Chapter Two: Lust

And down his mouth comes to my mouth! And down

His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood

Upon my mind! His lips meet mine, and a flood

Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown

Against him, die, and find death good.

-- D.H. Lawrence

" You have nightmares, you know."

          " Huh?"

          Its early in the afternoon – maybe around noon or so, its hard for me to keep track of time these days – and John is lying on his stomach at my feet, trying to concentrate on a game of solitaire that he has laid out over his sleeping bag.

          " Nightmares," I tell him. " Every night."

          I've lost track of how long I've been in the mansion, in Magneto's hideout, with my hands and feet bound, John watching over me. Maybe three days? Its hard to say – time has slipped away from me, and everything feels a bit surreal.

          " What are you talking about?" my captor mutters into his cards.

          " It wakes me up," I say, " I'll wake up in the middle of the night, forget where I am, and you'll be on the floor, twitching and moaning." I contain a chuckle when I realize what I've said. " Maybe they aren't nightmares after all . . .," I say, grinning. He gives me a look.

          " First you accuse me of being some kind of wuss who cries in his sleep, and now I'm a pervert?" he asks, and I can't tell if he's being serious or not. He's possibly the hardest person to read that I've ever met in my life – aside from Magneto, of course, with his eerie, perennial collected calm.

          " Having nightmares doesn't mean you're a wuss," I tell him, " And I didn't say you were crying. Just – you seem disturbed."

          " Don't worry about it," he mumbles.

          " I have them, too," I admit, before he can get too defensive. In the past two days it has seemed as if we might actually be becoming friends – I have now fully realized that this boy is my only hope of surviving the ordeal I've gotten myself into in the midst of finding my mother, who hasn't shown her face since I first saw her all those days ago.

          " What about?" he asks in a sigh, not looking at me, feigning disinterest.

          " My mother," I say. " I've had them ever since I saw . . . well. Her real face."

          " That's ridiculous," John mutters. " I think your mother is beautiful."

          I'm strangely flattered by his comment, though I shouldn't be, since he seems to be belittling my trauma.

          " I guess," I say, " But – when I was little – it frightened me so much, the change in her. I guess that fright sort of embedded itself into my subconscious."

          " I wonder if my parents have nightmares about me," John says, his eyes dropping away from the cards. He attempts to chuckle at the notion, but the laughter is forced and sad.

          " Maybe they want you back," I say. He glares at me, and I'm immediately sorry I dared to go there.

          " Don't be stupid," he snaps. " Look how well your little reunion with your mother went." I shrug.

          " I reacted the way I did when I saw her face because I was ignorant – I didn't know what was happening," I tell him. " But I regret it everyday. I never wanted to make my mother feel like I didn't love her unconditionally – I was just scared, stupid and taken by surprise. Maybe your parents feel the same way."

          " No," John says, looking away. " My father – he walked away from me. He walked away from me when the house was burning down around us. He ran, actually. He wasn't a four year old. He wasn't looking at some form of me that he had never seen before. He knew what he was doing."

          There is an awkward silence between us after this. I put my head back against the chair and look out the window. I'm starving – John has been sneaking me bowls of the weak soup he eats for practically every meal, but I still feel like I haven't eaten in days. I wonder how long this will go on – and am afraid, at the same time, that it will be cut short by my demise. Magneto has been coming up each evening to ask John for progress reports on my cooperation – he still doesn't believe my story about the Prophet tipping me off as to the location of this house in the woods.

          " Can you let me free for a bit?" I ask John. " My feet are starting to get that numb feeling again." So far I've gotten him to free me twice, just so I can walk around the room and stretch my legs and arms. Now that he knows I'm not a mutant, there isn't much fear in him that I'll be able to get away.

          He collects his cards, slides them into his shirt pocket, and wordlessly walks to me to undo the ropes that are binding my hands and feet. He releases my hands first, and I pull them into my lap while he bends to untie my feet.

          " I would kill for a shower," I say. " You look relatively clean – where do you go to wash up?"

          " The basement," he says. " We have facilities down there – but he doesn't want you anywhere near that level of the house, so forget it."

          " Why not?" I ask. " He's never going to let me leave, anyway." John looks up at me, and we both stare at each other for a moment.

          " Just forget it," he mumbles, standing and turning away from me. I stand, too, my joints popping, and walk away from the chair to the window, begin stretching, the movement feeling wonderful and almost painful, because I know I'll soon be confined to the chair again.

          " You seem perturbed," I say, my heart rate increasing a little as I decide to test him. " But don't you agree with me? Magneto's going to kill me after he gets tired of me repeating the same story over and over again, and even if I come up with something that pleases him, he'll kill me after he's gotten the information he thinks he wants. You understand this, don't you?"

          He stands at a window in the back of the room, his back to me. He says nothing, but goes for the lighter in his pocket. Click. Click. Click.

