Disclaimer: "You can't kill the girl! She's a David Bowie fan."

(An: Um... this chapter is writer bitching, I guess. I always wanted to do something with John's romance novels. This chapter is canon. So... yeah. The song is "Dance Dance.")

Barely stuttered out "A joke of a romantic" Words stuck to my tongue

Wanda wished she could hate her job. The pay was shit, her boss was a lazy dumbass, and she had to wear a bandana as a shirt. Not to mention she had to serve customers who could barely wipe their ass without directions and clean up after them. Plenty of reasons. But, just like with everything else these days... she just didn't care.

Maybe it was just a side-effect of defeating Apocalypse. Really, what comes after defeating the most powerful mutant in existence? Why wouldn't you be bored for the rest of your life?

It didn't matter. All that mattered right now was the hour left on her shift. She could survive that.

It wasn't like there was anyone here, anyway: the Acoustic Cafe catered to the college crowd, staying open until the wee hours of the night, but it was summer. Boozy teenagers still walked the streets of Bayville, of course; they just weren't interested in coming here to shake off their hangovers like they were during the semester.

Wanda sighed and put the mop back in the closet. The floors were clean, and it was almost midnight. She just had to clean the last of the tables and make sure everything was spotless before the manager came back at one to close up.

They hadn't been very busy that day, so there wasn't much left to clean; by twelve-fifteen, Wanda was on the last row of booths. The second-to-last table was a horrible mess: someone had ordered the diner's special—late-night pancakes—and spilled syrup all over. Wanda gritted her teeth. If they'd just told her when it happened... but no, the idiots hadn't even left her a tip.

Wanda went back to the kitchen and emerged with a mop, a bucket of water, and a rag for the table. After cleaning up the syrup on the floor, Wanda started on the table. As she cleaned, she noticed something shiny stuck in the little gap between the end of the booth and the wall. Jewelry?

Wanda set aside the rag and leaned forward to grab the item, trying not to get syrup on her midriff. No, it wasn't anything so fancy: it was a book with a holographic cover. The illustration on the front showed a girl and boy standing back-to-back; a green hand emerged from the ground beneath them. "I Love You for Your Brains, huh?" Wanda shook her head. Trash. She tossed it in the vague direction of the cash register; someone might come looking for it tomorrow.

When she finished washing the last of the tables, Wanda headed back to the front and almost did a double-take. Someone had come in—she must not have heard the bell ring while she was washing. Thank God her manager was gone: she was the only waitress on tonight, and there was no telling how long the guy had been sitting there, waiting for service.

Not that he seemed bothered—well, about her ignoring him, anyway. He had placed an ancient-looking typewriter on the table and was glaring at it like he could make it burst into flame by sheer force of will. There was something familiar about his orange hair, the tilt of his head, but Wanda couldn't place it. She'd certainly never seen him around the diner before.

Taking her pad and pencil from her apron, Wanda walked up to him. "Sorry for the wait," she said without a touch of sincerity. "What can I get you?"

The man blinked, like someone coming out of a trance, and looked up at her with green eyes that were much too pretty for his own good. "...Oh. Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Just coffee, please. Black." Oh, great, one of those. He'd probably expect her to notice immediately when his cup was empty. He glanced around. "When does this place close?"

"One." Wanda pretended to write down his order. "Are you sure you don't want anything else?" The man shook his head, looking at his typewriter again. Wanda's mouth twisted to the side, and then she shook her head and walked away. One good side-effect of her apathy: it was much easier to ignore irritating customers because of it. She got him his coffee; he nodded his thanks, still glaring at the keys.

Well, everything was clean except for his table—which she would have to give at least a perfunctory santizing—and since she was done at one, she didn't have to help set up anything for the morning shift. How was she going to kill another half-hour?

She walked over to the cash register, leaning against the counter. Again, the paperback caught her eye: it looked sad, like it knew someone had abandoned it. It couldn't be very good, if someone would just leave it behind and not notice.

