Fic: Mama's Saint
E-mail: the_smooth_one910@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13ish to R.
Warnings: Um. Death in a not so fun way. Angst. Poor Johnny.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: St. John/OMC
Summary: "Super villains aren’t supposed to say things like that, but even super villains had mothers, and his mother had been the best."


His mother used to tell him, all the time, the story of how he got his name. With a twinkle in her eyes, she would talk about how she and his father met in college in their economics class (which must explain why he’s so good in Scott’s class while everyone else asks a billion times over what exactly a monopoly is), how bright the sun had been the day they got married (which he sometimes likes to think contributed to his powers, even though he knows it’s a silly thought), the nine blissful years they had together, traveling the world and putting the Allerdyce stamp everywhere they could (which explains why he has such a startling desire to prove himself). Then her eyes would get sort of sad as she talked of the loneliness they began to feel, without a child to call their own, and she would speak of the struggle she and his father had went with to have a child, how they tried every single medical procedure possible, how no matter how hard they tried, it seemed to be destiny that they would never have someone to share their grand adventure with.

And then her eyes would mist over, but happily, as she told him of the day she found out she was pregnant, and she would talk about how they prepared for him, but she never mentioned the typical baby things they bought. She always mentioned how, as each month passed and he started to make his presence known, she and his father would sit by the fireplace and look into the flames and predict the type of person he would be, disagreeing on whether or not he would grow up to be a scientist (his father said that, and he really couldn’t have been more wrong, he’s horrible in chemistry, which is sort of ironic, considering his power) or a journalist, but always agreeing that he was their miracle, their bright star, and that no matter what he did, he was going to burn brightly, and that he was named John after the saint, because he had been their miracle, and miracles always lead to great things.

She turned out to be right, but not in the way she had probably imagined. Mother’s Day was yesterday, and even though he’s turned into a super villain (well, not exactly, but he’ll get there one day), he still remembers that it was a day to celebrate life and the women who bravely gave it. Apparently even super villains acknowledge such a loving holiday, because when he woke up yesterday morning, he woke up to Mystique putting a bouquet of flowers, very exotic, much like she is, into a vase. He looked over at Erik sitting at the table, who smiled and said, “Flowers for the one who gives you and I more than just life.” And Mystique had smiled demurely (it still looked like a smirk) and walked over to Erik, hugging him, and then she went to John and hugged him, like his mother would have.

Except it is not his mother, and that’s why he’s thinking about her right now. He and his mother had had a very special, unique relationship, one that even Mystique as a shape-shifter could never duplicate. His cousins used to tease him about clinging to his mother’s legs when he was a boy, but he never cared, because it was his mother’s legs, and that was all he had needed then. His father used to say that he was just a sperm donor, and he was right to an extent. John supposed he had once loved his dad, but it had been his mother who had been his world, his anchor, his adoring fan, his soundboard. Super villains aren’t supposed to say things like that, but even super villains had mothers, and his mother had been the best.

Because he was told the battle his parents had gone through for him, he always tried to not live up to their expectations, but surpass them. Well, his mother’s anyway, his dad’s expectations were just sort of there, but not acknowledged. He didn’t know if their bond was due to the fact that he looked just like her, or that he was the only kid, and also the baby of the family, but he wanted to do everything in his power to make her proud of him. “You’re not an angel, Johnny,” she used to say as she tucked him in at night, smoothing his hair down and putting her hands on his cheeks. “You’re a saint.”

“Is that better than an angel?” he used to ask.

“Yes, baby. Angels are there, but you never see them. You can see saints,” she had answered, and then she’d kiss him on the nose. “And everyone’s going to see you.”

She’d always have such pride in her voice, and she’d always tell new acquaintances that his nickname was St. John, like they should have dropped to their knees and worshiped the saint she gave birth to. But John’s not so sure, he thinks, as he looks at the one family picture he has of his family in his wallet, that it’s better to be a saint. After all, even saints are human, and while John is not exactly that, he’s still got enough of their genetics to make the same mistakes as a human.

He was his mother’s saint for a long time. It didn’t catch up to him until he was fifteen. A lot of things caught up to him when he was fifteen; thinking back on it, he’s amazed he even managed to survive without slicing his wrists. He should remember his fifteenth birthday like he remembers every other birthday; fondly and happily, but he doesn’t. Instead, he remembers getting his first real kiss, which ought to be a happy memory, but not when the other person on the end of that kiss had been his best friend, his best friend that had been a boy.

The other person being a boy hadn’t been the problem. The fact that he had wanted it to be a boy was the problem. And as far as he knew, saints were not gay, and he had spent his fifteenth birthday in his room, crying because he had no idea how to tell his mother that her saint was actually a queer. The thought had made him sick, telling his mother, who believed in him so much, who believed he had the power to change humanity, that he could never get married under the same tree she had, or that he could never give her a granddaughter with her slight dash of freckles on the nose or her tinkle of a laugh.

And she had immediately known there was something wrong, and went to his room, knocking quietly on the door. She had let herself in and sat down on the bed, running her fingers in his hair, and she had quietly said, “Talk to me whenever you’re ready, baby.” and quietly walked back out, leaving him to start sobbing before she could even shut the door. He could hear her pause for a second, her hand on the doorknob, and she told him, “It’s okay, Johnny. Saints go through a period of misery before they reach their destination.” and simply shut the door.

