A/N: Wow. So this started as a two-page one-shot, but I fell in love with it and it turned into a 20,000 word monster. And I can honestly say that this has been the easiest long story I've ever written. Thanks to all my reviewers; you guys rock, and you are my inspiration. Special thanks to Wanda W, Jessie07 and allyg1990, who were my very first reviewers, but believe me if I thought you'd actually read it, I would list out every single person who's left a comment and thank them. :)

P.S. Embarrassingly enough, it turns out that I accidentally put 'Vincent Creed' instead of 'Victor Creed' once, so thanks to The Duplicitous One for pointing that out....

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She looked at him, searching. Wanda had half expected him to answer straight away with something witty (or as witty as he could manage in this state), or to just laugh at her and move on. Instead, he was looking right back at her, and suddenly John didn't look drunk at all.

Wanda had the sinking feeling that, just perhaps, he'd been practically sober all along.

The silence had gone on too long. Her stomach went cold, snakes of nervous discomfort weaving around each other until she felt a little sick. He wasn't going to answer. Not any answer she wanted to hear, anyway. Just as he opened his mouth for a second time, Wanda shook her head abruptly and gave a bright smile. It was fake, of course, but over the years she'd gotten fairly good at pretending to be all right.

"Never mind," she said, and scooted closer to him on the bench. There was a way to get out of this, Wanda knew, and even though she felt like doing nothing but running away, the smarter part of her brain insisted on solving the stupid little problem that she'd created. So she slid an arm around his neck and leaned towards him. "I know what I want from you, after all." And when she kissed him, and he kissed her back, Wanda simply did her best to pretend that her heart wasn't aching at all.

It was right about then that a hand fell on Wanda's shoulder, firm and without warning, and Rogue's voice sliced across the club's white noise.

"Peel yourself off and tell your boy goodnight," she said, lightly tugging Wanda away from John. "We gotta go." Wanda looked up at her, one arm still around John's neck, and took in the sight of Remy's fingers laced through those of Rogue's free hand. She had to smile, if faintly. Rogue and Remy stepped back to allow Wanda to slide out of the booth, and John followed quickly. He didn't try to grab her again, and when Wanda glanced back at him as she began to follow the other two across the club floor, he had the same bleary half-grin he'd worn when she'd been certain he was absolutely smashed. She narrowed her eyes, but decided that this was neither the time nor the place. If she'd even wanted to confront him about that. Which, to be quite frank, she did not. She didn't think she had the stomach for it.

As they exited the club, though, when John reached out and caught Wanda's hand, she flinched it away and then immediately tried to cover it up by running the hand in question through her hair. Rogue gave her a funny look, but Wanda just smiled and shook her head. She didn't want to explain to anyone why she was all right with kissing Pyro but was now terrified of letting him see any genuine affection she might have for him. Remy and Rogue were holding hands, though, which meant the night must have gone as planned for one of them, at least…

"Whoa, there, Johnny," Remy said, as John swayed towards Wanda and nearly lost his balance. The Cajun reached out and steadied his friend by the shoulder, not letting go of Rogue's hand. John blinked at him, then looked at Wanda, who bravely met his gaze and gave her trademarked sneer.

"You should work on holding your liquor better," she said, taking what she saw as the safest route and just refusing to acknowledge what she'd said in the club or the way he'd responded. Or, rather, not responded. Remy chuckled, though his eyes lingered on Wanda's tight jaw before skipping over to John's dark eyes. Wanda, looking at those same eyes, couldn't quite tell if they were blurred or shuttered. Either way, she couldn't read them.

"C'mon, love," John protested into the wake of Remy's laugh, "give us a kiss goodnight, won't you?" Wanda hesitated, then stepped closer and put her hands against his cheeks, holding his face still. She leaned in until there was just barely any space between their mouths, and inhaled. He smelled of dark and clean and whiskey. John moved then, pushing his head forward just enough to press his lips against hers in a surprisingly chaste kiss. She let him go, stepped back, and glanced at Rogue.

"We'd better go, or you'll be late."

