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But Not A Real Snow-Man, That's Cruel 1/?

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  • pigwidgeon_the_unholy <pigwidgeon_the_un
    Author s note: Yeah, okay, I ve been kind of dead on the X-Men fic for a while. But I made a real, honest-to-God stupid mistake -- I read the EW article on
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 3, 2003
      Author's note: Yeah, okay, I've been kind of dead on the X-Men fic
      for a while. But I made a real, honest-to-God stupid mistake -- I
      read the EW article on X2 from the end of January. And you know
      what Bobby did, that rat bastard? He peeked over my shoulder and
      said, "Hey, would you look at that? I tell my parents I'm a
      mutant. That could be funny. You should write that. *at my
      ensuing answering sound of righteous indignation* What do you mean,
      you already have five thousand writing projects to finish? Damn it,
      you loved me in my comic-book version! I'm hot! And let me just
      remind you that while I may not be legal, the actor who plays me is!"

      In any event, this story is from Bobby's point of view, and the
      characters encased within this story are owned by someone who isn't
      me. Although I would be interested in buying Shawn Ashmore and his
      brother, as they are identical twins and those are fun to play
      with. (Besides, everyone wants to buy Hugh Jackman and James
      Marsden, and I'll take what I can get.) Having no idea when this
      happens in the movie, I've set it right before everything in the
      movie starts. And I can pretty much guarantee that this is
      definitely NOT how this will play out.

      But Not a Real Snow-Man, That's Cruel

      by Troll Princess

      DAY ONE

      "Mom, I'm pregnant."

      Huh. It's weird, how I can say something like that out loud, but I
      can't manage to blurt out, "Mom, I'm a mutant." Of course, it's not
      exactly like I have the parts to justify that pregnancy announcement
      as fact, but hey, think of the funny mental image. Me, curled up in
      a ball on the television room couch with my big old swollen stomach,
      moaning away while the teachers and the gang go and get me Cherry
      Garcia ice cream until I puke. And I'll look pathetic and sad and
      everyone will feel sorry for my unfortunate teenage pregnancy and no
      one with any sense will bother asking me if Dr. Freeze plans on
      paying me paternity.

      And I'll betcha it was Kitty who knocked me up, too. Bastard.

      I can't help but frown a little at that, though, because like I
      said, it beats that "Mom, I'm a mutant" thing. Yeah, okay, I
      haven't actually gotten around to telling the parental units that
      I'm the one who's been freezing the pipes every summer since I was
      twelve, or that I was the one who cannonballed dead-center into the
      local Polar Bear Club last winter. And hey, let's not forget "that
      guy I know" that could make ice sculptures for my mom's country club
      garden party for dirt-cheap. Yeah, watch me complain. I made out
      like a bandit on that one.

      But here I am, driving home for spring break, and I'm pondering how
      in the hell I'm going to break it to Mom and Dad that I'm God's gift
      to hockey leagues and ice skating competitions everywhere. (I'd
      rather be pondering how to put pants on a monkey, but then again,
      that's what I get for watching that much "Animaniacs" at such an
      impressionable age.)

      "Mom, I'm gay," I say out loud as I switch lanes for the off-ramp to
      my house. Yeah, right. I'm trying to hook up with a girl I can't
      even touch. If that's not astoundingly heterosexual, I don't know
      what is.

      It does start me laughing again, though. "Yes, Mom, I'm coming out
      of the closet," I say as I make a right turn past my favorite
      deli. "I'm a lesbian. You may not get any grandkids out of the
      deal, but I've already got my own sitcom. And don't get snippy with
      me, young lady -- you made me a lesbian. By the way, my friend John
      wants to know if you'll make him one, too, if he gives you the yarn."

      Oh, yeah. I've lost my mind.

      And you're probably wondering what a guy like me is doing acting
      like an adult during a week when, at the very least, I should be
      acting like a toddler who needs to be fed at regular intervals.
      Preferably by nubile bikini-clad Baywatch babes in Cancun, if I
      really got to pick and choose, but from the swarm of hyperactive
      moths that went flying out of my wallet in the general direction of
      greener pastures, Cancun's out of the running. And yeah, I guess I
      could have stayed back at the mansion with most of the rest of the
      gang, eating enough Cheetoes to turn me Neon-Lit-Pumpkin Orange and
      engaging in yet another Alias marathon with John. Of course, that
      much junk food at one time makes my stomach burst into tears and run
      screaming for its mommy, while there's only so many times you can
      watch Alias with John before the drooling gets distracting.

