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FIC: Waking the Saint (Bobby/Kitty) 1/1

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  • kuriadalmatia
    TITLE: Waking the Saint AUTHOR: Kuria Dalmatia (kuriadalmatia@yahoo.com) CODES: Post-X2, Bobby/Kitty SERIES: Sequel to Vacant Pryde SUMMARY: Bobby
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 18, 2003
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      TITLE: Waking the Saint
      AUTHOR: Kuria Dalmatia (kuriadalmatia@...)
      CODES: Post-X2, Bobby/Kitty
      SERIES: Sequel to "Vacant Pryde"
      SUMMARY: Bobby and Kitty hold a wake for John
      Allerdyce.
      RATING: R, profanity and sexual situations

      August 2003

      Feedback and critiques always welcome. No beta reader, so
      please forgive mistakes.

      Thanks to "Challenge in a Can"
      http://www.dymphna.net/challenge. What can I say? I
      finished the first draft of "Vacant Pryde", hit the challenge
      site on a lark, and was rewarded with this: "Bobby Drake,
      Tragic, Hat". Hello, sequel!

      ARCHIVING: XMMFF. Everyone else, please ask.

      DISCLAIMER: Marvel owns the X-Men, 20th Century Fox
      owns the movie. I just took them out to play and I promise
      put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit
      just trying to get these images out of my head.

      PLEASE SEE ENDNOTES.

      ************(((((((((((((( )))))))))))))))))************

      "Where are you going, Frosty?" Pete asked when he caught
      me sneaking past his door at 11:35 p.m. I was, after all,
      trying to be on time for once.

      I glanced around, even behind him, to make sure no one
      else overheard. Then, quietly I said, "A wake for St. John."

      Pete blinked in surprise. Whatever answer he had been
      expecting, it hadn't been that one. Maybe he had been
      waiting for: "I'm going to the kitchen and drown my
      sorrows like a girl with that pint of Ben and Jerry's hidden
      in the back of the freezer because Rogue broke up with me
      this morning."

      Shit.

      Maybe that's what I should have said.

      It was what I would have told anybody else -- okay, so
      maybe not Logan. Still, the "eating ice cream" bit wasn't
      true and I didn't want to lie to Pete because, well, we had
      been friends long before St. John Allerdyce had ever
      arrived, back when there were only five of us at the
      mansion.

      Pete crossed his arms, which was never a good sign. I was
      ready for the damnation which was so quick from everyone
      nowadays especially Pete because he had added incentive.
      He and John had never gotten along. Instead, his gaze
      flickered down to the flashlight then to the John's baseball
      cap that I held and finally back to my face.

      He asked, "Alone?"

      "No." I met his stare. "With Kitty."

      There was a long pause, followed by: "Wait." He then
      disappeared into his room for about a minute before
      reappearing with a bottle of contraband vodka. "Here then.
      Make it a proper one." He held it out to me. "Drink it like I
      taught you. *Cold.*"

      Well, if Kat and I were going to wake St. John proper... yes,
      St. John was his real, legal name. He had stopped going by
      it after the first week at the School when he set the boat
      dock "accidentally" on fire... why not have a midnight
      ceremony complete with banned booze?

      "Thanks, Piotr." I accepted the bottle and headed off,
      grabbing some cups from the first floor bathroom along the
      way.

      Kat was already there; she was *always* on time just as I
      was *always* late. I didn't say anything as I dropped John's
      Yankees cap next to the picture of Kat, John, Marie and me
      she had brought. Jean had taken our picture five weeks ago,
      one week before her death. John wasn't smiling. He rarely
      smiled. Marie looked skittish because we were crowding
      her. Kat and I were hamming it up because, well, it was
      *Jean* dammit and Jean had been in one of her rare, silly,
      Kodak-moment moods. Rogue and Pyro hadn't understood
      the significance. Kat and I did.

      I then showed Kat the booze and handed her a paper cup as
      I settled down next to her.

      "Vodka?" she said, her mouth dropping open. "Jeez, *Pete*
      knows we're here?"

      It came out way more defensively than I intended. "He
      asked. I told him."

      She didn't say anything, instead pointing her flashlight at
      the bottle. Then, she laughed. "Kosher vodka. He gave you
      freakin' *kosher* vodka."