Still, she was bored as hell. Wanda shrugged and picked it up, perching on of the stools as she flipped to the front page. It wasn't very long—only about three hundred pages. Might as well give it a shot.

"You know, this is the reason I don't hang out with you anymore," Alex muttered, holding up the keys to his Jeep. "Not a peep from you in weeks, and then you show up begging me to borrow my car. Not even a 'Hey, Alex, how've you been?' Just, 'Gimme your car keys.' You could at least pretend to be grateful."

Martha met his eyes. The desperation in them made Alex lose the thread of his rant; he could only blink at her. "I am grateful. Really. And you'd be too if you knew what I needed this for." Alex opened his mouth—to either ask her what that reason was or yell at her again, he couldn't decide—but Martha snatched the keys from his hand and kissed his cheek before he could say anything.

Utterly confused, he watched her drive away in his car. He didn't even know if she had a proper license yet. (1)

Someone cleared his throat. Wanda started, shoving the book behind the register. It wasn't bad, but that didn't mean she wanted to be caught reading it. The man, typewriter tucked under one arm, held out a five-dollar bill. Wanda tweaked a brow. "Should be enough for a tip there, eh?"

A coffee was only a buck-sixty, so yes. Excellent. Wanda accepted it, though she couldn't help raising her eyebrows. "Thanks." The man nodded, smiling absently, and walked out.

Drink up It's last call Last resort

The next day was just as dull and just as empty. Wanda whiled away the slow times with more of the abandoned book—no one had asked after it, and it was better than she thought it would be. The characters knew each other, intead of falling instantly in love like they did in Blob's romances, and the magic—although unrealistic—was thought-out and interesting to read about. (2)

Around midnight, when she'd finished cleaning, the bell over the door rang. Wanda snapped to attention—but it was just the same guy from last night, still lugging his typewriter under his arm. When he saw her notice, he raised one hand in a wave. He glanced at the booth he'd sat in last night, and then he shrugged and sat down at the counter, setting his typewriter up in front of him. Wanda raised her eyebrows. The guy frowned at his typewriter, then looked at her. "This is okay, right?"

Wanda shrugged. "It doesn't bother me, and my boss isn't around, so... I guess." She shrugged, stretching her arms above her head. The guy's eyes, like everyone else's, immediately went to her chest, but, unlike most, he looked away right away and started typing. Wanda stared at him. Was he writing about her? Or was he just trying to avoid a telling-off for staring?

After a minute, Wanda shrugged and walked over to the coffee pot. She slipped it next to him, but he didn't look up. Wanda shrugged again and reclaimed her book, carefully hiding the cover behind the cash register. She couldn't help shooting a glance at the guy now and then, though—why did he look so familiar? There were plenty of redheads in Bayville.

After about fifteen minutes—and several changed sheets of paper—the guy finally looked up and noticed the coffee cup. He reached for it, but Wanda grabbed it first. "Let me get you one that's actually warm," she said. She still didn't know this guy's type, and she didn't want to risk him sticking around to complain to her boss.

But the guy just smiled at her. "Thanks." When she passed him the fresh cup, he drained it, drumming his fingers on the counter with his free hand. Wanda cocked her head; he'd barely touched the one from yesterday. The man noticed her stare and flushed. "I'm not used to staying up this late. And it always seems that I get tired when I've got inspiration—life's a bitch like that."

His speech, heavily colored with an Australian accent made something click in Wanda's brain. She straightened up and took a step back from the counter, half-startled and half-wary. "You're Pyro."

The man started and met her eyes. Then he blanched. "Bloody hell. You're the boss's daughter." They looked at each other for a moment—Wanda unsure if she should attack him or not; Pyro apparently too shocked to do anything—and then the man slumped forward and started beating his head on the counter.

