Post by Pyro on Jun 30, 2006 16:50:47 GMT -5
((OOC: JP'd between myself and the lovely Shadowcat))
When John had asked Kitty if she fancied coming out with him, he’d half been expecting her to gently let him down. He’d made all sorts of contingency plans in that event. When she said ‘yes’, however, it had startled him into something of a panic.
They’d taken the promised walk down to the Italian restaurant to check the menu and John had been very relieved that he had enough money to cover it. They had booked a table for Wednesday night and he’d arranged to meet her in the entrance hall of the Institute.
Rogue had not been very far fooled by Kitty's defensive argument that she was just meeting a relative in the city, since they were in town. For one thing, she carefully avoided all pronouns, it was obvious that whoever she was meeting was male and she didn't want to give it away; and for another thing, very few people sat staring into the bathroom mirror for nearly an hour for uncles or cousins.
Even when they were Kitty.
Rogue still couldn't figure out who it was she was going with, though, Kitty reminded herself as comfort; John wouldn't be getting any advice from that quarter. The walk down to the restaurant had been nice, and for a minute she'd even forgotten that this was a Date, her First Date Ever, and that it should be extremely awkward. But now, Kitty was very much reminded of the fact - somehow, awkwardness was helped along by the fact that she was wearing heels and a skirt and jewelry and worrying about her posture.
With a minute still to spare (to make up for differences in watches, of course), Kitty finally made her way down the stairs, still undecided as to whether silver was more appropriate with her blue button-down than was her little gold necklace and whether she should've worn a longer skirt, even though the one she had on came almost to her knees.
John was there already. Could she possibly be late?
"Hi," she said, giving him a smile and wishing there was a mirror so she could see whether her hair had mysteriously, on the trip from her room to the entrance hall, grown up into a mushroom cloud or otherwise destroyed itself.
He had been standing next to one of the chairs that lined the halls, flicking his Zippo on and off idly when she hailed him. He raised his green eyes to look at her, and a smile flickered across his lips.
That was one of the things about John. You never saw him smile much, but when he did, his whole demeanour changed totally. All the sullenness and sulkiness seemed to flow out of him and with the smile still in place, he nodded to her in approval.
“You look nice,” he commented.
For his own part, you could be forgiven, if you didn’t know John, for thinking that he’d not made any effort. But Kitty could see the little differences; his hair was neatly combed for once, he was wearing a pair of jeans that weren’t ripped, and his good leather jacket and, once she got close enough, she caught the faintest hint of aftershave.
Bobby’s, of course.
He smiled! Kitty always felt proud of herself when she made him smile, and it always had the upside of making her smile back, reflexively.
"Thank you," she said, her analytical eyes noting the tiny changes in his appearance. His hair wasn't a mess, he was dressed nicely (well, for him), and even -
"You do too," she said, her smile widening, "but you smell like Bobby."
John was one of the few people she ever felt comfortable teasing, mostly because he did it to her so much. Not that smelling like Bobby was a bad thing - it was better than when he sometimes appeared smelling like gas stations, though she didn't mind the woodsmoke - but it was kind of cute that he'd gone to such lengths.
He upped the smiling stakes.
He laughed.
Now that was something she could honestly say she’d only ever heard from him – genuinely – once or twice. Nine times out of ten when John laughed, it was sarcastically or even, worryingly, maniacally.
“I didn’t have any aftershave,” he admitted. “And Bobby’s out somewhere – I figured he’d not mind if I borrowed a little. One of the perks of room sharing, I suppose.” He snapped shut the lighter and stepped forward. “You good to go?”
Even Kitty giggled as John laughed, even though the joke had been hers and it was in bad taste, her mother said, to laugh at your own jokes. Mostly she was just happy she'd made John laugh.
"I'm good," she said, glad he'd finally shut the lighter. Sometimes she managed to fade it out, but the clicking tried everyone's patience after a while, including Kitty's, which was almost untriable.
"Shall we?"
“Your chariot awaits.”
John had not long got his driver’s license and through whatever means, he’d managed to get Scott Summers to agree to loan him one of the pool cars. It was a battered old hatchback, but John looked fiercely proud as he settled himself behind the wheel.
It was a short – and uneventful – trip to the restaurant and John had to park a block or two away. He locked up the car and in a moment of chivalry that surprised her, he came round to open the door for her.
The moment was lost when he mentioned that it was broken and wouldn’t open from the inside.
