prodigalflame | [Bobby and John] Meet and uh, Greet. (December 16.)

Well, getting here hadn't been too difficult, that was one note in its favor, already. Bobby checked the text on his phone to make sure he had the right address, then headed up the walk to the front door. The place looked nice enough, and the street seemed quiet. Now he just had to meet the owner.

He knocked at the door, looking around at the surrounding houses, then a few moments later, knocked a second time before shoving his hands into his pockets and getting a smile ready as he heard movement on the other side.

John had the door open after the second knock, still with a handful of junk mail from the sidetable that he tossed into a vase as he was speaking, keeping the door open with a foot. "Sorry, still tidying up, but-"

Glancing at the prospective roommate, the colour drained from his face just a bit and the door felt odd, insubstantial as John just stared at Bobby and took in a deep, open-mouthed breath. He felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him and parked a truck on his gut. Worse, he felt hopeful, eager, emotions that he instantly clamped down and sealed away. "Drake. Of course." Because this was exactly what he deserved: his own private purgatory, just John and Bobby Drake rattling around in a house.

He had no idea what Kitty or Ms Munroe or anyone might have told the other young man - the admittedly fucking handsome young man, hoy fuck, even looked good with facial hair that wasn't nearly as scratchy and half-assed as John's effort. Indeed, John suddenly felt naked, exporsed there in his jeans and t-shirt and jacket.

"You uh," John started, stepping away from the door, subdued, "you wanna come inside? I'll show you the room, if you're still interested." In other words: Bobby could walk away if he wanted, but John wasn't going to push him. "Besides, maybe you can explain how the world did a 180 a while back," some of his old grumpy nature seeping into the words.

The 'nice to meet you smile' froze on Bobby's face for a moment and then faded away, replaced by shock. "...John?" he said softly, feeling like he suddenly couldn't get his lungs to work properly. Something was keeping him from breathing properly, making him light-headed. "Uh. I. I guess, yeah." He hadn't seen John in years, and that cocky, angry man he'd battled with seemed nearly gone when he looked at his old...friend-turned-enemy-turned-potential-landlord? This day had just gotten incredibly weird. "I mean. I'm here," he added, as if he felt the need to justify his affirmative.

Still reeling from the surprise of running into John again, his brain couldn't parse the other part of what he said. "180?" he repeated, confused.

"You definitely are here," John mused, looking Bobby up and down, and no, he did not vanish into a puff of smoke. Turning his back on his...old friend, John trusted that Bobby would close the fucking front door, and poked his head into the little study on the right of the small landing. "And you don't appear to be a shapeshifter or a hallucination or some other weird bullshit. Study," he added with emphasis, determined to give him the whole tour. "Haven't got much there." Indeed, the bookshelves, while old, were mostly empty, and there were a few boxes of papers on the carpet.

Moving into the hallway proper, he waved absently down the passageway past the study to the right. "Laundry is down that way and you can get out to the garden there. Everything's mostly dead, though."

Turning to go left, he paused for a second. "The 180, with the whole world knowing about this infamous douchebag called Pyro and then zip, nothing. No longer a major figure of recent history." Sure he'd gotten the whole mental warning thing but he never liked psis. How fucking annoying was it to have someone who could get into your head and then refuse to fix you?

Edited 2014-11-14 12:30 (UTC)

Bobby did indeed close the front door, a mechanical action that fortunately didn't really require a coherent thought. He followed John silently, glancing into each room as John pointed them out, but for the most part he couldn't take his eyes off of John. How was he here, in London, in this little house, instead of...in a cell, or--or--he didn't even know what. Maybe he should have kept better tabs over the years, but it had been a painful subject, and those that would know to mention it knew better than to mention his name.

"Oh, right. Yeah, I--I just know what everyone knows," he murmured, then frowned. "Did he--the Professor contacted you, too, right?" Xavier would have wanted everyone to know, including former students that had ran off to be come mutant supremacist terrorists.

"Yeah," John told him, keeping his words to a minimum where the whole reborn Professor Xavier was concerned. "And Kitty left me a message on Facebook to not fuck up. I didn't bother asking Ms Munroe." With yes, the clear implication that John had been in contact with both of them for quite some while. "I thought you might know some more, even if you're not...on the roster, these days. Thanks anyway."

"Oh." He'd forgotten, and gestured over his shoulder: "there's stairs back there between the laundry and the kitchen but they go up near my bedroom so they're kinda my personal stairs."

