Poetry

John hated poetry. Absolutely could not stand it. So, it was hard for him to explain to himself why he was sitting at his desk, the only viable piece of furniture in the room other than the bed, writing poetry.

Novels, sure. Absolutely. They were his thing. But poetry? Never.

Of course, deep down, he knew exactly what had inspired him to write poetry tonight, staring out at the full moon. But he couldn't admit it to himself. If he admitted it, it would mean he had a weakness.

And John Allerdyce was anything but weak. He was confident, invincible, possibly even insane, although that was another thing on the list of things not to admit to himself.

So, there was no way, absolutely no way, that he could be in love.

It was inexplicable. He didn't even like the stupid South American Princess, with her prissy attitude, her narrowed eyes whenever they fought because she couldn't use her power around him, her gorgeous eyes, her dark mocha-colored skin, her chocolate eyes, her gorgeous hair, the way she –.

No! He could not be thinking like that. It was dangerous. He wasn't even allowed to like her. She was a member of the enemy, the X-Men. Old Buckethead would kill him if he caught him sneaking around with an X-sheila.

'So don't let him catch you,' a voice inside his head whispered.

'It's not that easy!' John thought back.

'Sure it is. She won't tell anybody….'

'Like hell she won't.'

'No, not if you love her. She'll love you, too.'

That shocked John back into himself. This time he spoke aloud as he forcefully said, "I don't love her! Who asked you, anyway?"

The voice went silent. John put his face in his hands and tried to focus. Why couldn't he get the fiery temptress out of his head?

He removed his hands and stared down at the sheet of paper in front of him. It was filled with lines about a beautiful fire maiden, a woman of flame, and he groaned.

Was it really so bad, really, to have a weakness like this. It wasn't like it would ever come to anything, anyway. So there couldn't be any harm in admitting to it.

But what will happen, he asked himself, next time you have to fight her? How are you going to explain it when you don't have the ability to hurt her, because you wouldn't be able to live with yourself afterward?

He wanted to kill himself. Anything would be better than this, a weakness in this form. He loved his fire, nothing else.

But then he would never get to see her again, never know if maybe, just maybe, he would have stood a chance. He let his head fall to the desk, enjoying the thud. He began to repeatedly bang his head on the desk, hating himself.

There was no way to deny it any longer. It wasn't getting him anywhere, and it didn't hide the truth. He was in love with the fiery sheila.

With sudden resolve, John picked up his pen and began to write a new poem.

A/N:

More randomness! I don't know why I like the pairing so much, I think it's something about the whole forbidden love thing. You know, the forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest and all that. I actually made John mildly sane in this one, but I think John is probably at his sanest when writing. I know I am. Anyway, what do you think?