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Fic - Pyro - Some Kind of Boy 9

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  • Tara Ann
    Title: The Little Match Girl (Some Kind of Boy – story 9) author: Tara Ann summary: John finds something different. Rating/warning & pairing: G.
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 14, 2005
      Title: The Little Match Girl (Some Kind of Boy – story 9)
      author: Tara Ann
      summary: John finds something different.
      Rating/warning & pairing: G. Pyro/Jill
      *Characters do not belong to me except for Jill – she is mine and
      looks like Claire Danes.
      *lyrics taken and rewritten from "She's Not There" by Rod Argent.
      ** I've liked Pyro from the first moment I saw him in X2. He's
      complex with confidence and vulnerability. I only hope I give St.
      John Allerdyce the respect and understanding he deserves. He is the
      boy with the soft edges and the palest pout.

      please don't bother trying to find him
      he's not there
      his voice is soft and hot
      his eyes are clear and dark*

      Two weeks and he hadn't seen her since the night they had sex. He
      had thought about her, but he decided he didn't have time to get
      involved. It was just sex – wasn't that the way the world worked?
      People connecting to skin. The flesh wasn't too complicated; people
      were complicated.
      Fire engines roared past him in the street and when he turned the
      corner he saw the people gathered outside the apartment building.
      Then he realized it was her apartment building. His dark eyes
      glanced upwards and his heart screamed silently. The flames sparkled
      high in her windows. He ran across the street, but he was pushed
      back by the firemen.
      "Please step back," one of the firefighters said.
      John stared up at the window, his eyes flashing concern. He thought
      he saw a figure moving in the window. The firefighter pushed him
      back again and John shoved him away, running into the building and up
      the stairs.
      When he got to her door he tried the doorknob, but it was locked so
      he kicked it open. The fire was spreading fast and she was
      frantically tearing down her self-made paintings.
      "Jill, what the fuck are you doing!? You have to get out of here!"
      She glanced over her shoulder and said, "My paintings!"
      He ran to her and helped by ripping the pictures off the walls.
      Without hesitating he pushed the fire into the opposite corner of the
      room. The papers were crumpled in Jill's arms and she started to
      cough, the smoke becoming thicker. John took her hand, and led her
      out of the apartment and down the stairs, her yellow silk scarf
      trailing behind her.
      Jill was still coughing when they got outside. Then she collapsed on
      to the ground, scraping her chin, her paintings stepped on by the
      passing firefighters.


      When Jill opened her eyes she saw John standing by the
      window, flicking his shark-mouthed metal lighter and looking out at
      the blue sky. She coughed faintly, her throat still sore from the
      smoke. He turned to her, his face sullen and beautiful, just like
      she remembered.
      "There are some footprints on your pictures," he said. "I
      think one of them flew away."
      "Maybe someone will find it," she said with a small smile.
      She was lying on his bed, his brown leather jacket over her.
      "You scraped your chin," he said, his voice soft.
      She didn't feel like sitting up; she slid her hand underneath
      his pillow.
      "Thanks," she said.
      He shrugged.
      "Is this where you live?"
      "Sort of," said John. "The people I live with don't know
      you're here."
      "Will they get mad?"
      "Probably," he said. "I didn't know where to bring you."
      He had thought about Xavier's school, but he wasn't in the
      mood for the attention.
      "Is it totally fucked?" she said.
      "I think so," he said. "I don't know. We could go back and
      check. Try to salvage some of your stuff."
      "I didn't really have much stuff."
      Me neither, he thought. "What happened?" he said.
      "I get careless with the candles sometimes and this time it
      went out of control," said Jill.
      He nodded at her. "You fell down. Maybe you should go to
      the hospital or something. I'm not a doctor."
      "No, I think I'm okay," she said.
      "You can't stay here."
      "I kind of figured that," she said. She rubbed at her head,
      her dirty blonde waves untamed.
      She noticed the tiny marmalade kitten curled up on the corner
      of his bed, its face covered by its little paw. John smiled.
      "That's Blazie," he said. "You can have her."
      "You don't want her?"
      He looked out the window and closed the lighter. "No."
      "She has yellow eyes," said Jill. "Thanks."
      "Yeah," said John.
      "I mean, `Thanks,'" she said. "I guess that was pretty
      stupid. I can always paint them over."
      He looked at her, her smoky green eye shadow smudged from her
      sleep. She looked half-asleep and upside down sexy, her skin white
      like jasmine milk.
      "It's not that stupid," John said. "Where are you gonna go?"
      "I don't know. I'll find some place. I always do."
      He licked his lips in his usual subtle way. "Just tell me
      when you're ready to leave. I'll walk you out."