The next morning, he went downstairs to find his parents in the kitchen, thumb wrestling each other, as absurd as it seemed. Even now, as he sits three thousand miles away from that kitchen, he still marvels at the sight of them, in their forties and thumb wrestling like nothing else in the world mattered but that. As soon as he walked in, his parents looked up at him, and he cleared his throat, although it didn’t do any good. “I have something to tell you,” he had said. His parents had released thumbs, and he looked straight into his mother’s eyes, which were always his eyes, and he confessed that he, John Allerdyce, their miracle baby, their living breathing saint, was gay.

He can still remember the look on her face, and how it never, ever changed as he destroyed her dreams for him. No one said anything for the longest, and John had stood in front of her, his hands twisting his shirt into knots, waiting for everything to catch up with him. When his mother stood up and walked around the table over to him, he walked over to her, and when she wrapped her arms around and pulled him against her, he turned his head and laid it against her chest, closing his eyes in relief as she told him, “You have the capacity to love, and that’s more than I could ever hope for.”

But his dad was not as forgiving of this fault, which doesn’t surprise John, because it is harder for men to let go of the expectations they have not only for themselves, but for everyone around them. Erik told him that once, when John had confessed that Bobby kept trying to call him and e-mail him, trying to say that John could come home. But Erik was right, of course, for his father had stood up, walked over to him, and tore him from his mother’s arms, and squeezed his arm so tight, John can’t even remember now what his dad had even said to him. Probably something about how his son was not going to be a queer and all the other homophobic bullshit that men his father’s age spew to their gay sons, but it really doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does.

He doesn’t remember exactly what happened, which the Professor had said was normal, when he first took John in. He does remember his mom yelling at his dad, yelling that this wasn’t some druggie on the street, but this was their son and their saint. He remembers his dad screaming that his son was not gay, and he remembers his mother getting in his dad’s face and telling him, with a voice of steel, that this was her son and if her son was gay, then that was the way God intended it to be. He had never heard his mother talk to his father like that ever, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to feel as loved as he did at that moment. He can still hear her voice when he closes his eyes, and he can still feel his father’s hand on his arm. There was a bruise in the shape of his father’s hand for a month afterwards. Sometimes he swears he can still see it.

John just remembers a lot of screaming, and a lot of guilt on his part, because while saints themselves went through misery, they did not inflict it on the ones they loved most. Neither his mother nor his father noticed that he had started crying, because they were yelling so loud, and John thinks he tried to tell them to stop, but he’s not sure. Whether he did or not, they continued to yell and scream, and his dad continued to cut the circulation off in his arm. He tried to tell them that it was okay, he would leave the house, he would pretend he never existed, just as long as they stopped screaming. But they didn’t hear him, and the next part John doesn’t really remember too well. He remembers his mom sitting down and picking up her lighter to light a cigarette, the only fault his mother ever had. His dad had looked at his mother and said, “It’s really no surprise, since he’s been attached to your apron strings since birth. This is your fault.”

John doesn’t remember how it happened, but the next thing he remembers are the flames crawling up his mother’s arm, as his dad let go of John’s arm and ran over to her, to put her out. Seeing her aflame just made John scream more, and every time he reached out to her, the flames only got larger, and crawled all the way down her body, up to her face. This is where he blacks out, where he cannot remember what happened next. He only remembers hearing her voice, which always had a melodic, flute quality to it, screaming in utter agony as she was burned alive.

The next time he woke up, he was in a hospital, and the Professor had been there next to his bed. Once he opened his eyes, he bolted up and asked for his mother. The Professor got that fake sympathy look in his eyes, and asked John if he remembered what happened. John had replied that if he remembered what happened, he wouldn’t be asking for his mother. The Professor had looked at his hands, then looked at John’s hands, and explained who he was and that John would be safe with him. “I’m safe with my mother. Where’s my mother?” he remembers asking.

“She’s gone,” the Professor had said.

“She left the house?” John had asked.

“She’s dead.” And with that, John fell back on his bed and blacked out again. He ended waking up in what would turn out to be his room for his duration at the school, confused, lost, extremely hot, for some reason, and wanting his mother. But she never did come, for she was gone. The strings had finally been cut.

Later John was told that the stress caused by his father’s reaction to him being gay triggered the awakening of his powers. And while that explained why he was always so goddamn hot all the time, it still did not change the ugly truth. His mother, his world, his guiding light, his saint, would never come and tuck him in, or kiss his nose and say he would do great things, or even tell him the story of how he became a miracle, her saint. No, all he would ever remember is that he had been her saint, and he had murdered her.

That had been four years ago. And every Mother’s Day since, he sits and looks at her picture, closing his eyes and remembering everything his mom used to say to him.

“You’re not an angel, Johnny. You’re a saint.”

“Is that better than an angel?”

“Yes, baby. Angels are there, but you never see them. You can see saints.”

She had been right, you could see saints. But John knows it’s not better to be a saint, especially a fallen one. That’s what he is, a fallen saint, but he is no ordinary fallen saint.

He’s his mother’s fallen saint.


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