hackthis_archive | I know why y'all are here

1. If the TPTB over at SV are going to keep trying to cancel out the Clark/Lex of season one by reshooting it as Clark/Lana for season two, then what *was* the point of season one anyway (rhetorically speaking, people)? Also, if this indeed is the case, will Lana start fencing in season three?

2. The front page of USA Today Friday was all about ~~That Brainless Git~~ David Beckham. That’s so appalling. As a Liverpool supporter I thoroughly object, although a) he looked really fit in that sarong that one time and b) everyone should go see ‘Bend it Like Beckham’ anyway because, you know, fucking good film.

Movie-verse: X2
Thermal V: Flux

The first thing wrong with this picture is that Bobby’s warm.

Really fucking warm.

Which tells him off the bat that something is messed up, because Bobby hasn’t been this warm since his powers kicked in, and he froze the family goldfish in its bowl. He learned the hard way that microwaving a fish bowl is all of the bad, and cryogenics have a long way to go. But he replaced the fish before anybody noticed, so that’s okay. He thinks.

But this is not about fish guilt.

The question right now is why’s he so warm and when did the bed get so small? And exactly whose arm is wrapped around him in a vaguely familiar, yet completely terrify way.

And then he opens his eyes.

Ah.

Mansion. Johnny. Ice crystals on his copy of ‘Catcher in the Rye.’

This is the life of Bobby Drake, and there are definitely worse ways to wake up in the morning than spooning with your roommate. Not that they’re spooning, but if they were, and if Johnny had deliberately put his arm around Bobby, that would be cool. And it is, or would be. Hypothetically speaking. Also, if Johnny’s this warm in bed with Bobby then how he did he get so cold when Bobby was doing, well, what he was doing a few hours ago?

And Christ, isn’t it a bit early for his brain to be this sharp?

Truthfully, Bobby doesn’t even remember falling asleep at all. He just remembers St. John getting in the bed while Bobby tried to balance as close to the edge as possible without falling off. To give Johnny room. Not because Bobby was embarrassed about the wet spot on his pajamas or about the awe-inspiring efforts of his cock to leap out his pants.

No, Bobby was just being a gentleman, that’s all.

That’s why he fell out the bed, twice.

That’s also why his last conscious memory is of lying on the edge of his mattress, feeling Johnny breathing against the back of his neck, and resolutely not touching himself. Because that would be wrong. Even more wrong than freezing their room to get Johnny in bed with him. Not that Bobby planned it that way, but if he had, well, it certainly couldn’t have gone better.

It is only a twin bed, and Johnny’s hand is resting on Bobby’s waist.

Johnny is breathing against Bobby’s neck.

And Johnny is most definitely there.

The hard-on currently pressed against Bobby’s ass is all the assurance Bobby needs, even though said erection is not for him. No. Absolutely not. He’ll just skip that thought.

There are certain boundaries that Bobby is not going to cross. He’ll just jerk off in the shower later. Or sooner. Maybe now. But then he’d have to move, and that might wake up St. John. The least Bobby can do is let him sleep after all the trauma Bobby’s probably subjected Johnny too, what with the catching him wanking once, twice, in four hours. Oh. Come the fuck on. Now he’s thinking like a shrink? Bad. Definitely bad.

So, instead Bobby will sacrifice himself, like a good X-Man, and wait for Johnny to wake up, because that’s not self-serving at all. Even though Bobby hasn’t been warm like this in ages and probably never will be again.

What a hardship.

Yes, Bobby wil just lay here, on his side, stare out the window and wait for the room to defrost. It'll probably defrost faster if he opens the window. But then he’ll have to move. Why couldn’t he have the telekinetic/telepathic thing happening too? Right, so then he could have millions of voices in his head as opposed to one loud voice celebrating about Johnny being in the bed next to him. Or that other voice that’s asking about the shiny object on the floor, under the window.

Yeah, the one peaking out from behind Johnny’s Pumas.

It can’t be.

Shit, he’ll have to get out the bed to check. Which means he’ll have to move St. John’s arm, because he‘s one of the X-Men which is synonymous with duty.

