Author's Notes: This chapter came along rather quickly, so I thought I'd post it up without delay in thanks for your patience with the last one. Thanks to everyone who left me such amazing feedback, it seriously made my day. Also, to Adriana, who I couldn't contact directly to show my gratitude; I'll try and do right by you for it and your review made me squeal with glee. Shout-out's aside, this chapter gets into that murky, uncertain stuff, so I hope it pleases you all as I had a great deal of fun writing it. Take care, and remember to review!

Disclaimer: Nine chapters in and I still own anything. And by that, I mean only Adrian, kthnx.

"Well that's enough I can't take anymore,
I'm right out of vision I'm right out of hope.
You set me up to just knock me down,
What's on your conscience nothing happens in my town.

I'll do graffiti if you sing to me in French,
What are we doing here if romance isn't dead?
Mind your mouth as you walk with me,
Take care ooh as you cross the street."
-Maximo Park, 'Graffiti'

Chapter 9- "A Praise Chorus"

At nine o'clock on a Tuesday night most normal students would be finishing up homework assignments, brushing up on their study habits, watching television or talking on the phone. Suffice to say that I'm far from normal, and the school I'm currently attending is everything but a remedy to that. Standing in the luxurious foyer for the umpteenth time in the last two days, I find that this knowledge does little to phase me anymore. My time since having fled my home back in California has molded me, my environment has grown on me, even if that environment was the inside of Logan's beat-up old pick-up truck for about five days. I've come to terms with being a mutant, with my mutation and the changes that it brings. Looking up at the stately grandfather clock though, I know my purpose here probably doesn't include deep introspection, watching the big hand tick another notch away from it's zenith at the top, like Icarus falling from the brief grace he attained in the heavens.

I hear rather than see John enter into the area behind me, his trainers stepping confidently onto the hardwood floor until he stops a few feet away from my right. He looks bored and disinterested, like he has a hundred other things he could be doing right now, all of which are vastly more interesting and entertaining than serving an evening detention. For once, I'm actually in agreement with him. We eye one another for a moment and I nod slightly, acknowledging him. God forbid I should be given the same consideration, the smug bastard. He keeps that trademark, cocky smirk on his face until Professor Summers arrives less than a minute later.

"Sorry to keep the two of you waiting, I know how much the both of you have been looking forward to this," he smiles tightly and I try my best to keep my expression impassive. John, unable to resist the temptation, rolls his eyes skyward. "As penance for your disruptive behavior earlier today you'll both be taking on the custodial duties of cleaning out the classroom. All of the supplies are inside and the door is unlocked. You are expected to have the room clean and ready for class tomorrow in an hour's time, understood?"

"Yes, sir," I incline my head politely, wondering just how filthy ol' One-Eye's room could have gotten since the two of us had been in there. John replies with a less than dignified, "Uh-huh."

A smile ghosts our English professor's face and it's almost unnerving, noting his usually stony expression. "Good. I expect the room to be spotless come tomorrow morning. Should it be in a similar state of disarray you'll both be serving another detention," he paused a moment and one could assume that he was looking the both of us over, though it was impossible to tell, his ruby-colored sunglasses rather effectively blocking anyone from discerning just where, exactly, his gaze lay. I might be curious, but at this point I'm just getting irritated with his talking at us like we're fucking army cadets. I hastily suppress the urge to do a salute and yell "Sir, yes sir!"

"All right, I'm assuming neither of you have any questions, as this is a fairly easy assignment. Goodnight, I'll see you both in class tomorrow morning." And with that, he was gone. I slapped my forehead, willing the irritation to leave me as hastily as possible.

"Let's go," I mutter, walking back toward the classrooms, John beside me. We needn't bother with actually speaking to one another at the moment, our current exasperations with each other forgotten in the utter disbelief that our Professor thought that he was in a World War II war room. Opening a door, we walked into Professor Scott Summers' class room and John hit the light.

My jaw fell to the floor.

"What the… how in the living hell?" I sputtered, gesturing wildly to the absolute mess the classroom had become in our absence. Papers, shredded or otherwise, littered the floor and desktops, paint splashed about as if the room were one large Jackson Pollock piece. "You're fucking kidding, this is… I thought Professor Summers was a boy scout! What the shit is this?"

"He has a class of younger students in the late afternoon, apparently they did arts and crafts today," John ran a hand over his face, the idea of tackling the veritable refuse heap of a room before us was clearly an unpleasant one for both parties. Looking up at the ceiling I cursed again, seeing blue and red spattered up by the lights.

"This is-"

"Bullshit." John finished. "Aren't there laws against child labor?"