He walked a pace or two ahead of her rather than hold her hand or anything.
Kitty gave John a funny look, expecting to walk again, but when they emerged onto the steps outside and down onto the gravel drive, Kitty saw that, somehow, John had managed to finagle an actual car from the garage. Kitty was duly impressed.
He even opened her door when they arrived a block or two from the restaurant, even if the door didn't actually open from the inside. He could've made her crawl over through the driver's seat or something. Disloyally, she thought she wouldn't put it past him.
But he walked a pace or two ahead of her when they set off toward the restaurant, which was slightly worrying. Did he not want to be seen with her?
Kitty decided not to say anything about it. Maybe he just... didn't want Bobby to see them, if he was out and about. That was totally it.
They arrived at the restaurant and things didn’t get any better. John hadn’t had the kind of upbringing that had focused heavily on manners and so he didn’t hold the door open for her. When she entered, he was already checking their reservation.
“I booked no smoking,” said John glancing back at her. He was, oddly, a fanatical non-smoker. On top of which, too much cigarette smoke caused him headaches. His abilities wanted desperately to kick in.
“If I could take the young lady’s coat…” said the waiter. “And yours too, sir…?” John eyed him suspiciously.
“I’ll keep it with me, thanks,” he said.
“As sir wishes,” said the waiter, clearly bored in his work.
They were shown to a nice table in a fairly intimate little booth and the waiter left a couple of menus there for them. John still hadn’t taken his jacket off. His Zippo came out of his pocket and sat on the table where he could get to it easily if he had to.
“So.” He smiled uncertainly. “Here we are.”
Kitty pushed through the door and found John already checking their reservation, which appeared to have held up the few hours it had been in existence.
"Oh, cool," Kitty said to John's comment. She, obviously, did not smoke, being too young for it and not dreaming of doing anything illegal. Kitty wouldn't even drive two people under the age of 18 without someone over 25 in the front seat. She gave her coat to the waiter, but John kept his. She wondered if he thought they were going to sell it on the black coat market.
But they did have a nice little booth and it was a nice little restaurant, and Kitty found herself happy in spite of what little things were there to make her not so.
"So. here we are."
"Here we are indeed," Kitty said. She was on a DATE! Awkwardness didn't matter. "You promised me something you'd never told anyone else, if I remember right?"
“Ah, indeed I did.” John settled back in his seat and, to his surprise, found that he was feeling quite relaxed and comfortable. “But it’s something that only the Professor knows. Even he promised to make the necessary change in my file. My name’s not John.”
Kitty looked at him strangely. "What, do you have a secret identity?" she asked. That would be kind of cool. Unless he turned out to be an evil spy or an alien or someone from another dimension.
Hey, it was the X-Mansion. Stranger things had happened.
“No, not really. But I have the most stupid birth name ever in the history of ever. If Bobs found out, he’d never stop mocking me about it.”
"I won't tell Bobby," Kitty promised. "I won't tell a soul. I bet it's not the most stupid. Just tell me!"
He ducked his head shyly.
“St. John.”
Kitty stared. "Your parents," she said, "put an abbreviation in your name."
Then she started laughing.
Almost immediately, the open, affable expression that had been in his face vanished. It was like flicking a lightswitch, like turning off the happiness instantly. “I knew I should have kept it to myself,” he said, his tone a little bitter.
Kitty covered her mouth, trying to stop giggling. "No," she said. "No, it's a - it's a fine name. It's great."
She giggled for a few more seconds before saying "I think my respect for you has just gone up. It's like being the Boy Named Sue."
He stared at the menu with intensity. It became slowly evident that sharing the secret of his birth name with her had been a massive thing for him to do.
"John, it's not that big a deal," Kitty said, face bright from laughter (and trying to contain more of it). "I swear I won't tell a soul, anyway."
He raised his eyes to her and they were hopeful. “You promise? I hate it. My parents were…are…really religious types.”
"I promise," she said earnestly. "Scouts' honor. Well, girl scouts'. It's not your fault - it's not like you picked it, anyway."
Keen to change the subject, John prodded at the menu. “It all looks pretty good. What do you fancy?” The waiter returned at this point and asked what they’d like to drink. John ordered himself a coke.
“And for the young lady?”
"Just water, please," she told the waiter. Water was the perfect beverage. No cost, no calories.
"I don't know," she said to John when the server left, scanning the menu and searching for something not drenched in ricotta cheese. "I don't even remember the last time I had Italian food that wasn't Chef Boyardee. I've halfway forgot what everything is."