          " I'm going to die here," I say, walking to him, seeing that I've struck a nerve and going with it. " You know that, right? Probably in front of you, too. Maybe he'll even make you do it."

          " Stop!" he shouts, making me jump back.

          " But its true," I say, quietly now. " You know I'm right."

          " It – it won't be me," he says. " He can't make me do it. He wouldn't, anyway. He's fighting for something just – he's not that cruel, he wouldn't make me – he wouldn't have you burn to death."

          " Then he'll do it," I say, pressing on. " One day he'll just walk in here and do away with me - mercifully, if that's his style -when he decides the game has gone on long enough."

          " You made the choice to come here," John says, whirling around. " I'm not going to feel sorry for you."

          " I made the choice to look for my mother," I spit back at him. " I thought she would still be a good person, somehow, I thought she would want me, not want me dead!"

          " That's enough exercise," he says, grabbing my arms and pushing me backward. I gasp, my feet struggling to gain ground as he launches me back into the chair, leaning on me while he grabs the ropes. When he has them he pushes me roughly against the back of the chair, and begins tying my hands while he kneels on my feet.

          " You don't want me to die, I know it!" I shout at him while he works. He pulls the ropes tighter. " You don't want to have to watch me choke to death – or whatever he'll do to kill me. I know you don't, John – please, help me!"

          " No!" he says, looking up at me, his face furious. " Just because I talk to you sometimes, it doesn't mean anything. I'm committed to Magneto and his cause – I have a good thing going, here. He's going to be in control someday soon, and I'll have helped him get there –"

          " Possibly by giving your life for the cause," I snap at him while he ties my feet.

          " If I have to," he says through clenched teeth, almost sounding sincere.

          " He doesn't care about you any more than he cares about my mother," I tell John. " You're just pawns to him."

          " You don't know that!" John roars, standing and walking quickly away from me.

          " He's obsessed with power," I say. " What makes you think he'll want to share any of it with you?"

          " You don't know what you're talking about," John tells me, his voice dark, his eyes turned away from me. I start to say something, but he jerks his eyes toward mine, menacing.

          " Just – stop!" he snaps. " Or I'll gag you, too."

          I'm not sure if I believe him, but after this I keep my mouth shut. He paces the room for a little bit, then storms out of the room. I'm not sure if I've reached him, or only pushed him further away. I put my head back against the chair and shut my eyes, but sleep is only a specter far away. I can't remember the last time I really slept, without the interruption of John's quiet nightmares, his muttering in the dark.

          I feel sorry for John the same way that I do for my mother; resentfully, as if a great deal of weight has been placed upon their shoulders, but they have added to it themselves with their own angry, defeated dispositions. I know that they've both had horrible experience with humans who they loved and felt betrayed by – but they're adults – or nearly, in John's case – and they should be able to rise above those memories, to separate what happened to them from every other human being on the planet.

          And, furthermore, my mother should be able to forgive me.

          As if my thoughts have conjured her, I hear the scrape of a footstep at the corner of the room that leads from the kitchen into the room that adjoins the one I'm sitting in, and, expecting to see John, I look up and start when I see my mother's yellow eyes peering back at me instead.

          " Mom," I say without meaning to, the word tumbling traitorously from my lips. She blinks. She's standing a good distance from me, mostly in darkness, and when her eyes close its as if she disappears.

          " Don't call me that," she says. I notice, hearing her speak now, that her voice is strange – it sounds inhuman; there is an odd echo behind it.

          " You're my mother," I tell her weakly, looking away. " Whether you want to be or not."

          " Your mother was a blonde woman with pale skin," she says, her words slicing into me like a dull blade. As much as the image of my mother's real face has haunted me since I was a child, so has the face she put on for all the years before she revealed herself to us: beautiful, clear skin, soft blonde hair that fell to her shoulders, and blue eyes. Normal. Even more than learning that my mother was a mutant, the knowledge that I had been looking into the eyes of an illusion since I was an infant terrified me.

          " No," I say, looking at her now. She's still hanging back in the shadows – if I didn't know better I might suspect she was nervous, and taking comfort in the cover of the dim corner she's leaning into. " I know what my real mother looks like, now," I tell her.

          " You know nothing about me," she returns.

          " You're right," I tell her. " But how could I? You left me."

          I see the yellow eyes narrow into angry slivers.

          " What are you accusing me of?" she asks, her hollow voice spiking.

          " You weren't the only one who was abandoned that night," I say, tears creeping past my lashes, sliding down my cheeks.

          She starts to speak, but we both hear the hatch that leads down to the basement open and close, and she slinks away, back into the darkness. I wait, holding my breath until I see Magneto round the corner, making his way toward me with his self-assured stride.

          " Miss Darkholme," he says upon seeing me, his cold little smirk cast in my direction. " Wherever has my sentry gone?"

          " John?" I say, looking around. " I don't know. I'm sure he's lurking around here somewhere."

          " I followed your mother up," he says, looking around. " Has she not come this way?"

