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"Because I want to do something with myself," Jon admitted without much thought. "It'd be easy to just, you know, quit. Live on my trust fund, but that's the last thing I want to do. I'll b***h and moan until I'm in the grave, but my job is mine, assignment or not. The one thing that wasn't spoon fed to me, believe it or not."

That had been the first real fight with his parents, both of them (in the same room, no less!). He had laid out his plan, told them what he was going to do, and requested that they keep their noses (and names) out of his business. They didn't quite understand why he wanted to work for other people when he could just as easily have those other people work for him - stay carefree with a free schedule and peace of mind. Jon's job was the one thing he owned, the one thing disconnected from his home life, though. He pushed himself up with a groan.

"And I've taken a good look at what you've got, Reed, but I can't get past the glittery Elvis," he said, grinning. They were going around in a circle, chasing one another's tails with no chance of catching it. Jon tugged the slipping towel off and chucked it at Reed while toeing his folded briefs forward across the floor.

"Some slumber party this turned out to be."

"I'm sure it can," Jon noted, lifting his hips and tugging his underwear up. "But I was banned from the reindeer games. So to speak. Are we making a bet here? Because I can stay up with the best of them."

Alas, he could only sit up for so long before he crumpled like a wet noodle. He snorted at Reed's idea of normal and cut his eyes at him when he shifted himself onto his back. He rolled a hand through the air.

"Should I be? What the hell else can another guy do to me? Anyway, that first one isn't by choice like the second one is. And by the way, I don't climb into anyone's bed. They climb into mine. Which leads me to another pressing point. This-" he patted the space between them, indicating the bed, before continuing in his most firm, monotonous tone yet "-is mine. Normal is overrated - Mrs. Cleaver, picket fence, a few kids, maybe a dog.... You've got, maybe, a quarter of a quarter done with your dog collar thing going."

A light grin played across his mouth.

"It's on then. Well, yes, the job IS mine, but there are people above me. They say jump, I jump-- or no pay," Jon explained, placing one of his hands atop the other and stacking them again and again. This seemed to amuse Jon for a minute. "But see, there's a method to my masochism. Internal torture, no visible marks. I bruise easy."

He gave a breathy chuckle, lifting his head to stare down his own body. It fell again, cushioned by his damp curls. With a soft noise of agreement, he turned his gaze towards Reed, the corner of his mouth quirking up again.

"Am I that transparent? I've been found out." He gave a melodramatic sigh, "That's why I'm not wandering around out there, I'm asking you. And good, I'd rather not be found. Or mourned. Okay, maybe found eventually so they can torch my a**, toss my ashes around, so I'd be airborne and ready to make people choke."

Jon blinked up at the ceiling, not quite understanding Reed; he looked himself over again, "I must be blind then. There're no cracks in this china."

As Reed spoke, Jon took it upon himself to pull back the corner of the magazine he was reading - or was it a catalog? - trying to figure out what it held. Curiosity killed the cat and all. He gave up after a moment, figuring it took more energy he was willing to squander.

Jon couldn't relate. He came from an affluent family, after all, a family that always bought the biggest tree, hired someone else to decorate it. And being an only child meant there were plenty of gifts beneath the tree for him come Christmas day (who needs Santa when you have money?) and boxes to build forts with when he got bored with his shiny, new toys. A little leather was beginning to make sense.

"Did you?"

Jon barked a laugh, eyes wide with astonishment and fiendish delight, "Pretty ******** sneaky, sis! That couldn't have been fun to walk in on, Christ. Did y'ever see them again after that?"

He could hardly say he felt remorse for the poor bastards. After all, he'd never had a sibling of his own; sympathy of that sort was beyond him. And considering that Reed and his own had pawned material lives away, it may have been beyond him too. He couldn't wipe that wicked little grin of amusement away, though. It just sounded like such a great game to play.

"Quid pro quo, then. My favorite Christmas present has to be any one where my mother was sober. Or father was home. Could never get both at once, though." Like Reed, he spoke of it almost nonchalantly. Unlike Reed, he didn't give a specific story. Half of him was convinced it was because all the stories were the same, a vague outline should do. The other, however, was bent on retaining at least some of his mother's honor. He rubbed his lower lip with a thoughtful hum.

Jon was clearly unable to fight his restlessness despite his fatigue. He forced the catalog flat against Reed's stomach as he made to sit up again, looking the page over. After a moment of observation, he spoke:

"I dunno. Call me boring, but I prefer a suit jacket. How many cows you suppose they killed to make that?"

"Calm?" Jon reiterated with a languid blink. He appeared puzzled, "I am calm. What are you talking about?"

He considered Reed's words in silence, catching the catalog page between his thumb and forefinger, pushing until his his nail cut a neat crescent moon into the paper. Had the redhead been a mind reader, he would have seen that wall Jon had put up. Hell, it was obvious enough; it was getting it to come down that was the problem. People from his echelon were born with a glass bell around them that offered others a view, a window, cold to those curious enough to touch, with a pretty view beyond it. Nothing more. He stared at Reed with that same closed off expression, something just beyond it speaking vaguely of how he wanted to step out of that self-imposed hell.

His agenda was gone. Somewhere between climbing into the car and arriving he had lost his reason for even being in Reed's home. In his bed. A soft breath passed through his nose, too soft to be a snort. It had probably been thrown up into the toilet along with the contents of his stomach.

"I don't know anymore," he said in earnest. His hand drew back-- unsure? He'd never admit it.

While Jon did not punch Reed (and not because it hadn't crossed his mind, but because he was much too startled to protest), he did not loosen one bit at all. And though he did not recoil, he grew tense beneath the touch, eyes widening marginally. Whatever surprised comment he would have normally spit out, he choked on; his tail, much to his chagrin, began to bristle.

He'd been told once that he needed to bite the bullet and quit his urges cold turkey. What had his therapist called it? Satyriasis? When he asked if there was any medication for it, he'd been laughed away. You're not that bad, he'd been told. So he did as he was instructed and stopped sleeping with practically everything that moved. Handshakes aside, Jon had purposely kept contact to a minimal, even with his family.

"I don't think I could shut you up if I tried, Reed," he finally said, terse. Unfortunately, he couldn't help but think of several ways to try.

Jon was jerked back by the shove and he looked at his shoulder as though Reed's hand were still there, baffled. He wasn't stupid, and while he figured somewhere in the slag of his mind he knew what the redheaded feline was attempting to start (at it's most basic, a fight), he still couldn't wrap his mind around his methodology. His eyes flicked up, caught Reed's smile.

He'd gotten into a fight maybe once or twice in his life, and one barely counted since the opponent had been his best friend, Alex. Hell, even Natalia, the last corner that completed their rich-kid triad, could have kicked his a** when she was really pissed. Physicality - in the sense that shove had spoken, anyway - had never been his forte. No, he was the wisecracking cynic standing off to the side, timing Alex as he wailed away on some hapless individual, stepping in to break it up only when nothing short of a coma was peeking around the corner.

If it'd been society that had beaten him into a cozy little box and not Alex's fists, he was content staying in there. Fate had decreed him the pacifist the moment he had stepped down.

"It's not going to work," he said calmly. His too-amused smile dared Reed to try harder.