| A series of post-X2 drabbles
||[Mar. 2nd, 2004|12:13 am]
She never smoked cigarettes, before. She's not even sure it's her smoking them now - it's not always easy to distinguish these days. Bobby alternates between avoiding her and clinging to her, and she knows why. So she goes along with it. |
She's standing by an open window, lit cigarette in hand, gazing down at the pearls of dew on the grass, when he finds her this time. He takes her hand and she knows what he wants before he speaks. Sighing, she gives him a glimpse of John behind her eyes, and pushes back her resentment at his smile.
Logan hasn't left his room in months, save for dinner and the bathroom. Marie made an initial effort - but as time passed, even her visits dwindled. The last time she was there, the room was filled with dirty laundry, and the remains of cigar after half-smoked cigar. And what was left of a broken mirror.
When she asked what had happened, he just grunted. But she thought she knew. Though there were, of course, no visible marks left on his flesh, she saw the pile of bloodied shards on the table. Logan was doing penance, in his own way.
Home, for Bobby, used to be the smell of grass on a summer's day, and the taste of a tall glass of soda with a single ice cube. He'll never look at ice in the same way again, and the smell of newly cut grass has been supplanted in his mind, perhaps permanently, with that of burning.
He would say he'd never forgive John for that, but in his heart he knows he already has. What he can't forgive is leaving without a word. Because he's figured out, now, why the parted lips of his daydreams were not always Marie's.
He'd been stupid. Not leaving - that was the best decision he ever made. He could never have bought into Xavier's dream again, not after he'd seen first-hand what the world thought of mutants.
He drew the line, though, at helping his new… patrons forcibly recruit from the school. That wasn't what he'd signed on for, so when Magneto asked for information on the students and staff and their powers, he'd refused. And they'd ditched him without looking back.
Alone in a deluge of rain, chewing on a chipped fingernail, John huddled into his oversized sweater and prayed for warmth.
The oddest things remind him, he's found. The other day, it was a parking ticket he'd forgotten to pay until the final demand came. Just the thought of the look Jean would have given him brought the memories rushing back - the smell of her favourite perfume, clear as life, although her possessions are gone. And the roses she loved to help Storm grow.
Storm brought him a bunch of them, the other day, all neatly tied up in a vase with water and fertilizer to keep them alive for a while. He hid his tears until she was gone.
Anyone can tell the place isn't how it was. Even though Kurt wasn't around before things changed, it's obvious how much of a hole the loss of Jean Grey has left in the house and the people who live there.
He does what he can to help - walks among the mourners, talking calmly and quietly of comfort and reassurance. Sometimes, though, it isn't enough. And then he retreats to the chapel in the basement, to pray in the darkness on a rosary.
And sometimes, just sometimes, Storm comes to him, to give and take comfort with a stolen kiss.