Wanda's mouth twisted to the side. The nasty, suspicious side of her insisted that this was some sort of ploy; the part of her that had finally started figuring out people said it wasn't. He looked too embarrassed. She rubbed the back of her neck. Did she threaten him or not? Maybe only go halfway. "...If you want a concussion, I can get you there a lot faster."

Pyro stopped with his head halfway to the counter. Then he lowered his forehead to it—slowly this time. "No, that's all right. I wouldn't like to knock the ideas out of my head when they just reappeared, thank you." He straightened up, smiling in a way that was, like his eyes, disconcertingly handsome. "I just hadn't realized I could be that bloody stupid. Guess it's just bad luck, though. Who'd think old Buckethead's daughter'd work in a place like this?"

The nickname might have amused her under different circumstances, but she hated being referred to as Magneto's daughter. "It's Wanda," she said between gritted teeth. "Read the nametag." The confusion in Pyro's eyes confused her—apparently, he didn't know if they were supposed to be enemies or not either.

Wanda didn't want to keep looking at him, that was for sure. She claimed his empty coffee cup and went to refill it.

When she turned back to him, Pyro flashed her another smile, but it only made her scowl more. She'd thought he was cute until she realized he was one of her dad's flunkies. Her scowl didn't seem to dampen his mood; he accepted the coffee and drained it in a single gulp.

"John." Wanda raised her eyebrows. "My name. It's John." He set down his cup and smiled at her again. Wanda stared at him, confused again. "I don't work for him anymore, luv. He, uh... he wasn't as amused as I was by his death. Knocked me out on my arse."

Wanda studied his face for a lie, but she couldn't read people—she had no idea if he was telling the truth or not. Better to stay cautious. "Why do you think I care what your name is? You're still just one of my dad's flunkies. You worked for him—you're as bad as he is."

John winced. "Now that is just uncalled for." He ran his fingers over the side of the typewriter, as though for reassurance. "I only did it 'cause he busted me out of juvie." He paused. "And having a pass to burn stuff was good, too. I like burning things."

Wanda leaned on the counter, doing a quick cleavage-check to make sure she wasn't flashing him. You could never tell with this damn uniform. Then she looked at John again. For the life of her, she couldn't tell what he was thinking. He could be telling the truth. Or he could have been sent by her father to trick her. She had a horrible habit of falling for a pretty face—you'd think she'd get used to boys after living with the Brotherhood for so long, but no dice.

After a minute, she tossed her hair. "Doesn't matter," she announced after a moment. "You're still a terrorist. You fought alongside him, and you weren't even blackmailed. Therefore, you're guilty too."

John's mouth twisted to the side. "It's twelve-thirty."

Wanda drew back, incredulous. "What does the time have to do with anything?"

John spread his hands. "Are we really going to get into morality this late at night?"

Wanda paused, tapping her finger against her cheek. He had a point. And she... she didn't care if he had liked working for her father or not. She didn't care about anything these days. She sighed and turned her back on him, pretending to check the coffee pot. "Whatever."

She could feel John's eyes on her back, and it made her skin prickle—for a moment, she was very aware of the exposed skin between her jeans and her bandana, the bare expanse of her shoulders. Then he started typing again, and Wanda forced herself to start washing the mugs that lined the back wall, even though they were only there for show. She needed something to do with her hands.

These words are all I have so I'll write them 'Til you need them just to get by

John came back the next day, and the day after that. He always showed at midnight and left her with a large tip, though he didn't try to speak to her. She did catch him staring once or twice, but, if she was totally honest with herself, she would have been insulted if he didn't. She looked damn good in her bandana, even if it was sexist. Mostly, he just typed, drinking coffee during his breaks.

On her fourth shift where he showed up, Wanda finished her book. Despite herself, she had gotten sucked in: after spending the last three chapters battling off the zombie hoarde, Alex had been wounded, and Wanda had had to stop reading there.

Grimly, Martha chalked the symbols for life, healing, resurrection, and truth at the four points of the compass, then stepped into the middle and drew a circle around herself. It was shakier than usual, but she couldn't help herself. Her head knew she could bring him back, but her heart hadn't gotten the memo.

