"And 'Drake Roberts' demonstrates your usual level of cunning," John grumped, but fondly, reaching to grab the bannister with his hand as if he could yank himself up the stairs quicker, a few steps behind Bobby. "But the nice people at Homeland Security didn't give me a lot of options, so I took what was offered," he said, in a tone of voice that effortlessly covered the abiding anger at it all; so easy and cynical that he knew he sounded too comfortable with it all.
"Sorry- you didn't ask for more details, you just wanted a tour. Right?" The landing on the first floor was nice and airy, with a door roughly opposite the stairs, one to the right, and a wide passageway to the left, lined by cupboards for storage on both sides. Still, he was suddenly there, just one step behind Bobby, and a little to one side, leaning over his left shoulder. The master bedroom was spacious to say the least, dominated by windows that overlooked the garden, covered by the same gauzy drapes that were used in the living room, and curtains of a heavier material for the winter. There was a large four-poster bed against the right wall, a small bookshelf, and a chest of drawers.
To the left, there was a TV against the wall, and an opening that lead into a walk-in robe, not quite at the right angle to glimpse the spiral staircase beyond that went down to the study.The far left corner held an electro-acoustic guitar in a stand, with an amp nearby and a messy bundle of cords, a remnant of John's Manhattan life. There was another door in the close left corner that lead into the master bathroom. "This is my space," John said, cheerily, in his ear, and then patted him on the shoulders- but it was timid, gentle, as if Bobby might fall apart with a touch. "Don't worry. Your room is nice. Not as big, but nice." His arm lingered on Bobby's shoulders as he turned them both around, full of false cheer and too buddy-buddy.
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"Sorry- you didn't ask for more details, you just wanted a tour. Right?" The landing on the first floor was nice and airy, with a door roughly opposite the stairs, one to the right, and a wide passageway to the left, lined by cupboards for storage on both sides. Still, he was suddenly there, just one step behind Bobby, and a little to one side, leaning over his left shoulder. The master bedroom was spacious to say the least, dominated by windows that overlooked the garden, covered by the same gauzy drapes that were used in the living room, and curtains of a heavier material for the winter. There was a large four-poster bed against the right wall, a small bookshelf, and a chest of drawers.
To the left, there was a TV against the wall, and an opening that lead into a walk-in robe, not quite at the right angle to glimpse the spiral staircase beyond that went down to the study.The far left corner held an electro-acoustic guitar in a stand, with an amp nearby and a messy bundle of cords, a remnant of John's Manhattan life. There was another door in the close left corner that lead into the master bathroom. "This is my space," John said, cheerily, in his ear, and then patted him on the shoulders- but it was timid, gentle, as if Bobby might fall apart with a touch. "Don't worry. Your room is nice. Not as big, but nice." His arm lingered on Bobby's shoulders as he turned them both around, full of false cheer and too buddy-buddy.