Plus, half the menu was in Italian, which didn't help.
“Spaghetti Arabiatta,” he suggested. “That’s not too calorific.”
The sentence startled her. She didn’t think John would have noticed how strict a diet she kept to. She also didn’t think John would have been so knowledgeable about Italian food, but then what DID she know about him?
The waiter returned to take their order and John ordered some cream-laden delight.
Kitty blinked, then blushed slightly. She really didn't think anyone had paid enough attention to what she ate to guess how nervous she was about eating anything that would push her over her daily requirements, which, though elevated because she burned so much dancing, weren't THAT elevated, especially now that she didn't practice for competition.
"Cool," she said, looking at the little description. Spaghetti was comfortably familiar, anyway. "What's Arabiatta mean?"
She ordered it anyway, deciding to trust John with this one. "How do you know so much about Italian food?"
He laughed warmly. “They tell me it means ‘angry sauce’. It’s tomato based, good pinch of chilli in there. Keeps you warm on a cold night. And I know so much about Italian food because I shared an alleyway with an Italian guy for a few months before I came to the Institute. He taught me a lot about Italian food.”
"Think about that one," Kitty said. "Your name could mean 'angry sauce.' I wouldn't think twice if I met a girl named Arabiatta."
She took a sip of her water, which the waiter'd left with John's coke when he took their orders. "You shared an alleyway?"
“Yeah,” he said, nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly. “I was a street kid for a while, remember?”
It was the first time something that had been little more than a whispered rumour about John had found actual fact out loud. Of course, he’d alluded to it in many of he and Kitty’s late night messenger conversations, but to hear him mention it so blithely gave it form.
"I guess I just never connected it to actually being on the streets," Kitty said, a little somberer. "I didn't really believe the rumor until you sent me that thing you wrote."
Kitty, on the other hand, hadn't ever even shared a bedroom until summer camp. "But I guess you picked up some useful knowledge, right? Silver lining."
“Oh, yeah. Really useful knowledge.” Like how not to die on a near-freezing night. Like how to scavenge for food and clothing. Like how to plunge the depths of despair and totally believe that death was a better option.
He had only been fourteen years old when he’d hit the streets. He’d aged a decade in the first month.
"Well, I don't know anything about Italian - anything," Kitty said encouragingly. "You're officially useful. More useful."
She played with the hem of her sleeves, twisting the buttons that held her cuffs together. "You're not there anymore," she said gently, trying to catch John's eye. "It's fine now, right?"
“Yeah,” he said, softly, his hand briefly closing over his lighter. “Yeah, it’s fine. Hey, how about a little candlelight?”
"Okay, good," Kitty said, then looked worriedly at the lighter.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked. It was like driving when you were emotional: you hit the gas a little too hard and ended up careening to your death over the edge of an overpass, which was a fate that always lingered at teh edge of Kitty's mind when she took the freeway anywhere. "We're in public."
“Aw, c’mon, Kitty, its just one little flame – what can go wrong? Let go. Live a little.”
Kitty gave the lighter another dubious glance and only said "be careful."
“Trust me,” he said and flipped open the Zippo. His thumb rested on the ignition wheel and he looked up with a grin. “You DO trust me, right, Kits?”
"Sure I trust you," Kitty said. "Just not sure why some days."
“Figures,” he said, that same bitter tone creeping into his voice as he thumbed the ignition on the lighter. “You and the rest of the Institute, huh?”
To her surprise, he didn’t use his powers, merely leaned forward with the lighter and touched it to the wick of the candle.
"Well, some days, you make liking you quite an adventure," Kitty said pertly, not wanting to get John off on another angst trip again.
She smiled as he simply touched the lighter to the wick of the candle. "Thanks," she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said setting the lighter down again. It was obvious from the slightly defensive set of his shoulders that he felt wounded by her words, however. John may have been in some ways somewhat of a mystery, but his emotions were never hard to divine.
“Could do with being a bit brighter, though,” he murmured thoughtfully, fixing his green eyes on the flickering flame, which flared slightly to his thought process.
"I didn't mean anything by it," Kitty said. She hated doing this. She was so DUMB sometimes. "I'm sure I get annoying, too."
"Could do with being a bit brighter, though."
The candle flared up a little, and Kitty looked at John warily. "How much?"
"I didn't mean anything by it," Kitty said. She hated doing this. She was so DUMB sometimes. "I'm sure I get annoying, too."