"Yeah," Rogue agreed, and turned to Remy. Wanda looked away, telling herself it was because she was Rogue's friend, and privacy was the polite thing to give them. (She was jealous.) When the other two were done doing whatever it was they were doing, Rogue laid a hand lightly against Wanda's waist and they started off towards Rogue's borrowed car. Wanda did not look back.

xxxxxxx

As soon as they were on Remy's bike, John holding on for dear life as the taller man rocketed around the corner, the act disappeared. Well, as much of it that had been an act, anyway. John had always been good at keeping his head when he drank, which surprised everyone who ever learned about it, but the truth was, he liked being drunk. He liked not having to think about anything, worry about anything. So he played it up a little. Besides, a man can get away with a hell of a lot more when people think he's playful and intoxicated than when he's dead sober, John had found over the years.

However, when Wanda took one of the hottest evenings he'd ever had and flipped it right around in his face, asking him with that awful soft hesitant voice just what exactly he wanted from her, John had been taken completely by surprise. Maybe for the first time, he had absolutely no idea what to say.

She thought he was drunk. So anything he did say would be taken in the spirit of him being drunk. Maybe that was why she'd asked it in the first place, so she could let him down gently when he sobered up and avoid embarrassing him by asking while he was in full control of his emotions! Or maybe she genuinely wanted to know; maybe she cared about him, wanted something more than just the kissing and the dancing and the- off topic, off topic; and what if she wanted something more? Did he want that with her? The answer was a very firm Hell yes, Johnny-boy, but did he dare say it now, when she wouldn't trust him to even remember it in the morning? Maybe he should wait, and tell her when he was 'sober'. Or maybe he should just screw the whole thing and admit that he'd been nothing more than tipsy all along, which would probably mean he'd have to take his hand out of her pants, but he'd have to do that either way, so- Damn it, John, just say something!

Too long, too long, he'd taken too long and just as he opened his mouth to let whatever was going to spill out go ahead and drip off his tongue and into the air for her to hear, Wanda broke him off with a bright, cold smile. And then she said something, but he didn't really register it because then she was kissing him, and John had discovered ages ago that when Wanda kissed him, there wasn't much point to thinking about anything else at all.

Now, hands clasped around Remy's stomach, head ducked against the other Acolyte's back to keep the wind from tearing at his eyes, John tried to imagine what the inside of Wanda's head looked like. Her mind. He thought of cold white walls and stone, and needles; he didn't know what else was in asylums, but that all sounded horrible enough. He thought of the pretty blue sparks that turned into raging invisible ghosts hurling things around and ripping them apart, and tried to section that part into her, to make it fit atop of the softness in her wide, clear eyes when she'd kissed him on the cheek, and the uncertain, indescribable goodness of her beauty when she'd met him on the bridge. Now, his image of her was a swirling, confused jumble, and he decided that maybe it was better to just focus on her mouth against his.

When they reached the base, Remy leaned his motorcycle against the wall of the airlock and shoved his keys in his pocket. He typed in the entrance code, gestured for John to precede him inside, and followed with a low cough.

"So," he said once they were in the front hall. "Wanna tell me what happened back there?"

"Nothing," John said, and then was a little confused by his own sharp reply. Remy, it appeared, was too. He frowned, catching John by the upper arm and forcing him to pause.

"You went off with that girl with her lookin' at you like you was her high priest, Johnny," he said. "And then we come back and find her and you joined at the face, and then when we leave she's actin' like you just told her you're going off to 'Nam right before you marry some other woman." John furrowed his brow, tugging his arm free.

"Yeah, because 'Nam was only a few decades ago, so it's not like your timeline is off or-"

"You know what I mean." John sighed.

"She thought I was drunk," he said finally. Remy rocked back on his heels and waited. John walked into the kitchen, and Remy followed. They sat down. "Everything was apples, and then…"

"And then?" He dropped his chin onto his palm.

"She looked at me all serious-like, and asked me… she asked me what I wanted from her." Remy sucked in a silent breath, and squinted at John. John said nothing.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Mon Dieu, boy, what did you say?" John's chin slid a little further down, and he stared at the table.

