[For Bobby] The reality of the situation [Early March]

John was in what he personally called the library, the long L-shaped room that curved around the front of the house to the side where the main entrance was. It was one of the reasons he'd bought the place: between the library and the little study, the house was full of more shelves and crooks and spaces for books than he frankly knew what to do with.

For all the (unfortunately 1990s) renovations that modernised the kitchen and the bathrooms, this part of the house still smelt musty. Old. Like paper. Like books. And being the academic he was trying to be, the afternoon found John sitting on one of the window seats, book propped open against his raised knees, all but wedged in the window frame. There was a stack of books next to him on the carpet. From time to time he added little sticky flags or took notes on a notepad. He'd managed to get all his marking done for the week, but narrowing down his dissertation topic was still slightly out of his reach.

And for all that, he glanced every so often out the wrought iron setting of the large window, peering to see if his boyfriend was home yet. They needed to have a talk.

[For Bobby] Dinner is served. [Late March, NSFW]

There was something oddly satisfying about cooking. It was like getting back at his mom and showing up everyone he ever knew all at once. Chopping ingredients and sorting through recipes - sure, he was a lot more haphazard than his mom had ever raised him to be, but he got shit done. The actual act of cooking was restorative, using his powers in a fashion that didn't lead to ash and char and devastation.

Mind, right now, his mind wasn't entirely on the recipe he was preparing. After all, he was standing there in his apron and a pair of socks and not much else. Trying to ignore just how aware he was of his bare butt, John 'hmmm'd like it was any other evening, and turned the page of his tattered old recipe book, glancing between the ingredients he'd roughly chopped on the counter and the illustration.

Fuck it, Italian food was always supposed to be a bit rustic. He'd wing the rest, he decided, and got on with it, igniting the gas under the pot of water with a flick of a switch - and then keeping it going with his mind. Cooking with powers was trickier than most people would assume, especially with his powers - he was still dependent on something else igniting the flame, and then he had to manually control the flame despite the flow of the gas through the stove. He'd been doing it since he was 14, though - so that was something. And he sang a little to himself, snatches of stupid dorky love songs, as he decided to chop up some salami and olives.

At least when Bobby came home he'd have two surprises waiting for him.