      I blinked, read the label, and grinned. "Yep." Only Pete
      would think have kosher vodka. Okay, so maybe I would
      too if I kept vodka in my room. "Glad I told him."

      I opened the bottle, chilled it, and then poured us some. We
      had those 4-ounce Dixie cups, the paper kind they used to
      dole out fluoride mouthwash in when I was in grade school.
      The liquid was most definitely *not* that pale, green crap
      they made us swish for sixty seconds before we spit it back
      into the cup like good little kids.

      "To St. John Allerdyce."

      Kat gave me an odd glance, as if surprised to hear the
      name. Maybe she understood the significance. She touched
      her cup to mine. "To St. John."

      We drank it down in one gulp.

      Truthfully, the colder the vodka was, the less it burned.
      Pete once told me I could have a permanent posting at the
      Russian embassy because I could chill vodka. I thought he
      was nuts. He replied that Russians take their vodka very
      seriously, so having someone who could freeze vodka on
      command was a good thing.

      Whatever.

      I poured us another round.

      "He wasn't who we thought he was." Kat sounded curious
      with that odd edge of dread, as if she didn't want to know
      the answer. I looked over at her. She had turned her head to
      stare at me. The next words were soft, "Was he?"

      For her, it was probably like a revelation. For me? Old
      news.

      "Nope." I downed my drink and held the cup in my hands.
      The burn was starting in my belly. Pete taught me how to
      drink vodka on my fifteenth birthday. I had spent my
      second day as a fifteen-year-old puking my guts up in the
      bathroom; Pete had to endure a lecture from the professor
      and Scott about underage drinking.

      Oops.

      Damn. Why in the hell *had* I felt it so damned important
      to make sure St. John fit in? Oh yeah, Scott had asked me
      to. My friendship with Pete ended up being the price. Pete
      hadn't trusted John, John hadn't trusted Pete, and I had
      been left to negotiate between the two. John had won.

      Kat sniffled a little. Her voice was hushed. "She say
      anything to you?"

      The "she" meaning Rogue. We all had lived through her
      channeling Logan and Magneto for those weeks after the
      Statue. It had been like living with John Edwards, mutant-
      style. Scary as hell because you didn't know what was
      going to come next.

      This time around, it wasn't as obvious as it had been after
      the Statue. Her... no *Pyro's* target had been me: "Does
      the phrase 'Mister Mayor' mean anything to you?"

      Christ.

      Kat's question, of course, was loaded. I never talked to
      anyone about what happened after the Raid. I mean, the
      professor and Scott were pretty fucked up no matter what
      they said or how they tried to act around us. 'Ro was
      messed up too but she didn't try to hide it as much. She had
      her hands full with everything else, so I didn't want to
      bother her. Pete and I just weren't that close anymore.
      Logan? Yeah. *Right*.

      No one else ever asked if Rogue said anything to me or
      how I was doing or anything. No one until Kat.

      I snorted. "Try, what *didn't* she say."

      After Pyro had departed the X-Jet in Canada, asking if we
      always did what we were told, Rogue had started in on me.
      Vicious. Nasty. 100% Pyro. It wasn't the Logan-gruffness
      or the snottiness of Magneto. It was Pyro all the way,
      complete with insulting remarks that had nailed every
      goddamned insecurity I had ever shared with him.

      "Shit."

      I blinked. Kat didn't curse all that often. John had once
      sneered, "Is there some dumbass Jewish law against them
      cursing?" To which I had replied that there probably was,
      but I couldn't remember which one or if it was Orthodox or
      Reformed or the other one. "You're such a fucking geek,
      Drake. Summers' junior deputy. Mister Mayor. Mister
      Mayor fucking McCheese.."

      Asshole.

      Kat downed her vodka and held out her cup for more. I
      chilled the vodka again and filled our cups. They *were*
      small portions, right? And even if we did get drunk off our
      asses, Pete would come and haul us back to the mansion
      before the others got up. It was his vodka after all and it
      was technically Sunday, so everyone slept in late. I know it
      was a stupid thing to think, a shitty place to put Pete in
      especially since we weren't that close anymore, but, well...
      hell. He *gave* me the fucking vodka. A whole damned
      bottle.

