TITLE: Tending Toward Destructive: Thing Four
AUTHOR: jenn
EMAIL: jenn@igg-tx.net

Series: On Love and Lust at Mutant High #22
Author Notes: Another mini-arc, because they are sort of addictive. God help me, people, I'm listening to PERKY music. Cower in fear--I can get maudlin in this condition, AKA Romanticitis.

*****

He knew where she'd be.

So she wasn't predictable in the classic sense--she was also Rogue, and reactionary as hell. Two hours after his little display (now in his room after that little Scooter-talk), he saw her driving back to the Mansion on Jubes' bike--when Rogue broke rules, she did it with style, not even a helmet. Slowed down as she approached, and he watched her bring the bike to a halt only a few feet from the main door.

Logan and Dr. McCoy stepped into view and St. John wondered if they'd maybe miscalculated, letting her see them while she was still on the bike. But she got off, kicking the stand down, and he could see her head go down briefly--she was a smart girl. She knew what had happened.

"Logan--"

"Not a word." Oddly toneless, and she blinked, obviously surprised, definitely expecting something else entirely. A step toward him, and her back straightened, the breeze picking up her hair. Rogue to the tip of her nails. Had to admire her courage, if not her good sense.

"I don't--"

"Shut up. We're going down to the lab. McCoy here's gonna run a few tests and you're gonna answer every damn one of his questions, you got it?"

"Logan--" Still trying.

"You argue, we'll go to option two--I tell Cyke and Jeanie and they get to have this little discussion with you." Fuck, that was a threat and St. John knew it. Rogue stepped back--not good.

"They don't know?"

"Not yet and they're not gonna. Me, McCoy, and the Prof. That's it. You listen to me, that's all that will know."

For a second, St. John thought she was going to argue, fight him, maybe just jump on the bike and run--and maybe it was a toss up, he didn't know. Shoulders stiff, she stared at them for a long time, then nodded shortly.

Considering his usual luck in the voyeur department (though damn, he got to find out the coolest stuff), St. John ducked back in his room and went to his bed, sitting down and picking up his magazine. Okay, so he'd managed to stumble across at least one conversation where he wasn't caught. Hmmm. The sound of the door lifted his head and Bobby walked in, frowning a little.

"Hey." Tentative truce--that worked. St. John watched the other boy slowly close the door, turning slightly to give him a long look.

"Hey." Very tentative. "You busy?"

St. John shrugged.

"Sorta grounded. For awhile." Though the bombs had been worth it. He'd have to talk to Jubes--if anyone knew the most fun things about pyrotechnics, she did, being one and all.

"Yeah, so I heard. Glad your iota class worked. I know you've been working on it for awhile."

St. John shrugged a little, trying to think of something to say--and this was surreal, he and Bobby just *didn't* have problems with conversations. A few minutes of Bobby standing awkwardly by the door, and the other boy suddenly crossed the room, finding both their jackets.

"Get your boots."

"Huh?" Huh?

Bobby ducked his head under St. John's bed while St. John blinked, sitting up abruptly, wondering what the hell Bobby was up to.

"Boots. Things that go over socks and on feet. You've seen them. These," a slap on his ankle, "are your feet area. Place the boots over, lace up, then stand up. Now, boyo."

St. John struggled straight, taking the extended right boot while Bobby went diving for the left. Hmm. Pull on boot, lace up, Bobby was in a rush and got his left foot and shoved the second boot on. Barely waiting for St. John to lace it up, he grabbed him by the arm, throwing his jacket over his shoulder, and pulled the door open.

Weird, yes.

"Whoa, Drake, I'm restricted--"

"And since when have you given a fuck? Get moving. I don't have time to babysit your moodswings. One foot in front of the other, like so."

He was pushed out the door and it closed behind him with a snap. A little bemused (and wondering when Bobby started playing alpha male with such devastating accuracy) he allowed himself to be hauled to the stairs. And promptly ran into Mr. Summers.

Of course.

"John."

St. John flinched.

"Sir--"

"What--"

"Logan wants him, sir." Bobby pulled his jacket on quickly, then the grip on St. John's arm was back and increased dramatically. A 'keep your mouth shut' sort of deal. Cool beans. "Something about a screw-up in class."

