Disclaimer: "Give all that's within you Be my savior And I'll be your downfall"

(An: So I’m back! …Kinda. Who knows how long this will last. This chapter has a lot of swearing… and a hint of smut. So don't read if you don't care for that sort of thing. The song is "I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That You Should Shut Your Mouth." I experimented a little with the Acolytes in this chapter; most of them are a little darker than the usual fanon portrayal. But I promise Wanda is more or less back IC.)

Please put the doctor on the phone 'Cause I'm not making any sense

The front door swung open and shut. Remy didn't look up; he knew who it was. "Where you been, John-o?" he asked softly as the new arrival collapsed on the couch.

John threw his arm over his eyes. Remy could hear the tired scowl in his voice as he muttered, "Shut up."

Remy shrugged, his own face mild even though he knew John couldn't see him- and wouldn't have cared if he could. "Just wondering. Least the boss isn't around to wonder, too."

John growled under his breath. "Don't bring Maggy up."

"Just sayin'-"

"For the love of God, Remy," John snapped, jerking upright, "would you please shut up? It's three in the morning and you know exactly where I've been, so be quiet and stop patronizing me so I can get some fucking sleep!"

Remy looked at him for a long moment. Then he shrugged again, looking away. They weren't close- never had been- but the two of them had been working and living together a long time. Remy was fond of the weirdass little Aussie, and he hated to see the boy destroy himself like this.

But it wasn't his place to say anything about destructive behavior, he supposed. None of the Acolytes could claim to be guiltless of that- even Petey, who was practically a saint but still went searching for ruin in bottles of vodka and lead-based paints.

So Remy clammed up and went back into his bedroom. At least the kid wasn't all beat up like some nights.

John watched him leave from the couch, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he covered them again and went to sleep.

And the record won't stop skipping And our lies just won't stop slipping

Wanda pulled John down onto the couch. Her eyes were icy and narrow. They reminded John of the day he met her. He was tempted to ask her if she remembered it- he knew she did, but he wanted to hear her voice- but Wanda took his face in her hands and kissed him hard. There was no denying her in a mood like this, and he wasn't about to try.

He slid one hand up under her shirt, advancing slowly enough so she could stop him if she didn't feel so inclined tonight. It was best to be cautious when touching her; sometimes she just didn't want it, and when Wanda didn't want something, he ended up hexed across the room. But Wanda didn't resist this time. She yanked him closer, wrapping one leg around the back of his knee.

John couldn't even remember if they'd said hello to each other. This might have upset him if Wanda hadn't picked that moment to remove her hand and slip it down the front of his jeans. She brushed her thumb against his hip for a moment, and then she went further. John almost fainted on the spot from the shock- she had never done anything like this before. With Wanda, it was always a question of what got her off. She was probably just curious, but still.

Then she squeezed, and John's train of thought immediately derailed. How long had he been wishing she would touch him like this? …He could only begin to guess, but whatever the length, it was much, much too long.

Wanda used her free hand to push his face away from hers. She raised her eyebrows. "Tips?"

John stared at her, open-mouthed. He felt a bit stupid, but she was confusing the hell out of him. Wanda… wanting to make him happy? A small flower of hope appeared in John's heart. Maybe- just maybe- But he shook himself and focused on the task at hand. "A little harder," he whispered, and Wanda obliged. She grinned when he gasped a little. He kissed her again so he wouldn't have to see it; that grin was a hope-killer, and he wasn't quite ready to let go of that yet.

Maybe later in the night, when he mouthed "I love you" into her neck.

Maybe later in the night, when she stopped her experimenting so he would focus on pleasing her again.

Maybe later in the night, when she pushed him away like she always did and told him to leave so she could go to bed.

But not right now.

And trust and love and hope And the poets are just kids who didn't make it And never had it at all

John was waiting for Remy when the Cajun woke up the next morning. He followed Remy into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, watching him crack and stir three eggs. He shook his head when Remy offered. "I'm not stupid, you know," he said, glaring at the floor. "I know exactly what I'm doing here."

Remy shrugged; he did a lot of that when talking to John. Since the gesture was neutral, it was unlikely to stir John's temper- a flame that was barely banked most of the time these days. "I know, John-o. I just wonder if it's what you really want to do."

John's eyebrows snapped together. Remy just kept stirring. If it ended in a fight, he would win. He always did, and he had yet to come out of one worse enough off to begrudge John for it. Then the boy sighed, and all of the anger seemed to go out of him. "I love her, okay?" Remy had to pause to hear him, and he did. He knew how badly John needed to say this. "I love her so much I think I'm gonna die from it some days."

Remy resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the melodrama. John was terrible at hand-to-hand, but it was still never a good idea to antagonize him. You could never tell when John would turn to fire to let out his anger. That was one thing Remy couldn't get the better of.

