I'm pretty sure John Hughes would want nothing to do with any of this-but they are his characters-except for the ones I added. And I would never profit from any of it. In any case, they all have a couple chapters left to hang out with us.

Ooh, slipping and sliding,
What a good time now,
but I have to find a bed
that can take this weight.

-Violent Femmes

John was relieved that when Claire came out of the bathroom, the skirt, which had never left her the whole time she was doing stuff to him, was finally off.

She was wearing his shirt. It came down a little over her legs. But not that far.

Claire Standish. In John Bender's shirt. He could probably go to bed on that one for years.

But he noticed she looked a little skittish in it. And a little tired. It made something flutter in his chest.

So, much as he'd be ok with going at it with Claire and her many surprises until morning—make that, until Monday morning—John decided, weirdly enough, to try to figure out what she wanted or needed, and go with that.

It seemed like post-handcuff, post-handjob Bender was strangely thoughtful.

That was ok. Probably meant less time till the next one.

So John watched Claire pacing around the room, and tried to read her. She kept straightening things that didn't need it, or were stupid to straighten, like empty pizza boxes. She didn't quite look at John, but she didn't quite not look at him, either. It didn't seem like a message, hey, you, I'm not looking at you.

But that massive insight was as far as he got.

Maybe she could use a minute to herself. Because if she really wanted to be with him—well, he was right there, and instead, she was straightening his empty cigarette carton over across the room.

So he asked if she'd mind if he took a shower. He said he was kind of sticky and his arms got a little stiff.

Which was true.

He found himself staring at her legs, quite intently, as he added, "Not like it wasn't worth it, babe."

"It was ok?" she said, rooting through her bag, her back to him.

"It was…exponential." John addressed her from his way to the bathroom.

He heard her laugh. Score. "Do you even know what that means?"

"Now I do."

She laughed again—a little brittle, maybe, but he thought it sounded happy. She still spoke with her back to him, though. "Of course—I mean, the shower. Otherwise you'll get your shirt all sticky. I mean, the one—on me, you know, if—we sleep together. I mean there's only one bed."

"Well, so there is. Huh. On the other hand, if I just skip the shower, and you take the shirt off, then there's no problem—"

"Enjoy your shower, Bender."

John did. In fact, he hoped like hell Claire wasn't freaking out on him, because he really felt unbelievably good. The shower felt good. The crappy motel towel felt good. It even felt good to put his jeans back on—well, scratch that, that felt like crap, but Claire wasn't ready for naked.

It felt good to see Claire drowsing in bed in his shirt, though. It felt so good he thought his heart might explode in his chest, which would definitely be messier than the chocolate and tongue explosion that had happened there earlier.

Twitch.

Jesus. It didn't take long.

He had to think about other things. Like, what do you say to your virgin girlfriend who just gave you a tongue bath with chocolate and may or may not be freaking out about it?

That shit didn't come with an instruction manual.

Carburetors were so simple compared to this. And really, they were a lot more complicated than you'd think, carburetors were.

He wanted to just wrap himself around Claire, she looked so soft and warm, and what's more, John knew she was. But her back was to him. He was really trying, but she was hard to read.

Claire, you're more complicated than a carburetor. But, on the plus side, you smell much better. Nah. He wouldn't say that.

"Claire, you asleep?"

She shifted, "Um, no, but I'm drifting that way? Sorry."

Sorry? "No."

"Huh?" Her back was still to him.

"No, I mean—" What did he mean? John raked his hands through his hair. "Are you outta your mind?"

"What?"

"Jesus." Why did he have to suck at this? "I mean, you've got nothing to be sorry about."

John wanted to just go up to Clire, put his arms around her, give her a kiss, but it was weird. Like he had no idea how to touch her. Like he never had. Although she was wearing his shirt and he'd just washed her spit off his chest. Christ, this feelings stuff was complicated.

He tried again. "I mean, I should be sorry, maybe, that you're—you know, you didn't, um, get there."

This was so fucking embarrassing all of a sudden.

At this, Claire turned toward over and looked at him, all heavy-lidded. "No! I didn't want to."

OK, that was surprising. Hell. "Huh?"

"I mean, well—I don't want to be in a place where—you know, where either one of us has to get, um, there, all the time, you know?" She propped herself up on one arm, but looked down. "I mean, John, like I said, I just started making out—and, I know you didn't. But what if I still sometimes just want—to do that. Will that still be ok?"

John decided that the best thing to do right now, was not to bring up handcuffs.

He decided that the best thing, instead, would be to cross the enormous divide that had sprung up between them, but that was actually just a smallish motel room, and sit down on the bed next to Claire.

He decided it would be good if he just stroked her arm, and told her that he wouldn't be sick of making out with her any time soon, which was fucking true. That it wasn't like they lived in a motel, or like she had all the time in the world, with her clubs and activities and friends. He assured her he'd be more than happy to make out with the prom queen and cop a feel in a closet any time she'd let him.

"So you won't be pressured into gooey wet orgasms by me, Miss Standish, on that you have my solemn vow."

She snorted and swatted his chest and called him a gross pig, so things seemed fine again.

But he wanted to check on something.

"You didn't just do—I mean—you were into it, right?"