I left his query unanswered, instead moving toward the teacher's desk, atop which was a vast assortment of cleaning supplies, sponges and rags. Grabbing a bottle of Windex, a paint solvent and a rag, I approached the student's desks, clearing the clutter off the nearest one with an ungainly swipe of my arm. With or without our bitching, the clock was ticking, and I wouldn't put it past Summers to come poking his head in here randomly to check on our progress. Judging the distance from the desk to the ceiling, I placed the cleaning supplies on one end and hefted a chair onto another, climbing up to stand beside them. Hopefully this detention wouldn't result in my untimely demise, stepping up onto a precariously balanced chair on top of a smooth wooden surface. There's no way in hell John will do this part, though, he's barely picking up the paper with any relish. No, someone has to take one for the team, or whatever else we might be considered, sorry bastards that we are. Boys and girls didn't fraternize in classrooms after hours to play custodian, for god's sake, and while I wasn't really sure I wanted to be doing anything other than custodial duties in an empty classroom after hours with St. John Allerdyce, it was certainly more appealing than the present task at hand. Shielding my eyes, I sprayed at the paint on the ceiling, waiting a moment before rubbing the offending substance off with the rag in my other hand. That paint was either terribly weak or the solvent Xavier kept under the X-Men's kitchen sink was hydrochloric acid, I was surprised at the general ease at which I was able to swipe the stuff off the ceiling tiles, it was almost gratifying.

And then John started to speak again.

"Jesus, could they think of something a little less wifey to give us to do? I mean, shit, I'm not asking to go out and kill a Grizzly with my bare hands or anything like Logan, but it'd be nice not to be stuck playing house on a Tuesday night," he grumbled, throwing bits and scraps of paper into a trashcan.

"Your point, John? This is a punishment, not a fucking pleasure cruise," I got off the chair, moved it over a bit and climbed back up on it, tossing an end of my scarf over my shoulder. That bastard complained more than most small children I knew and god help me if it isn't irritating. "Don't you ever stay quiet?"

"I don't like uncomfortable silences," he responds defensively, crawling low and out of my vision to retrieve something or other from underneath another desk.

I sigh, scrubbing at the manmade heavens. "There is absolutely nothing uncomfortable about you keeping your mouth shut, Prometheus. Your silence is the mental equivalent to air conditioning on an L.A. summer's day."

He stands, smirk fixed firmly in place. With an air of mock-drama he throws a hand over his heart, grimacing. "Sweetheart, you're so callous, so cruel! Quick, hit me again, I think I might like it."

I don't need this shit right now. It's his fault I'm cleaning a goddamn ceiling right now instead of doing something worthwhile, like working on controlling my powers or spending time with my roommates. "John, don't make me erupt a toilet onto you to prove that I am not your "sweetheart" and that I will cause you great bodily harm if you continue down the route of pissing me off."

He snorts, something like a sneer on his face. "Please, Mills, you're all talk. Bitch and bullshit, that's about all you've got going for you at this rate; you're too scared to use your powers and you can't even throw a goddamn punch."

Oh, that's it. I am so, so close to leaping down from this half-assed ladder and slapping him into tomorrow but I know better. I'm not so easily cajoled this time around, knowing full well that I'll be punished a second time for my actions. I'm stronger than that, I can maintain myself above the level of petty violence. That doesn't mean that I still don't fully expect to put up a good fight in this bantering session, though. "If it weren't for your stupid ass, I would be working with my powers now, you asshole," I grumble.

"Yeah, sure." I don't have to look at him to know that he's rolling his eyes at me right now. Fuck him, I'm going to finish this in the forty minutes that we have left and I'm going to go to sleep. I'll be absolved of my wrong doings in the morrow when Summers sees how disgustingly clean his room is and then I can forget about this whole mess. It's a worthwhile goal I've set, and in my fervor I spray up at the ceiling, ready to scrub with added resolve. Of course, as a result of said fervor, I forget to shield my eyes from the wannabe hydrochloric acid I've been spritzing the ceiling with and, as a result, I begin to curse loudly.

"Ow, fuck! Holy shit," I drop the bottle and rag, rubbing at my watering eyes frantically, trying to get them to tear up and wash away the noxious daggers stabbing my optics. Demons with flaming pitchforks, it feels like hundreds of thousands of demons with flaming pitchforks are stabbing my corneas. Vile, evil little bastards, it's impossible to shake them. Somewhere I register a note of concern that is not my own, but I'm lost to it now in my hurried attempts to be rid of my pain. It's right about then that I realize, possessed cleaning solution or no, I really shouldn't feel this weightless.