          She emerges from the darkness at this, gliding over to Magneto's side.

          " I'm here," she says, staring him in the eye.

          " Good," he says. He looks back to me. " Perhaps its better that Pyro is absent. He tends to interfere, doesn't he? Hard for a boy that age to stand by when a beautiful young thing is in peril, hmm?" He glances at my mother and grins, but she doesn't seem to like the joke.

          " No matter," he says, leaning down to me and placing a hand under my chin, lifting my face to his. " It will all come together soon enough."

          " I don't like this," my mother says suddenly. Magneto stands and turns to her.

          " You had no objection when we originally discussed the matter," he says, his hand dropping away from my face. " What has changed, my darling?"

          My mother folds her arms across her bare chest, her eyes dropping to the floor.

          " I still don't object," she says, the conviction draining from her voice. " But – I wish that there was some other way." Magneto pats her shoulder.

          " Of course, my dear," he says, looking to me with a sadness in his eyes. " We all do. But we simply don't have the resources we once did, when I was anonymous citizen, and not the mutant criminal they have marked me as."

          " What are you talking about?" I mutter, sure that they won't tell me – or at least that they won't tell me the truth. I see John walk into the room behind them, and when he sees I have company he drops back into the shadows. Our eyes meet as he peers in at the scene, and I have to flick mine away, back to Magneto's.

          " I'm afraid you'll know in due time," Magneto says to me, reaching down again to pat my face. I sneer at him.

          " You didn't get your mother's magnificent looks, I'm afraid," he says, shaking his head slightly. " But it will do."

          " What the hell does that mean?" I ask, glaring up at him, but he only smiles and walks away. My mother watches him go.

          " Coming, Mystique?" he calls back to her, turning slightly.

          " In a minute," she tells him, flatly.

          " Very well," he mutters, walking off.

          I look up at my mother when he's gone, and I can almost see sympathy for me in her eyes.

          " What's he going to do to me?" I ask her, trying to make my voice as pitiable as possible – its not hard, given how terrified I am. Behind us, John steps into the room.

          " Do you know?" he asks her, too. " I only want to know how long he's going to make me sit up here twiddling my thumbs." He glances at me as he says this, and I can't read his expression.

          " Its none of your concern," she tells him. " Just do as you're told." She starts to leave, and I can't resist calling out to her, not knowing if or when I'll see her again.

          " Mom, wait!" I cry, and she stops, but doesn't look back.

          " I told you I don't want you calling me that," she says, her voice an icy throttle.

          " Please," I beg her, tears dropping from my chin onto my shaking hands, which are still tied in my lap. " Don't let that man hurt me. I might be human, but I'm not just a worthless piece of garbage he can toy with."

          " As far as I'm concerned, you are," she says, walking away quickly. Though there is a pinch in her voice, the sentiment is clear, and it breaks something small and fragile inside me – the last bit of hope that I was clutching, my leftover child's wish for my mother's return.

          When she is gone I cry – of course I cry. Wracked by the almost painful sobs coursing through my body, I almost forget that John is in the room until I feel a hand on my knee, and gasp.

          I look at him; he's lowered himself so that his eyes are level with mine. I see a sort of warmth there for a moment, but its quickly gone. His hand tightens on my knee.

          " Stop crying," he demands. " Its giving me a headache."

          I consider attempting to match his fierce coldness, narrowing my eyes and snapping back at him, but I can't. I'm hungry, thirsty, tired and heartbroken – my energy is completely sapped. The strong face that I try to meet his with crumbles easily into tears. I dip my head and cry quietly, waiting for John to groan and stomp away.

          But he stays put, that hand like a steel claw on my knee. I can feel the bizarre warmth of his skin even through the thick material of my jeans. In a moment of desperate weakness I let myself imagine how good it would feel to curl against that kind of unclothed skin, like a heated blanket encircling your limbs. Not allowing myself to look up at him again, I scoff to myself – it's a sad irony, that soft fire wasted on the body of a cold boy who takes only nightmares to bed with him.

          " Look," he says, making his voice less harsh. " I don't think he's going to kill you, okay?"

          " Oh, how would you know?" I snap, now looking up at him, and finding within me some kind of store of energy, which I use to manage a glare. " And anyway, I'd rather that he did. It'd be better than rotting here in this mansion, with only a heartless snake for company."

          " Heartless snake?" he says with a dark laugh. " Who saved your life the other day? Ungrateful – fine! Here." With that he reaches into his shirt pocket and retrieves the silver necklace that Magneto nearly choked me with during my first day in the dilapidated mansion. He leans over me to fasten the charm, a potential weapon during Magneto's visits, back around my neck.

          " Don't," I say weakly as he works to hook the clasp. His cheek is pressed inadvertently against mine as he clumsily struggles with the necklace, and I feel myself involuntarily leaning into the heat of his skin, my eyes fluttering shut. He shivers when my eyelashes brush his cheek, and drops the necklace, which tumbles down into my shirt.

