Dime a dozen bargain (open)

[Bobby Drake]

(( OOC: Open to anyone Bobby hasn’t interacted with much recently. Setting can be anywhere you like. This isn’t going anywhere in particular, just here to prompt RP. ))

Bobby is an impulsive guy. He knows that. If his own experiences with the X-Men, with John, with MGH, with the Brotherhood, and everything else hadn’t been enough to demonstrate it, his regular evaluation sessions with Storm and Logan (and, sometimes, Jake) had certainly made it clear.

It’s not a bad thing, on the whole. He certainly prefers it to being paralyzed by indecision or anxiety, which seems to be the alternative for him. But it has its downsides, too, so he’s been trying to avoid making any quick judgments about the environment he’s found himself in.

It does have its bright spots, granted. He’s all in one piece, for one thing… after being ambushed by the Brotherhood he’d been half-convinced he’d never be able to heal those injuries. He still has nightmares about them. And… um… well, he’s still alive, and not in the Camps, and he still has his mutation.

And… really, that’s about it. Which, much as he prefers it to the alternatives, is not a whole lot going for the place. Which, on sober and careful reflection, confirms his earlier impulsive judgment: "This future? It sucks."

[Pyro]

Nothing he's uncovered in the last few hours has done much to sway John from sharing Bobby's opinion on that one. On the plus side, the lack of coffee is no longer the most troubling aspect of where... erm, whenever-the-hell this is.

Trawling through the Brotherhood Archives (when the lack of forthcoming answers as to where he'd ended up finally got too frustrating) was, as it was turning out, a far lengthier endeavor than he'd anticipated, there being a seemingly inordinate amount of material concerning 'Allerdyce, J aka Pyro' which he hasn't the stomach to tackle just yet - not because the way everyone's treating the details, the hushed reverence, the downward glances and awkwardness and refusal to tell him anything concrete because they "shouldn't be the ones" to break the news, is at all off-putting, of course. Just that there's a hell of a lot to go through. Lots of reading. Which is, of course, bad. Mhmm.

Bad, and crazy to attempt without some form of sustainance. Which is why he's investigating what he assumes is the kitchen, hoping it's better stocked than the still downright tragic lack of caffeine's suggesting and not picking up much hope given his first *discovery*. Bob, as ever, isn't riding especially high on the list of people he wants to see right now, however reassuring it is that someone else shares his opinion and isn't babbling about vegetables-that-don't-taste-like-vegetables and changes to tv scheduling.

"You're skirting way too fucking close to making sense there, Drake... s'downright weird."

[Bobby Drake]

> " You're skirting way too fucking close to making sense there, Drake... s'downright weird."

Bobby doesn’t actually jump at the sound of John’s voice. In fact, it’s entirely possible that his startled reaction never reaches his face… he’s gotten better about letting that sort of thing show, these last few days, what with the Brotherhood in this obscene future altogether too willing to take any sudden move on his part as a sign of hostility.

But he’s surprised, just the same.

It’s not that they haven’t talked. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that John had picked him up – or, well, the pieces of him – after that Brotherhood ambush (well, OK, it had been twenty years, but he hadn’t lived through them). They’d even exchanged a few words when he’d regained consciousness after the fight in the Camps.

But it feels like they haven’t had a real conversation in forever. Which, sure, OK, sex and betrayal and Cure and Magneto and Rogue and MGH-induced Asperger’s Syndrome and lying about Rogue and almost dying and Rogue and stuff will do that, but still… they’d been friends once. Never exactly comfortable friends, but good ones. Bobby misses it.

And yet, he has to admit he’s been avoiding John as much as John’s been avoiding him. He knows they’re going to have to talk through it all some day, but… well, today has never been a good day, and tomorrow isn’t looking good either.

"Don’t worry… it’s probably just temporary. I’ll go back to making no sense soon enough." He hesitates, caught between the desire to avoid any kind of serious conversation, and curiosity over how John is taking the news of “his” execution. But curiosity sneakily conceals itself as concern over his state of mind and wins handily.