My god, I'm falling.

With an ungainly shriek I flail, landing on something that goes "oof" a moment later. I forget about my eyes as they water considerably, the tears washing most of the chemicals away and the pain of my ribs coming to accost me once again. Blind and in a considerable amount of anguish, I bleakly wonder what god of fate I've pissed off to deserve all of this because shit, someone has it in for me. As I briefly ponder my life as the female version of Morrissey, I feel the floor beneath me shift and groan; it's about then that I know I've lost my mind.

"Christ, Adrian, get offa me. You've kicked my ass, all right? Now move!" It's John, and I'm not losing my mind as a result of quasi-ingested household cleaners. Hooray. This does nothing for my pain, though, or my blurred, stung vision as I gingerly shift myself off the boy beneath me. Whatever poise I've had has pretty much given me the finger and bailed, so I do what any other person in my position would; I turn away and try not to make too much noise as I wonder how the fuck to stop all those sharp, stabbing slivers of agony from shattering the small bit of composure I still have. Screwing up my face, I maintain my silence, teeth clenched hard enough to break.

"Thank you. Jesus, Mills, next time you wanna throw some retarded ninja assault on somebody, pick another target next ti- Mills?" The scathing irritation is replaced almost instantaneously by something far more cautious. I can't see him, but I can hear him move around me, feel that air of apprehension as he realizes that I wasn't screwing around. "Hey, Adrian, are you all right?"

It comes from in front of me and I tuck my chin to my chest, gingerly wrapping my arms around my torso. "I'm fine, John," I bite out, anger surging through at the stupidity of the entire situation, the circumstances under which this is happening. This is the fucking worst Tuesday night ever.

"Bullshit, you're crying." There's a hand on my shoulder.

"That's what happens when you accidentally spray a bunch of toxic shit into your eyes, genius," I grumble, irritated, attempting to shrug out of his hold. What difference does it make to him, anyway? He's probably just afraid I'll implicate him in it and tell the Professors that he pushed me or something. I'm startled to comprehend just how much the notion of me being that horrid to him cuts me. Then again, doing that to anyone would be so unbelievably futile and cowardly I don't understand why it would be a concern to begin with. Our headmaster is Charles Xavier, telepath supreme, for god's sake.

"Adrian, please, I'm not that stupid. You didn't participate in class this afternoon and you've been moving around like my grandmother on a rainy day when her arthritis starts acting up. Come on, look at me. Do I need to take you to the infirmary?"

I open my eyes slowly, relieved that most of the biting sting has left them. I must look like I'd been in a pool the last ten hours for how red they're bound to be. But all of this is trivial compared to the dark spheres before me, those eyes boring into me with that quiet, burning intensity. I shake my head. "No, there's nothing they can do for broken ribs save to put me on more painkillers, and if I take any more Tylenol I'll have to have my stomach pumped."

For the first time in my brief stay at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters I see John pale, worry creasing his youthful features. "You broke them when you fell?"

"Goodness no, these have been broken for about a week now. Falling just sort of, well, you know. They're broken ribs, you can't really fix them," I finish awkwardly, conscious of the fact that I now have the pyromaniac's full attention. "So… you want to help me up?"

He stands, complying with my request before continuing. "How'd it happen?"

I brush myself off carefully, seeking to look everywhere but up at that scorching, intense gaze. Fire versus water, we're so different, and yet so very much alike on some levels. After a moment I turn my gaze up at him. "After I ran away, a man tried to rape me in a back alley in Los Angeles. I managed to escape him before he could do too much to me and ran off. When I thought I was finally safe he found me again and took me out behind a building where he then proceeded to kick the living shit out of me. If Logan hadn't saved me…" I paused, recalling the moment. He'd had a knife on him, crazed with anger and lust while it was all I could do to accept my fate at his hands, Logan, my Knight in Denim Armor had come to my rescue. Logan was my savior. But there are things you keep to yourself in moments like these, whatever they are, and I make certain not to utter my thoughts aloud.

John takes my words in with a frown. He seems to consider them, weigh them in his mind a moment and let the flavor of them roll around on his pallet before he speaks, toying with the fringe of my scarf. "Do you mind if I-?"

"It's fine." He makes no move to offer any horrified apologies just yet, instead taking this moment to carefully unwrap my black and white scarf from around my neck. I keep my head held high in soft defiance as he pulls the garment away and keep my eyes fixed to his as I watch him take in the scene before him. While I know the stark purple, black and blue have faded into something more reminiscent of a grayish yellow the imprint is still there. He exhales, letting the air hiss out as he peers at it. I feel branded. I am the ant beneath the naughty child's magnifying glass as his eyes narrow, studying the marks on my neck. Carefully he lifts a hand up, and it's all I can do not to jump backward as he traces the outline gently with his fingertips.