"Could do with being a bit brighter, though."
The candle flared up a little, and Kitty looked at John warily. "How much?"
There it was. What she was dreading. A maniacal grin.
“As bright as you want, Kitty. As bright as the sun, if you like.”
"I really don't think that's a good idea," Kitty said, resisting the urge to press herself back against the booth. It wasn't John she was scared of (she said), it was the flame, but both were across the table from her, and she didn't want John to get the wrong idea. "I think it's fine... just like that. Fine."
“Aww, just a little more?” he said, almost plaintively.
It would all have gone so well if the woman at the table seated next to them hadn’t taken that very moment to laugh, a high-pitched squawk of a laugh that drew his flighty attention away from what he was doing.
It all went out of control very quickly from that point as the candle flame burned suddenly very brightly indeed. John turned to get control of it back, misjudged his approach and sent the flame bursting from the candle instead.
Straight towards Kitty.
Kitty threw up her arms with a shriek, but unfortunately, 90%-10% cotton-spandex blend didn't appear to be quite as flammable as her hair, especially with the gel she'd thrown in it to make it hang right.
The shriek turned into a full-on scream when she realized that her head was on fire. Rationality was out the window.
Well, her head was on fire. It was not going to be a rational moment.
It was milliseconds before John acted, but it seemed like much longer for Kitty, who was, after all, the one on fire. He drew the flames from her like someone would wipe a spilled drink and immediately extinguished them. “It’s over,” he said, anxiously. “The fire’s gone, Kitty…Kitty, are you OK?”
Kitty gasped when she felt cool air against the nape of her neck, which suddenly stung a lot. A hand came up reflexively to clutch at her hair - little more than singed protein now as it crunched off in her hand, at least the long pieces.
"It's over. The fire's gone, Kitty... Kitty, are you OK?"
She sat perfectly still for almost two seconds, breathing hard, the inches of the still-whole roots of the burned hair still in her fingers, her eyes hugely wide, before she stood up and, in a single, smooth, reflexive movement, she picked up her water and threw it into John's face. It seemed like the only thing to do in the moment.
Without a word (but with an enraged/horrified sound), she turned and ran from the restaurant, not even stopping to get her coat back from the host.
John sat there for a few moments, water dripping from his face, a look of mortified horror on his face.
“Well, it could have been worse,” he said, morosely as he headed for the door.
When John had asked Kitty if she fancied coming out with him, he’d half been expecting her to gently let him down. He’d made all sorts of contingency plans in that event. When she said ‘yes’, however, it had startled him into something of a panic.
They’d taken the promised walk down to the Italian restaurant to check the menu and John had been very relieved that he had enough money to cover it. They had booked a table for Wednesday night and he’d arranged to meet her in the entrance hall of the Institute.
Rogue had not been very far fooled by Kitty's defensive argument that she was just meeting a relative in the city, since they were in town. For one thing, she carefully avoided all pronouns, it was obvious that whoever she was meeting was male and she didn't want to give it away; and for another thing, very few people sat staring into the bathroom mirror for nearly an hour for uncles or cousins.
Even when they were Kitty.
Rogue still couldn't figure out who it was she was going with, though, Kitty reminded herself as comfort; John wouldn't be getting any advice from that quarter. The walk down to the restaurant had been nice, and for a minute she'd even forgotten that this was a Date, her First Date Ever, and that it should be extremely awkward. But now, Kitty was very much reminded of the fact - somehow, awkwardness was helped along by the fact that she was wearing heels and a skirt and jewelry and worrying about her posture.
With a minute still to spare (to make up for differences in watches, of course), Kitty finally made her way down the stairs, still undecided as to whether silver was more appropriate with her blue button-down than was her little gold necklace and whether she should've worn a longer skirt, even though the one she had on came almost to her knees.
John was there already. Could she possibly be late?
"Hi," she said, giving him a smile and wishing there was a mirror so she could see whether her hair had mysteriously, on the trip from her room to the entrance hall, grown up into a mushroom cloud or otherwise destroyed itself.
He had been standing next to one of the chairs that lined the halls, flicking his Zippo on and off idly when she hailed him. He raised his green eyes to look at her, and a smile flickered across his lips.
That was one of the things about John. You never saw him smile much, but when he did, his whole demeanour changed totally. All the sullenness and sulkiness seemed to flow out of him and with the smile still in place, he nodded to her in approval.
“You look nice,” he commented.
