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"Sorry about that," he said with a smile and not much remorse at all, saluting Reed with the lighter he had been rolling debate-style between his fingers. It was a shame the cigarette was a no-go. He squeezed the metal case hard before slipping it into his pocket; out of sight, out of mind. Jon just wished he could get it out of his bones.

Watching Reed with all the intensity and disinterest their race was accredited for, he wondered whether the other was this active every time he came home. It was like watching a living ping-pong bounce back and forth, back and forth. When Jon got home, he had no time for anything except kicking his shoes off, shucking his jacket, and falling over backwards onto his couch. Sometimes he'd get a drink if it was within reach, but most nights he slept half dressed wherever he collapsed first (other nights it was bent over his desk). At least now it wouldn't be so taxing since he was focused on one thing... he gave a languid blink.

"Not for a long while," he admitted, keeping his voice guarded. "But you'd be surprised what can and will go down in the janitor's closet when no one's looking. Though, you know, no jingle bells or harnesses, I'm afraid - gotta keep it professional."

That made Jon's mouth quirk into a crooked little smile, as if he were catching himself before a good laugh. He wasn't laughing at Reed, no, but the entire idea of inviting him in: hi, this is the bartender I met a few nights back, crashed at his place because I can't stand you. Thought we could all have dinner together! The idea was both mortifying and amusing. He rested his cheek on his palm.

"Whenever you want, Reed. Can't say I'll be there if you swing by, but...." He trailed off with a shrug and a wave of his hand, smile fixed in place, "It's a nice place, a spacious apartment considering there are two people living there now. Room's a bit smaller than my old one, unfortunately. I'm not a huge fan of that modern... decorating crap. What the hell am I saying? Basically, it's a gigantic apartment building, fit to burst with glitz and glam." He didn't sound too thrilled.

A pale brow shot up again, accompanied by the lowering of an ear, "You make it sound like I'm married to the man. No, no-" he sat up and waved his hands, resting his elbows on his knees "-I'm just a professional babysitter. You think the women back in the bar were high-maintenance? This is like... Scarlett O'Hara, accent and all. The prima donna's gotten into more trouble demanding this and that and getting into verbal skirmishes-- but, I digress!

They say it's until I'm settled in, but they're going to decide that and I'm sure it'll be up in the air until his sales take a nosedive. I really am a professional babysitter. I don't think he could tie his shoelaces otherwise."

"Youuu asked," he said, flopping back again when Reed sat down. He leaned over - nearly tipped over really - and continued in a loud stage whisper, "I've got baggage for miles."

Jon seemed to consider Reed's question for a long stretch of time, but in actuality he was, again, distracted by the television. He blinked his reverie away and shrugged, "Not many unless the host wants to meet him, which is always. I usually meet with them first. I'm half nanny, half walking planner! I'm sort of... gauging how bad it'll be now without the rest of the team. Putting up the blast shields, you know?"

Somehow, Reed's revelation about his dramatic love life didn't surprise him; maybe he was just that wasted. Sounded a helluva lot more exciting than his, that was for sure.

"You imagine wrong, my friend. I mean, that's pretty shitty, but I've had my fair share of drama too. It's just... what? More contained. More therapy. I don't know. Haha-- bet that stung, sex wasn't good enough." He took a moment to pinch the creases in his pants, chuckling, "Jesus, what the hell are you eating anyway?"

"Peas or tiny pieces of styrofoam?" Jon sat up and tried to look into the cup of noodles.

However, his inspection didn't last long. His lips pressed into a thin, colorless line, ears falling back in annoyance.

"Our kind of drama is no different, Reed. Only we have cameras rolling when old men knock up young girls, you know? Depending on how much money you have, you can pay the paparazzi off, but even then being the one with the golden picture and that kind of notoriety is more important than saving some old b*****d's face or the dignity of the girl he knocked up," he said. There was obviously miscommunication buzzing between the two.

"You want to make money that way? Then let me take you out to a nice little restaurant, make it expensive - you can throw a tantrum, I'll throw a tantrum, and then we'll clear the table for a good ol' ********. Think you could handle a week's worth of that kind of press for whatever bank it rolls in?"

Jon nearly threw his hands into the air and sighed. Actually, he did sigh, loud and exasperated. Arguing with some people was like punching a brick wall. Arguing with Reed was like yelling into a calm pool of water: ripples would pass like a shrug and everything would right itself instantaneously and Jon would be left staring at himself, a half-angry moron. Then again, Jon never got nearly this frustrated when he was sober.

"I'm immune to pouts, sweetheart," he grunted. "Complete hard a**."

He snorted, a noise of incredulity, "Seriously? Every man owns at least one suit, Reed. It's protocol. Man protocol."

"I'll have to pass, tempting as it is, Reed. How can I possibly hit you when you offer? Takes the spontaneity out of it," he said, amused despite his ruffled feathers. Jon shrugged, muttered something about 'formal bullshit' as he scratched his fingers through his hair.

"So you can afford leather collars but not a suit? That kink must take one helluva chunk out of your paycheck, Rudolph."

"Think of it as insurance in case something comes up. You'll be up a creek without a paddle," he pointed out. Then again, Jon had always been raised to have suit in his closet, no matter the occasion. One of the few things his father had taught him; even if you lose everything.... !

"Is it really that bad?" he asked, genuinely curious. He didn't know, he probably never would know, how it was to struggle. Jon was used to the taste of a silver spoon. His entire life had been mapped out for him and even things that should have been something to work for, struggle for, like school and grades, had come as easily as the money had come into his pocket.

"Can't say," he admitted. His face screwed up in thought, "'Fun' and 'pleasure' are two things banned by my therapist."

Jon laughed, tilted his head back, "So yeeears!"