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St. John was trying to sleep. Bobby wouldn’t let him.

It had been twenty days. Cops and military units were still searching, but already he could tell that things were starting to calm down. St. John remembered the aftermath of Magneto’s attack on the UN, of Kurt’s attack on the President, of Professor X’s attack on mutants and humans, and the chaos had lasted much longer back then.

He was fairly safe in the tiny flat he’d appropriated. It was one Magneto had bought for Mystique back when she’d first joined him, which meant that it was as hidden as a physical location could be... and that Mystique – Raven, now? – was very unlikely to seek it out.

It didn’t surprise him that he hadn’t quite yet managed to get his head on straight after all the shit that had gone down. Life after Alcatraz would have been bad enough without getting concussed all to hell by way of Iceman.

It was not the lost fight that was keeping him awake, not the Brethren that had died, not Mystique and not Magneto, not wondering what had become of them. Not the humans he’d killed.

It wasn’t that the X-Men had shown up to the fight and won, even though the Brotherhood had clearly outnumbered them. It was not that the survivors would have all died from the Phoenix’ power if not for the Wolverine.

It was Bobby’s face right before Pyro had blown blew up the clinic, right before they’d each charged to fight, right before his wrists had got frostbite and his flames’d been extinguished and a heavy block of ice had knocked him out.

St. John was trying to sleep. Bobby wouldn’t let him.