          " Shit," he says, standing back and pushing his hair off his face, which is flushed with red. I can feel the necklace caught in the center of my bra, the cold silver resting against my chest.

          " Great job," I say, feeling my own cheeks grow hot. We look at each other for a moment, each trying to gauge the other's expression. He walks back to me, and I expect him to untie my hands so I can pull the necklace out, but instead he gets down on his knees before me and slides his hand up into my shirt. My breath catches and I hold his eyes while that hot hand travels across my stomach, searching for the necklace.

          I'm not sure if I feel violated or not. I do, I decide, my heart hammering – this is happening against my will, of course. His hand moves up onto my chest, creeping over the wire frame of my bra, and I tell myself to protest, but I seem to have forgotten how to speak. Finally he finds the chain of the necklace, grasps it and yanks it out, the heart charm scraping against my breast as it slides out of my bra.

          " There," he says, his eyes still intent on mine. He holds the necklace up in front of my face like a prize he's won from me, the heart charm dangling close to my nose.

          " Asshole," I hiss, my face on fire. He grins, and leans forward again, puts the necklace around my neck. I try to steady my breathing as he fastens the clasp, his arms circling my neck as he works, my face now pressed against his shirt. Feeling stupid and very nearly insane, I take a deep breath while the cloth of the shirt is against my nose, telling myself that it isn't purposeful. He smells like ash, gasoline and fire, but only subtly, under something much more appealing that I can't put words to, though my senses seem to recognize it and label it as good.

          When he backs away he still looks proud of himself, and I want to sarcastically congratulate him for feeling up a girl he has tied into a chair. But there is something sinister about describing what he's done that way, and I feel oddly that what just happened was consensual. I'm not sure why; all I know is that I want him to find some excuse to touch me again.

          " I'm sorry about your mother," he says, growing serious. " I don't blame her for feeling the way she does, but she – shouldn't have said that to you."

          As soon as he reminds me of the last words my mother has said to me the present situation comes crashing back down over me, and the pheromone-induced haze I was drifting in evaporates. My expression grows cold and I turn away from him.

          " Stay out of it," I mutter.

          " Fine," he says. " I was only trying to . . ." he trails off, annoyed, and ducks out of the room.

          When he's gone, I feel my breath let out. What just happened? I feel simultaneously crushed and curious – the overload of emotions has my head spinning. Something completely inappropriate is surfacing in me in this, probably the lowest moment of my life. I find myself tapping my foot, anxious for John to return. I find myself hoping that, when he does, he'll invent some reason to run his hands over me again.

          I have never felt the way that I did when John's warm hand crept up under my shirt – I've never had a boyfriend before, have only had a few 'real' kisses in my lifetime, most of them meaningless forays in movie theaters that were more awkward than sexy. In the past years I've grown somewhat antsy for it – for a boy's attention, both physical and emotional. I find myself both jealous and cynical when I see a boy and girl walking hand and hand together at school – I'm sure that their relationship is shallow and doomed, but at the same time, I catch myself wishing that I had a warm, sturdy chest to fold myself into in stolen moments.

          Few of the boys at school have ever appealed to me, though – they all seem immature, cocky and simple.

          But this boy . . . I watch the darkness he disappeared into. Outside the sun has just begun sinking. I hope that when he returns he'll have something for me to eat, and a drink would be nice, as well. A bathroom break is in order, too – there is a working toilet and sink in a tiny room at the end of one of the halls that branches off from the room I've been staying in.

          It seems to take an eternity for John to return – when he does he is bearing dinner, which includes a rare piece of bread. Though I'm ravenous, there are more pressing matters at hand.

          " I have to pee," I tell him candidly, bouncing in my seat. He rolls his eyes, puts the tray of food down and walks to me. As he's kneeling down to untie my feet, he steadies himself with a hand on my lap, and his fingers brush mine, which are bundled there, my hands still tied. I have the strange impulse to grab his hand and hold it between my own, but I remain still as he frees my feet.

          " Alright," he says when he's done. He helps me stand on my wobbly legs, holding me by the elbow, then guiding me toward the bathroom with a hand on my back. This is how we've preformed the ritual since I arrived – me walking in front of him down the long, narrow hall, he behind me with a ball of flame borrowed from one of the candles in the music room, lighting the way as we go. He keeps one had pressed against my back, pushing me along, while the other wields the fire.

Usually I think nothing of it – its just his way of getting me to step lively, hurray up.

          But today I'm super-conscious of his hand, flat and hot on my back. When we reach the bathroom he unties my hands and I duck inside. Its dark in the small room – he leaves the door cracked and holds his fire there, casting a small light inside.

          When I'm through I go to the sink, rinse my hands and look up into the grime-covered mirror. From what I can see in the dim, dirty reflection, I look like hell. I haven't showered in what seems like weeks, and though I know it can't have been that long, it certainly feels that way, with my hair hanging limp and greasy around my dirt-smeared face. I splash my face with water and try to rub away the grime, and I can hear John tapping his foot outside impatiently.

