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When Johnny was a kid, his sister always cut off the crusts on his sandwiches. He liked to imagine that his mother did, too, but she died when he was so young he’s not even sure he was able to eat sandwiches yet. What age does a baby even start eating foods like that?
Regardless, he didn’t know if his big sister cut those crusts off because he hated them just as much as he did as an adult, or if she just thought it was the right thing to do and that evolved into him being unable to eat a sandwich if the edges weren't cut off.
As a twenty-four year old, Susan still cut the crusts off his sandwiches like she did when he was four years old. He liked it that way, because eating a sandwich with the crusts still on just felt wrong. The difference in texture, the smoothness of the crust that contrasted the porous texture of the centre, the way it didn’t ever crunch in the same way when the bread was toasted, it unsettled him deep down in his bones.
Out of everybody in the tower, Reed understood Johnny’s issue with things like that the most. He’d quickly figured out it was because Reed had things just like Johnny, if not worse than him. Things like being unable to drink tea thanks to the way he said it would cling to his mouth, or that thing with the pillows
Sue had brought home brand new throw pillows for their couch, a set of nicely patterned orange ones that complimented the blue of their living space, that were made of this nice velvet fabric. Reed hadn’t noticed them right away, but when he did he’d been up in arms about it.
He’d demanded they been thrown away, like it was some big thing. Like they’d destroyed the couch by putting new pillows on it. He’d freaked, big time, and then disappeared into his lab for the night.
He’d apologized the next morning, told them the texture of the pillows made his skin crawl. So, Reed understood. He understood that Johnny didn’t like bread crusts, or the sound of cutlery on porcelain, or squeaking single use plastic cases. They made his skin crawl.
But Reed didn’t cook. He was an awful cook, even when it just came to throwing ingredients together to make a sandwich. He kept Johnny’s things in mind when it came to other things, and on the rare occasion he was forced to make something to eat for himself and the pyro, he always remembered to cut off Johnny’s crusts.
Ben did not.
Now, Johnny loved Ben. They were family, all four of them, and they always would be. That didn’t change that Ben understood the little things the least. He didn’t get why Reed cared so much about having the lights in the kitchen on but not the lights in the dining room, or why Johnny hated the sound of something being recorded onto vinyl.
Unfortunately for Johnny, Ben could make an amazing loaded grilled cheese. The kind that Johnny woke up some days craving, but could never make himself because the man with the recipe gatekept it to an extreme degree.
After four years of being together on a team, living in the same penthouse, Ben had eventually stopped whinging about cutting off the extra bits, but it was an uphill battle to get there.
“Loaded grilled cheese,” Ben announced, shoving bits out of the way to set the plate down on the table before Johnny. “Eat up, matchstick. You look like a strong wind could blow ya’ over.”
Johnny hummed, narrowing his eyes and reached to swap his phillips head for a flathead, “I take offense to that,” he muttered absently. The engine on his motorcycle had been having issues, and after enough time investigating he’d removed the broken part and was working on it. With Susan out of the tower for a few hours, he could bring it up to the living room to work on it while Ben made food.
Ben left him to it, going to eat his own matching sandwich at the dining table. When Johnny finally looked up from the engine he frowned, heaving a dramatic sigh. He picked up the plate, stretching across the back of the couch to hold it out in Ben’s direction, “Ben, buddy, you know I don’t like it when you leave the crust on on these things.”
Ben couldn’t exactly look any grumpier, with his face being covered in rocks and all, but Johnny got the distinct impression he was being glared at, “Eat the damn sandwich.”
“Not if you’re not gonna cut the crusts off.”
The man trying to eat his own lunch in peace gave up, hands thudding back down on the table to set his sandwich down with a sigh, “Just eat around the crust if it’s that big’a deal,” he suggested. Johnny made a face.
“No. No, it’s weird, man. And you didn’t even cut it, who doesn’t cut a grilled cheese?” He gestured vaguely with the plate, because what kind of insane person could eat a grilled cheese– crusts involved or not– without cutting it in half first? “So I’d have to take a bit with the crust, and I don’t like the crust.”
“It’s bread, Johnny,” Ben deadpanned, “You’ll live if you eat a few bites of crust.”
"It's a different texture!" The human torch emphasized, yet again waving his plate around, though this time in Ben's direction. How was this not simple? Could Ben seriously not just bring a knife over, or take the plate back and cut it up himself? This was seriously cutting into his project time.
Ben tossed his arms out in exasperation, amber rocks crunching with the movement, "The whole darn thing is a different texture, kid! It's a sandwich!"
Johnny narrowed his eyes. The two of them glared at each other from across the open plan living space. Eventually he set the plate down on the open couch cushion, "I'm telling Sue you're being ableist," he declared, standing from the couch.
Ben straightened, "What? How is that ableist? Me not wanting to cut the crust off your sandwich like you're five."
Johnny took in a big breath, and yelled out for his sister, of which had just returned to the penthouse floor if his watch wasn't malfunctioning.
(Sue cut the crusts off for him, rolled her eyes good naturedly, gave Ben a partially playful glare and told them to "Play nice, boys." before she disappeared down to see her husband in his lab.
It took three more conversations like that before Ben stopped refusing to do it, and many, many more before he stopped complaining every single time.)