[John and Bobby] Mutant phones home.

[prodigalflame]

John was on the mostly-unused landline, his hip leaning against a kitchen cabinet, legs loosely crossed at the ankle. There was a faint anxiety to him: while the phone was cradled in his left hand, his right absently played with his hair, and he chewed on his lower lip in those moments in which he simply had to listen.

Which, were anyone there to see, were frequent and long. Indeed, John was able to punctuate things with an appropriate number of "Uh-huh", "That's nice" and "Sure, Mom" - hurriedly changed to a more polite "Yes, Mom" when he could all but feel the significant pause down the line. God, he thought, hurry up - except it was early afternoon there, a few hours behind, so Mom had all the time in the world.

And considering it had been seven years, she had a lot to say. It wasn't like he hadn't heard it - or some of it - before. But as the afternoon wore on, John's face grew more stony and rather than chewing his lip he pressed his mouth into a thin line, saying less and less and trying to keep one eye out for Bobby getting home and coming down the hall.

Comments

[prodigalflame]

The listening meant a lot. John had never really had anyone who'd listened. Correction: John had never let himself have anyone who'd listened. Bobby did, once; hell, half the damn school listened, which just made him angrier at the time, all the compassion and consideration and fluffy white-hat angelic bullshit but no goddamn action. But listening took time, and patience, and care: things he'd never appreciated between the surly ages of 14 to 18.

"You make my day better," John assured him, reaching out to squeeze his arm just below the elbow, the contact instinctual, the reassurance he got from it, completely unconscious. "I was going okay, before, even with the world falling out from under me. But you stop me from just being a grumpy, disdainful son of a bitch, and I need that, so thank you. The name that helps is 'Bobby Drake', that's all. You are better for me that you know." That was a soft smile at that, because John thought deep down Bobby had his own issues, and damn if the guy didn't really understand how good this was for John; as if how good they were was all because of John, and not really because of him.

"Now scram and let the master work his magic in the kitchen, okay?" Because there was nothing that eased John's temper more than doing the damn cooking. "I'm sure you have spreadsheets to do. You can demonstrate what a double entry is to me later." And yeah, he wasn't talking about accounting there, from the glint in his eyes.

[cold_blueeyes]

Bobby ducked his head a little at the praise, smiling an 'aw, shucks' kind of smile. It felt good to hear that he made John's life better, because John sure as hell did that for him. It was nice to know it worked both ways, although part of him had already recognized that.

"Yeah, yeah," he murmured, rolling his eyes and flashing a grin at the innuendo. "But only because you feed me so well. I have to work all of this home cooking off somehow." He leaned in and kissed John's cheek quickly and then headed off to grab his backpack so he could get some work done before dinner and 'later.'