"So… how does it feel, being a martyr? "

[Pyro]

< I'll go back to making no sense soon enough
"Sure. That or become the new big bad mutant-killing bastard... Stop me if you've heard that one already"

... okay, so maybe that's not exactly fair. Except that it is. And saying he doesn't really want to bitch at Bobby isn't true, because he really does... It's just not this one, and that's way too fucking complicated for him to start feeling guilty about the distinctions. Which doesn't stop him cringing as he reaches around Bobby to rummage in the cupboards, mumbling a low "Sorry...", but stops the guilt going any further...

< How does it feel, being a martyr?
... especially once Bob comes out with that little gem. Because seriously... where the fuck did he get that from? 'Matyr'? Marks for attempting a comeback, sure, but they've gotta be at least semi-relevant...

"Fuck, Drake" He laughs, semi-incredulous, semi-the harsh laugh of trying not to sound pissed off. "Don't give up on the sense-making that quickly... 'the fuck's that meant to mean?"

[Bobby Drake]

> " Sure. That or become the new big bad mutant-killing bastard... Stop me if you've heard that one already "

For a moment, Bobby thinks his new-found restraint is enough to keep his reaction to that private. He doesn’t blurt out anything stupid, for example, and he doesn’t punch John in the jaw or turn and walk away or anything blatant like that.

Then he realizes that that weird garbage-disposal sound he’s hearing is his back teeth grinding together, and that the fingernails of his clenched fists are digging into the heels of his hands hard enough to leave marks, and that the reason he’s feeling short of breath is that he’s neglected to actually inhale in a little while, and he realizes he’s kidding himself.

> " Sorry. "

You damn well ought to be, he thinks, but doesn’t say out loud.

Except gratuitous insults are part of who John is, and always have been… it’s actually the apology that’s out of character. And Bobby knows that… but it’s different now that everyone seems to agree with him. Bobby isn’t used to being the pariah, the barely tolerated unreliable one.

No, that was always John. He flinches a little at the thought, and the tickle of un-analyzed guilt that comes along with it.

> " Fuck, Drake. Don't give up on the sense-making that quickly... 'the fuck's that meant to mean? "

It doesn’t even occur to Bobby, distracted as he is, that John might be ignorant of his future-self’s status... so he assumes it’s specifically the “martyr” reference he’s objecting to. And while it may not be the cleverest topic of discussion to pick, he figures any topic beats how evil his future self is. "Oh, come on… don’t be modest. You’re like Martin Luther King to these guys, right? Mutant hero, acolyte of the great Magneto himself, publicly executed for the “crime” of being a mutant. They probably have a shrine to you over at the main HQ… you should get Officer Craft to give you a tour."

[Pyro]

It takes a while for the first part of that to sink in, long enough that while the back of John's brain is still processing it the front's latched on to something he can understand and started on that line as he continues to rummage for... he's sort of forgotten what he was rummaging for. Something. Whatever. Rummaging means not having to look at Bob, and so rummage he damn well will.

"Officer Craft? So Toni - future-Toni, I guess - is still around? Unless that's Micro Boy... fuck, Micro Boy's with the Bro...?"

... and then the back catches up, and he stops dead. "Ah... Wait, what?" A quick double-take follow, an incredulous "Nah, fuck off.." and a final "... you're serious? Shit..."

John cracks a half-smile - "You'd think someone'd've got around to mentioning it"

And yeah, you would think so, wouldn't you? Except apparently that's not the case. Which raises the question of how Drake found out, which is one he'd simultaneously rather not think about and is considering latching on to as something to get righteously indignant about while ignoring the bigger picture, which is still incomprehensible.

[Bobby Drake]

> " You'd think someone'd've got around to mentioning it "

He didn’t know? Bobby is astonished and slightly horrified to realize he’s just informed John of his scheduled execution by casually dropping the fact into conversation.

"Um. Yeah. I, um… well, I thought you knew."

He’s about to change the subject by clarifying that yes, “Officer Craft” was Toni, not Matt… but then he’d have to explain that Matt was dead too, and he’s just not up for it. He’s casting around for a neutral subject when he realizes his mouth is still running.

"So, yeah. About ten years back. Way I hear it, nobody thought they’d really go through with it, but… well, they did. And that was pretty much the last straw… after that, things progressed to a shooting war pretty quickly and everybody lined up by genome."