      I leaned back against the log and stared up at the branches.
      "She told me the only reason he put up with me was
      because I was Scott's favorite."

      I didn't add the other part that went something like: "Kitty?
      Yeah, John only dated Kitty because he couldn't have me."
      I didn't want to hurt Kat, honest. I hadn't wanted to believe
      Rogue when she had dropped that bombshell on the jet, but
      I had known deep down it was true.

      John never bothered learning a damned think about
      Judaism. I had after I had wished Kitty Happy New Year on
      Rosh Hashanah because I had no clue it was a High Holy
      Day that also was the Day of Judgement, Day of Shofar
      Blowing and the Day of Remembrance. She hadn't gotten
      mad, just told me I was clueless and explained it.

      Kat snorted. "Like Scott's any easier on you than he is on
      anyone else."

      "He is."

      "Yeah. *Right.*" She elbowed me. "He rides you and Pete
      harder than he does anyone else. Doesn't make John less of
      a jerk."

      With that admission, we both downed our drinks.

      How in the hell had we gone from mourning St. John to
      bashing him? Because we were talking about John, not St.
      John.

      That was seriously fucked up. But maybe, after all, we had
      mourned St. John, the kid who'd shown up tough and
      touchy, who didn't believe that the bed was his and the only
      strings attached were paying attention in class and working
      on controlling his powers.

      John had been just that. *John* Allerdyce.

      "You didn't choke," she said suddenly and held out her
      cup.

      Three shots in 30 minutes. Even *I* knew that it was too
      much. I actually had learned something on my fifteenth
      birthday. When I turned sixteen, Pete and I had gotten
      pretty toasted, but I hadn't gotten sick. I ignored her
      request. Frozen vodka, after all, didn't have the sharp taste
      of say bourbon or scotch. What can I say? I experimented
      with some of the stuff in my dad's liquor cabinet when I
      went home two Christmas' ago.

      "At your parents'...." Kat clarified, probably
      misunderstanding my silence and refusal. "I mean, they
      didn't *know* you were a mutant. You had the chutzpah to
      tell them. I mean, you had the freakin' perfect thing going."
      At that point, I grabbed the bottle and poured.

      John had said to me once, "How the fuck would you know
      how to deal, Drake? You're too much a pussy to even tell
      your parents' you're a freak." Rogue had repeated that word
      for word on the jet, although she had tacked on, "Guess you
      won't being going home for your birthday, Bobby-boy.
      Your mommy doesn't want a mutie in her house. How
      fucking tragic."

      Kat was staring at me, knowing she touched a raw nerve,
      and rambled on, "Of *course* John was being a butthead.
      Rogue said he torched his dad's house, you know?"

      Yeah, I knew about that. It had been revealed in one of
      those late-night discussions when it's okay to talk about
      things because it's pitch black and your roomie can't see
      your face. The absolution of darkness.

      Every time John set fire something big, his name changed. I
      mean, he burnt his dad's house; he went from Johnny to St.
      John. He burnt down the boat dock at the School; he
      became John. He threw flames at those police cars; he
      became Pyro. That was fucked up.

      No wonder the professor was a psychologist.

      "John was jealous, that's all. Angry. Okay, so your brother
      called the *cops*. You said yourself Ronny was always
      pissed that you got singled out and he didn't. But if it had
      been me on the porch? I would have probably phased
      through to the basement.

      "You just lost your freakin' *family*, Bobby. Your best
      friend was torching cop cars and Logan had a bullet in his
      head. I think the only reason Rogue did what she did was
      because she still had some Logan in her."

      Only Kat could absolve me of that particular
      embarrassment. She was right. My whole fucking life had
      been falling apart while I was standing on the porch. I had
      told my parents I was a mutant. My mom had asked if I
      could try not being a mutant, as if I could snap my fingers
      and be normal. My brother had called the cops on us. I had
      also finally admitted to myself that St. John Allerdyce
      wasn't the guy I had convinced myself he was.

      Vodka Number Four burned my throat. Damn. I hadn't
      gotten it cold enough..

      She reached for my hand and held it tight. Her voice was
      barely a whisper, "They were right about John. Not about
      St. John, but about *John*."

      Weird how important the distinction in name can be. Why
      else would we have code names?

