"Devil's in the Details" Pyro, R, X2
- Title: Devil's in the Details
Author: Serial Karma (serial_karma@...)
Summary: It's all about the details
Disclaimer: St. John and all the others belong to Marvel, not me.
Archive: Sure, just let me know.
Feedback: always welcome
Notes: thanks to Jess and Heatherly for the read-throughs, but
especially for the encouragement.
It was the little details, always, that drew him back.
Strawberry ice cream, Bobby's favorite.
A pair of long white gloves in the window of a fancy women's dress
store, pearl buttons at the wrist just like the pair Rogue was
wearing that day.
The click of heels on polished wood floors, a quick cadence like Dr.
Grey's purposeful stride.
A flash of lightning on an otherwise still night, or a sudden
cloudburst on a sunny day.
The swirl of smoke from his cigarette that mimicked the icy breath
Bobby would breathe out to cool their contraband beer, warm from its
hiding place under a floorboard...
These are the things that jolt his memory, slam into him with no
warning, no time to prepare. Sometimes (only sometimes) he misses
them all so much he can't stand it. Then he goes out to the concrete
bunker at the back of the compound and lets the fireballs fly. The
others never ask him what triggers his fits of temper. He doesn't
even know if they care. Mystique sometimes glances at him with her
weird animal eyes half-closed, an almost-smirk curling her upper lip.
She knows. Of course she does. He doesn't know if she's told anyone
else. He suspects Magneto knows, because what Mystique knows, Magneto
Which means that Magneto knows about St. John and Mystique's little
game. The nights she comes to him wearing one of their faces.
Sometimes she's Ms. Munroe--Storm. John always thought she was hot,
especially when she was annoyed at him, and her eyes would frost over
just that little bit. He could sometimes feel the spark of
electricity in the air around him. A sensitivity to the movement of
molecules, he suspected. Once she was Dr. Grey, to satisfy his
curiosity about what fucking a woman who looked that model-gorgeous
was like. Not bad, he decided, but nothing special--kind of a
disappointment, actually. Several times she's been Rogue, naked
except for the gloves, leather ones usually, and he thinks he's
developed a serious kink for the feel of leather wrapped around his
He avoids thinking about the other times she's come to him, icy blue
eyes sparkling mischievously, mouth cool with the taste of strawberry
ice cream. If he wasn't ready to deal with those feelings before,
before everything got even more complicated (not that it could ever
be simple, not when your name is Pyro and your best friend can freeze
a cup of coffee with a touch and make ice roses bloom in his hand),
he certainly isn't prepared to try and figure it out now. Besides, it
doesn't matter anymore. He's made his choice, and he's sure of his
path. There isn't anything left for him with them.
Except for the details.