      I was planning on inviting at least one of the others to come with
      me, but in retrospect, maybe it was a better idea just to leave them
      all back at the chock-full-o'-mutants mansion. Considering that
      where two students of Professor Xavier go, an equal number of evil
      mutants, a battalion of fully trained soldiers, and giant laser-
      shooting robots inevitably follow, you'll forgive me for being
      cautious, all right? I'd rather not have the giant Reveal-O happen
      because a large hairy man with fangs is growling at my brother
      Ronny, a blue chick who looks a hell of a lot like me has just
      finished off all of the milk, and angry neighbors are picketing on
      our lawn.

      One more turn, and I'm on our street, the same upper-middle class
      stretch of cookie-cutter houses that would give anyone not born and
      raised here a severe case of diabetes after one glance. Yeah, okay,
      I'll admit it. Bobby Drake, home of the one of the biggest
      groundswells of bitter teenage angst on the Eastern seaboard.
      Should I bring up the girlfriend I can't touch again, or should I
      just gesture wildly in the general direction of Westchester?

      "Home, sweet home," I mutter, pulling into the driveway of my house
      in the battered Chevy Corsica I'd gotten for my birthday two years

      Yeah, home.

      Uh ...


      I don't really have to go in there, do I?

      "Home, sweet, sugary, chocolate-filled, caramel-covered --"

      I wonder how long I can sit in the car like this.

      "-- Chunky-Monkey-flavored, sprinkle-doused, frosting-decorated --"

      You may want to go to the bathroom now. I live with Jubilee. I can
      do this for a while.

      "-- fudge-drizzled, cherry-topped --"

      "Bobby? Bobby Drake, is that you?"

      I flinch at that, because from the sound of it, I've just been
      spotted by my neighbor Mr. Guidolucci, and the last time I saw him I
      was twelve and I accidentally froze his son Dino's tongue to a
      flagpole in July ...

      ... and it is. Oh, God -- buddy, pal, compadre -- I don't remember
      kicking a puppy or killing a nun, but if I did, I am so, <I>so</I>
      sorry. Really.

      "Hey, Mr. Guidolucci," I say, waving as I get out of the car. "Long
      time, no see, huh?"

      Mr. Guidolucci smiles at that, his floppy combover bouncing with
      every waddling step. Either I caught him gardening or burying an
      annoying relative, because he's carrying a trowel in his gloved hand
      and he's dirtier than one of John's better jokes. "Where you been,
      kiddo? Your dad keeps telling everyone you're at some special
      school for gifted kids in Westchester, but you'd think it was Mars,
      for all the times you come back to Port Washington."

      Then he's got the cojones to give me this reprimanding look, like I
      really shouldn't be such a stranger, and I've got to bite back the
      urge to say that if I were any stranger, I'd qualify for membership
      in the Insane Clown Posse.

      "So, what's up with Dino?" I ask, even though I can safely say that
      a.) I don't care, b.) it's definitely not his IQ, which explains why
      he never bothered to tattle on me for that flagpole incident, and
      c.) did I mention I don't care? It's called politeness, people.

      Mr. Guidolucci smiles at that, but it's all tight-lipped and tense,
      like when John told Ororo that if she spent ten bucks on a good box
      of hair dye, she'd look exactly like Halle Berry. "Oh, he's good,
      he's good. Good grades --" Translation: Last week, he got a D, and
      the whole family's thrilled. "-- nice girlfriend --" Closet
      lesbian. Or at least, she will be after dating Dino. "-- gets out
      a lot --" Hasn't been home since June of 2000. "-- plus, he's got a
      great afterschool job." Selling Ritalin to kindergarteners who want
      to fit in.

      I give him my best smug-child-genius-at-snotty-private-school grin,
      then cock my head towards my house and say, "Well, I'd better get
      inside, before the parental units go ballistic."

      Mr. Guidolucci gives me a good-natured pat on the arm, leaving a
      dirty streak in his wake, then wanders off to go back to hide the
      evidence, or whatever the hell he was doing, and giving me an out so
      that I can jog back to my house and make my way in through the side
      door --

      -- which is locked.

