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

[prodigalflame]

The roommate search wasn't completely awful. There were two possibles John thought he could bear to live with, and two others who were so inoffensively bland as to be offensive.

Emily was a bubbly little thing, all blond tips and cheeky giggle; and Tim was tall, pleasant, with a strong handshake and just the hint of a knowing smirk. Either of them could do, would do; neither had clued into his cheesy 'X marks the spot to your new place' in-joke he'd put on the poster, with a very distinctive X-symbol. And well, that just meant some more hiding, another day spent under the radar and with his head down - and John had never done particularly well at 'low key.'

So he'd fobbed the both of them off for another few days and lo, some 'Drake' had texted him. Hence why John was plumping couch cushions in the middle of the afternoon, with dishes clean and stacked, pizza boxes all in the recycling and his notes and marking neatly organised on the coffee table - people wanted to live with model students, didn't they?

"What else, what else...?" he muttered to himself, looking around the place. Porn was stashed, bathroom cleaned, laundry stuffed in the hamper: everything as tidy as it got with him. Which wasn't half-bad, these days.

Comments

[cold_blueeyes]

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.

[prodigalflame]

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.

[cold_blueeyes]

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?"

[prodigalflame]

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.

[cold_blueeyes]

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?"

[prodigalflame]

"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."

[cold_blueeyes]

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."

[prodigalflame]

"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.

[cold_blueeyes]

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.