He has control of his mouth back, now, but it’s too late to take any of it back. So there seems little point to resist adding, "Except me," despite knowing how bitter his voice is going to sound. "Like you said, I took over as the new big bad mutant-killing bastard. Life’s funny sometimes, huh?"

[Pyro]

< Yeah, I, um, well... I thought you knew

"Yeah, I, um, well" - John's tone switches to an impersonation of Bob's which he's forcing to stay light-hearted rather than petulant (and mostly managing to keep just the right side of the line) - "I didn't..."

Bob's mouth keeps running, and John's half listening and half thinking back over the stuff he wasn't really listening to before, and somehow the two halves add up to somewhere in the region of a whole, albeit a skewed one, which... hold on a minute, executed?!

Certainly explains a few things - the odd awkward reverence, the reluctance to tell him anything... but not why Bob's got all the information. And sure, there's a bigger story in there, something to do with the whole of mutantkind, but fuck it, the small picture's got every right to be his main concern, and it's that he's focusing on.

< Life's funny sometimes, huh?

"Hysterical"

Granted, the small picture's made up of a few million questions - 'why the fuck did you get to live?' being one of them, though he manages to bite his tongue on that one, figuring "What the fuck's going on, Drake?" a better place to start. "How much do you know?"

... sure, he could go read those damn files and find out that way. But Bob's started the story, so he'd better bloody well finish it, and poor compensation for being, well, dead, as watching Bob squirm over how his survival turned out, it's something.

[Bobby Drake]

> " What the fuck's going on, Drake? How much do you know? "

It’s almost funny, really… since when does John care about the details? Except the reason he cares is exactly what makes it not funny… it’s his own life on the line.

"What I know is “not enough.” Just what I’ve read in the archives, which is all chock full of names and dates and addresses and figures and none of it means shit. You’d think an outfit with this many telepaths would be able to say something about what the hell everyone was thinking, wouldn’t you? Not a word." He sighs, realizing he’s whining, and starts over, trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to keep his emotions out of his voice.

"Way I understand it, the real trigger was what they’re calling the “Washington Massacre” – the whole district just went nuts one day, like blood-in-the-streets and nukes-in-the-sky kinds of nuts. They still don’t know who or what caused it, but everybody figured psychic attack… after that stunt Magneto and Stryker almost pulled with the Professor and Cerebro, they were kinda primed for it, I guess."

Not for the first time, Bobby wonders whether it could actually have worked… whether the Professor was actually powerful enough, even with Cerebro, to kill every human on the planet. It seems impossible, but then again “impossible” keeps getting redefined in his life.

"So, government got serious about ‘mutant terrorists.’ So of course everybody thinks “Magneto,” except he’s dead, so they go after his so-called ‘acolytes’…" and he wants to ask John if they actually thought of themselves that way, him and Mystique and the others, but then again he’s not sure he’s ready to hear the answer, "including Pyro, aka St. John Allerdyce. And we – I mean, the X-Men, at the time –don’t turn you over, so there’s another fight with the government. The more things change, huh? " He tries to keep his tone light, and fails miserably. " So they a fucking military execution order, trial by military tribunal in absentia, because nobody gives a fuck about mutant civil rights by this point, and… " His voice almost cracks, and he takes a deep breath to get it under something more like control, "…and they send out robot soldiers… Sentinels, they call ‘em. You probably ran into ‘em during the Camp fight, right? Worse than the goons in armor we fought last year. And, well…" he trails off, realizing to his chagrin that he can’t quite bring himself to say the words. "You know the rest.”

He tries to look John in the eyes, fails, and starts rummaging through the same cupboards John had been rummaging through a moment earlier.

[Pyro]

< Just what I've read in the archives... and none of it means shit.
... heh. That makes it okay that he pressed the matter with Bob, because if they're that useless then he'd only have ended up coming back after raiding the archives, and that would have meant tracking Bob down which would look bad just not happen protract the whole affair. This is the efficient way of going about things, straight to the point... hell, thinking like that, he'll pass the tactics class with flying colours if - no, when they get back.