"I'm sorry this happened to you." The words echo out in the silence of the room, all previous offenses forgotten. His eyes snap up to meet mine again and I release the breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding.

I shrug, balking, my eyes finally flitting down to his trainers. "It could have been worse, I was lucky someone came to my aid."

"Yeah, I guess you were." I like this, the fact that he's not fussing over me, pitying me and my lot in life. Tons of people have had this happen to them, his look seems to tell me, and while it's not totally condescending, not completely without heart, it seems to ask me what makes me so special. Why should I be praised so highly for succeeding where so many already have? Why should I be mourned for when other people have had it so much worse? It's revitalizing, so strange that fire, of all things, should give me this cool glass to drink from to wash away my melancholy. Carefully, gently, he wraps the scarf back around my neck with confident hands. They linger a moment longer than decency allows before he drops them to his sides again and awareness comes screaming back to me.

Detention. St. John Allerdyce is right in my goddamn face. I told him about the man in the alley. We have to finish cleaning within the next ten minutes before Professor Summers comes back and fries us. He's so close to me I can smell him. Sweet suffering fuck this is awkward. Something changed and I don't understand it. Only Logan and the Professor know about what really happened in that alleyway, why the hell did I spew it out to Prometheus? I could have lied. He's still looking at- oh shit, Professor Summers is early.

"Is there a reason you two aren't still cleaning? This place is a mess." John and I turn to face the irritated teacher standing in the doorway. John takes a step away from me.

"Adrian fell off the desk while cleaning the ceiling, I wanted to make sure she was okay." John looks bored again, the walls coming up and closing around him like the stockades of a fortress. Professor Summers frowns and, I assume, looks me over.

"I was injured before I enrolled here, my ribs were broken. The fall gave me a little more than I'd bargained for and John was trying to coax me into going to the infirmary," I supply with a practiced calm. I'm still in a goodly amount of hurt and I'm confused to no unseemly end, but I keep myself focused on telling the English teacher the truth.

Another shrewd once over, or so I believe. "What happened to your eyes?"

"I accidentally sprayed myself with a cleaning bottle, that's what caused the fall, sir." He nods, appearing satisfied.

"All right, you can both leave for the evening, consider your detention fulfilled. I expect you both to come to class tomorrow and behave together, am I understood?" When we both responded affirmative he dismissed us. "Good night. And Adrian, enjoy seeing the world in red for a little while but be sure to rinse your eyes out with water. We'll have Jean have a look at them tomorrow for you before class." With that, he departs.

Seeing no use in putting anything else away, we vacate the room without touching it any further and shut the door, going off toward the dorms. Our pace has slowed considerably thanks to my clumsiness, but John continues to escort me none the less. We stride along in silence, parting ways to head off to the separate wings quietly with a nod in goodbye. Sighing wearily, I shamble down the hall and open my door slowly, stepping in and shutting it carefully.

"Helloooo chica!" Jubilee calls to me from her desk. "Have fun in detention with the flamer?"

"Oodles," I manage, going over to my own desk and rummaging through it for a pill bottle. Pulling out the familiar aspirin container I take two and wash them down with a glass of water, grimacing slightly at the aftertaste.

"I take it John was as charming as ever?" Kitty queried from her bed, typing on a laptop, her expression blank.

"You bet," I settle my weight down carefully upon my mattress. "Where's Rogue?"

Jubilee makes a kissing face. "With Bobby. They were taking advantage of his free room while John was with you in detention. Won't they be thrilled when he comes back early," she cackles hysterically.

"I'd be mortified, John is such a jackass sometimes," Kitty quipped, shaking her head. "Either way, they'd better hurry up or they'll be breaking curfew, and-"

The door opened, cutting Kitty off mid-sentence. Rogue quickly closed it, leaning back on it in relief. "Looks like somebody made a little bit more than curfew," Jubilee giggled.

"As much as someone can be when they have deadly skin," Rogue smirked. "Y'all shoulda seen the look on St. John's face. Ah neva took that boy for a prude but good god, you coulda painted stop signs with his cheeks."

Kitty gave her a shrewd look. "That doesn't sound much like John. The last time he did that didn't he tell you to move slightly to the left so that he could get a better view of your ass?"

Jubilee went into peels of laughter while Rogue looked contemplative for a moment. "Now that ya mention it, he was a little subdued. Did he sniff some Windex or somethin' while ya were cleanin' Adrian?"