      Huh. Well, that's just not fair. William and Madelaine's baby boy
      comes home for the weekend, and they lock him out? What'd I do? I
      mean, aside from the forty-seven hours of back-breaking, mind-
      numbing labor I've heard so much about, I'm practically a little

      Maybe they didn't lock the front door. I'll go run and check.


      Uh, I <I>do</I> live <i>here</I>, right?

      I run back to my car, grab the house keys I normally don't have to
      use to get inside, and let myself in through the side door. (Yay!
      I really do live here! And they didn't change the locks, either!)
      The side door opens into the kitchen, the sterile, gee-I'm-trying-
      hard-to-be-cheery-aren't-I? decorating style that is my mom's forte
      practically blinding me from my first gaze upon it. Mom's belief
      when it comes to interior design is that a house should look live
      in, but not <I>too</I> lived in, like a crumpled page ripped out of
      the bedding section of the Sears catalogue.

      "Hello? Anyone home?"

      No answer.

      Okay, this is just great. No answer, the house is totally quiet, I
      <I>did</I> tell my parents I was coming home for spring break (at
      least, I could have sworn I did) ...

      I duck into the living room, the blood-red walls making it look like
      the Logan's-idea-of-a-good-time I'd been telling the rest of the
      gang I'd thought it would. Frowning at the decided lack of parents
      in the room, I peek under the bottom of the couch. "Okay, you're
      not under the couch," I say ...

      ... right before a thought occurs to me and I smile, maybe more
      because I actually had a thought on what was a technically a weekend
      than anything else. "Maybe there's too many of you to fit under the
      couch," I say loudly, contemplating Mom, Dad, Ronny, and a bunch of
      our nearest and dearest stuffed into the bathroom with a huge
      chocolate cake and brightly wrapped presents. Then again, I think
      about surprise parties I don't deserve when I do something as simple
      as manage to go a day without freezing anyone to a toilet seat, so
      don't trust my precognative abilities too much, okay?


      Still, it never hurts to look in the bathroom.

      I head over to the downstairs bathroom, put on my best aren't-I-
      surprised expression, then fling open the bathroom door. "Heyyy---
      yaack!" I yelp, jumping at the sight of my little brother Ronny
      standing on the other side of the door, staring at me like I've got
      eels hanging out of my ears while he --

      Wait a sec. What is he doing with that sock monkey?

      Okay, you know what? I don't want to know. Bobby Drake, out of the
      loop and proud of it.

      "Jesus, Ronny, you scared the hell out of me," I say.

      Ronny frowns at the intrusion, looking about twelve years younger
      than the thirteen I've heard a nasty rumor that he is. "Oh, it's

      "I love you, too?" I ask sarcastically, then point behind me towards
      the rest of the house and say, "Where are Mom and Dad?"

      Ronny shrugs, ducking past me into the kitchen and making me trail
      along after him like a lost puppy. "Dad's got his weekly poker game
      at the country club. Mom's shopping in the city."

      Oh, you've got to be kidding me. "You mean, they knew I was coming
      home today, and they didn't bother to stay home? Throw me a
      surprise party? Maybe buy me an attack pony or something?"

      Ronny stares at me for a long, loooooong minute as he grabs a bag of
      Doritos from the cupboard, then, with a confused shake of his head,
      he walks past me again and heads up the stairs.

      So let me get this straight. I come home for the week because, hey,
      look at Bobby with all of the mature thinking and the not wanting to
      hide anything anymore and the total swallowing fear that my parents
      will find out I'm a freak the same way John's did and the result
      won't be half as pretty. And my parents, my loving, adoring
      parents, decided stealing from the rich and giving to the clerks at
      Macy's was more fun.

      Damn it.

      You know what I need right now? A nice, relaxing bath.


      I don't think I need to say this out loud, but I haven't taken a hot
      bath since I was twelve. Of course, I haven't taken a hot anything
      for a long time, but this is probably one of my weirder quirks.

      See, most people ... they get tense, they take a hot bath. They put
      in bubbles and bath salts and a rubber duckey and everything's just
      fine and dandy. Meanwhile, I'm filling the bathtub halfway up with
      cold water and lugging ice cubes upstairs from the freezer to dump
      into the bath. (And before you say anything, it's called a
      <I>relaxing</I> bath because I don't have to make anything, okay?)

      So in essence, what I experienced an hour ago in the privacy of my
      own bathroom (and thank God for that) looked vaguely like that urban
      legend about the guy whose kidneys were stolen. Sometimes, I half-
      expected to open my eyes and see "Call 911" written on the bathroom
      mirror in bright pink lipstick.