John gestured at the door to their left, and then turned left - opening another door a short way along the hallway to reveal that the room was a long L-shape, stacked with bookshelves and a few little tables for reading on, as well as the window seat that could be glimpsed from the street. "Parlour, or sitting room...or something British. I need to watch more Downton Abbey," John admitted. On their right was the kitchen: recently renovated with all the modern conveniences, including a big stove, refridgerator, and lots of cupboard space. It also had a counter in the middle, just for food prep, and John made just a little bit of a show of all the fancy cookware and the like neatly shelved underneath.

"Oh. I don't...really talk to them very often," Bobby admitted, feeling a flush of shame as he said it. He should talk to them, he knew, but he was trying to move forward. To find a place in the world that didn't involve being a hero. He hadn't been able to hack it, and it wasn't something he was proud of. He wondered if Kitty had said anything to John about all of that. He didn't think she would, but then again, he didn't think she and John were talking, either.

He leaned on the side of the doorway, eyebrows arching in surprise as John showed off the kitchen. "This is all awfully domestic," he remarked. Somehow he couldn't quite match up his memories of John with everything he was seeing. It didn't compute, nearly as much as John being here didn't compute.

"I got that impression," John told him, and straightened up to lean on the counter a bit on his elbows, and just drunk in the sight of his former friend. "Look. Let's table the tour for a bit," he decided, before moving past Bobby to open up the refrigerator and bend down to pull two beers from the bottom shelf, placing them on the counter in the middle of the kitchen. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Frosty, so either punch me or have a beer and then we can move to the Twenty Questions round of the day's events and work out some stuff."

Finally managing a smile, John pulled out his lighter from a pocket and placed it next to the beers, disarming himself as he reached for one of the beers and twisted the top off with a grunt. "I'll even be a gentleman and let you ask the first question. I mean, I've always been an open book," he added, and that smile was perhaps more of a smirk now than it started.

Bobby straightened and walked into the kitchen cautiously, his eyes moving to the lighter as it was set on the counter. It wasn't the familiar old one John had always carried at school, but it wasn't the fancy wrist igniters he'd had at Alcatraz, either. It was simple, unadorned. Again, not what he would have expected.

He reached for the other beer and removed the top, pausing for a moment as he realized he didn't have to hide what he was here. A faint smile curled his lips as the glass frosted over in his hand, then faded away again as he looked at John. The only question he could think to ask was the one that had been running through his head from the moment the door had opened. "How are you here?"

John met Bobby's eyes with a brief glance of his own grey ones, looking back down at the tiled kitchen floor so as to not let the brief flicker of pain be too revealing. That sense of exposure grew worse, heavy, like a canker, but he waded through it. "Prison," he said curtly, and took a swig of beer, liking the way it settled in his gut. "Well, technically court, then being pumped full of cure, then prison, then a presidential pardon, then undergrad and then here," he added, forcing a smile to his lips that didn't reach his eyes.

The stupid blue eyed idiot gave a crap. Or seemed to, at least, in a way that wasn't in a judgemental 'How did anyone ever let you escape?' Yeah. That was not going to be easy.

Edited 2014-11-14 13:28 (UTC)

Prison, Bobby had known about. The rest of it--that was all news. "They gave you the cure?" he said, mouth twisting in subconscious distaste at the word. The very idea that they needed to be cured was bad enough, but the thought of John getting it involuntarily, of having that part of him taken away against his will...

John had done some bad things. Things Bobby didn't approve of, and would have a hard time forgiving. But that--that was a step too far. "Wow. I didn't know. I'm sorry." He couldn't look at John suddenly, and his gaze darted around the room, finally coming to rest on the fridge door. "...I guess that makes it your turn for a question," he added with a small half-smile.

John gave him an easy shrug. A very practiced easy shrug. "Well, they had to make sure I couldn't burn my way out of the courtroom," he offered, sounding like it was only reasonable to do that to him, like on some level that was how things went in wars. "So they cured me, and then it wore off, and the justice system realised they kind of fucked me over, so."

His jaw was tight as he spoke, and for all that he'd talked it over before with his therapist in more abstract terms, he'd never really admitted to anyone just how violated the whole experience had left him feeling - and yet how he accepted it as well. He was the tactician, the fighter, Magneto's lieutenant (in a long line of them). He'd gotten his ass kicked, and justly so.