"Nothing. I got distracted trying to figure out what I should say, and how to say it, and by the time I decided it was worthless trying to sort that out ahead of time…"

"She decided it was worthless waitin' for you to answer."

"Basically," John agreed, somewhat dejectedly. Coming from someone else's mouth, instead of his own brain, it sounded even worse than he'd suspected. Remy shook his head.

"Well," he said, pursing his lips. "I'll give you this much, mon ami. You did the wrong thing for the right reasons." He allowed a small, private smile to cross his lips, remembering the day that someone had said that very thing to him. John didn't catch the light in Remy's eyes, too caught up in trying to count the grain of the wooden table he was glaring at.

"Thanks a lot, mate."

"I try." John sighed.

"So why'd she act like that after?"

"She didn't want you to know you'd hurt her," Remy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which, actually, it was. Even to John himself.

"No, I mean, when we were all leaving. Why'd she… with the hands, and…?" Remy gave him a slanted, sympathetic smile.

"What, can't you tell?" John curled a lip at him, not in any mood. Remy took pity on him. "La fille t'aime."

"That's pushing it." Remy shook his head, actually managing to look sage.

"No, John, a girl like Wanda… She don't act like that for just anybody. People that messed up, that scared to care? It takes a whole lot of feelin' for them to slip up. And that thing, 'with the hands'? That was slipping up." John lifted his head and met Remy's eyes.

"You think so?"

"Remy speaks from experience." John snorted.

"I'll bet you do." He nodded at the other man. "I take it you finally won over the Rogue."

"I think the Rogue won over me," Remy countered with a small grin, and held out a hand. John shook it, then let his own palm fall back to the table.

"Bloody hell," he said then. "So what am I supposed to do?" Remy looked a little disbelieving, and when it was obvious that John was not joking, he leaned forwards across the table.

"Let me spell this out for you, mon ami: go get the girl." There was an instant of silence, and then John made as if to stand. Remy darted a hand out and caught him by the wrist. "Not now, you moron, it's almost one in the morning!"

"Good point."

"Merci."

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Wanda lay flat on her back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rogue had let her go without much in the way of questions, although the Southerner's eyes had been full of them. That was one of the good things about Rogue, though: she could tell when to just shut the hell up. It was one of the reasons she and Wanda had become friends in the first place, because it was a gift that Wanda shared, and that understanding was something that had drawn them together: if something annoyed Wanda, things exploded. If something annoyed Rogue, things got knocked out. The two of them managed a nice balance, and though there were things that Rogue could say that no one else would be able to get away with, there were also times when Rogue walked away (it was that, or something broke), and Wanda was profoundly grateful for it.

Her ceiling, however, was not all that interesting. Especially when compared to what she saw every time she closed her eyes, which was John's face or his hands or his stupid shiny little lighter.

And that kiss right before he and Remy had split away to their own car, or motorcycle, or whatever it was they'd brought. It hadn't been like the ones in the club, or the one on the bridge. It had been quick, over in seconds. Nothing but warm, firm, and yet absurdly gentle pressure on her mouth, there and gone in the time it took to exhale.

What had that meant? An apology, maybe? Sorry, sheila, I don't love you, but-

Wait.

What was that?

Love?

"I don't care if he loves me," Wanda said aloud, to the blackness of her bedroom. "Cares about is different than loves, and while it would be nice if he actually likes me, who said anything about love?"

Well, Rogue had, of course. And, although she'd never gone right out with it, so had Wanda herself. Damn it.

"Ok," Wanda admitted to the shadow in the upper corner of her room nearest the window. The shadow waited for elaboration. "Ok, so I… it would be nice." A pause. The shadow seemed to shake its nonexistent head at her, disappointed. "Fine," Wanda hissed, staring it down. "It would be nice if he loves me. Which is stupid, because he doesn't. That's all you're getting."

She blinked, and the shadow was just the wall and the ceiling again.

Maybe she'd been the one drinking after all.

