      on her side to face him, one gloved hand (she slept in gloves when she was
      alone? What kind of weird emergency would she need gloves for during
      sleep?) going out to tentatively touch his shoulder.

      "You gonna talk to Bobby anytime soon?" she asked, and St. John knew he
      flushed, and not a delicate Roguey-flush either. Something hot and bright
      that he knew was rushing over his entire body. Rogue snickered and her
      fingers dropped away and he caught them quickly with his free hand.

      "Men don't talk."

      "You're eighteen, sugar. You're not a man."

      He snorted.

      "Thanks, Roguey. I need that, you know? Just on top."

      Her smile faded a little and she tilted her head to look at him, but she
      didn't pull her hand away.

      "Johnny--you know I don't give a good damn who is with who 'round here, ya
      know? But you and Bobby--honey, this has been several months. Just sit
      him down, explain what's goin' on in your head. He's not stupid, he's a
      good boy. Just--dense. You're not makin' it clear."

      "He wants you." And there was no way there had been actual resentment in
      his voice--no way in hell. Rogue sighed, shaking her head.

      "He wants the idea of me, sugar. He doesn't know me." Another sigh, and
      he shifted a little closer--Rogue did her best difficult sharing when there
      was physical contact, her greatest level of comfort achieved. He supposed
      she associated it now with trust, since the only ones who touched her were
      her friends, and of course, Logan. At his motion, she lifted her head and
      he carefully slid an arm under her head, and her face was neatly against
      his clothed shoulder. "He likes--he likes the idea of something broken he
      gets to fix. He wants to be the one to do it, to make me better. He
      doesn't understand--he doesn't get that I'm not fixable."

      "Rogue, that's bullshit. There's nothing--"

      "Hush." Absently, her hand felt the skin of his wrist--she was
      concentrating now. "Johnny, you and the others--you've seen some things.
      But--I'm not fixable. I'm gonna be broken for the rest of my life. I'm
      never gonna be just me again, with only my own thoughts in my head. I'm
      always gonna be--more. And less, I guess." She blew out a breath and he
      felt her relax against him. "I don't sit around and mull the whole 'Rogue
      will be deprived of human contact' thing, because I'm not, in every way
      that counts. But--" she lifted her hand from his, taking her glove between
      her teeth and pulling it off, showing off the white skin. "See this? My
      weapon, whether I want it to be or not."

      He looked at the bare hand, the long fingers, taking the sheet in his hand
      and carefully brushing his fingers along her skin, looking at the almost
      healed wounds. Left hand hadn't taken the heavy damage of her right hand.

      "I'm not afraid of you."

      She drew in a shuddering breath.

      "You don't hafta be, sugar. I'm scared every single minute for you. For
      all of you."

      Ouch. St. John wrapped the fingers in his hand, drawing her closer, not
      liking how that sounded. Wondered what it must be like, to take their
      casual touches and be afraid all of the time. Hating the Leaders, because
      he knew that Rogue just wasn't the type to brood like this--they'd put
      these thoughts back in her head and she was sitting in here alone, away
      from Logan's room, because they'd shattered her control again and she
      didn't want to be unbalanced in front of Logan. Running the sheet-covered
      hand up her arm, he finally came to her face.

      "If I lose control, I can cremate you in under fifteen seconds. Not even
      water vapor left."

      Her eyes widened a little, a quick breath from between parted lips.

      "Bobby once gave a girl at a club frostbite. Just when he kissed her.
      Kitty had quite a thriving career as a street thief before she came here
      and once phased through a wall with a seventy foot drop on the other side.
      Jubes--well, ask Jubes one day about Los Angeles. Logan put nine inches of
      adamantium through your body during a dream, and ole Mr. Summers is death
      with two eyes if he even stumbles and his glasses come loose. You're not
      the only one with issues, babe. There's a damn good reason we're all here
      and not wandering the world lookin' for something to destroy." A pause.
      "I'm not scared of you, Rogue. You can't do anything to me that I can't do
      to myself just as well or more thoroughly."

      "I don't have your control."

      "You will."

      He meant it, knowing her, knowing the will that hid underneath her smiles
      and behind her dark eyes.

      "Bobby--" he stopped, sighing softly. Knowing she wasn't going to let it
      drop. And shit, he'd dragged out her personal life, so he supposed she
      deserved the same in return. "If he wants--more--he'd know, right?"

      "Not if you don't even give him the option." A pause, and she reached
      down, pulling her glove back on, and he felt cool leather against his face,
      a contrast to the heat he felt at thinking of Bobby. "Is he bein'
      particularly dense? Yeah. He's eighteen and all hormoney or whatever.
      Johnny--he ain't touchin' anyone but you. And trust me, I'd know. He
      thinks of it--as friends, you know? With benefits, I guess the term would
      be. You want serious, he don't know that." Her mouth quirked. "And
      makin' out with Kittycat and Jubes on one night probably didn't cement in
      his mind the idea that he's more than a friend to you."

      Fuck. Drinking night.

      "Who said I want anything serious?" Wow, and he really *couldn't* sound
      any less convincing.

      "The fact that you haven't said you don't. Not to him, not to me. Your
      silence on the subject is just deafening, sugar. I know all about wantin'
      things you think you can't have. But--you gotta jump. Just do it. Walk
      in, sit him down, get some things straight. I think he'll respond well."

      "Or he'll say fuck no and walk out, and I've lost my best friend."

      For a second, he saw something flicker in her eyes, something that was both
      hope and fear.

      "I know." Almost a whisper. "Trust me, sugar, I know all about that."

      They were both quiet and he watched the movement of her mouth and carefully
      shifted onto his back. She began to pull away--and he did want her to
      sleep comfortably, so he let her. Grabbed his blanket and tucked it over
      her arm, and pulled her back with a grin, so her face and body were rested
      on a very well-covered arm and chest. Absently, one gloved hand rested on
      his chest, drawing idle circles, and he was an adolescent, that did things.
      Grinning, he shook his head.

      "You don't have to stay, Johnny."

      "You sleep better when you're not alone," he answered. "I do love you,
      babe, but I'm not gonna be dragged back in here from my room because you
      take a bad trip through your own dreams. Conveniently, I'll be right here
      to wake up. Save me a trip through cold halls. Go to sleep."

      "Yes, sir," she muttered but he heard the edge of amusement in her voice.
      "Tell me you're gonna talk to Bobby."

      Turning his head, he felt her hair brush his cheek.

      "I'll talk to Bobby."

      "Cool." He listened to the pattern of her breathing. "And Bobby's right,
      sugar. You *are* warm."

      That brought both his eyes wide, but she snickered and he heard her
      drifting off to sleep. Oddly comforted by the girl in his arms, he went to
      sleep too.

      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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