          " You nearly done in there?" he calls.

          " Almost," I say, fingering the necklace around my neck. I search my face in the mirror, trying to find traces of my mother there. But the landscape of her face is too brilliant and bizarre, and mine is the same plain-jane its always been. Human to the core, nothing more spectacular than freckles.

          John pushes the door open and looks in – the fire that floats in his palm illuminates his face, putting strange shadows under his eyes.

          " I can see you just standing there," he snaps. " Come on, my dinner is getting cold."

          We walk back to the music room after he's gotten my hands tied again. Once we're there he shoves me into the chair and ties my feet.

          " This is silly," I tell him. " You're just going to have to untie me in a few minutes when I eat."

          " No," he says. " Magneto is already pissed at me for leaving you alone earlier. If he decides to come up here and sees that you're free it'll be my ass."

          " What, so you're going to hand feed me?" I snap, humiliated by the notion. John goes to the piano bench and begins eating his soup.

          " Sure," he says, casting a dark look in my direction. " What, are you afraid it'll turn you on?" I scoff in response, and I'm glad its gotten too dark for him to see the blush that spreads across my cheeks.

          " Creep," I mutter, sinking back into the chair as he chuckles to himself. " Don't eat all of the bread," I add when he begins gobbling it.

          " Don't tell me what to do!" he snaps, but reserves half of the slice anyway. When he's done eating he walks to me with the tray, sets it on the ground and kneels in front of me.

          " Water first," I say, " I'm parched."

          " Oh, yes ma'am," he snarls sarcastically, but he still picks up the bottle of water and tilts it toward my mouth, letting me drink. Our eyes meet as I'm gulping it down, and his flick away. When he takes the bottle away, he uses his finger to wipe away the stray drop that always escapes my mouth, instead of his sleeve, as he always has before.

          " This is ridiculous," I say as he breaks off pieces of bread and pops them into my mouth.

          " Don't talk with your mouth full," he reprimands, keeping his face serious and then breaking into a wicked little smile. I struggle to contain my own grin as I chew. When I'm through with the bread I lick my lips, and I can see something in him quaver while he watches my tongue move.

          There is a thick tension between us as he reaches for the bowl of soup, but its a new pressure – not one that we've experienced before, as captor and captive, mutant and human. This is something different entirely, and something imperceptible flutters in my chest under its weight.

          " Just drink it out of the bowl," he says, bringing it to my lips, his eyes trained on them, avoiding my gaze. " It'll go quicker that way." I put my lips on the edge of the bowl and he tilts it gently toward me. His hands are shaking, and the bowl trembles on my lips. I drink until its almost gone, and then he pulls it away, dropping it on the floor.

          The perennial drop of liquid rolls from the corner of my lips toward my chin, and John doesn't move to brush it away until its reached the bottom of my chin. Instead of reaching to wipe it off with his hand, he leans forward and catches it with his lips instead, sucking slightly, then tracing its path back up to my lips with his tongue.

          A tiny gasp of surprise leaves my lips as they wait to meet his. But instead of kissing me, he pulls away just as his tongue reaches the corner of my mouth. We stare into each other's eyes for a moment, and now its John's turn to lick his lips.

          " What did you do that for?" I ask, breathless. The warm tickle of his tongue is still lingering on my skin, the ghost of his near-kiss.

          For a moment he only looks back at me, maybe at a loss for words.

          " Didn't want to waste perfectly good soup," he finally says, his voice even and collected. I feel like I've been punched in the stomach – my body is demanding that I lean forward and find his tongue again with mine, but I sit still, shell-shocked and wanting. He stands, and I want to cry – its almost physically painful to watch him walk away from me now.

          John collects the dinner dishes, puts them onto the tray and walks wordlessly out of the room with them. When he's gone I let out a choppy sigh, everything in me pulsing, waiting, put on hold. I have never felt like this. I hate – I love it, I want him, I don't.

          When John returns he doesn't look at me, only unfolds his sleeping bag on the floor, perhaps even farther from my chair than he usually does.

          " John," I say, breathy, wanting some explanation. I shouldn't be embarrassed to speak – this isn't some boy courting me during lunch period at school – our circumstances are extraordinary, so why should I feel so classically nervous?

          " What?" he says. He's turned onto his side on the sleeping bag, facing away from me.

          " I – are you going to sleep?" I ask, not sure what else to say. I wish so much that I had the courage to fall onto the floor and curl up behind him, my face pressed against the back of his neck. I've been through so much in the past days; I need so badly for someone to just hold me, and John seems as though he might benefit from a night spent in someone's arms, too.

          " Yeah," he mutters from the floor, not looking at me. " I'm tired."

          " Oh," I say, my heart sinking. " I don't understand," I whisper, and he says nothing, though I'm sure he heard me.