When, not if; there has to be a way back, right?

And there's something oddly, sadly funny about pressing Bob for the information rather than doing the legwork himself - just like old times, when assignments rolled round, right? Except that this is the sort of situation where they're meant to have grown up and left shit like that behind, isn't it? ... and then again, seeing where that growing up leads... Shit, this is so fucked up...

< Way I understand it, the trigger was something called the Washington Massacre...

And there's a whole other story there, right? Not one he wants to think too much about, granted, because much as the inner - what's the word Bob used, Acolyte? - wants to say it's just the way flatliners would react, regardless of the cause, tracking down anyone who'd taken a stand... for them to jump straight to the remains of the Brotherhood... something'd have to have kept them in the frame, and that, with the rest of the core dead or awol, isn't somewhere he wants to go right now...

< We - I mean, the X-Men at the time - don't turn you over

He very nearly thanks Bob for that - which is insane, because as he himself pointed out it's not 'him' or 'them' but 'the X-Men at the time' - and gets out a "Tha.." which turns into a mutated throat-clear / cough hybrid when he realises how ridiculous gratitude for something hasn't happened yet is...

< so there's another fight with the government

... about as ridiculous as wanting to apologise for that, because it feels like the wasteland he and Rogue landed in is now sort-of his fault except it's not because none of that's happened yet and it's not him, it's this other, erm, him, the one who's... Yeah, that one.

< The more things change, right?

"Right" It's a close call whose attempt as light-heartedness is more of a tragic failure - his or Bob's.

< So they a fucking military execution order

"Fuck!" Can't quite contain that astonished exclamation either. "Seriously?"

... and no, that's not a demented pride there. That's just crazy talk. What sort of lunatic would be proud of warranting a special military trial and all that? A Magneto acolyte... he thinks darkly, though that line of thought is silenced because that's not the fucking point. No pride, right? Got it?

< And they send out robot soldiers

And the story's getting more and more ridiculous and overblown by turns - government task forces, and special orders, and fucking robot soldiers, and so he can't help but laugh... though it's stifled and truncated when he sees Bob's expression. He raises an eyebrow while repressing those last few snickers, as if to ask "well, come on, robot soldiers? It's sort of daft, right?", though the answer's a fairly resounding no without Bob even having realised he's been asked.

< You know the rest

There's no reason it should bug him that Bob can't quite seem to articulate how the story ends - no reason for any sort of response, really especially not the strange mix of frustration that he's cut it short and something nearer satisfaction in thinking it's probably some demented attempt to protect him from the truth - so this is just anger at how events turned out, because all in all it's a pretty fucked up scenario.

"No, I don't."

And he should shut up there, but morbid fascination carries him onward before he can get a control on the thought-vocalisation thing. "What happens next, Icicle? And" - because damnit, he's not the only one the future screwed over, so some petulant thought decides making Bob feel awkward's somehow warranted - "Where does Herr. Commandant Drake, mutant slayer, come in?"

[Bobby Drake]

Were it anybody else, Bobby would dismiss out of hand the idea that what he’s hearing is pride in John’s astonished response.

But, of course, were it anybody else he wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place, and somehow it seems entirely in keeping with John’s whole attitude this last year. He wonders, idly, whether John would even choose to change this future if he had the choice, if the alternative were one where he wasn’t important.

No, that’s not fair, he tells himself. He’s just trying to cope with seeing how everything goes to hell, just like the rest of us. It occurs to him that he hasn’t really talked to the other non-survivors. Josh hardly seems affected by it at all, except for what his death did to Warren… which is sorta sweet, really… but he’s got no idea what Matt is feeling, for example. The truth is, after the future versions of Toni and Laurie made their feelings clear, he’s been somewhat reluctant to approach Matt… they’d probably team up to pound him into the dirt, and the last thing this unstable little party needs is more internal conflict.

> " What happens next, Icicle? And where does Herr Commandant Drake, mutant slayer, come in? "

It’s one thing coming from a twelve year old kid who never even met him… he’d accepted that with a certain amount of aplomb. He wasn’t as proud of his reaction to Primer, but at least intellectually he understands that Primer is always going to say the most hurtful thing possible and he can’t let himself internalize any of it. Toni and Laurie demonizing him had hurt more, and he still wasn’t dealing with their attacks especially well, but he’d at least managed to keep his cool.