She closed her eyes, and was not surprised when a 3-D replay of their interlude on the dance floor greeted her. Only this time, when they broke the kiss, Wanda didn't give John time to say something, and just tilted her head up again and-

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Lance answered the door, already on his way out. Kitty had called him early that morning, informing him that he'd been out with Rogue the night before, and now he was going out with her. He had shrugged, agreed that it had indeed been nice to see Rogue again, and asked what time he should pick her up.

Standing in the doorway to the Brotherhood house, however, was not anyone he'd expected.

It was...

"Sabertooth?!" Lance tensed. The much-bigger man sneered.

"Relax, runt, I'm here on personal business." That phrase coming out of Victor Creed's mouth was anything but reassuring, but as soon as he said it, a second figure stepped out from behind Creed's back. St. John Allerdyce, in fine form. With roses.

Lance felt his grip on reality begin to loosen.

"What the hell?"

"G'day, mate," Pyro said cheerfully. He didn't seem at all alarmed to be standing on the front porch of an enemy group, but then again, all things considered, Lance supposed he didn't have much to worry about.

"What's going on?" he asked, looking from the redhead to the goliath and back again.

"I'm here to see Wanda," John informed him, and lifted the roses for Lance to take stock of. They weren't red, Lance noticed distractedly. They were a sort of fiery orange. Of course. "Creed, here," the Australian went on, nodding to his companion, "is going to give me a little assistance, and the rest of you a little entertainment. Don't worry, I paid him a bloody fortune for this; your furniture and your skins are perfectly safe."

Lance blinked.

"And I should believe you… because…?"

"Because if you don't let this stubborn little asshole here in," Creed replied calmly enough, "I'm going to rip you in half and we'll walk right through you. That doesn't count as 'bad behavior', does it, Johnny?" he asked, not looking away from Lance's face. Pyro shrugged, and Lance made an executive decision and backed up to let them pass.

"Wanda's going to kill you," he muttered to John as the Acolyte stepped by him. John grinned at him.

"If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that."

"Yeah, well." John looked towards the stairs.

"She still in bed?" Lance scratched his head and followed Pyro's gaze.

"How the hell should I know?"

"No need to get shirty on me."

"I'm gonna be late picking up Kitty because of you. That warrants… shirtyness. Whatever that is."

"Feel free to leave," Creed growled, and Lance frowned.

"Hell no."

"Right, then," John said, and breathed in deeply. "Here we go." He glanced at Lance. "Where's Toad?"

"Toad? Why-" Lance caught sight of Creed's smirk out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth went into a small O of understanding. He chewed on his lower lip. "Probably upstairs. In his room. He'll hear you coming, though."

"Good." With that, Pyro led the way to the second floor.

xxxxxxx

John considered being subtle. For about two seconds. Then he let out a whoop and kicked one of the steps.

"Hello the house!" he called, and was granted a muffled thud from the direction of Wanda's room and a slammed door from further down the hall in reply. Moments later, when he'd reached the top of the stairs, Toad appeared in a doorway a few rooms down from Pietro's twin. He looked sleepy, confused, and pretty pissed off.

"I thought I recognized that voice," he said, as if to himself, and then seemed to shake himself fully awake. "What're you doing here, jackass?"

"I keep getting insulted today," John mused aloud, mostly for Toad's benefit. "Shame."

"I'll shame you," Toad responded, somewhat predictably, and John stepped neatly aside. Toad's lunge was abruptly cut off by Victor Creed's bulk, and the younger mutant let out an angry, terrified yelp as Sabertooth's claws pressed into his stomach just hard enough to hurt.

"Keep still," Creed grunted, and Toad reluctantly stopped kicking. John surveyed the scene.

"Sorry, mate," he told Toad, and this was true. He was a little sorry. "I didn't want you interrupting me again, so I figured I might as well bring along a little help." Toad opened his mouth, and Creed smacked a hand firmly over it. A look of utter disgust slid across the big man's face, but he didn't take his palm away. Lance leaned against the wall and shrugged at Toad, who was making desperate eyes at him.

