John knew Bobby was looking, and that grin grew a bit broader, more wry. Not that he was too obvious about most emotions beyond contempt. He flipped the burgers again, and made the flame flare up just a little, all professional pyrokinetic mutant chef-style. Gordon Ramsay eat your fucking heart out. "I bet you're thinking I'm a lot better in three-d." No matter the screen, no matter the sound, no matter the memory: the reality of Bobby Drake living a content little dorky life in their domestic enclave was definitely something else.
And John would never do anything to ruin that domestic feel. Which was why some things were never said.
Serving the now cooked burgers on a plate, he pulled on a mitten to extract the already toasted burger buns from the oven: a regular reminder that while flame was his domain, heat was not. But a regular enough reminder so that it had lost the sourness it used to have for him. "C'mon," he told Bobby, and set both plates out on the table for them to assemble whatever they wanted. "You want a beer or anything?" He paused, amusement and sympathy colouring his tone: "I bought some extra booze, in case you needed it." The very thought of Bobby's folks drove John to drink, and he didn't even have to spend time with them.
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And John would never do anything to ruin that domestic feel. Which was why some things were never said.
Serving the now cooked burgers on a plate, he pulled on a mitten to extract the already toasted burger buns from the oven: a regular reminder that while flame was his domain, heat was not. But a regular enough reminder so that it had lost the sourness it used to have for him. "C'mon," he told Bobby, and set both plates out on the table for them to assemble whatever they wanted. "You want a beer or anything?" He paused, amusement and sympathy colouring his tone: "I bought some extra booze, in case you needed it." The very thought of Bobby's folks drove John to drink, and he didn't even have to spend time with them.