That was the ending? Wanda scowled. Ugh, she hated books like this. She flipped to the back cover for the author bio. It was only a few lines of text: St. John Allerdyce lives in New York state. He enjoys gratuitous violence, Vegemite, and bonfires. Currently, he is working on a sequel.

Wanda's mouth twisted to the side. Typical. She sighed and glanced at the clock—midnight already? Despite herself, she glanced around, but no one was there. Huh. She'd gotten used to the Australian. He might've been one of her father's goons, but at least he tipped well.

She was in the back washing tables when she heard the bell ring. By the time she finished and got around to the front—she knew he'd wait—John was already bent over his typewriter, his brows furrowed as his fingers moved across the keys. She set a cup of coffee beside his place and started washing the counter, even though it didn't need it.

Like clockwork, John finished typing after about twenty minutes and reached for his coffee. Despite herself, Wanda glanced at him. He just looked... so alive. While he was typing, he was like a man possessed, but the moment he paused, he started grinning like nothing could ever be better. Wanda wished she knew what that felt like. And, even though he was a bastard who'd worked for her father, he was still damn cute.

John finished his cup and glanced over at her. She bent over the counter again so he wouldn't think she was staring. "More please?" When she glanced at up him, he held up his cup, making puppy-dog eyes.

Rolling her eyes—more for show than because she was really annoyed; he was one of the only customers who actually said "please"—Wanda claimed his cup and refilled it, then returned it to him. John drank it slowly this time, his eyes flicking from her face to his paper. Wanda propped her chin on her fists, biting the inside of her cheek. But curiousity won over distrust, and she leaned toward him. "What are you working on?"

John started, almost spilling his coffee down his front. Carefully, he finished his coffee and set it down, plucking at a spare strand in his shirt instead of looking at her. Wanda glanced down at her shirt—no, she wasn't flashing him. "...I, uh, don't like to talk about my projects before they're finished," he said softly, turning red. He tapped his index fingers together, avoidng her curious eyes.

After a moment, Wanda shrugged and straightened up. "Fair enough." She picked up his cup, but before she could turn to refill it, John met her eyes, still blushing.

"Only—only I am finished. Just now." He glanced at the page again and frowned. "Well, finished enough. There's still some stuff I have to go back and fill in, but that's not work." He patted the typewriter; it soothed him a little.

Wanda raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest. "So then what are you working on?"

John blushed again, but he kept her gaze this time. He was so awkward. "...It's a romance novel." Wanda's mouth twisted to the side—she was too surprised, or she might have laughed. John's blush deepened. "Yeah, I know. I like to think of it as a fantasy-action thing, but... well, my publisher's officially a romance company, so that's what I've got to call it."

Wanda's mouth twitched; she only kept from laughing by a great effort of will. For some reason, she didn't want to tease him too badly: it would scare him off, and he was a great tipper. And there was never anything else interesting in here this time of night. "A romance novel. Really."

John nodded. "I know, I know." He shrugged, still blushing. "What can I say? It pays the bills." He started stroking the typewriter again with a fond expression; it seemed to defuse the worst of his embarrassment. "I get to do what I love for the minor price of humiliation every time I tell somebody."

Wanda tapped her fingers on her arm, frowning slightly. John was still staring at his typewriter, so she judged it safe to ask. "...If you've got a writing career, why did you work for my father?"

John stiffened. He ran his fingers over the home row of his typewriter, his brow furrowing. "Wasn't anything I thought I could for a job before I came here, sheila. I just..." He shrugged and shook his head, meeting Wanda's eyes. "It wasn't like Mags had a recruitment center, luv. He—he got me out of a bad spot. I owed him." He paused. "Maybe I wasn't as broken up 'bout it as Remy or Pete, but, well... never said I was a good guy."