John turned to Wanda's door, which was still resolutely closed. He knocked once.

"Wanda," he called.

"Go away."

"Wanda, I need to talk to you."

"And I need you to go away."

"Now, ordinarily that'd be no worries, but I've brought you something and it'd be pretty sad if you didn't get it…" He looked down at the roses, then back up at the door. "Actually, I've brought you a few things." He wondered how long he should wait before just breaking through her door. He was, after all, determined. He'd been up all night planning out how to do this, which meant he was running on no sleep in over twenty-four hours, no food since the night before, and the barest whisper of a hangover. So he was pretty damn determined.

But, thankfully, he didn't have to break her door after all, because just then she pulled it open just wide enough to glare at him. She looked rumpled and sleep-faced and absolutely beautiful. Before he could tell her that, of course, she put one hand on the doorframe and frowned at him.

"What are you doing here, John?" She glanced over his shoulder. One eyebrow lifted slightly. "And what is Sabertooth doing to Toad?"

"He's just- You know, that's not important," John interrupted himself with, and held up the roses. "I brought you these." Wanda looked at them fast, eyes sliding over them without really seeing them, and then did a double-take. Her frown deepened with surprise and, instinctively, she reached out and took them.

"You bought me flowers?" From behind him and to the left, Lance coughed into his fist. John flicked him off behind his back.

"They're supposed to- I'm sorry," he said instead, interrupting himself again. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and with her eyes on him, promptly forgot the speech he'd come up with hours before. Wanda widened her eyes at him impatiently, though he noted that her hands were absently stroking the smoothed stems. He heard a whoosh over his shoulder, and then Pietro muttered something to Lance, who whispered something back. Wanda, eyes catching on their audience, opened her mouth to say something undoubtedly harsh and John stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. Startled, she shut her mouth with a snap.

"Listen," he said, and now his earlier cheer was replaced with a terrible urgency that he despised but couldn't fight. "You asked me. That thing you asked me. Last night." He didn't wait for her to nod or shake her head or anything. "I didn't say anything because- because I didn't really know how to say it, and then by the time- But here I am doing it again, so why don't I just cut through all this useless bullshit and say that I love you?"

The whole world, as far as John could tell, took a breather.

Behind him, the Acolyte and the Brotherhood boys alike were silent.

In front of him, Wanda was even more silent, and it was hard to tell which was wider: her eyes, or her mouth. Encouraged by the lack of violence, John slid his hands from her shoulders to her upper arms, stepping closer.

"I'm in love with you, Wanda," he said, simple as that, and had a moment to feel proud of himself for figuring out what to say before the terror hit him. She wasn't saying anything. She wasn't doing anything. She was frozen. Had Remy been wrong? Was it possible that-

"Oh, god," Wanda said then, and dropped the flowers. She grabbed John by the lapels of his unbuttoned Oxford shirt, tugged him forward, and kissed him on the mouth.

Behind them, Sabertooth struggled to keep from snapping someone's neck to make them stop clapping, and contented himself with squeezing Toad hard enough that the squirming, horrified boy nearly passed out.

When Wanda and John finally broke apart, he felt his lips curving in a helpless, daft sort of grin. He felt… he felt on fire. He felt magic.

Wanda smiled back, that lovely rare wry smile of hers, and the forgotten roses drifted up to hover in the air beside them. Not looking away from John, she caught them up in one hand.

"I guess it's kind of obvious by now," she said, smoothing her free palm across his shirt where she'd wrinkled it, "but I'm in love with you, too." John leaned down, close enough that only she could hear, and said,

"'Course you are. That's why you were stalking me in the first place." Down the hall, the ceiling light exploded.

Again.

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So there you have it. The End.

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I'm planning out/beginning another piece, but it's not nearly the same tone as this. It's a fairly epic prequel to Evo, focusing on John and what leads him to join the Acolytes; it's AU, will be JONDA, and is way more serious/plot-filled than Stalking. Let me know if you'd be interested in this, because I'll write it anyway but it'd be lovely to know someone's planning on reading it...