      Anyway, once the bath started getting lukewarm, it lost most of its
      appeal, which is why I'm currently standing in the kitchen in a T-
      shirt and track sweats with my head in the fridge. Not because of
      the bath but more because I know there are little Jell-O cups in
      here, damn it -- or at least, in a kind and decent world, there
      would be -- and I'm going to find them if it kills me.

      Why? Because I haven't had dinner, that's why not. And the reason
      why not is because it's --

      Wow. It's ten o'clock already? Time flies when you're angsting
      more than the entire cast of "Dawson's Creek", apparently.

      And still no Mom and Dad.

      Would you look at that? A complete and total lack of surprise.

      I finally fish out the Jell-O cups that I knew had to be in the
      fridge -- even if my parents were conspicuously absent from most
      every important event in my life, the company that makes Jell-O had
      always been there for me -- and dig out a spoon from the silverware
      drawer, which is gratefully exactly where I left it.

      Hopping up to sit on the countertop, I grab the phone, silently
      debate whether or not making this phone call is going to make me
      feel worse than I already do, then figure what the hell and dial.
      It rings one, two, three times, and then finally, someone picks the
      damn thing up.

      What I hear on the other end of the receiver feels more comfortable
      and familiar than anything I've felt since I walked in the door.

      "I've got it, I've got --" *thunk* "Ow, you big heavy zebra-
      striped hornball! I said I got it!" With a determined clearing of
      her throat, Jubilee speaks directly into the receiver this
      time. "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. You mutate 'em, we
      educate 'em."

      "I thought Scott told you to stop answering the phone like that."

      She groans at that, then says, "Okay, it's called Caller ID, ice-
      chest. You left your phone number behind, remember? Besides, if
      Scott's so worried about going incognito, he might want to remove
      the giant Viewmaster that's attacking his face."

      Point to Jubes, I think with a smile.

      "So how's things on the homefront? Did you get disowned yet?"

      "Not from a lack of trying," I say with a frown. "Is Marie there?"

      "Oh, sure. Actually, she's been trying to grab the phone -- hey!"
      A heavy rustling sound comes over the line, followed by a loud
      squeal. "-- for the past two minutes, but I've been trying to see
      if I could get her to go farther with me than she has with you --"

      I laugh with amusement at that. "Wouldn't take much," I mutter.

      "I heard that!" I hear, in a familiar, soft, yet growling Southern

      More rustling. "Hey, let go of that, Mississippi! I don't know
      where it's been!" A second later, there's an oomph, and finally the
      voice I've been hoping for carries over the line.

      "Hello. Bobby, you still there?"


      Another thunk, then, "Well, come home! You're missing --"

      "Jubilee, go away!"

      "-- some quality prankage here! After you left, we put racing
      stripes on the Professor's wheelchair!"

      I can't keep myself from laughing at that one, and I'm pretty sure
      it's the mental image of Professor Xavier done up like Super Dave
      Osbourne that does it. Racing stripes? I'd like to think that was
      Jubilee's idea, but if that doesn't have John Allerdyce written all
      over it, I'll eat my superhero costume -- you know, when I get
      one. "Do I want to even know how you pulled that off? Or whether
      or not you took pictures?"

      "It's called the twenty-first century, Frosty. Check your email."
      What then follows is a muffled sound that I guess is the sound of
      Jubilee getting elbowed in the stomach and flopping backwards over
      the back of the couch.

      "Ah don't know why John suggested we do it," Marie mutters into the
      phone, confirming my suspicions. "The four of us are the only
      suspects left in the mansion."

      From behind her, I can almost picture Jubilee popping up from the
      floor like the other half of a really lame comedy team as I hear, "--
      and tassles on the armrests and a cute wicker basket with little
      plastic flowers and a dirty deck of cards in the spokes --"

      "Shut it, Jubilee!" Marie shouts. "If Bobby wants to know what
      we've been doing all afternoon, he's going to have to pick up his
      cold yet adorable butt and --" This time, she yells into the
      receiver. And, ouch. "-- come home!"

      I wince at that, then glance around my quiet, toasty-warm kitchen,
      the only sounds in the house the constant zombie-killing special
      effect coming from Ronny's room, and I can't help but frown.


      You know, for a second there, I thought I <I>was</I> home.


      TBC ...
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