She never really intended it to go this far. Then again, very few of the things she intended actually worked out as planned, as a general rule. So really, she shouldn't have been surprised to find that by the time it occurred to her that maybe spending her free time stalking an Acolyte wasn't the best of ideas, she couldn't quite bring herself to stop.

Wanda sighed, mildly frustrated, and glanced as casually as she could manage over her shoulder. The boy with the flamethrowers was still there, leaning against one of the bigger oak trees in the public park and jotting something down in a cheap-looking spiral notebook. He didn't have the contraption that spat fire strapped onto his shoulders now, of course, and he was wearing civvies; she couldn't help but notice that the thin t-shirt enhanced his leanness in a way that was particularly pleasing to the eye. A little more than mildly frustrated now, Wanda ran a hand through her short dark cap of hair before shoving that hand, along with its mate, back into the pockets of her black jeans. He hadn't seen her yet; she'd been strolling along the bike path for a good five minutes, but he hadn't so much as glanced up from whatever he was writing.

Great.

So not only did she feel like a stupid, hormonally-unbalanced freak, she also felt like an ignored one. The fact that him not seeing her was, actually, one of the key elements of the whole concept of 'stalking' didn't escape Wanda's attention, but she brushed it from her mind and focused on the thoughts that were more likely to cause violence to ensue. She was good at that. It was one of her special skills. Maybe she could just walk over and hex him, or go the less obviously inhuman route and hit him right on that pretty face. That would probably take care of this stupid, ridiculous, incomprehensible thing that was not, could not be, attraction.

Then again, she doubted he was unarmed, even if his more spectacular Acolyte attire was missing. Pyro, they called him; there was no chance he would be out and about without at least a lighter in his pocket. And if she walked over and decked him, Wanda felt quite sure that he would, after the initial shock and possible broken nose, fight back.

So instead of attacking, Wanda scuffed the ground with one worn combat boot and snarled at nothing. She had rounded the corner of the bike path at this point, but she refused to look over her shoulder to see if he was actually out of sight.

Really. This was…

"So fucking stupid," she muttered aloud, and a woman with a little boy glared at her. Wanda resisted the urge to flip them both off, but only just.

It had started out as mere curiosity, and who could blame her for that? No, not even curiosity; it had started out as boredom. The only reason she'd picked the fire boy to follow instead of the Cajun or the Russian or one of the older ones was because he was, well, combustible, and that made him interesting to a girl who spent her spare time electrocuting family members. And then she'd noticed that he wrote. Maybe poetry, maybe novels, but there was always a pen and a pad of paper nearby when he wasn't working. And she'd noticed that he was Australian, and that he was funny, and that his name wasn't really John (it was some strange foreign thing that was like John, but not quite), and that he looked so good in a sleeveless shirt and gym pants that it should have been some sort of crime. And somewhere between the name and the gym pants, Wanda had stopped being curious and started being… being what? Obsessed? Hungry? Some word like that, some word she couldn't find or didn't want to admit.

Now, it was a bright Sunday afternoon when she could have been terrorizing Pietro or slamming Toad against sharp objects, but no. No, instead, she was here, in the park, a little sweaty in her jeans and crimson tank top, trying to pretend she wasn't fantasizing maybe just a little bit about the boy who could make fire dance.

And that was when a hand, very warm and very rough, fell on her shoulder. Wanda, never one for screams and jolts, whirled around with a curl of the lip.

John-not-really-John Allerdyce, of the spiky reddish hair and the easy, wicked grin, rocked back on his heels and looked her over.

"Well," he said, folding his arms, "I have to tell you, love, that shirt does wonders for your eyes when they go all devil-y like that."

Wanda, so shocked she was now on autopilot, sneered.

"Don't make me hurt you, Sparky." He smiled. She swept her eyes across him unwillingly, noting that the notebook and pen were clasped in one hand, and his smile widened.

"Seems to me I'm the one what should threaten you, sheila," he allowed, and tilted his head at her. "You being the stalker here and all." She blinked, and decided that this was a situation that was not likely to improve, and that escape was the best possible route. She'd make him pay for embarrassing her like this, though. Later.

"I'm not stalking you," Wanda said scornfully, preparing to stride past him. As she moved, Pyro caught her arm, reaching out so fast she didn't even see it coming. Anyone else, and Wanda would have taken that hand off at the wrist. Him, she just stared.

"I wouldn't mind," he said then, and though his eyes were bright and blue and disgustingly cheerful, his voice was more serious than she'd expected. "No one I'd rather have stalk me, actually." She hesitated, then hated herself for hesitating, and jerked her arm out of his grasp.

"Whatever." He was still very close to her, his chest inches from her shoulder, and she could feel the heat of him. Or was that the heat of the day, or her own warmth, or—It didn't matter. She had to get out of there before, before something even more awful happened. Something like…

"Besides," he said, much more lightly, "now that it's out in the open and all, you won't feel so self-conscious about watchin' me change for work!" She gaped, taken completely by surprise, and felt herself flush.

"I haven't- I don't-" Angry, now, because he'd gotten the best of her and they both knew it, Wanda raised a hand and flicked her fingers towards him. A tiny, almost invisible bolt of crackling blue electricity shot into his chest and he stumbled backwards, free hand going to the spot where the hex bolt had hit his shirt and burned a hole clean through the fabric. She glowered at him, warningly, and was startled once again when instead of retaliating or backing off, he laughed out loud.

"Good on you," he said, inexplicably, and bowed. Wanda stared, frowning, confused. Pyro just shook his head, still rubbing at the scorched place on his chest. "Well, I'm off. But I'm sure I'll be seeing you," he added, finally stepping backwards towards the other end of the park. She watched him go, filled with the uncomfortable notion that something had just happened that she didn't quite understand. When he was about twenty yards away, he called back to her. "Oh, and Wanda?" She didn't answer. (He knew her name.)

"Next time, I get to play, too." Then he was through the little grove of trees in the middle of the park and gone. Wanda sighed.

She never really intended it to go this far.

Now that it had, though…

She was a little, tiny, barely-there, practically nonexistent bit pleased.