Wanda propped her chin on her fist again, glaring at him even though she couldn't decide if she was angry or not. He worked for her dad, so she should be angry... but he was being honest with her, the one thing that no one else in her life had ever managed. She had to respect that. But she kept some nastiness in her voice allt he same—she didn't want him to think they were getting along. "So... what, you came to America, and some poor editor took pity on you and published your book? And that turned your life around?"

John scowled, though without much heat. "Don't have to be rude about it." He rubbed his jaw. "Although, yeah, that is kind of what happened. But that's not the point." He cocked a finger at Wanda. "I'm straight now. Not a wicked thought in my head—well, about terrorism, anyway." He smirked suddenly, and it made Wanda blush all over.

"Whatever." Even though he must have seen, she turned her face away and focused on the mundane actions of filling his cup until the heat faded. Then she pushed it next to him.

John took only a sip this time, his eyes lingering on her. Wanda raised her eyebrows; he blushed again and looked away. "...Do you want to read it?" His voice came out so quickly Wanda almost laughed; he sounded ridiculous when he was nervous. "It's—it's not edited or anything yet, and I've still got some bits to fix up in the middle, but, well..." He tapped his fingers on the counter, and then he shrugged. "You've been reading my first novel this whole week, so I thought you might like the sequel."

Wanda jumped. She thought he hadn't seen what she'd been reading! For a moment, she was too embarrassed for his words to reach her—tough Goth chicks did not read romance novels. Even if they were about zombies. And were halfway decent. Then his words clicked. "You... you wrote this?" She picked up the little book and frowned at it, trying to see something that would tell her he was lying.

John nodded. "It's got my name on the cover, don't it?" Wanda glanced at him, one eyebrow quirked, and John thumped himself on the chest. "Yep, John Allerdyce. That's me." He paused. "Hardback's got my picture in the back to prove it, too."

Wanda looked at the book instead of him, trying to pick apart how she felt. Yes, he'd written a book she didn't hate. But that did not change who he was... except that who he was didn't seem to be a very bad guy. And that went against everything she thought.

A headache started behind her eyes; Wanda gently hit her forehead with the book and sighed. Then she remembered she wasn't alone and dropped it like it burned. She crossed her arms again, assuming an even nastier expression than usual. "Yeah, I read it. What makes you think I want to read the sequel?"

John looked at her. At first, he looked hurt, like he'd been expecting her to say that, but he must have caught the slight unsurety in her voice, because a slow smirk spread across his face. "Because you liked the first one, 'course." John turned his face to the typewriter, looking contemplative for a moment. "I'm not sure how I feel about this one yet, but it's at least as good at the first. I know that much." Then he shrugged. "'Course, it might be shit. That's why I want someone else to read it before I actually turn it over to my editor—I had a lot of trouble with this one."

Wanda cocked her head to the side. "How so?"

John glanced at her and quickly looked away. "...I'll tell you that after you tell me what you think of it."

Wanda frowned, but she couldn't puzzle out what she meant by that. "...Fair enough, I guess." She put her hands on her hips. "Yeah, I'll read it. Just don't think it means I like you." John smirked at her again. Wanda almost smacked him lightly with the book, but then she realized that would be too much like flirting and quickly turned away before she could blush again.

She says she's no good with words But I'm worse

The next evening, John returned with a stack of paper bound with a rubber band—still at midnight, even though he wasn't carrying his typewriter. He passed it to her without saying much; he seemed embarrassed. Wanda did nothing to try and soothe him. Just because she was interested in the book didn't mean she liked him. It didn't.

However, because he'd seemed so nervous—and because there was no cover to identify this one as a romance—Wanda took it with her on her errands and such, reading it whenever she had a spare minute. It was as good as the first one, maybe better: the romance was delicate instead of overpowering, and there was a lot more magical action. (None of it held a grain of truth, of course, but at least John had stuck to his imaginary rules.)

She liked it. She really did.