          Somehow I'm able to get to sleep, after a good while spent trying to get comfortable in the chair, and trying to quell the fire that is burning slow and deep since I've felt that boy's lips against my skin. When I do sleep, he is in my dreams – in one I am tied to a set of train tracks, wearing a flowing white dress like a 1940's movie star. He leans over me, the villain, and those brown eyes bore into mine.

          " Breathe fire into me," I moan in the dream, and he smiles wickedly and brings his lips down to mine –

          My dream is cut short by the sound of someone struggling in the room – my eyes jerk open and I search the dark corners of the room for intruders before realizing that the noises are only coming from John, who is thrashing about on the floor, in the middle of a nightmare.

          I groan and tip my head back, yawning. On the floor, John begins muttering in his sleep.

          " Please, please, please," he begs into the darkness of his nightmare, and the desperation in his voice, the complete and utter terror, makes my heart ache.

          " John," I say, my voice soft, leaning forward. He doesn't hear me, only shouts and whips his arm around, fighting the darkness.

          " Please, God!" he pleads, his voice hoarse and frightened.

          " John!" I say, louder now. I don't know that I've ever heard him get this bad at night – I feel like I should help him somehow, but I've never been able to wake him from my place in the chair.

          " No, no, no, no!" he cries, twisting around into his pillow, his shoulders jerking as if to avoid some monster's grip.

          Unable to help myself, I slide out of the chair. At first I land flat on my face, but, moving like an inchworm, I'm eventually able to get up on my knees. Once I have, I scoot over toward John, who is still ensconced in the panic of his dream.

          " John," I say, trying to make my voice soothing. But now that I'm closer to him as he's thrashing and kicking about, I'm starting to think this wasn't such a good idea, what with my limited mobility.

          Crawling with my elbows and knees, I manage to anchor him down a bit, clamping one of my legs over his, and pinning his head down between my elbows.

          " John," I say, leaning my face down to his, trying to reach him. " Wake up – its okay!"

          He gasps suddenly, his eyes shooting open. For a moment I think he's going to throw me off of him – he still looks like he's in the grip of the dream; his brown eyes are large and frightened. But then he seems to realize where he is, and what's going on, and though his breathing is still frantic and heavy, his face relaxes a bit, and he looks up at me, returning to earth.

          " Jesus," he breathes, " What the hell are you doing?"

          " You were having a nightmare," I tell him. " I was – trying to sleep – and –" He lifts himself up on his elbows a bit, his nose touching mine.

          " You've got me pinned," he says, his breathing still coming hard, falling hot against my lips. My head is floating, my mind is gone, and all I can do is stare into his eyes while he wordlessly flirts with me, his nose brushing mine, his chest rising and falling beneath me.

" I can't move," he says, his eyes falling to my lips, " I can't reach my lighter. This is inappropriate. I'm being a bad guard, aren't I? I'm letting you seduce me, Darkholme."

          " You got a problem with it?" I ask, finding my voice. " Then throw me off."

          " Fine," he says, surprising me. He throws me back, and I land hard, my shoulder blades knocking into the floor. Before I can recover John is on top of me, grabbing my tied hands and pushing them back over my head, straddling my legs, and then finally, finally, bringing those lips of his down onto mine.

          I moan into his mouth when he kisses me, and he pushes down harder, crushing me under his weight while his tongue slips between my lips, meeting mine. There is something oddly timid about his kiss in the midst of his otherwise aggressive approach – his lips move gently over mine, his tongue is only a soft caress against my own.

          When John pulls his face away from mine I feel dizzy, and I have to shut my eyes – the room is spinning around us. I gasp for air – I feel like I haven't taken a breath since we touched. While I try to steady my swimming head he dips his and kisses my neck, and I feel myself stop breathing again as I focus all my attention on the feeling of his mouth on my skin – on those lips: hot, soft, wet, thick –

          " Goddammit," he murmurs, lifting himself off of me. Before I know what's happened he's standing over me, cursing the half-boner that is poking his pants into an asymmetrical shape.

          " What?" I ask, bringing my arms forward and sitting up, looking up at him. " What's the matter?"

          " I just – can't," he says, reaching down and tugging me up. For a moment he holds me against him as I struggle to stand on legs unsteady from both the bindings that hold them awkwardly together and the desire and frustration that is coursing through me and causing my body to tremble. I lean into him and his hands move over my back, but only in the process of moving me back over into the chair. He drops me there and sighs, standing before me and looking at his feet.

          " I'm – sorry," I say, not sure what is happening. " I didn't mean to – I was only trying to –"

          " No, its alright," he says, " Its my fault. I was an idiot." He gets back down onto his sleeping bag, lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling. Unable to help myself, I glance back down at the bulge in his pants – its sinking now. He puts a hand over his face, rubs his forehead and moans.