"Wait, I'm sorry—" and she sounded irritated, but she was actually smiling, "who thought of the room, who studied, who brought…supplies?"

"Maybe you just did it—for me, or some shit."

"Oh right. That's me. It's what everyone always says. Claire Standish, the selfless. Saint Claire, they call me…"

"I might call you that…I might kinda get off on that, actually…"

"Yeah, well, I'm not dressing up like a nun or a Catholic school girl, so you can cross that right off your list, you perv."

"Where do you even get this stuff?"

Claire shrugged and flopped on her back into the pillows. "Cosmo, mostly. I tried going through my dad's Playboy stash, but really, I already knew men liked boobs, and it's kind of light on the info. Cosmo has, you know, more practical hints—from my perspective."

John thought about recommending some other reading material, but wisely held his tongue. He stood up and stretched, and caught Claire eyeing him as he did.

That felt excellent. Claire checking out his bare torso, it made him want to—become a lifeguard or something, so she could do it every day.

He should probably work out.

Jesus, he was in deep.

Yeah, no shit.

However, there were other matters to attend to. Post-handjob Bender might be a thoughtful and reflective sort, but he was not a saint, either. So he asked his nervous girlfriend if it would be ok if he took his jeans off and slept in his shorts.

She whispered it would be ok, and suddenly all the Cosmo and Playboy tough talk was gone, and he could tell, that it was really only just ok—but that it was. And somehow, that made him feel warmer and gooier than the inside of a chocolate-covered cherry—which, as he knew now better than most people, could be pretty fucking warm and gooey.

So he told her thanks, just simple, no sarcasm, and even turned his back to her as he took his jeans off, to spare her any more embarrassment.

Then John Bender got into bed and gathered up an armful of soft, warm, slightly nervous Claire Standish. He held her up against his body, and she relaxed into him slowly, skin easing into skin. And he wondered what the hell had happened to his life. Because even his toes felt good.

"This is nice," murmured Claire, as she nestled into his arms. "You're not mad."

"Nah," said John, stroking her back through his t-shirt, and loving the way it felt, "I think you've hit on an excellent method of controlling my temper. In fact, if the next time Vernon hauls me into his office, if you wanna just prep me first—"

"Oh, my God. That is so gross. Why are you such a pig?"

"Well, mad's one thing. But if you want me to stop being a pig—well, I can think of some other activities we might try…"

"Remember when I said it was nice, a minute ago?"

John held her closer. "Yeah. That was weird. But I figure, one of us has to be mad. Or how will we know it's us?"

It felt like Claire smiled into his chest. Which was a great feeling. "But John?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not mad."

"Shit. Me either. Who the fuck are we?"

In fact, John still wasn't sure what had had him so riled up before—although he'd gotten laid enough to know this feeling wouldn't last forever. "But don't worry," he said, nibbling lazily at her ear, "I'll probably get pissed off again tomorrow."

"OK," said Claire, as her weight settled softly into him. "That can be hot, too."

John took her face in his hands and started kissing her. He did his best to make it not totally sexual—though he could get there in a heartbeat. He tried to keep a little space between them, and tried kissing her through the other feelings he had for her, the ones that were all soft and gooey and sweet, the ones that saw her in his shirt and didn't say mine but were just happy she wanted to be there.

Claire gave a breathy little sigh scooted up closer so he could feel all her legs and chest against him—soft, and smooth, and a little trembly. She put her arms around him, around him, and kissed him back, slow and slidy and a little lazy.

OK, so that was more than a twitch, but he tried to keep that to himself. He felt so good.

She kissed his neck and cheek, and then whispered in his ear, "I love lying in bed with you and kissing, John Bender. But don't tell anyone."

That caused a little pang. He knew she was joking—but really, he also knew she meant it, both about the kissing, and the not telling. And she didn't just mean not telling about the stuff they did together, either.

John pulled back, lay on his back, and pulled Claire on top of him. He tried to keep his tone light, to keep the sharp and the cold that covered for the hurt well away from his voice. Her skin was so soft, it felt like even a harsh tone could cut it.

And she was here, wasn't she?

"How about this? Sleeping on me, and shit? What about that?" He had to let this shit go. What did he expect, the prom queen to go around with a neon sign saying "I gave a hand job to John Bender, and I liked it?"

Ok, so he didn't expect that. But it would be an awesome sign.

But Claire was in a different place, and she seemed really happy there. Snuggly. And she was in bed with him, sleeping with him, draped all over him, and why the fuck he would have any problem with a scenario that brought her there, he had no idea.

"I'll sleep really well on you," she said sleepily. "You're all warm."

"Yeah," he said, "you, too." And at least she was right now. On Monday, she wouldn't be as warm. True enough. But she wasn't as cold as she thought she'd be when she said that shit about none of them talking after last Saturday, either.

"John, I even like feeling your toes," she said, "that's so weird." And then she didn't say anything at all.

John Bender realized he'd rather have a neon sign saying that Claire Standish liked his toes than a neon sign about hand jobs. But even without the sign, it was pretty cool.

Reviewers get the neon sign of their choice. Interested parties get one more Really Good Feelings chapter in the near future. Everyone gets another dose of Rocket in the next chapter of the main story.