Wanda tried not to think about that too much, though. She still wasn't entirely sure how she felt about John. To her disgust, she'd found herself looking up every evening at midnight, even though he never showed. And she couldn't tell herself it was just his tips she missed. He was the only person who'd spoken frankly to her about her father since... well, since Agatha. Everyone else tiptoed around the subject, like they were afraid of it.

Two days after she finished the book, John showed up again. They didn't bother playing waitress-and-customer; he sat down, looking half-eager and half like he was going to throw up, and Wanda nudged the manuscript across the table at him. "Took you long enough to come back," said Wanda, leaning back and hooking her thumbs in her pockets. "If you were going to sucker me into being your test audience, the least you could do is leave a business card."

John reclaimed the manuscript, riffling the pages instead of meeting her eyes. "Business cards are for suits, luv. And I am very proud that I don't have to wear one." He glanced at her and away. Wanda enjoyed his awkward look; it pleased her. Not like a revenge sort of pleasure—no, he just looked funny when he was nervous. Finally, he met her eyes and burst out, "So what'd you think? It was crap, wasn't it? Just shit."

Wanda considered lying, but he looked so pathetic that she discarded the idea. Still, no reason not to draw it out a little, torture him. "No..." She tilted her head to the side, smirking as his agony-filled eyes followed her face. "It was all right, I guess. Not bad." John opened his mouth, as though he wanted to say something indignant but was too hurt. Wanda rolled her eyes and shoved him. "It was good, okay? I liked it. Quit giving me that kicked-puppy look."

John blinked. "Kicked puppy?" he mouthed. Then he shook his head and looked at her. He tried to look offended, but his lips twitched, like he couldn't quite suppress a smile. "You're cruel, sheila. You can't lead a guy on like that."

Wanda pulled a face at him. "If I'd known you were so delicate, I never would have offered to read it for you in the first place."

John spread his hands. Now he really was smiling. Although she was disgusted with herself, Wanda couldn't help but smile back. "What can I say? Writers are needy."

Wanda leaned against the counter. "Okay. I told you what I thought about it. Now you tell me what your issues were."

John looked away, his expression turning serious for once. He fidgeted with the rubber band holding the papers together. "...I had really bad writer's block. And that was ridiculous because one," he held up a finger, "there is no such thing as writer' block, it just means you're being lazy, and two..."

He held up a second finger, but didn't speak for a moment. Wanda raised her eyebrows. A slow blush spread across his face. "Two... two, it was on the romantic bits, which are usually my favorite parts to write. But... I don't know." He shrugged. "I had no problem with the plotty bits, so I wrote those, but whenever I got to anything remotely gushy..." Shaking his head, he sighed. "No dice."

Wanda tilted her head. "Funny, I thought those would be your favorite parts. You're girly enough for it." John lifted his head; when he saw she was joking—albeit in the meanest way possible—he settled for an exaggerated puppy face. Wanda flapped a hand at him, enough to indicate that she didn't mean it but not enough to indicate she actually liked him. "...So what'd you do?"

John looked away again. "Well, I skipped the romance bits. I mean, I knew what should happen where, but it was just... flat. No—no life behind it, you know?" He glanced at Wanda; Wanda just stared at him. Even though she did know. Sort of. He could have just been describing her life. After a moment, John shrugged. "Well, I finished the plotty part, so I had to go back to the romance stuff—that's what they pay me for. I thought maybe a change of scene would help me get inspiration, so I started wandering around town, looking for something interesting." He trailed off, looking at her in a way that was probably meaningful to him.

Wanda just raised her eyebrows again. She was still no genius at reading people. "And...?"

John blushed, looking away. "And I found this place." His eyes flicked to hers, just for a moment; something in them made Wanda want to blush, too, but she dug her nails into her palms until the feeling passed. "I found... you."

Wanda jerked back. Part of her wanted to demand what he meant by that, part of her knew it was nothing good and wanted to hex him into the wall, and part of her... part of her was flattered. And that was so ridiculous it made her brain lock up.