          " What the hell is going on with you?" I ask, my frustration giving way to just plain pissed-off. " Its not like I'm sitting over here, irresistible – I look like shit, I haven't even showered in days."

          " So?" he says, his hand over his face.

          " So!" I say, scoffing, " So why the hell are you acting like you can't help yourself – either you want me, Pyro, or you don't! Make up your mind and stop jerking me around – I'm already going through enough right now, I don't need this back and forth bullshit to complicate things."

          " I don't know what to do," he mumbles. " This is only going to fuck things up – I knew it as soon as I saw you."

          " Well then you should have just let Magneto kill me," I say, deflating. My body is in withdrawal, my mind is whirling feverishly.

          " He won't kill you," he says, looking to me now. " He's got some kind of plan for you, I can tell."

          I'm a bit taken aback by this new information; I blink, frown at him.

          " What?" I ask, " How do you know?"

          " He would have killed you already if he didn't," John tells me. " Trust me. You're a human, you wouldn't mean anything to him if he didn't have some agenda for you."

          " Great," I say, leaning back into the chair. " I guess I have a lot to look forward to, then – part of Magneto's agenda! I should be honored, right? As a lowly human?"

          " Just go to sleep," John says, shutting his eyes. He's still lying on his back – for a long time I watch the careful rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes. He's not sleeping, but he keeps his eyes shut.

          When morning comes, I don't remember sleeping, though I must have. My eyes scan the room, blinking in the harsh light that pours in through the windows.

          John is gone.

          I sense someone watching me, and my eyes wander the adjoining rooms. It takes a moment for my sleep-filled gaze to adjust, but eventually I see her – my mother. Her yellow eyes watching intently from beyond the darkness.

          " Hello?" I call, not sure how to feel about her presence. I want to hate her for the things she has said to me, for the cold reception I've received from her since I barged back into her life. But no matter how badly she treats me, each day something in me yearns for her acceptance. I can't stop believing that my mother is still in there, somewhere, in the myriad of personas that her body can take on.

          She walks into the room, looking down her nose at me as she goes. I search her face for the beauty that John claims to see there. There is something elegant about her appearance – she has nice . . . bone structure?

          " Where's Pyro?" she asks, yellow eyes focused on me. I swallow a lump in my throat.

          " I don't know," I tell her. " I just woke up and he was –" I stop, not wanting to get John in trouble with the elder mutants. " He's probably just gone to get breakfast."

          My mother leans down toward me, her eyes narrowing, focusing on something. I look down and realize it's the silver necklace she's looking at.

          " What's this?" she asks, reaching out and plucking it from my neck. When her fingers brush my skin my breath catches, and I try to hide my nervousness at coming into contact with those blue scales.

          " A n-necklace," I stutter. She gives me a look.

          " I can see that," she says dryly. " Where did you get it?"

          " My foster parents," I tell her. " A birthday present."

          " Hmph," she says, dropping it. It bounces on my neck, a cold silver blow. She stands back, folds her arms. " They treat you well?" she asks, shifting her eyes away.

          " Yes," I say. " But . . ."

          " But what?" my mother asks, an eyebrow raised. I catch her gaze, and hold it, and no shudders run through me this time when stare into those eyes.

          " But I still felt like . . . something was missing from my life," I say, my heart pounding as I try to explain myself, to reach her. She remains expressionless, or perhaps I just don't know how to read expressions on her unique face.

          " What?" she finally asks, her echoing voice offering no signs of her feelings.

          " My mother," I say, my voice faltering. She narrows her eyes.

          " What about your father?" she snaps. " Why am I held entirely responsible for your misery?"

          " I – I missed him, too," I mutter. " Until I went to find him, when I was twelve." I look away, not wanting to relive this memory.

          " Let me guess," my mother says coldly. " He didn't want anything to do with you, the daughter borne to him by a mutant?"

          I don't respond – there is no need to. She has hit the nail on the head, and she knows it. She stands back, satisfied with herself for a moment. I think of the day I had my foster mother bring me to meet my biological father in Boston – we took the train at lunchtime, keeping the whole thing a secret from my foster father, afraid that he wouldn't understand, that he would be hurt by my need to see my real father. After the train ride we took a taxi cab to his office building – we had been unable to reach him by phone; he was an important businessman and hard to get a hold of. We decided to surprise him in person. I was so nervous, so full of hope . . .

          It did not go well, though I must say it was measurably better than what I've found here, while searching for my mother. At least the disappointment with my father didn't end with my being tied to a chair and destined for certain death, or an unwilling role in some mysterious mutant plot, or both.

          " You know," I say with a dark laugh, " I should really have learned my lesson with my father – you can't go home again. Right, Mom?" I look up at her, letting some of my anger show, now less afraid.

          She opens her mouth to speak, but stops when she hears footsteps approaching from the main corridor – we both look to see John walking into the room, hands in his pockets. He looks somewhat haggard, as if he hasn't slept at all. Despite this, and despite my annoyance with his indecisive interest in me, my heart -the girlish and naïve thing that it is - still lifts a bit when I see him.