"Well," John started, and the roughness of his voice was clear even to him, pressing his lips together to take a moment before he could continue: "I'm gonna be selfish, though, which is something I still excel at. Do you know who saved my life? I should have died on Alcatraz, I didn't. I never got to thank whoever. Thought it might have been you," he finished with a lame shrug and chugged some more beer. Anything to stop himself from looking.

"That sucks," Bobby said simply, because he wasn't sure what else he could say to something like that.

At John's question, Bobby froze for a moment, then slowly lifted his drink to his lips, still staring at the refrigerator. "I don't know what to tell you, man. It was chaotic that night. We were all trying to evacuate as many people as possible, so. Someone must have thought you were worth saving." He shrugged and took another swallow.

"Well. Good to know." John said simply, and bundled deep down some of the hurt that came with that, the idea that Drake hadn't thought he was worth saving - although he had been knocked out rather than killed, which probably counted for something.

Probably.

"Anyway this is the kitchen, and if you're good I'll cook for you sometime." Taking another swig of beer, John smacked his lips together appreciatively and passed through the sliding door into the large, expansive living room, dominated by the 60 inch flat panel television hung against the far wall, and speakers situated in the corners of the room to provide surround sound. Nearer to this side of the room was an alcove with a small wooden dining table, able to seat 4 people comfortably. Bay windows looking onto the tangled garden, streaming in sunshine despite the hazy thin curtains. "Living room, and dining room. I have an X-Box 360, Blu-Ray and stereo sound, all the creature comforts a guy could want. Oh, and since I haven't completely answered your question, and you're probably coping with psychological whiplash, any specifics you want answering?"

John managed a deep calming breath and a crooked grin: "Look, this is hard for me, so I'm guessing it's hard for you. You sure you don't want to punch me and run screaming into the street?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Edited 2014-11-16 14:07 (UTC)

Bobby sighed quietly in relief and followed as the tour resumed. He listened as John pointed out amenities and then shrugged at his first question. He couldn't think of any specifics he really wanted to hear about at the moment. What he'd already heard had disturbed him quite enough for one day, thanks.

The second question made him snort quietly. "If I wanted that, I wouldn't have followed you into the house, Allerdyce." Now that some of the initial shock had worn off, he actually thought it might be nice living here, getting a chance to reconnect with John, healing some of the wounds of the past--on both sides, maybe.

"I am pretty punchable though," John replied glibly, leading him back into the little alcove, past the dining table and gestured to the stairs. "Be my guest, Drake - speaking of which, what's up with that? I thought Robert was your name. Or should I just call you Louis for old times' sake."

Bobby heaved a heavy sigh and started up the stairs. "When I went to college, before the whole "No one knows about mutants" thing, I wanted to be anonymous. Fresh start, you know?" John should understand that part, at least. "So I changed my name. To Drake Roberts. I guess I can change it back now, huh?"

"Of course you did," John said smoothly, and managed to sound both fond and exasperated at the same time as he fell into place behind him. Bobby could do things with his powers that John could only dream of, but no, he wanted anonymity and all the rest. "I guess that explains the facial hair."

Mind, he was too busy enjoying the view to turn this into a proper argument. "You can do whatever the fuck you want as long as I get paid rent. But I have two entirely different sets of identity documents- no one can actually remember me as 'John Anderson' and my transcripts got all changed....Turn left when you get to the landing, please."

"John Anderson? Talk about anonymous. Why didn't you just go with John Smith, really take that generic name thing to the max?" Bobby asked as he reached the top of the stairs and turned as instructed, looking around at what may well be his new home.

"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.

Edited 2014-11-19 12:36 (UTC)

When John came up behind him and stayed there, close, so close, Bobby stiffened. He was already overwhelmed, trying to process everything he'd already been told today, along with the very fact that he was here in John's house and seriously considering renting a room from him, and the sudden awareness of the warmth of John's body (had he always been that warm? Was it an aspect of his mutation? Or was Bobby just imagining it all?) close enough that a half-step back would have them touching--it was more than he was ready to deal with, just yet. So he went stiff under John's touch, nodding woodenly along with whatever John was saying. "Great." He took a slow breath. "Let's see it."

"Hey," John said, and turned his head to look at Bobby briefly, as if he could peel back the layers and work out where that reaction came from. Still, he eased himself away from Bobby's warmth, unlooping his arm, all too aware of how the other young man had stiffened, all too conscious of his own immediate response. What am I? A leper? was the bitter, angry line that died on his tongue, but he was too busy wrestling with whether he felt he deserved a'Yes' or 'No' in reply.