John's blush darkened, though he tried for a nonchalant smile. "Too cliché? Thought so. Stuff that works on the page never seems to work in real life." He sighed; there was just a touch too much feeling behind it for either of them to ignore what had just happened. When he looked at her, his smile turned rueful. "Guess that means the other thing I was going to ask you is out of the question, huh?"

Wanda was so desperate for a change of subject that she pounced on that without a second thought. She still managed to sound suspicious, but that was just habit by now. "What other thing?"

John met her eyes again. This time, there was such hesitant sweetness in his smile that Wanda's knees threatened to go weak. Why did boys have to be cute? "I was going to ask you for a date."

Wanda's brain threw up its hands and went on strike. She gaped at him, mouth open. "...A date?" Her voice was horribly girly, not at all threatening and "I can kill you without a second thought"-y. Considering, though, she was lucky she managed that and not an incoherent noise. Or worse, an involuntary "yes," brought on by his dreadful, distracting attractiveness. That was the only reason he had any kind of effect on her—she didn't like him. She didn't.

John studied her face for a moment, and then his lips twitched. Wanda wanted to punch him, but she was still frozen. "A date, yes. Perhaps you've heard of them? They're a social ritual in which two people do an activity together—say, enjoy a filmed entertainment with some duds that have been milked." (3)

His teasing helped her think a little bit, if only because it pissed her off. She crossed her arms over her chest. Was she blushing? She had better not be blushing. "I know what a date is, Pyro." He flinched at his codename, as though he thought she actually cared about his real name. "I just want to know why you're stupid enough to ask me on one when I've got a kitchen full of pointy objects behind me."

John blinked. "I just... I thought..." He looked so confused that Wanda almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But she wasn't about to take pity on him, not when he seemed so damn good at robbing her of her ability to think.

Wanda leveled her best glare on him. "Thought what?"

John rubbed the back of his neck. Despite her anger, he met her eyes—it made her have to concentrate twice as hard to keep scowling. He just seemed... so nice. Seriously. What the hell? "Well, there was the coffee and the flirting, and you read my stuff—" He sighed, pressing his hand to his forehead. "But I guess it's been too long since I interacted with a girl who wasn't fictional." He got to his feet, fumbling in his pockets for his wallet. "Here." He shoved a five-dollar bill at her.

Wanda took it without thinking, feeling oddly... lost, and John turned to leave. Good. He should go. He was confusing and irritating and he came in here too late, when she should have been able to relax and not do any work. And he was one of her father's goons. And he could make her brain shut down. And—she still didn't want him to leave. Not like this, anyway. "John."

He started. Wanda realized she'd never actually said his name before. He turned his head, looking equal parts confused and hopeful. Wanda tightened her posture so she wouldn't look at all forgiving. Or nice. Or... well, like she wanted him around at all, even though she sort of did. "Are you coming back?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.

John's mouth twisted to the side. He turned to face her, though he was still right next to the door, and looked her up and down, still seeming confused. Then he sighed and spread his hands, closing his eyes. "...Okay, I give up. I officially have no idea what's going on in your head."

For a moment, Wanda considered telling him that she didn't know either—but that would make things too easy for him. Instead, she shrugged, her eyes cool, and rested her elbows on the counter. "What can I say? You're my best customer. And I wouldn't want you to take forever with the last book, either."

John stared at her; Wanda stared back, keeping her face as impassive as possible. After a long moment, John walked back over to the counter and sat down. Wanda poured him a fresh cup of coffee—the old one had to be stone-cold by now.

(I haven't written a non-jaded John in a while. It was refreshing.)

(1) No, this is not actually something I'm working on. I'm better than that.

(2) Blob is the resident punchbunny, okay? Besides, he used the phrase "radish roses." I am unwilling to put anything past him anymore.

(3) Modified quote from Warehouse 13, currently my second-favorite show.