'John'. Just 'John.' (
prodigalflame) wrote2015-09-23 06:48 pm
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Entry tags:
[For Bobby] Fear and Paranoia in London.
After bumping into Em at the New Artist Fair, John thought about stalking around the streets of London for a while. He'd stayed to look at some of the other artists, but only as long as he thought necessary: now, especially now, he was just being a college kid again, just some irate doofus who made stupid comments about art. Nothing to see here, thank you very much.
If he hadn't have been so furious, he might have been concerned at how easily he dove into habits of a life gone by: checking where the CCTV was, keeping the collar of his jacket up, careful to cross roads in the thick of a crowd. Always assuming that someone might be watching. Just because that red-headed fascist hadn't shown up to put the word up him again didn't mean they weren't around.
Because now they were after Em, it seemed. And from Em, to him, and from him to Bobby.
In the end he'd moved from the fair back to the house with a predator's efficiency through the afternoon throng: kicking it around the streets wasn't the right thing to do. He was too intense for that, too cursed with dark thoughts and darker desires, and they kept stewing in his mind. And again, wandering around London while being stone cold sober was just asking for someone to wonder what the fuck he was up to.
So he let the gate latch close behind him with a clink, opened up the door like any normal person, and casually closed it behind him. Striding down the corridor, he was like a different man, in a different house; wary, coiled tight, the walking wounded, and practically hopped over the back of the couch to land there, knees pulled up, and didn't look at the TV or his boyfriend. Didn't especially care if he'd interrupted Bobby watching what the fuck ever.
"Some people came looking for Em," he announced, in a hard tone. "Possible kidnap attempt, possible damage intended." He wasn't sure which would be worse. Finally then, he pulled his lighter out, rubbed it across a palm. "I think someone's looking for us." And only then did he let himself look at Bobby.
If he hadn't have been so furious, he might have been concerned at how easily he dove into habits of a life gone by: checking where the CCTV was, keeping the collar of his jacket up, careful to cross roads in the thick of a crowd. Always assuming that someone might be watching. Just because that red-headed fascist hadn't shown up to put the word up him again didn't mean they weren't around.
Because now they were after Em, it seemed. And from Em, to him, and from him to Bobby.
In the end he'd moved from the fair back to the house with a predator's efficiency through the afternoon throng: kicking it around the streets wasn't the right thing to do. He was too intense for that, too cursed with dark thoughts and darker desires, and they kept stewing in his mind. And again, wandering around London while being stone cold sober was just asking for someone to wonder what the fuck he was up to.
So he let the gate latch close behind him with a clink, opened up the door like any normal person, and casually closed it behind him. Striding down the corridor, he was like a different man, in a different house; wary, coiled tight, the walking wounded, and practically hopped over the back of the couch to land there, knees pulled up, and didn't look at the TV or his boyfriend. Didn't especially care if he'd interrupted Bobby watching what the fuck ever.
"Some people came looking for Em," he announced, in a hard tone. "Possible kidnap attempt, possible damage intended." He wasn't sure which would be worse. Finally then, he pulled his lighter out, rubbed it across a palm. "I think someone's looking for us." And only then did he let himself look at Bobby.
no subject
"We do," John observed after a pause, because everything else he could possibly say - a glib jibe about how Bobby was nice enough to dislike his friends being attacked, or assuming Em needed their help when Bobby wasn't even in the hero business anymore - would have made things worse. Oh, he still knew what to say, how to cut, but he'd learned to not say things. Instead he just knew he was capable of it, which was....the way things were. Blah blah, John Allerdyce was a horrible human being, blah blah blah.
And while John thought it might reassure Bobby in some way to know that he'd practiced enough in the years since Alcatraz to not just burn and blast away at things, detailing what he was capable of now would probably just bring up everything he had done with his powers. Oh, he was still a killer, he knew that. Certain stains could never be cleaned. But he could also disarm, capture, wound - depending on how callous he felt, he could be quite mean. Just like old times.
Instead he just snuggled in closer to his boyfriend and didn't say anything more. "Thanks. But like I said, she's got some other help." Was it really their job, come to think of it? Bobby was off the team, and John had never been on it. "It's not all up to us, you know?" John had run the moment the mansion had come under attack, washed his hands and tried to get out. Some things didn't change. And if Em didn't want to admit who her mysterious protector was, well. Fuck it. John wasn't gonna stick his neck out for someone keeping secrets from him.
no subject
But for now, he would just keep John close, cling to the sense of safety in his arms, in their little house together.