To stop himself from saying more, John opened up the first of the doors on the left, revealing a small narrow room, barely enough to fit a single bed and maybe shove in a desk, if the occupant wanted. There was also a connecting door on the right of the room. "This...is not your room. I really have no idea what to do with this it. But it does connect with the other bathroom," he explained, closing the bedroom door and shuffling down to turn the next doorknob and reveal a decent, relatively modern bathroom that had been renovated sometime in the 90s. Shower, toilet, basin, and connecting doors to the rooms on either side. "You don't get a bath. Sorry. I have a little jacuzzi in the master bedroom, which I guess you can use if you have some kind of rabid undergraduate gathering."

Back to his evenly grouchy self, John opened up the last room on the landing - a warm, if somewhat bland bedroom, with the overall theme of cream walls and beige-brown carpet continuing. The only furnishing was a double bed, a little side table, and a chest of drawers. There were also some built-in wardrobes. "You can rearrange it all as you want." There was a flatpack desk still in its packaging leaning against one of the walls, all ready to be assembled. "I took the liberty of getting a desk, cause I was looking for a student housemate, but I've been lazy and haven't put it together yet."

He stopped then, clamping down on the nervous flow of words, and just decided that Bobby should probably walk around the room if he wanted and get a sense for the space. "...Have a look around if you want," he encouraged. "Get a feel for the place. Me, I've got this half-finished beer down in the kitchen and could really use it ,so, you come down when you're ready." And then he was off down the stairs, all too aware of just how lonely he'd been.

Edited 2014-11-27 11:50 (UTC)

Bobby didn't feel cold. It was a part of his mutation. But when John pulled away, he felt the loss as a chill that nearly made him shiver in its absence. Which was stupid, because it was his own fault. He'd stiffened at the touch, of course John had pulled away. It hadn't been because he didn't want it, though. God, this day had gotten confusing. Part of him wanted to just back up and not ever come here--but that was mostly because he felt like his head was spinning and wouldn't stop. There was just too much to take in and he needed somewhere quiet to sit and process it all.

And then John gave him that very thing. He watched his old friend walk away with a small frown, then shook his head and went into the bedroom, looking around a bit before sitting on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

So John was here. In London. With a room for rent. It was almost as if something had steered the two of them together again, fate or destiny, if he believed in either of those, which he didn't know whether he did or not. But he was here, and John was here, and the reunion that he'd dreaded, that he'd been sure would never happen, had happened--and the world hadn't ended. Sparks hadn't flown, or at least not literal ones, but--but there was definitely something there, something he hadn't felt before, or at least not strongly enough to explore it more.

He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers as he processed all of this. This wasn't what he'd come to London to find, but it had found him.

After what felt like a long time but was probably only about ten minutes he took a deep breath and stood up, pulling the bedroom door closed behind him. He followed the path that John had taken and stopped at the doorway to the kitchen, looking at John in silence for a long moment, studying him, trying to pick out all of the smaller changes in his face, his posture, his demeanor. Trying to find all the ways he'd grown up, but also trying to find the boy he'd known at school, at the same time.

John was leaning against the kitchen counter when Bobby found him, back in front of the stove, beer in hand. Truthfully, he'd only taken another swallow: it was cold and bitter and yet he didn't seem to taste it at all. The beer was absent, like the weight of the counter behind him was absent, the little slice of the living room he saw through the kitchen door was absent. All of it didn't exist. It was other, ephemeral. The only thing that existed, the only thing that mattered was the sound of someone padding down the steps and stopping in that doorway, and looking him over. That face, that fucking face scrutinising him. Sandy brown hair and blue eyes and just a bit of scruff and fucking hell.

He didn't bristle at the scrutiny, but he met it with the rolling out of his shoulders, standing just a little straighter and a little taller as he subconsciously came out of a slouch. Almost defiant, in his own way. And then he scratched at his beard. "I'm still getting used to the damn thing," he explained, and motioned towards the beer Bobby had left. "Look. I understand this is probably freaking you out as much as it is me, but....I would like you to stay," he admitted, voice rough with an underlying emotion that felt like need. "I'm sure this will be difficult, but you know I never did anything the easy way," he finished, managing a small smile, and softening a little, now he'd realised that yes, that need was still there, and it wasn't going away. And maybe it wasn't anything to be embarrassed about. Maybe it was fine if he just...looked, from time to time. Maybe it would be enough.