"And I know that she doesn't give a shit." He ran a hand through his overlong, unwashed hair. "Last night proved that for sure." He paused, and Remy started stirring again. He wanted to hear John out, but it wasn't smart to let eggs fester. "I just…"

"You love her, boy," said Remy, just as softly. "You don't have to explain to me what that's like. I know."

John shut up for a while. He was a writer; he knew when words were necessary and when they weren't. He looked a little less angry now, but sadness was the tradeoff. He was so young. Remy remembered what it was like to be seventeen and completely in a girl's thrall- remembered it very well.

The Aussie was hard to get along with and usually couldn't scrape up his half of the rent, but Remy let him stay because he knew exactly what the boy was going through. Part of Remy just plain felt sorry for the boy, but there was a darker side to his charity- a morbid curiosity, a desire to see if John would come out of this stronger or as broken and nasty as Remy had.

So far, it didn't look to be much of a contest.

Joke me something awful Just like kisses on the necks of "just friends"

After a while, Wanda shoved him off her. John put his belt back on- wondering when he'd lost it, although he didn't mind not remembering- and started to turn away. Wanda grabbed his wrist. John raised his eyebrows, although he knew she couldn't see it in the dim light of the living room. Wanda said nothing, but she tugged him onto the couch next to her and pressed her face into his neck.

John rested his head on top of hers. He was quite used to her abrupt changes in mood, although usually she went from calm to angry, not the other way around. John wasn't about to complain. He didn't speak. Best not to.

They sat like that for at least ten minutes. John couldn't remember ever just cuddling with her before. They'd went from being enemies to unwilling confidantes to… whatever they qualified as now. There had been very little inbetween time.

Wanda shifted her head from his neck to his shoulder and brushed her cheek against his. John bit the inside of his other cheek so he wouldn't give in to the temptation to ask her if she was feeling all right. "You need to shave," she commented. She sounded tired, but other than that, her tone was neutral. Was she honestly trying to make small talk?

"I'm trying for a goatee," John replied, surprised at how normal his voice sounded. "You know, like Remy."

Wanda shrugged. "It might work for you."

John gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. Wanda allowed this, closing her eyes. "You look tired," he murmured.

"I am." John waited for the inevitable demand that he leave. But it didn’t come. Sitting with her quietly like this, he could almost imagine that they had a normal relationship: that he was always welcome, that Wanda felt something deeper than lust when she looked at him, that something of what he felt was reflected in her eyes.

But none of that was true, and it was killing him.

He could pretend that he had something to do and excuse himself- at least making the inevitable exit on his own terms- but both of them knew he would never do that. He treasured his time with her more than his life. It was fucked up, but things were how they were. And, as usual, it was all his own fault.

He was the one who had fallen in love with her beauty and her strength. He was the one who wouldn't leave her alone. He was the one who allowed her to fuck him over like this. And still he would do anything for her to look in his direction, even though half the time it was only to aim a hex or a punch. Wanda saw him as an object. Her emotions were narrow and focused. She only had room for him in her bed, and his desire was almost strong enough to make him forget he wanted more.

Almost... Almost.

And I want to be known for my hits Not just my misses I took a shot And didn't even come close

“I know what you're thinking, and it isn't true,” John said abruptly- although he said very little that sounded planned.

Remy raised his eyebrows, setting the finished omelette in front of John. The boy started to eat without glancing at his food or thanking Remy; that was just the way things went.

“I didn't come home so late because she kicked me out. I...” John set down his fork with careful, deliberate motions, then buried his face in his hands. “God help me, I broke up with her.”

Remy blinked a few times. If he had actually made bets with anyone, he would have been out of quite a bit of money. He felt a little piece of his heart that wasn't already frozen stiffen and turn cold; why could the boy do what he hadn't been able to? He had not been able to refuse Belladonna, and she had poisoned his life just as surely as the plant she was named after. But John... this odd, brittle, wonder of a boy had been able to move on before his heart turned septic and rotted.

Why?

The word tumbled out of his mouth; Remy didn't even realize he'd asked until he noticed the cold way John stared at him.

“I'm stronger than you think I am,” John said, his voice full of steel. “I lived on my own my whole life. I know when to cut my losses and move on... even when the loss is my heart.” He touched his chest, as though to reassure himself the organ was still there.

Remy turned his back on the boy. He couldn't keep looking, couldn't keep wondering, couldn't keep feeling like he was the dumb one. Remy was the guy who kept this farce of a team together- the one who scraped up rent so they'd have somewhere to live, invented alibis to keep the cops off their backs, sucked up to keep Magneto happy. And yet he had completely underestimated John.

The boy wasn't done. “I... I guess I always knew I would have to leave her, or else she'd probably kill me,” he muttered. “It was hard on me, but I don't think she cared. She never did.” John laughed- or maybe sobbed. With his back turned, Remy couldn't tell.

(Egh... that was a crappy ending, I know, but I didn't want to drag it out anymore. After all, this is supposed to be Jonda, not John/Remy, and that was all that could happen after this. So hopefully I'll have another chapter up soon, but I make no promises after that.)