But coming from John, it’s just too much for him to take. It not only interrupts his train of thought, it overload his capacity for reason altogether with a wave of anger, guilt, and fear. The cupboard door in his hand shatters into frozen splinters in his grip; they hurt a little when they drive into his palm but he barely notices.

"His mistake was staying with the Institute, I think. And the X-Men." He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t let his voice rise above a monotone. "You know how he was… stubborn idiot, never knew how to give up on anything that mattered to him, no matter how hopeless." He does turn around then, his blood-smeared hands dropping to his sides. "I don’t intend to repeat it. Soon as we get back, I’m going to finish my incompletes from last year and get the fuck out. Away from the Institute, away from the X-Men, away from you. You win. Congratulations."

He blinks slightly, listening to himself, not quite sure what he’s saying. Since when has any of this been about John?, he asks himself, and hastily moves on before he has to listen to his answer. "As for what happens next – you die, is what happens next. They take the body to experiment on or something. Sentinel project’s a screaming success, they build another gazillion of them. Josh dies, Matt dies, the Institute gets razed for good and all, a bunch of kids I’ve never even met die, everybody dies except for all the folks who probably wish they had."

He wants to walk away, but doesn’t, and his mouth keeps running in an almost emotionless monotone. "You know, we’ve never talked about it… hell, we’ve hardly talked about anything since you came back…but I’ve always wondered how you live with the corpses on your conscience. Always wondered how I’d deal with it, the first time I actually had to kill someone. Except, all of a sudden, it seems I’ve spent twenty years doing just that and my score’s way higher than yours."

He’s not being fair to himself, and he knows it. He didn’t start this war, and in the back of his mind he still suspects that “Colonel Drake” is playing a deeper game than anyone gives him credit for. But right this moment none of that matters.

“Ironic, huh?"

[Pyro]

John not only manages to keep from flinching when Bob shatters the door but turns the whole 'not-flinch' into a side glance away from the wreckage of the door and... shit is that blood? and half-sigh because the repressed flinch energy has to go somewhere, mildly disapproving, the sort of 'well now, really' look one gives an unruly toddler on their umpteenth tantrum, ending in a more derisive snicker-snort.

It should probably be slightly more awkward and shameworthy how much he's almost-sort-of-enjoying this, having Bob as the villain of the piece for once, the one being made to feel guilty about his actions (not least because they're actions he hasn't actually taken yet... gah, technicalities), but fuck that. There's pleasure in seeing him squirm, is that so fucking wrong? And it's not like there's any set etiquette for dealing with finding out what the future you is like because things like this just don't happen.

< You know how he was… stubborn idiot, never knew how to give up on anything that mattered to him, no matter how hopeless
As if this whole scenario wasn't unsettling enough, something in that last part ramps it all up to 11, because for one thing it's weird hearing Bob talk about himself as a foreign entity... which this future Bob might be, sure, but the one he's talking about is the past Bob so it's all a bit spirally and un-fathomable, and for the next... well, that's clearly not about what they're talking about is it? Not just about that, at least.

(That always was the thing about their conversations; the meat of it was in the stuff unsaid)

(And the thing about John was, and still is, how he could just ignore all that).

< I don't intend to repeat it
... and this day just keeps on getting more ridiculous; that part, he can't ignore, and another incredulous splutter escapes, as if he's waiting for Bob to join in the joke with a 'nah, not really' because seriously, Icicle quitting the X-Men? Yeah, right.

... except Bob's missed his cue. So, generous soul that John is, he gives him another. "You're fucking kidding me..."

< You win. Congratulations
... missing cues, getting his lines that tragically wrong... fuck, Bob never was much of an actor, but this is far beyond reasonable... which makes him, by his reckoning, the voice of reason as well as the current occupier of the moral high ground. Quite some turn around.