Bobby smiled faintly, even chuckled a little as John pointed out he didn't do things the easy way. "Okay," he said simply when John was done. "I'll stay." He didn't know what this new thing between them was, if it would come to anything more or not, but--he had decided upstairs that that was something he definitely wanted to find out.

Besides, the thought of having somewhere safe, somewhere where he could be completely and utterly himself, not having to be on guard all the time to remember not to use his powers where anyone could see? That alone would make John's offer almost too appealing to pass up.

"I mean...I want to stay," he added, not wanting John to think that he was just going along with this, wanting him to know that he really wanted to be here.

That declaration made John's small smile stretch into a smirk. "You always were an optimist," he said, but if it was an accusation, it was a fond one. "Thank you," he said, simple as he could manage, and held Bobby's eyes long enough to try and let Bobby know he meant it. "When do you want to move in? I mean, you want help with your stuff, or putting the desk together, or what have you?" The wheels ticked over in John's mind and he took another swig of the tasteless beer, smacking his lips together after he'd swallowed it down.

"I don't have all that much. I had to fit it all into a couple of suitcases," Bobby pointed out. "I've only been here for a few days. I can just pick it up from the hotel and come back--or I can stay there a few more days, if you're not ready for me to move in yet. And don't worry about the desk. I'll get to it at some point." Now that he'd made his decision, he felt much better, no longer off-balance and reeling. His smile grew as he watched John, curious to see how this would work out. They'd been roommates before, after all. He knew they could do it. But that had been before...before. They were both different people now, clearly.

It would be interesting to figure it out, anyway. And certain to not be boring. Not when it was himself and John involved. Not a chance.

John nodded. He travelled light himself. Heck, there was apparently a few boxes of stuff still at Westchester with his name on it, tucked away in the attic or something. But at the same time, everything he'd left behind - at his parent's house, at Westchester, even sorting out what to take to London - felt as much like a violation as it did a relief. He'd left bits of himself behind at school, and seeing Bobby again, brought all of it back into the light. And a lot of it wasn't pretty. So even as Bobby's smile grew, John retreated a little, walls coming back up.

Making a decision, he finished off the beer, and turned to fish around in the top kitchen drawer, taking out a key ring with several keys on it. Taking a deep breath, he then turned back to face his former roommate and tossed the keys at him. "You can move in tonight, if you want." From the text messages he'd exchanged with 'Drake', he knew they were studying at the same college. "And I can tell you where the good coffee is on campus, all that crap. Winter term starts January, so you've got some time." Pausing, he went through every bit of information he'd gleaned from Kitty and Ms Munroe in the intervening years. "Aren't you studying business or marketing or something? Something actually useful. Boring - but useful," he clarified, with a glint in his eyes.

Bobby caught the keys and nodded. "Thanks." Honestly, the idea of staying alone in a hotel room for another night really wasn't all that appealing, so he would happily take John up on that offer. "I'd like to."

He tilted his head at John's next question. "Accounting," he corrected, then asked mildly, "Have you been checking up on me?"

"No, of course I haven't, I just guessed," John declared, before spoiling his indignation with a raised eyebrow. He lifted the bottle to his mouth again, and finished it off.

The last of that beer was enough to settle warm in his stomach, and enabled him to force the words out. "But yeah, wanted to know you were doing okay," he explained, looking away for a moment, "after I barrelled through and fucked up your life. I swore Kitty and Ms Munroe to secrecy, so obviously no-one tattled." The glint in his eyes became a small, wry smile.

"Still, you can do my taxes, right?"

No, no one had tattled, and not just because John had made them promise not to. John had been an off-limits topic around Bobby for years. And then, of course, there was the fact that he didn't talk to either of them as often as he should. That made it pretty easy to keep secrets from him, not talking to him. He flinched slightly and then summoned up a smile again, snorting quietly. "Back home? Sure. I don't know the laws and stuff over here, though, so you might want to find someone else."

He liked being an accountant. It was safe, it was reliable, and he was actually pretty good with numbers. John could mock that decision all he wanted. It was one of the few Bobby was 100% sure had been the right one.

He wondered if he should go then, get back to his hotel, pack his things and return later, but he wasn't ready to go just yet, so he took a deep breath and came into the kitchen, leaning against the counter next to his beer bottle from before. "You want me to fill in anything they might have left out?" he offered with a crooked half-smile. "I mean, now you can just come right to the source."