Fucking duty.

Bobby reaches down and very very gently lifts Johnny’s hand away at the same time that he rolls out the bed. Or falls out the bed, but no need to be picky; and when Bobby looks back Johnny’s eyes are still closed, and his lips are only slightly parted. No, now is not the time to think about that mouth. Bobby has to focus. He has a mission.

Right.

Five steps to the window, and Bobby didn’t think he was old enough for his bones to creak that loudly. When he crouches down, the infamous lighter is indeed right there, and Bobby’s toes rub against dirt that must’ve been tracked in yesterday morning. From when they went running. Right around when the lighter went missing.

So this is why the girls keep telling them to clean their room.

The lighter feels oddly warm in Bobby’s hand when he picks it up, and he turns it over and over, studying the design. Bobby can’t remember having ever touched the lighter. He can’t even remember ever seeing not it in Johnny’s hand, and it’s stupid to think he can still feel Johnny’s body heat on it. Especially considering that Bobby’s frozen the room at least three times in the last twenty-four hours, but still.

He’s in lust; he’s not rational.

He flips the top, and it’s almost like slow motion as he watches his thumb rub the wheel. The first time he tries to ignite the lighter he’s rewarded with a crackle of sparks. The second time, nothing. And then ‘fwoosh.’

There’s no reason for Bobby to be smiling like a dumbass, but he is.

He snaps the lid shut and sort of crawl-slides across the, yes, still very cold, floor back to his bed.

Johnny’s still sleeping, and Bobby’s not quite at the stage where he’s going to kneel there and stare all day long. But a few minutes is okay. Eventually he reaches out to shake St. John awake, and god, he’s so fucking warm.

“Hey.”

“Nurrr.” No, St. John is not adorable when he wakes up. No, Bobby’s not even thinking that. That’s so… gay, and Bobby’s firmly bi. He likes Rogue, too. That doesn’t stop him from grinning like an idiot. He’s such a sad case, if Jubes were there she’d smack him in the head, and then fall down laughing.

“Nur? Never heard of it, is it a new videogame?”

The lighter rests in Bobby’s right hand, out of sight, fist laying on the floor. Bobby wants this to be a surprise, and he’s going to enjoy this; he can feel it. It has absolutely nothing to do with watching St. John wriggle around in his bed, and oh come the fuck on, did he have to push the sheets down?

That’s cruel.

“Bob, it’s early.” Oh, wait. Now Johnny’s pulling the sheets back up? Huh, well it is a bit cold in their room, but still. Preventative measures are in order. Christ, now he sounds like Mr. Summers. This is fucking awful.

“I know, but I want to show you a trick.”

“Now?”

“You’ll like this one.” Bobby can’t help smiling at the way that Johnny’s eyes light up. He may not know how to get the guy he likes, but at least he knows how to make him happy. Bobby would know the Toys at Christmas/ Free Porn look anywhere.

He’s just about to pull out the lighter when he remembers a trick that Jubilee taught him once about lifting wallets. It’s all about diversion. So Bobby snaps the fingers in his left hand, and when Johnny’s eyes move towards that hand, Bobby ignites the lighter in his right.

Click fwoosh.

And then St. John blinks.

Bobby can’t ever remember seeing this look on Johnny’s face before, but he wonders what he’ll have to do to see it again. He’s still holding the lighter in his hand when St. John reaches out, ostensibly to take it away. Funny how Johnny’s hand winds up on Bobby’s face instead of on the lighter, and it makes Bobby a bit woozy when Johnny licks his lips.

That look.

Bobby knows that look. He’s only been hoping for it his entire life - okay, several months - except now he has no idea what to do with it. The word ‘run’ seems appropriate enough though.

Now is not the time for Johnny to kiss Bobby.

Now is the time for Bobby to go elsewhere.

Possibly to take a cold shower.

So he closes the lighter, drops it on the bedspread and leaves.

-finis-

Big ups to The Dark Lord of Orange and all things V V Gay for her help.

Edited to note: