*****

He didn't want to leave that nicely cool body, and for an entire ten minutes, St. John didn't after he awakened, aware the sun was much farther in the sky than it had been earlier. Wrapped himself closer, burying his head against the hard chest, feeling Bobby's fingers tangle sleepily in his hair. It was innocent enough, he really believed it, and shut his eyes when he brushed his lips along the sternum, feeling Bobby moan softly, shifting a little closer.

For the first time, it wasn't play--even St. John recognized what was moving inside of him wasn't just simple lust and affection and close friendship with the natural sexual tension thing. He'd thought to himself before he might be in love--now he knew he was. Knew it when he lifted his eyes to see Bobby watching him, cool hands coming up to brush along the line of his cheeks.

But Bobby loved Rogue, and St. John, for all his cavalier attitude on sex, didn't want it this way. Which is why he smiled tightly, tearing himself out of bed and going to the shower, pressing himself back against the cool tiles that reminded him of Bobby's fingers with the water reacting to him even set at cold, growing steadily hotter to match the temperature of his body. He got back out, skin reddened, trying to control the burn in his body that needed release so badly he knew anyone stupid enough to come close to him would probably be vaporized. Bobby was gone and he went through the closet, ignoring Bobby's bed, covered in a light sheen of ice. Grabbed a t-shirt and his boots and jeans off the floor, went outside looking for somewhere safe to vent.

Where he trained, of course. No place better.

* * * * *

Later, he'd have no idea how his instincts, which he didn't have many of, truth be told, had gotten him out of the Mansion without running into anyone. All the basic laws of probability said that he'd have to run into someone, at least one someone, but maybe other people had better instincts and felt it coming off of him. He had to release, he had to do it now, and it took all his concentration to just get out, his body temperature already warming his clothes.

One hundred yards from the school, the training center, down fifteen steps into the cool underground that heated up the second he walked in. He flipped the lights, punching in his security code, and faced the hallway lined with doors, rooms where the students had first been taught to control their abilities. The destructive-potential students, that is. Alpha class kids. The ones that the world was careful never to know about. His kind.

It was built from solid brick overlaid with concrete--St. John had shown early on that given enough time, he could vaporize those too, and had since been reinforced with steel beams and Teflon, layered heavily with some complicated chemical combination that even he had issues with bringing down, though God knew, he hadn't even really tried yet, who knew for sure anymore? The room was large enough to give him space, heavily ventilated, and filled with objects that took time to wreck, time for his mutation to wear itself out. He ignored the protective clothing the Professor had stored in the outside closet, punching his codes into the door and walking in, locking the door behind him and setting it for no entrance as long as the temperature remained above a certain level--other mutants could easily pass out when he was like this, or worse, though as yet no one had tried to get in during training. Then turned and stared at a cinderblock until he felt the rush of heat, close to pure pleasure, and it vaporized before his eyes.

He was stronger. And for some reason, he hadn't expected that.

But it wasn't enough, and he wasn't sure what would be enough--his temperature didn't even drop a full degree, and he felt sweat break out on his forehead as the room slipped above one thirty Fahrenheit and began to climb. The rush was starting, this time outside his control, and he fought it down, trying to focus on the mantra they all learned at the Professor's feet.

It wouldn't control him--he wasn't thirteen and this wasn't Santa Fe. Nothing on God's green earth was sending him back to that. Focus, focus, focus, bring it down, bring it under control, what the hell did he know about love anyway?

Fuck.

St. John let it go, and it happened faster, scaring him, staring at the set of chemical-covered blocks that went up into water vapor that disappeared almost instantly. Pure force, no finesse, he'd separated oxygen and hydrogen into their component parts just by sheer strength. Stumbling backward, he leaned up against the wall that could absorb the heat from his skin, sinking down and bringing it under strict control, shutting his eyes tight until everything went still inside of him. Just below, he could feel it shifting, twisting, wanting out--but he wasn't controlled by his mutation, his mutation was controlled by him. This was who he was, he wasn't thirteen and this wasn't that abandoned building in Santa Fe.

This wasn't.

And he didn't know a damn thing about love. Not a damn thing. But hell, what kind of example did he have, anyway? He could barely remember his parents, and what he could remember, their example of love had been to leave him as quickly as possible with the first flared candle, with the first realization of what he was. So it wasn't love--love was that weird crap between Mr. Summers and Dr. Grey that sometimes creeped him out, and what all the girls at the school called romantic just frightened him. He didn't want that. He didn't want to be bound like that, didn't want to be locked down--he wanted what he had, what was simple. Love was dangerous and complex and caused fights in the middle of the night that woke them all up and gave them headaches when Dr. Grey's shields slipped.

Calm, calm, calm, focus, focus, focus--slowly, he sank onto the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees, shutting down everything but his focus, the warming reality of the floor beneath him and the wall behind him, bringing everything back under strict control. And with the control came a flash of utter embarrassment, that for the first time in a long time, he'd allowed emotion to overrule his reason--and all of it because he woke up and looked at Bobby, and that was just fucked-up. Period. Maybe exclamation point.

No good reason at all.

Taking a deep breath, he stood back up, checking physical temperature and ambient temperature both, then turning his full attention to his objects--and this time, focused, focused, focused--the cinderblock went up quick and easy--disturbingly quick and easy--but it didn't push for more, didn't try to slither back out, and he shut his eyes after, checking himself. For the first time, though, he wondered exactly what his limitations really were. Given enough heat, enough raw strength, he could break the bonds between atoms--and that scared him most of all. Don't think about love, don't think about how destructive you really are. Don't think. Focus. Calm Control. Shatter it, but do it with finesse, do it with control. Nothing else. Don't think of anything else.

A few more runs, feeling his temperature slowly drop back into human range, then one more flash that dropped him well below, he leaned against the wall, shivering from the chill, drawing in a breath that was oxygen rich and air that was a little too hot and a little too thick, but the ventilation system had gone into overdrive to clear it out and the air conditioning was coming on, cooling the room back down to something someone besides him could tolerate. Sitting down, he crossed his legs and rebalanced himself, remembering now with affection the Professor sitting with him in this room, not giving a good damn about the danger he was, telling him softly that one day, he'd be able to do it only by will. Telling him he didn't have to be afraid, telling him that one day, he'd learn to understand what he could do. Telling him everything would be good now, he didn't need to be afraid. Handing him over to Bobby early that afternoon and touching for the first time that cooling presence, a hand against his shoulder.

The first time his temperature had dropped without the physical effort, with that friendly hand that told him he wasn't alone anymore.

* * * * *

When St. John finally dragged himself back, he went straight to the rec room. Jubes and Kitty were back, sprawled across the couch, both grinning to see him. Bobby, an empty plate on the floor, was asleep at the other end, and to his surprise, Remy had emerged from hiding and was trying very hard to casually smoke a cigarette with Kitty using his legs as a pillow. Without much thought, St. John climbed in the mass, resting his back against Bobby's legs after quickly hugging both girls.

"Have fun?"

Jubes grinned.

"You better believe it. So Wolvie is back?"

It had once been amusing to hear Jubilee refer to Wolverine as Wolvie--humanized him just a little, made him that much less an awe-inspiring object of fear. But not now--there was no way he could ever associate that name with stalking animal who wandered the school at large. No way. Not after seeing Dr. Grey in the hall, not after being the focus of those extremely inhuman eyes. Not since--

"Hey guys!"

St. John jumped, turning completely around on the couch, but Rogue was already vaulting over, landing neatly between Jubes and St. John, and Jubilee, after the automatic check of visible skin, gave her a hug, Kitty following (and in the process putting a foot in Remy's stomach that he didn't seem to appreciate all that much). Quick check--no Logan. Not anywhere in sight. Didn't mean he wasn't in range somewhere, watching them, ready to pick off the weakest of the herd--

--geez, St. John my boy, get over it.

Settling warily back, he found a smile and pasted it on, but Rogue could read deceit and frowned briefly before turning her full attention back to Jubilee and Kitty as they related their adventures in Los Angeles, and St. John decided he was hungry and got up, waving off Rogue's questioning gaze. Lunch should still be out and he wandered into the dining room--

--and of course, Logan was there.

"I'm not going to listen to this. You have no--"

"Cyke, you just don't get it. I have every right--she was here conditionally. Period." St. John straightened at that, a little startled by the cool tone--not the Logan in the upstairs hall. This was a different one, a little cooler and a lot more controlled, dealing with Mr. Summers, the very epitome of control and anality. Attitude switched accordingly.

"There was no condition--you left her here. You didn't want her, we took her in. You weren't that worried when you left--"

"Conditionally." This time it was a growl that raised every hair on St. John's body. And he, frozen by the doorway, couldn't move to save his life. "I brought her here, you said you could take care of her. Trust--I figured there were worse places for her to be--"

"Such as picking fights in random bars with you?"

Oh fuck, Mr. Summers, what the hell are you doing? But no real reaction, and he stole a look at their faces--and Logan was smiling a little, just a little. Leaning back against the wall by the far door, no visible threat at all, but Mr. Summers looked guilty. He probably smelled like it too--keeping a secret like this couldn't be easy. Vaguely, St. John wondered if anyone had cleaned up the isolation chamber yet--or if Logan even knew there was an isolation chamber.

"The idea of walking out with her has become more and more temptin', Cyke. Don't get me wrong, I like my freedom--but I like her a hell of a lot more."

"And what the hell makes you think she'd walk on your order?"

Whoa--one, Mr. Summers used profanity, which in St. John's experience, was utterly unheard of. No one would believe that. Two--did Mr. Summers know Rogue at all? If Logan told her to jump from the damned roof she'd do it without a second thought. Maybe that was what love was, roof jumping on command--and that image almost made him laugh and it took a physical effort to stop himself, aware that the two men across the dining hall weren't gonna take his presence well.

A flicker of eyes and the ghost of a smile went his way--God, Logan knew he was here. But didn't let him interrupt him, looking back at Cyke--Mr. Summers, damn it!--as coolly as could be.

"You wanna test it?" The slowest smile, utterly confident, the smile of a good bluffer--or someone who knew exactly what they were doing. "Rogue!"

St. John's entire body went utterly still as the two men's eyes met. The rapid sounds of feet behind him, and Rogue emerged beside him, a curious expression on her face. Didn't even notice him, which was damned odd, but her entire focus was on the man across the dining room and she got halfway to them before frowning, stopping. Both eyebrows jumped a little.

"You called, sugar?" Pure casual interest in a voice that her body didn't reflect at all, and Logan locked eyes with Mr. Summers again, waiting him out. Which Mr. Summers wouldn't risk--St. John knew that they didn't want her gone, and even knew why--dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. She was dangerous. Had to be watched, protected, protect others, all the crap the X-Men believed in. Which he had thought he believed in, until he saw Rogue in that isolation chamber, when a switch in his head had been thrown.

They weren't always right. In fact, they could be very, very wrong. And Rogue shifted from foot to foot, taking in everything in front of her with those cool eyes before slowly finishing her walk toward them, reaching out a gloved left hand and touching Logan's shoulder.

"Whatdya need?"

Mr. Summers shook his head sharply and Rogue's head swung around, giving him an equally cool, measuring look. Rogue, constantly testing, constantly practicing, pulling up everything she knew and working out the problem. An eternal student, even now she was learning from this, and St. John could almost see the possibilities flashing in her eyes.

"I'm not playing this with you, Logan." And Mr. Summers turned, walking stiffly out the door. Rogue watched him leave, eyes still a little narrowed, before she flicked them up to Logan, and she was back to normal. Or normal as Rogue got, which was with a smile and utterly clear eyes and a watchful expression that meant she was thinking, thinking, thinking all the time.

"You need somethin'?" she drawled. "Or just playing alpha male with Scooter again?"

"Playing alpha male with Scooter again." An amused rumble and Rogue laughed a little. "Come on--you're gonna be in my class, I wanna see how well you're gonna measure up. You feel like a little work-out?"

Rogue's eyes darkened thoughtfully and she nodded, and St. John saw Logan's quick glance back at him again--and how did he get in these messes?--before he followed Rogue out the far door. It took several seconds to think over what he heard and he was halfway back in the rec room before the sense of Logan's last little statement got through his skull and pounded like a death-knell of hope.

"Oh God," he said, and shit, wasn't it obvious? Was he that stupid? Shit. Jubilee, on the couch, sat up to lean over the back and stare at him as he dropped over and landed on his back, looking up at the ceiling. "Shit. Shoulda made the connection. We got a problem, folks."

The folks gathered closer and St. John gave the rapidly paling Remy a quick glance, then raised himself on his elbows to look at them all.

"Two guesses who's gonna be teaching our combat class."

Nothing for a full second, and the sense of it penetrated them all at the same time. Jubilee sucked in a breath and flopped down--landing on Remy, incidentally, and St. John took that in with some interest.

"All of us in one class. Oh fuck, Johnny, what the hell are we gonna do?"

Shit, he wished he had an answer.

The End