"Hey, the prospect of a month without rent will give you an incentive to practice your craft," John opined. "Bu you are right, so I might wait till I move home. Although I probably owe the IRS something for this year." God, another stupid thing to think about.

He looked Bobby over after he noticed the flinch. "Bobby," he said, simple, to get his attention. "I'm not mocking your accountancy thing. Well. Okay. I am. But I'm not being mean about it. I tease my friends, but these days I try not to hurt them. If I ever say something and it hurts you, then you totally have my permission to smack me upside the head. Deal?"

And then Bobby came into the kitchen and was so close that John almost forgot to breathe. "Hmm." John considered the opportunity - if nothing else to buy him some time to put himself back together. "Accountancy. I assume that's because you were math guy at school? And because no one would pay for those god-awful puns of yours," he remarked with a amused grin that faded as he looked at the young man and realised what he wanted to ask. "How are you doing?" he wondered simply. "I mean, new name, new city...nice normal career....seems like a lot of effort."

Edited 2014-11-30 13:49 (UTC)

"I mean, there might be a workshop for it or something on campus. I'll check it out if it means a free month's rent," Bobby replied with a little grin.

The flinch hadn't been remotely about that, but since he really didn't want to explain what it had been about, had been hoping John wouldn't notice it at all, in fact, he was fine with letting that assumption remain uncorrected. "Deal. Can I get it in writing? So that when I smack you later there's no dispute that it wasn't consensual."

"Yeah, basically. I'm good at math, I like it, and...it is normal. That's what I want. That's..." he looked away and shrugged, gripping the edge of the counter tightly. "That's why I left...well, all of it. I just wanted normal. There's nothing wrong with that." The defensive edge that crept into his voice on that last sentence belied the words, though, or the emotion beneath them, at least. He felt guilty for wanting a normal life where he wasn't expected to save the world. Storm had been completely understanding and supportive when he'd left--but that had almost made him feel worse.

"The money situation isn't so tight I can't stump up a free month's rent for an...old friend," John acknowledged, trying out the phrase in his mouth: 'old friend'. It felt right, and yet somehow incomplete. Besides, he really could afford a couple of months of free rent. Maybe even three, if Bobby needed it. Not that his family had ever seem the type to run out of money, John thought, and pushed that brief bitterness aside.

John met those words with a glance that read 'Do you have any idea what you just said?', the beer bottle half way to his mouth. "Consensual smacking," he said, and shook his head before the grin came. "Right." He finished the beer and pointed at Bobby with an index finger uncurling from around the bottle. "You walked into that one, Drake. But I'll write something, sure."

Grabbing a napkin from the holder near the stove, he found a biro lying against the kettle for some reason, and popped the cap off, scrawling 'I, St. John Michael Gordon Allerdyce, do solemnly swear and provide testament that should I be a capricious, mean-hearted douche, Robert Louis Drake had my permission to smack me....' He paused then, staring at the napkin, and with a certain wild abandon, found himself finishing the sentence with 'smack me anywhere he sees fit.' He signed, dated and folded the napkin and then shoved it at Bobby with a slight flush to his cheeks, feeling like he'd probably signed his death warrant.

"Normal's fine. I mean, you're just one college kid speaking to another, right? I didn't go back either when I was asked to," John said with a shrug. And what he thought, but didn't say was: I guess we both ended up running away, Bobby. And that felt surprisingly good, as mean as it was.

Edited 2014-12-01 10:33 (UTC)

Bobby really didn't need it. His parents were paying for all of this, including the rent. But that didn't mean he would object to taking the money and using it to buy something for himself in exchange for doing John's taxes. If he could figure out how, here. He could at least do anything that came up for US taxes, come April.

He hadn't actually realized what he'd said until John shot him that look. Then he blushed and looked down with a little groan. "I did. Sorry, totally not what I meant," he murmured, shaking his head at himself. He reached for the napkin and unfolded it, one eyebrow raising as he read the words John had written. "...Thanks," he said with a little smile, folding it again and tucking it into his shirt pocket.

The smile faded with John's next words. "Yeah." He took a deep breath and then realized that painful as he personally may find it, talk of the school was unavoidable. May as well get the exchange of information over with now so it didn't have to keep coming up over and over. "So have they asked you back? Since you got...pardoned and all of that, I mean? For a visit, or a job, or...anything?"

And really, John reflected, it wasn't his business what Bobby did with anyone's money, whether it was his folks or it came in the form of free rent. What was a little largesse between buddies? They were both on their own now, figuratively speaking.

Still, John let go of the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding when Bobby said thanks, and smiled, and tucked the napkin away.

"Well," he started, crossing to the fridge and throwing Bobby a look over his shoulder as he got out two beers - just in case Bobby finished his first and wanted a second, settling it down on the kitchen counter at an appropriately neutral distance from both of them. He opened his own and chugged some, glad for the time to settle his thoughts. "Back in New York, when I was just grumpy mutant T.A. of the year 2013-2014,-" that meaning, Pyro was absent from the equation, "-the Y in downtown Manhattan asked me to come down and talk to some kids who'd run away or got kicked out when their powers manifested. They weren't exactly the type to end up at Westchester, you know? Didn't trust people enough. But I got four of them to think about it, and three of them to go. One of them, Betsy, told Ms Munroe about this cranky but supportive pyrokinetic named John who helped her out, and I got asked to do a return visit." There was a definite sense of pride - and affection, however cranky - when talking about the kids he took care of back in his Columbia days. And he had been proud of them, the mutant ones and the normals - if the normals could use some smacking upside the head, to use a phrase. "I said no. I mean, I knew you wouldn't be there, but it still felt...wrong."

Yeah, Bobby definitely wanted a second beer if they were going to discuss Westchester. He grabbed it, chilling it as he opened it and taking a swig.

He looked at John with an air of faint surprise as he listened. Outreach with kids wasn't exactly what Bobby had expected to hear about. Although it was mutant kids, which was a little easier to believe. He nodded, sipping his beer again. He wanted to ask why it felt wrong, but at the same time, he didn't want to draw out this particular topic any longer than necessary. "Cool. So you were a T.A., huh? For what?" School. Talking about college was much safer and easier ground. They should talk about that, unless John had questions of his own or steered the conversation back to the other school, the one he both missed and was afraid to ever see again.

John felt a little goofy even as he admitted it, letting out a sigh like he was already anticipating Bobby rolling those blue eyes. And really, what was it to him anyway, if the doofus did go all eye-rolly? What was Bobby Drake to him? John had flirted with a guy last week - more than flirted, even - and he'd screwed his way through college, which is roughly what you'd expect for a guy with an attitude and a guitar?

What the hell was Bobby Drake to him, six years later? Just some doofus John had tried to kill once, of course, just some guy who John had dreamed about and put on a pedastal and hated and wanted with a bitter, jealous passion.

"Mutant Studies," he admitted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Back when it existed, anyway. Columbia." Because that had been the thing, hadn't it? The thing that had enlarged their world, that turned them (in a way) from freaks to superstars. What with Beast at the U.N. and mutant pride groups formed on a good ten or so campuses, of course mutants had become the new fashionable minority group, picked on and feteted and scruntinised alongside the women and the gays and the who-the-fuck-ever. "I managed to talk some sense into a bunch of normal college kids who didn't quite understand what it meant to be hunted or hated or lynched. It was....gratifying," he reflected. If highly weird at times.

Mutant studies. It wasn't even surprising, really. While Bobby had wanted the anonymity they had all been abruptly granted earlier this year, it figured that John would want to be right in the middle of letting everyone know all about mutants. He probably enjoyed his notoriety, even--although living under an assumed name probably limited that somewhat.

He wasn't going to judge, though. It sounded as though John had actually done some good in that area. It sure beat trying to kill off anyone that wasn't a mutant--or anyone that protected them, even. Himself included.

"That's cool. So...what are you studying now?" he asked, frowning a little. "I mean...what did it become, when everything changed?"

Yeah. This was what Bobby Drake was to him. Someone who listened, even when sensible people probably should have punched him at the door and moved on, or scoffed a hundred different times through the afternoon. Not perfect, no. Not a save the world kind of guy. But not some icon of perfection that John had to instinctively push against. His gaze searched Bobby's face, noting the changes more than the simlarities, the slight weight on the shoulders of this young man, the barest hint of a shadow in the way he looked and talked and seemed. Maybe Bobby had always been flawed, but the flaws seemed to loom larger now they were both older.

"Turned into social history, kind of. Or comparative literature; seems to depend on which professor wants to claim me on a given week. Looking at the monsters of modern popular culture - the aliens, the werewolves, the vampires - and what their depiction says about what we find acceptable and what we don't." He took another swig and managed a wry grin. "Still finding fault with how society treats its freaks, just this time I'm fixing it paper by paper."

Awkward for a moment, John wet his lips with another swallow of beer, and felt all too obvious at just how he was looking at Bobby. "You took a gap year or something?" Better not to remind Bobby how he knew. "And hey, if you want to grab your stuff, we can do chit-chat over takeout or I can cook something. As a welcome thing," he added, hurriedly.

Bobby nodded. It made sense, in a way. And seemed like something John would enjoy. It was strange to see him like this, all grown up and mature, but strange in a good way. And from time to time there were still glimpses of the John he'd known, the John he'd considered a friend, and it gave him hope that they could find that again.

"Yeah, I took a gap year. Worked for Habitat for Humanity, building houses in Wisconson." He rolled his shoulders and straightened, taking another sip of his beer. "Yeah, I can do that. Check out of the hotel and come right back. But you don't have to go to any trouble for me. Take-out is fine." Though part of him was curious. He could see even now how well set up the kitchen was, and he wondered if there was some new aspect to John he was going to discover. Picturing him hovering over boiling pots, tasting the sauce to check the seasoning, the stuff he'd seen on cooking shows that he'd only half-watched--it was a strangely domestic mental image. "So you cook, huh?"

"Well, that explains the shoulders," John observed without thinking - before he realised what he'd just observed - and managed to cover with a deliberate 'what, me?' shrug rather than freeze. "Still," he continued, clearing his throat, "I'll consider your services as a handyman to count towards your rent from time to time. Maybe." And yes, so he was thinking like a landlord, sorta. He was his fucking place, after all. It wasn't like Bobby was helping him with the rent to some anonymous property tycoon.

At the question, John got quiet, looked at his feet, feeling not just exposed but also a bit embarrassed, that vulnerability coming through in his voice as softness when he spoke. "Yeah," he affirmed, thumb scratching at the hairline above his forehead, subconsciously covering his face with his arm as he scratched. "Mom taught me. I was brought up to be a really good homemaker," he explained, that embarrassment - but also a touch of stunted pride - audible. "There's a guitar in my room if you think I've gotten too soft," he finished, sticking his hands awkwardly in his pockets. "Total rock god back in Manhattan. And trust me - guys and girls love a rebel with a guitar."

Edited 2014-12-02 07:15 (UTC)

Bobby glanced at his shoulder and chuckled a little, finding himself somewhat pleased that John had noticed. He wondered what it meant that John had noticed--and then wondered what he wanted it to mean.

There would be time to ponder that further later, though. "Yeah, sure. If you need anything fixed, I can probably do it, now," he said with a shrug and a faint smile. "Just let me know."

He rolled his eyes at John's ridiculous response to what had been a simple question. "Whatever, rock god. If you want to make us dinner, I'll handle dessert," he suggested with a gentle smile. He started toward the door, bouncing his new keys in his hand, and then turned back to add with a crooked grin, "That is, assuming you still like ice cream."

"I'll make a list," John told him, dry humour flecked through with fondness. He probably could find a few creaking shelves and little things that needed fixing. Hell, he would, just to make good on his offer.

"It's been a while since I had good ice cream." John gave a slow nod, meeting Bobby's eyes as he weighed his words - and started thinking about what the hell was defrosted. "And I like good ice cream the way you like Sinatra." Pausing to bend down and slide open one of the cupboard's in the little kitchen island, all ass-up and horribly awkward, John got out one of the better saucepans and a frypan and popped them on the benchtop before feeling like he'd left something unsaid, and jogged towards the front door to catch Bobby.

"Drake!" he called, and then found he'd caught him in time, breathing a bit heavy. "I forgot to say 'Welcome home'," he explained, looking at Bobby with a deliberately guarded expression, all too bland. "I'm glad you answered the ad," he finished, eyes on Bobby for a few seconds before he turned around and went back to the kitchen.

Bobby was smiling as he headed toward the bus stop, and he continued smiling as he turned back at John's call. "...Thanks." He watched John head back into the house and added quietly, "I'm glad, too." Still a little confused, but definitely glad.

He laughed at himself and shook his head as he turned again and started on his way. This was going to be...interesting, that was for sure.

[Bobby and John] Meet and uh, Greet. (December 16.)

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