It was one of those things that St. John was always quite curious about--as far as Mr. Summers was concerned, Bobby could do no wrong. So if Bobby said Logan wanted St. John, of course Logan wanted St. John, whether or not Mr. Summers knew of any actual request. With a glare at St. John (he tried to look suitably abashed), Mr. Summers gave Bobby a smile and ambled off. At which point, Bobby took the stairs going down three at a time and St. John was hard-pressed to keep up--fuck, it wasn't fair Bobby's legs were longer.

"Did you just lie to Mr. Summers?" Because they weren't going toward Logan's office--and he knew for a fact that Logan was not there, Logan was doing some rough therapy on Rogue downstairs.

"Hmm?" An absent glance. "Yeah. You're usually quicker than that. Yeah. Goodie. Get movin'--"

"Why the fuck are you in such a rush?"

Bobby gave him a cold blue gaze.

"I'm not givin' you the chance to find another reason to avoid me. Come on--got an idea, got a plan, and got a destination. You're mine for the next two hours. Get movin'."

There were several things about that statement that could have given St. John some considerable thought, but Bobby was pulling him toward the garage.

"Get a helmet. I got your keys, I'm driving. You have trauma with that or you gonna just be quiet?"

"No trauma, dude." St. John slowly took one of the helmets. Put it on. Regarded Bobby carefully. "Drake--"

"I'm sure I said to keep quiet. You don't get to talk. You had time to talk. You had *alot* of time to talk. Scads of time. Six fucking days of time. You get to be quiet and get on the bike. Nowish."

St. John considered Bobby, considered the bike--so Bobby had gone off the deep end. Fair enough, he probably deserved to bear the brunt of it. Getting on, he waited patiently as Bobby roughly thrust his helmet down on his head, keys in hand, getting on in front of him, and barely giving him time to grab hold of his waist before the bike was on, kickstand was up, and they were off.

Fuck if he could even figure out where they were going, though.

* * * * *

Of course, it'd be the lake.

Bobby was off first, kicking the stand down with a booted foot (and he really hadn't remembered that Bobby's driving skills were rather on the side of terrifying, though the ride reminded him why he liked to drive whenever they went anywhere), turning with an impressive snap to wait for St. John to disembark as well. Which he wanted to do--when his knees stopped shaking from the hairpin turns that Bobby was so addicted to.

No question, Bobby wasn't gonna be driving them anywhere again until he took some classes in driver safety. Ninety degree turns should only be attempted by mutants with healing factors, not boys who under stress might accidentally ice the road. Carefully, he pulled himself off, discarding his helmet beside Bobby's, looking at the younger boy.

"Um--Bobby--"

"Just shut up." Ooh. Interesting. "Okay, so we talk in the library the other day and I try to find out exactly what your deal is, 'kay? What do I get--you acting like a three year old with an inflated sense of injury, and you know, buddy, that's just annoying. For five days before that, you do your level best to assure I *never* see you, and that, my friend, takes some serious effort, considering we share a fucking room, 'kay? So I get to thinking--and so doing my own sort of Sherlock impressions, I try to figure out what the hell is up with you, because, frankly, you've been acting pretty fucking weird for awhile now and I'd *so* like an explanation. So now you get to talk. Spill the trauma. What the hell is making you so fucking out of it?"

There were a lot of ways to answer that, and saying nothing would probably not be an option. This was A Talk situation. Talk to Bobby about the trauma. Got it.

"Look, its--I've been out of--"

"It's about Rogue and me, isn't it?"

For some reason, putting "Rogue" and "Bobby" in a sentence together, even in the first person, was just painful. Because obviously, Rogue wasn't any more into Bobby than she had been before whatever happened that night, and Bobby--well, something had to have happened.

"Sort of."

"We talked that night." A pause. "Sat outside, talked about general annoying stuff--she couldn't sleep, I wasn't on restriction, we sat outside and talked. Nothing happened--and you know, I never pegged you as the jealous type, ya know?"

"Jealous?"

"Jealous times five." Bobby looked a little amused now--St. John had to suppose the stress of having to act out like this was probably wearing away now that he knew the problem. Fuck. St. John turned, sitting down against a tree, frustrated with himself--because, shit, he was jealous, and he was jealous because Rogue had taken Bobby outside not to fuck him, but to talk to him. *Talk.*

How very--anticlimactic.

"Nothing else happened?"

"She wasn't interested."