          " Mystique," he mutters, rubbing his eye. " What are you doing up here? Is he coming to question her again?"

          " Not now," she says, glancing back to me. " Later." She reaches down, and, in the first motherly action since we've been reunited, rips the silver necklace off of my neck.

          " Ouch," I mutter automatically at the sting of the silver chain's pressure on the back of my neck. But my heart fills as I watch her go, the necklace swinging in her hand.

          She took it. She . . . cares?

          " John," I whisper when she's gone. " Did you see that?"

          " Yeah, great," he mutters. I watch him walk to the window; he stands with his back to me, looking out. I wait for it after I see his hand slide out of his pocket.

          Click. Click. Click.

          " What's your problem?" I ask, though I have a pretty good idea it has something to do with me, and what happened between us last night. Unless I dreamed the whole thing. I consider it for a moment – but, no. I can still taste him on my tongue, smell him on my clothes.

          Not answering my question, he continues with the lighter.

          " That's so obnoxious!" I shout.

          " Who asked you?" he growls, half-turning. I can see worry and fear in the circles under his eyes.

          " What happened?" I ask. " Where did you go this morning?"

          " I talked with Magneto," he says, turning now. His voice and eyes are dark. He puts the lighter to his lips. " About . . ."

          " Me?" I squeak, my heart, previously inflated by my mother's silent gesture, now sinking in my chest. John nods.

          " I asked him, you know, how much longer I would have to stay up here, watching over you," he says, his eyes moving nervously away from mine.

          " What did he say?" I ask, my voice small. John shuts his eyes.

          " He says it will be over by tomorrow night," he answers. " That if we haven't gotten what we want from you by then, he'll just . . ." he trails off, doesn't need to finish.

          " Are you telling the truth about that Prophet guy?" he asks in a hissed whisper, walking to me. " None of us have ever heard of him, or of any mutant who claims that his power is seeing into the future."

          " I have no idea if the guy can actually see into the future," I say, panicky. " But I know that a man calling himself the Prophet was the one who led me here!"

          John nods.

          " I don't know what to do," he mutters against the cool case of his lighter.

          " What do you mean?" I ask, my spirits lifting slightly. " You're thinking about . . . helping me?"

          He groans, turns away.

          " John," I say. " Please –"

          " Its not that easy!" he says, turning back. " I just – of course I don't want you to die. I mean if you were just some – but now that we . . . But there are more important things, you know?"

          " Than whether I live or die?" I ask, my voice a hollow plea.

          " Yes!" he cries. " I know it sounds cruel, but in the great scheme of things –"

          " I'm just one human," I say, tears gathering. It shouldn't hurt me so badly, that this mutant boy finds me unimportant. Its not like we were in love. So we were attracted to each other. So what.

          " But I don't want –" he begins again.

          " Its alright," I say, cutting him off, a tear sliding down my cheek. " You're right, of course. I agree with you. Mutants will probably take over, sooner or later. What does it matter when the humans fall to the wayside? Might as well happen now. Might as well start with me." I shut my eyes, more tears falling. My mother might have taken Magneto's stranglehold from around my neck, but I know that doesn't mean she'll be willing to save me, either.

          " Stop, Penelope!" he says, falling at my knees. I don't want to look at him, but I lift my head, tears in my eyes. He's staring up at me from the ground, his hands on mine, which are resting, still tied together, in my lap. I let out another sob and rest my forehead against his, shutting my eyes.

          " You're not just any human," he says. His breath smells good. Mine must be horrible, I think suddenly, my mind reeling. I haven't brushed my teeth in days.

          " Oh no?" I say. I watch my lap, where his hands are working to free mine.

          " You're Mystique's daughter," he says. " And she's – incredible – so you – you're somebody –"

          " John," I say, lifting my head from his and flexing my fingers and wrists, which are now loose from their bonds. " She doesn't want anything to do with me. She didn't raise me to be some sort of super woman. She didn't raise me at all. And she didn't give me the mutant gene. I inherited my father's human legacy, not hers."

          " But you're still sort of . . ." he mutters, not looking at me. He takes my hands between his, and the heat there sends a wave of warmth through me.

          " What?" I ask, scoffing. " Sort of a . . . useless blob? Prone to hysterical crying and pathetic advances on mutant boys?"

          " No – oh, I don't know!" he says, pinching his eyes shut, frustrated.

          " Why did you untie my hands?" I ask, looking down at them, dirty and trembling and housed between his.

          " I –" he begins, but before he can come up with anything I answer my own question, bringing my hands to his face, my fingers inching into his hair, my thumbs stroking his cheeks. He shuts his eyes and lets his breath out.

          " This isn't going to end well," he says in a whisper.

          He lifts his head to kiss me anyway, and when his lips meet mine, I know that he will help me escape.

          And I know, too, that he will be the death of me all the same.