"Something like that, yeah," I muttered, too wrapped up in my own head to really explain myself any better. Rogue shrugged, seeming satisfied with her lot after a night with Bobby while Jubilee and Kitty narrowed their sights in on me.

"I know there's something you're not telling us, chica," Jubilee waved a pencil at me. "Don't worry, we'll have you spilling it soon enough. Right Kitty?"

"Oh, you bet. You can't keep gossip from someone like Jubilee, she's a bloodhound for that stuff." I frown as I begin to contemplate just how tonight could have been in any way the tabloid fodder Jubilee seems to live for. I'm still pretty out of sorts about the whole thing, though, so I shake it out, standing up and grabbing my pajamas out of my dresser. I change in the bathroom, brushing my teeth quickly and running water over my face, cleaning my eyes out as Professor Summers instructed. I don't get it, I can't quite comprehend the last hour. Something changed, and it was so subtle I missed it in action. Now I'm pouring over it, trying to see just when and where it morphed and altered itself. It's mind-boggling, and I soon find that I tire of it. Heading out of the bathroom, I pull out my history textbook and begin reviewing my notes again for the test tomorrow. Benedict Arnold, that sneaky fox, he was a true business man, a snake playing for both sides. If he'd succeeded he'd have been brilliant, but once found out is purpose was severed and he was thrown in with the malignant and the corrupt, damned by both the Mother and her rebellious Child. Between a rock and a hard place. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Fire. John, those eyes burning into me, branding me, rooting me to the spot.

I snap my book shut, unable to concentrate. This is ridiculous, absolutely fucking batty. I need to get a grip, calm myself and wade through all the inane stuff that's collected and overflowed in the gutter of my mind. Not that my mind is in the gutter, so to speak, and especially not with thoughts of that lighter-clicking asshat, but… Wow, this really is starting to get to me. I'm confused and my brain is scrambled beyond all rational belief. That bastard, he probably did all of that just to fuck with me, toy with my head a bit so that he could laugh at me for it later, get back at me for making him look like a tool back in his room, and all those other times. It would serve me right, karma has a way of coming back to bite you in the ass, but something tells me that I was probably doing karma a favor by coming here and riling the guy up a bit; he's no angel himself, regardless of the biblical context of his name. "God gave" and "the Dark One". A dark gift. This taken into consideration, is it wrong for me to view myself the protagonist? I am water, and therefore I am life incarnate. I can be found everywhere, even on the moon. There isn't any fire on the moon, and yet without our blessed sun there would be no moon and no life here on earth. Fire and water, yin and yang, heaven and hell.

Fucking a, I'm running myself in circles with this shit, I need to go to sleep, stop thinking about this for a while. I've let him get under my skin and nothing good can come from such anxious thoughts. This is no riddle, I needn't crack to figure it out. Hearing the other girls getting ready for sleep, I move the large textbook and my notes onto my nightstand, settling under the covers for a good night's rest. Lights out and well over an hour later, I'm wondering if sleep will ever come. All that contemplative crap might have been entertaining for a moment, but now it's opened that horrifying Pandora's Box of possibilities I'd rather not consider and I find myself rolling over in irritation, shoving my head underneath a pillow with the hope of ridding my thoughts of it via smothering. I hope that jackass doesn't sleep a wink tonight, I hope he's all hot and bothered, rolling around and keeping Ice Cream awake. It would serve him right, and perhaps then Bobby wouldn't be such a damn ray of sunshine in the morning. My mind drifts unchecked to what they might, or might not, wear to sleep in and I growl with frustration, pulling my head out into the cool air and sighing heavily.

"Goddamnit Adrian, chill the fuck out and go to bed, this is getting retarded," I grumble to myself in the silence of the room. Kitty shifts in her sleep and I roll over, away from them. Squeezing my eyes shut, I calm myself, thinking of cool, glassy lakes and the rolling waves of the ocean. I hadn't been to the beach in almost a year, but I remembered the salty tang in the air and the cry of the gulls, the coastal wind wrapping it's fingers round the locks of my hair and tugging at them playfully. The elusive sturdiness of the sand beneath my bare feet, the cool water lapping at my toes, brine clinging to the dunes like one, large milk moustache. Somewhere behind me my parents are sunbathing, it's the first day off my father has had in quite some time and they're both on towels, lounging beneath a large umbrella with drinks. Things were simple then, with the wind in my hair and the fine spray of the sea in my face. Wading out to the break, I spread my arms wide and give myself, body and soul, to the great Pacific ocean, an eternal pact forged as the waves crash upon me and take me under.
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