      Three days later Jillian Ann LaBoy waited for John Allerdyce
      to leave the condemned church. She pushed her long hair behind her
      shoulders and scurried along the sidewalk to catch up to him, her
      satin Chinese lavender, ankle-strap heels clicking against the
      "Hey!" she said.
      He stopped and turned, recognizing her voice.
      She smiled and he wondered if she ever left the house without
      her signature smoky green eye shadow. In her hand were an unbound
      bouquet of flowers – violets, marigolds, pansies, and rosemary. She
      held the flowers out to him.
      "Here, I just wanted to give you something for not letting me
      burn to death."
      John stared at the flowers and after an uncertain pause he
      took them from her.
      "I stole them," she said and smiled. "Rosemary is for
      remembrance, pansies are for thoughts. You seem like you have a lot
      of thoughts."
      She put her hands in the pockets of her brown suede jacket.
      "And your cat. She's good."
      "That's good," he said.
      "I waited outside because I didn't want the people you live
      with to get angry or anything."
      The scrape on her chin was still visible; he wondered if it
      still hurt.
      "I already tried to be some girl's boyfriend," said
      John. "It didn't work out."
      Her hazel-blue eyes focused on the collar of his brown
      leather jacket and she looked away from him when she said, "Yeah,
      well, I don't think I could be a very good girlfriend."
      She looked like she was going to cry, but she swallowed it
      up, whatever its reason.
      "I told you I was scared of fire."
      The distant gleam of John's dark eyes was gentle like his
      "You don't have to be," he said.
      Jill bit her lower lip and gave him a smile tic.
      "I don't think I could kiss you or fuck you again," she
      said, "but I could try."
      He took a step towards her and said, "Did I do something
      wrong? Are you scared of me?"
      "No," she said quickly. "I like you. It's just kind of
      weird being so close to someone. In the physical way."
      "You don't like it?"
      "I do," she said. "It's just weird. You smell like coconut."
      "You don't like coconut?"
      "I do," she said.
      He went to her, leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled away. His eyes
      matched his hair, dark, soft, edged. When she looked closely she
      could see the layers in little whispering waves. They turned into
      brunette embers at the back of his neck. His skin seemed completely
      untouched, like it was ready to shrink away from human contact, but
      it cried out for the smallest devoted caress.
      Jill closed her eyes and kissed his lips faintly, tasting his
      pale pout. She was just as hungry as he was, starved for someone to
      love and someone to love her. Everything about John Allerdyce was
      warm, his skin, his hands, his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, his hair,
      and he was soft, maybe softer on the outside than he was on the
      inside. On the inside he was angry with the world, but she couldn't
      tell it from the way he touched her, looked at her, or spoke to her.
      He thought maybe he could let her inside; she didn't tell him what to
      do and he didn't think she ever would. She didn't try to change him
      and when he barely exchanged words with her she didn't push him into
      sharing. If she ever wanted to know anything he figured she would
      just ask and he realized he would probably tell her.
      Her cheeks were blushed with dandelion pink. With her index
      finger she pet his bad-boy sideburns and kissed him on the cheek.
      For the first time in her life she didn't feel like she was acting
      out a human façade. What she was feeling was real; she just didn't
      know how long it would last.
      Her kiss burned into his cheek like warm milk.
      "Pyro," said John. "Everyone calls me Pyro."
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