Glossing over the 'away from you' thing, which he can't even be sure he heard because that's fucking preposterous (since when was this about them him all that... gah, whatever) the 'Voice of Reason' prepares for its first outing;

"Yeah, right... fuck off, Drake. Take whatever trophy I just ''won'' and shove it up your ass if you think for a minute I believe that crap. You, quit the Institute? Fuck that." Off to a good start, no? He pauses, sighs deeply, and clears his throat before continuing. "You're the fucking golden boy back at the Leather Emporium - the real one, not this fucked up version. Might as well have been born in the Uniform... so just quit the bullshit. It's not your style"

< As for what happens next – you die, is what happens next. They take the body to experiment on or something. Sentinel project’s a screaming success, they build another gazillion of them. Josh dies, Matt dies, the Institute gets razed for good and all, a bunch of kids I’ve never even met die, everybody dies except for all the folks who probably wish they had
... great, something else to add to his legacy here in fucked-up-future-land; responsible for the mass construction of the Sentinels...

... was there something more important in there than that and the revulsion he feels at hearing the government stole his corpse? Probably, and he should feel guilty that he missed it, but he's got the drift. As aforementioned, the future fucking sucks for pretty much everyone.

< I've always wondered how you deal with the corpses on your conscience.
... the fuck? When did this become about his track record again?

The angry response is out before he can think it through, before Bob's finished talking even. "What, you want some tips? Want to know how to be a bad bastard and not give a fuck? Go ask your future self, Icicle; he's got a hell of a lot more of them than I have, that's for damn sure..."

By the point he's heard himself say it, and Bob's finished talking, and he's put the two together, he wants to kick himself for missing the point so entirely... though bonus points for sort-of getting one bit of it, kinda (totally not, but he's the one keeping score so fuck off) - what, exactly, does Bob want to get out of asking him something like that?

He sighs, and his tone's more worn down than angered when he continues, the apology, as ever, unspoken and pushed into the 'I'm not going to capitulate and this never happened, okay?' category. "Seriosuly, why're you asking me? What the fuck does it matter?"

< Ironic, huh?
"Oh yeah. Completely fucking ironic; hell, I can't even die without unleashing some sort of hell via those fucking robots, and they love me. And after all you've done..." It's John's turn to let that slide off into the 'things I'm unable to finish saying' bracket. "Yeah. Y'got a point."

He sighs, and shrugs "Die a hero, or live long enough to fuck it up... some future, huh?"

[Bobby Drake]

> " You, quit the Institute? Fuck that. You're the fucking golden boy back at the Leather Emporium - the real one, not this fucked up version. Might as well have been born in the Uniform... so just quit the bullshit. It's not your style "

"Yeah. I know. Except “my style” is apparently – how did you put it? – “Herr Commandant Drake, mutant slayer.” Which is not gonna happen again. So, you tell me, John – what else can I do?"

It’s not a rhetorical question in the least; the truth is Bobby is desperately hoping that John will pull some genius idea out of his hat that he just hasn’t considered that lets him stay with the X-Men without turning into… well, without repeating his past mistakes.

The irony of this is not lost on him, nor is the absurdity of the fact that, despite everything, he still trusts John to back him up when he’s run out of plan. John himself would be the first one to deny the very possibility, and --

> " Seriously, why're you asking me? What the fuck does it matter? "

Yup, right on schedule. Although the resigned tone to John’s question is unexpected… it’s like an admission that, for this moment anyway, they’re done playing games. He knows it won’t last, but he’s surprised by how much he misses it.

"Because…" he starts out, then stops short, struggling with everything he’d promised himself he wouldn’t say. "Because you’ve been there. I’ve spent less than a month as the local pariah and I’m about ready to break in two, and you’ve stood it for the last year and I don’t know how you handle it or why you put up with it. Because you left for the Brotherhood, and then you left the Brotherhood for, for, I mean you came back, and you know what that’s like. Because you’ve known me longer and better than anybody else here, pathetic as that is. Because… " and he’s having trouble breathing and his eyes are burning and he’d give anything to just stop talking and make it stop, but he doesn’t know how, "because you’ve burned people to ashes with your mind and you just get up the next day and face the world and I don’t know how to do that! I thought I was ready for that but every morning I just want to throw up at the thought of it and it wasn’t even me and, oh, hell, I know, it’s not your problem… I’m just blubbering in run-on sentences at this point. Sorry. "

Bobby is embarrassedly aware of how pathetic he sounds. Fortunately for what remains of his self-image he can’t actually see himself, his hair wild with his frantic pulling on it, thin streaks of blood on his forehead from his scratched palms, a haunted expression on his face. If there were a mirror handy, he’d probably flee altogether… as it is, he simply struggles with the urge to.

