[It'd be easy. Too fucking easy. John pivots his body to watch Bobby's back, his thumb pushing his lighter open, blind rage filling him to the brim. It would be short-lived violence; it would get him in a lot of fucking trouble. Still, John nearly shakes with the desire to watch Bobby burn, his thin chest heaving and his hazel eyes searing with anger.

He's not sure what pisses him off more: that Bobby thinks opening his fucking mouth and apologizing for shit he clearly doesn't understand because it's the right thing to do or that he thinks it makes him some righteous, holier-than-thou piece of shit over it. Boo fucking hoo.]

Hey. [John calls this down the hall, that single syllable somehow dripping with venom. He's white-knuckling his grip on his lighter by now.]

Let's get one thing straight, Iceman. I left and I didn't come back. You? You don't get to own my fucking actions, you got that? They're mine. I didn't need you to play the big damn hero then and I don't need you now.