Bobby was raising the second spoonful to his lips when Victor described his alternate self; immediately a look of disgust crossed his face. But a warmth asserted itself in the pit of his stomach as Victor noticed that he wasn't like that goody-goody cultist.. "Now you're making me wish you put him out of his misery," he said; the flippancy in his voice, however, was marred by an undertone of bitterness. He quickly shoved more ice-cream in his mouth and slowly the smirk returned. The rich caramel lingered on his teeth before his tongue scooped it up.
"And its Irish, not Scotch," Bobby clarified about his hip-flask. He nodded in response to Vic's promise not to attack him in self defense; "sounds good to me, ditto," he responded in agreement.
Bobby then heard Victor endorse his attitude (I like this Victor already) and ask for his story. Of course, he was happy to explain, probably due to his inhibitions being lowered by the Peruvian Pixie Dust. He smirk remained in place as he scooped the second can off the table with his spare hand; his fist then began to freeze over as he cooled the vessel.
"Well I'm not an X-Man any more. Haven't been since I turned eighteen." His voice then firmed up slightly as he continued, "I didn't like being a child soldier, and I wanted to be my own boss. So I left." His smile remained in place though. He slid the now-chilled can back over to Victor before he took another spoonful of sugar-laden creamy deliciousness.
"The Scotty from here's much less of a dick than the one I knew, so I do accounts for the Institute. I cover up the whole 'secret mutant training facility' thing and cook the books so the IRS doesn't come knocking and find out Hank's lab happens to have cooler gear than the CDC's." A mischievous spark asserted itself in his eyes as he freely confessed to accounting fraud.