[Pyro]

< So you tell me, John - what else can I do?
The fact Bob expects some sort of answer out of him walks a fine line between amusing and frustrating; what the fuck does he expect him to say? It's not like John's exactly proven himself any sort of expert on the best way to lives one's life without fucking up, is it? A crash course in how to send everything to hell's nearer the truth, all things considered.

(It doesn't occur to him, not right now at least, that the fact he's done that and stayed standing might well be the point).

A non-committal shrug is about the best he can manage, coupled with an expression near bewilderment.

"Hey, it beats the fuck out of my style. I get to be dead. Big fuckin' woop.... and besides... shit, Icicle, how many sorts of insane d'you have to be, asking me for advice on how not to fuck up?"The last part's meant as a joke, but falls into the area, or so it feels, of 'things he'd told himself he wouldn't say', so he shuts up pretty sharply.

... and then any hope he had that that might be an end to this whole advice-seeking thing's pounded into a bloody, battered pulp under the barrage Bob sets off on. A barrage which is, by turns, darkly amusing, and oddly humbling, and embarrassing, and reassures him that Bob's got some seriously fucked up priorities because he still can't think of any reason for him to be aspiring to replicate his own track record... One which makes him want to just balk and leave this conversation, and already has at least half his brain digging for some excuse he can make...

... except shit, Bob's a fucking mess. And it's not weakness to feel some sort of pity because of that, definitely not touching on 'the territory into which we must not go', however close it may or may not (probably not, he reassures himself) be skirting. And because of that, even he's not enough of an asshole to just leave the poor sorry bastard without any sort of explanation...

... neither, though, is he about to spill anywhere near as much of himself as Bob just, unwittingly or otherwise, did him. So a "Shit, you're really letting this fuck you up, huh? Fuck, Drake, get a grip already." - albeit with an indulgent, rather than scathing, tone, the sort you use on small children when you want them to understand that what they've done is daft but you're not pissed off with them - is where it starts.

John swings up onto the counter, brushing the wreckage of cupboard door out of the way and taking a seat (because he's got the feeling this is going to turn out to be an uncomfortably long conversation...).

"Too damn right, it's not my problem. But it's not yours either... He's not you. At least" - he frowns - "Not yet. Or something. Fuck, I don't know, this future thing's fucked up..." Great job, really fucking comforting that John switches topic, clearing his throat slightly awkwardly, rubbing his forehead as if he's struggling to think (which isn't far from the truth) "What was the question again?"

[Bobby Drake]

> " Hey, it beats the fuck out of my style. I get to be dead. Big fuckin' woop.... and besides... shit, Icicle, how many sorts of insane d'you have to be, asking me for advice on how not to fuck up? "

"Beats me, Sparky," and he almost smiles at the exchange, almost like the banter they used to have, before everything got (though he’s not entirely sure which complication he means… the Brotherhood, or the relationship (if you could even call it that), or the breakup (if you could even call it that) and besides, since when was it ever <u>not</u> complicated (except it was, for a while) hell even his thinking about it is a nested snarl of parenthetical digressions he’s not entirely sure he can navigate his way out of (if he even wanted to (which he’s not sure he does, because being lost sometimes beats hell out of knowing where you are) find a way out) given a map and a sextant) complicated. "How many kinds are there?"

> " He's not you. At least… not yet. Or something. Fuck, I don't know, this future thing's fucked up... what was the question again? "

This time he does smile… even giggles, slightly, in the back of his throat. "John… has anyone ever told you you’re really good at this whole advice-giving thing?"

He notices for the first time that his palms hurt like hell, and starts pulling splinters out with his fingernails before adding "Because, if anybody did, they were really amazingly off-base about that."