She sure looked interested when she left, but St. John bit his tongue as Bobby, ever neat, spread his denim jacket on the grass and carefully sat down on it. Keep those creased jeans perfect.

"She wasn't interested?"

"I was interested, she wanted to chat. With Rogue, this is normal. I'm used to it." A pause, and he saw Bobby was leaning back comfortably on one arm, looking thoughtful, before those icy blue eyes met his. "Of course, now you can explain why you were jealous--after all, she was in our room before I got there, and many things I am, I'm not stupid. And you being St. John, you've never turned down sex in your life. So spill. You wanted her and she left with me and now we're on opposite ends because you didn't get a chance to fuck her?"

It was only now St. John realized perhaps his biggest mistake. Bobby wasn't angry or amused, or even off-center--Bobby was pissed beyond words, and dealing with it in a very Bobby-way. Total relaxation and completely open dialogue on the subject of the anger. Dear God.

"We didn't have sex."

"You wouldn't have looked quite so--frustrated--if you had." Bobby idly kicked his heel into the dirt. "Spit it out--you got mad because you thought Rogue had sex with me and not with you."

"Rogue and I--we're not like that."

Bobby tilted his head.

"She had a hickey, Johnny. Apparently, you are like that, and I didn't even know you were into bruising--you sure as hell never did that to me." Wow. He hadn't known he bruised her. "She was wearing that little silk bodysuit that has only one purpose--shit, we all know why she buys those. Carrying around a scarf, looking guilty as hell--well, Rogue's version of guilty anyway--and trying to tell me in very nice words why I should be looking closer to home for my romantic interests. Which is all well and good and I'm now doing some serious rebounding on the whole Rogue issue." A pause. "Thing is, never occurred to me, that you might want her too."

"I don't." Well, not quite true, and Bobby's raised eyebrow made him rethink the subject. "It's not--I like her. She's a friend. Like Kitty and Jubes, you know?"

"Who you've also been ignoring, but that's another issue for another day. I don't remember you nailing Kit or Jubes, so we'll just put that aside." Bobby's head tilted a little. "Have you slept with them?"

That'd be a technical no. "Rogue and I didn't have sex." Let's keep with the subject. "We're friends, that's it, Bobby." Well, okay, not right now, but knowing Rogue, she'd do absolutely nothing to repair the issues between them, and that left it up to him.

"Okay, so that's cleared up." A sharply blow breath. "So what are you pissed about then? If you don't want her, why were you angry that I went off with her?"

A pause--Bobby was clueless, true, but also remarkably determined once his nose was actually in the problem.

"I just--I just thought you needed to get over it already." I want you myself. Fuck, why the hell is that so hard to say? I. Want. You. Period.

"Oh." Bobby frowned a little, and St. John watched the pale fingers pick lightly at the meager grass for a few minutes. "Look--the thing with Rogue--you know how I feel about her."

In hideously nightmarish detail.

"And I'm not saying that I don't--don't still want her."

Fuck.

"But--look, I'm not going to be going stalker on her anymore, okay? So chill. That whole thing is through." Abruptly, Bobby leaned forward. "So that's over. Don't worry about it. I'm not gonna go off the deep end because she's planning the most appropriate method of jumping Logan. Okay?"

Bobby was astute, oh yes. He'd picked up exactly half of St. John's problem. Because they were friends, and occasionally friends who messed around (and that was it, he was talking to Kitty and Jubes about their possible relationship, because Bobby had to be getting his example from somewhere). With a sigh, St. John nodded.

"Cool." And just like that, Bobby was freed of all stress, grinning brightly. "Come on--we still got some time. Let's go get something to eat--I don't feel like eating at school today." Moving in one of those easy, graceful movements that just never ceased to fascinate St. John completely.

"Bobby, I can't--"

"You set off bombs on school property and you're getting issues about eating in town?" A wonderful smile, lighting up his whole face, taking St. John's breath away. "Don't worry--Jubes's covering for us. It's all good. Get your ass up."

"I'm driving."

"You better believe it." Bobby threw him the keys. And St. John couldn't help but smile in return as he grabbed his helmet.

Okay, so the whole 'I want you Bobby' hadn't happened yet. There was the 'I'm getting over Rogue' thing from Bobby, which was an immense step in the right direction. Very big step. Monumental step.
Sitting on the bike with Bobby's arms around his waist--well, this was definitely Progress.

The End