It takes him about thirty seconds to get sick of waiting for an answer.
"What's he doing here?" He repeats the question to Erik again but he doesn't answer, only smiles in that knowing (condescending) way that he has. To be honest, John wouldn't have put it past the manipulative fucker to have set this all up but he doesn't like being ignored and his palms are starting to itch as one clammy hand slides over the lump in his pocket, aching for the feel of cool, smooth metal. Bobby coughs softly, clear his throat, and John whirls around and finally acknowledges that the other boy is actually in the room. Bobby isn't looking at him, he's staring studiously into his teacup (John wonders if Erik made it the way that Bobby used to like it – too milky and with so much sugar that it was gritty to drink), looking flushed. He doesn't look older, but he looks like he's grown. He looks mature and, John admits grudgingly, he looks good. He narrows his eyes at Bobby, and the hand that isn't on his lighter, it finds it's way to his hip. He looks petulant, he knows, but this is beyond a fucking joke.
"What the fuck are you doing here Drake?" He snarls, and Bobby looks uncomfortable. He mutters something totally incomprehensible and John steps forward, slides a hand into his pocket but then he feels strong fingers curl around his wrist and pull him back. He knows that his pulse is racing a mile a minute, which explains the gentle, soothing patterns that those long fingers trace against the unbearably soft skin. Erik is forever grounding him like that. He stills under the touch and as he lets out a weary, shuddering sigh, Bobby looks up at him and Erik starts to talk.
"I believe that young Mr. Drake here wanted to speak to you John," Erik's hand tugs him down so he's sitting opposite Bobby, and he stops himself from burning something by concentrating on the regular, even strokes of Erik's fingers on his wrist "I'll leave you two to talk, shall I?" Erik stands, and stops the lulling rhythm. Bobby looks relieved that Erik is leaving the room, but all John can feel is the rising heat.
"No, you don't have to go," He hears himself say it before he even thinks about it and he grabs hold of Erik's hand, relishing the little muted gasp from Bobby. He holds tight, like he's refusing to let go "Stay. Whatever he wants to say, he can say it with you here."
Bobby looks aghast and Erik looks touched. The older man squeezes his hand reassuringly, then gently pries his fingers away. The hand comes to rest on his shoulder and Erik smiles knowingly/condescendingly. He bends and picks up the grocery bags off the sofa.
"No dear boy, I think that I may be making your friend rather uncomfortable. At any rate, someone needs to start dinner. These shallots won't chop themselves. Do let me know how many I'll be cooking for though, okay?"
Erik brushes past Bobby, into the kitchen and John really, really wants to follow him. He doesn't know how to talk to Bobby anymore, doesn't even know why the other boy is here. He hasn't been this confused in two months and one week and it makes his chest tighten. The silence between them stretches longer this time. John counts to forty-five before he gets bored of waiting and snaps "Fucking spit it out, Iceman and tell me what the hell you're doing here, okay? I can't be bothered with guessing anymore."
Bobby looks conflicted, like he's deciding how to sugar coat whatever it is that he's got to say, the phrase that's the least likely to get him burned. Eventually, he coughs again and when he looks up, troubled blue eyes meet shuttered hazel ones.
"I suppose I just wanted to see how you are," It sounds like Bobby's asking the question as much to himself as he is to John as pale fingers that John could map as well as his own fidget with the rim of his tea cup "I mean, to see if you were okay."
John snorts. Bobby went to all of the trouble (and it must have been trouble because him and Erik have hardly been broadcasting their whereabouts and not many people know about this house anyway, especially people than any good X-Man should know) to see how he was doing? He chooses his words carefully, but he isn't hedging like Bobby. He's working out exactly what would hurt the other boy the most to hear.
"What you mean is Bobby; you wanted to make sure that you didn't kill me. You want to see the scar you left? It's pretty neat." John pushes back his bangs and he sees' Bobby flinch at the sight of the faint pink scar that spreads the way across most of his forehead and like the gasp, he revels in it, in some perverse way. He isn't done yet though, not by a long shot "It isn't the first time you've marked me, right Bobby? But I guess this ones gonna last the longest. Anyway, you must be gutted that you didn't manage it. Or is that why you're really here, to finish the job? I mean, to check up on me? That's a lame excuse, even for you. They don't have phones in Westchester anymore?"
In his head, he sounds like one of those cartoon supervillians, monologuing. But his lexical choice is clearly having an effect on Bobby, as he watches all the colour drain from the other boy's already pale face and as his mouth drops open, John can already see all the excuses and platitudes rushing into his mouth. He pulls his lighter out of his pocket, partly to see if the rhythm it gives him is as comforting as the one Erik created against his skin, partly for nostalgia's sake. A proper conversation between the pair of them wouldn't be the same without the interruption of scraping metal and lighter fluid, and he waits for Bobby's real explanation. He isn't disappointed.
"Christ Johnny," He sounds choked, and John hasn't heard his name like that in a while. Johnny's even more buried than Pyro is now "I didn't mean to hurt you so bad, I still can't believe I did it…I shouldn't have," He pauses, guilty.
"Why the fuck shouldn't you have? We were on opposite sides Drake. That's what happens in a war, casualties. You should have killed me."
Whatever Bobby says next, John can't make it out. It's either 'cause he's babbling, or that John just doesn't care but he's fairly sure that it's a load of bullshit. Something about forgiveness and friendship and remorse. It sounds like white noise with the occasional fragments of words mixed up with the self righteous blah blah blah but John catches the end and it's enough to make him laugh "so sorry, I came to bring you home."
He rolls his eyes at Bobby, and snatches his hand away as the other boy tries to take hold of it.
"What the fuck are you talking about? I am home."