      We sat in silence. I don't know how long we did, but we
      did. Kat's hair smelled like pine and mint. Marie's always
      smelled like apples or strawberries or something fruity.

      Marie. Damn.

      I refilled our cups, letting go of Kat's hand in the process.
      Jesus. I'd forgotten how nice it was just to hold hands, to
      actually *touch* bare skin without hesitation. Marie and I
      were always hyper-aware of it.

      Marie.

      As I set the bottle down, I just blurted out, "She broke up
      with me. This morning. After breakfast."

      Kat's voice was soft again, "I know."

      Of course she would know. She roomed with Rogue and
      Jubilee.

      "What? Talk about it the night before?" But I wasn't angry.
      It was that strange, booze-induced need to hear the worst. I
      didn't have sisters, but hell, if guys talked about dumping
      their girlfriends beforehand, wouldn't girls?

      I slugged back the vodka. Damn, Pete was a great friend.
      He taught me how to curse in Russian.

      "No. She told us. After dinner. Tonight. I... I swear, Bobby.
      I didn't know... this afternoon...."

      This afternoon, when we had kissed.

      Jesus. She had been crying. We had ended up kissing.
      There had been some small part of my brain that
      understood that what had been happening wasn't a good
      thing. Dammit, I wasn't going to be her St. John substitute.
      No way in hell. Not many guys would have cared, but it
      was Kitty dammit.

      Yeah, I was Mister Mayor. St. John never understood why I
      had to do it, make it a point to meet the students I could on
      their first day, to be that first *kid* who held out a hand and
      didn't flinch. I knew how fucking scary it was to show up at
      some lavish mansion because you had been invited by a guy
      in wheelchair who could read your mind. I knew how
      unnerving it was to have 'Ro smile that smile of hers and
      say, "Welcome," and to first meet Pete and hear him
      rumble a greeting in Russian right before transforming into
      organic steel. To have Scott tell you, "The most important
      rule is that you don't use your powers against another,
      okay?" and wondering why the guy was wearing red shades
      in the damned house. To have Jean use her TK to float over
      a glass of root beer because, well, sometimes root beer
      made things better. Freaky and weird and strange because
      people used their powers and it was *okay* to be a mutant.

      I was the second student, after Pete. Kitty had been the
      third. For a long time, I thought Kitty like me, Miss Mayor,
      because she did the same thing for the girls that I did for the
      guys. We weren't a couple, like Jean and Scott. I mean, I
      *thought* about her, even jacked off thinking about her,
      but that had been before Marie.

      Kat hiccuped. "I've always wanted to kiss you."

      "Yeah, well...." her fingers gripped my arm really tight, as
      if waiting for some vicious rejection. Four vodkas killed my
      decision making process. "Me too." But I wanted to clarify
      something. I leaned closer to her. "I'm not St. John. Or
      John," I added as an afterthought.

      "I don't want you to be," she slurred, her breath smelling
      faintly sour. She licked her lips. "I'm *not* Marie. Or
      Rogue."

      I squeezed her hand. I smiled. "I know."

      Our lips were inches apart.

      We kissed.

      Unlike earlier that afternoon, we didn't stop. Her lips were
      soft. Sloppy and wet, but I didn't care. We moved to face
      each other. Her hands were on my shoulders. Mine were at
      her waist. The tip of my tongue grazed her teeth and she
      opened her mouth. She tasted like cherry lip gloss with a
      slightly sour tang. She tasted good.

      Finally, I pulled back and grinned, "If you were Marie, I'd
      be dead by now."

      (((((( FINIS )))))))))

      END NOTES:

      For the purposes of this story, Bobby was the first student
      at Xavier's School after Jean, Scott, Ororo, and Peter, while
      Kitty was the second.

      The pun was intended for Saint and St. John.

      The significance of the Yankee's cap is based on movie
      canon. Bobby is from Boston and in the novelization, he is
      a big BoSox fan. A die-hard BoSox fan rooming with a
      supposed-Yankee fan? Ice and Fire.

      Finally, regarding the characterization of Rogue, I
      deliberately made her harsher, keeping with the notion that
      she retailed some of Pyro's outward hostility that was
      shown in the movie and the disdain he had for Bobby that
      was in the novelization.
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