John's reaction to Darlene's snide insult was instantaneous and genuine: he burst into laughter again, only this time he was appreciative rather than mocking. He didn't have to play cocky smartass - it ran through his blood as surely as the X-gene, nature and nurture in perfect harmony to create the perfect asshole - but he also didn't often get to think of it as such a fun game, because very few people proved up to the task. They either got angry and turned things physical, or they got hurt and retreated in one way or another. Darlene was every bit the bitch he'd written her off as when he first saw her, and it was fucking great.

Or it would've been great if he didn't keep pressing in on his past. The moment she started launching all those questions at him, he forgot everything he was going to say about Elliot (more veiled insults to hide the fact that he actually liked Elliot a lot, because he didn't quite think he should, given what a weirdo the guy was), and he looked utterly infuriated by the time she finished. Moods, endlessly shifting moods, all of which she was drawing out with so little effort that it really did make him furious. They made a strange pair, Elliot either floating placidly on the smooth waves of morphine or repressing everything in a dense cloud of jittery quiet and John reacting so fiercely all over the place.

"That's none of your fucking business," he snarled. "None of it is. This isn't actually your place, it's Elliot's, and he trusts me. He's still alive, right? So I'm obviously not some serial killer. My parents fucked off on me before my balls had dropped and I've been keeping myself alive since then, that's my goddamn story."

Not the whole story, of course, but more than he'd ever meant to share. Her plan worked.