For his own part, you could be forgiven, if you didn’t know John, for thinking that he’d not made any effort. But Kitty could see the little differences; his hair was neatly combed for once, he was wearing a pair of jeans that weren’t ripped, and his good leather jacket and, once she got close enough, she caught the faintest hint of aftershave.
Bobby’s, of course.
He smiled! Kitty always felt proud of herself when she made him smile, and it always had the upside of making her smile back, reflexively.
"Thank you," she said, her analytical eyes noting the tiny changes in his appearance. His hair wasn't a mess, he was dressed nicely (well, for him), and even -
"You do too," she said, her smile widening, "but you smell like Bobby."
John was one of the few people she ever felt comfortable teasing, mostly because he did it to her so much. Not that smelling like Bobby was a bad thing - it was better than when he sometimes appeared smelling like gas stations, though she didn't mind the woodsmoke - but it was kind of cute that he'd gone to such lengths.
He upped the smiling stakes.
He laughed.
Now that was something she could honestly say she’d only ever heard from him – genuinely – once or twice. Nine times out of ten when John laughed, it was sarcastically or even, worryingly, maniacally.
“I didn’t have any aftershave,” he admitted. “And Bobby’s out somewhere – I figured he’d not mind if I borrowed a little. One of the perks of room sharing, I suppose.” He snapped shut the lighter and stepped forward. “You good to go?”
Even Kitty giggled as John laughed, even though the joke had been hers and it was in bad taste, her mother said, to laugh at your own jokes. Mostly she was just happy she'd made John laugh.
"I'm good," she said, glad he'd finally shut the lighter. Sometimes she managed to fade it out, but the clicking tried everyone's patience after a while, including Kitty's, which was almost untriable.
"Shall we?"
“Your chariot awaits.”
John had not long got his driver’s license and through whatever means, he’d managed to get Scott Summers to agree to loan him one of the pool cars. It was a battered old hatchback, but John looked fiercely proud as he settled himself behind the wheel.
It was a short – and uneventful – trip to the restaurant and John had to park a block or two away. He locked up the car and in a moment of chivalry that surprised her, he came round to open the door for her.
The moment was lost when he mentioned that it was broken and wouldn’t open from the inside.
He walked a pace or two ahead of her rather than hold her hand or anything.
Kitty gave John a funny look, expecting to walk again, but when they emerged onto the steps outside and down onto the gravel drive, Kitty saw that, somehow, John had managed to finagle an actual car from the garage. Kitty was duly impressed.
He even opened her door when they arrived a block or two from the restaurant, even if the door didn't actually open from the inside. He could've made her crawl over through the driver's seat or something. Disloyally, she thought she wouldn't put it past him.
But he walked a pace or two ahead of her when they set off toward the restaurant, which was slightly worrying. Did he not want to be seen with her?
Kitty decided not to say anything about it. Maybe he just... didn't want Bobby to see them, if he was out and about. That was totally it.
They arrived at the restaurant and things didn’t get any better. John hadn’t had the kind of upbringing that had focused heavily on manners and so he didn’t hold the door open for her. When she entered, he was already checking their reservation.
“I booked no smoking,” said John glancing back at her. He was, oddly, a fanatical non-smoker. On top of which, too much cigarette smoke caused him headaches. His abilities wanted desperately to kick in.
“If I could take the young lady’s coat…” said the waiter. “And yours too, sir…?” John eyed him suspiciously.
“I’ll keep it with me, thanks,” he said.
“As sir wishes,” said the waiter, clearly bored in his work.
They were shown to a nice table in a fairly intimate little booth and the waiter left a couple of menus there for them. John still hadn’t taken his jacket off. His Zippo came out of his pocket and sat on the table where he could get to it easily if he had to.
“So.” He smiled uncertainly. “Here we are.”
Kitty pushed through the door and found John already checking their reservation, which appeared to have held up the few hours it had been in existence.
"Oh, cool," Kitty said to John's comment. She, obviously, did not smoke, being too young for it and not dreaming of doing anything illegal. Kitty wouldn't even drive two people under the age of 18 without someone over 25 in the front seat. She gave her coat to the waiter, but John kept his. She wondered if he thought they were going to sell it on the black coat market.
But they did have a nice little booth and it was a nice little restaurant, and Kitty found herself happy in spite of what little things were there to make her not so.
"So. here we are."
"Here we are indeed," Kitty said. She was on a DATE! Awkwardness didn't matter. "You promised me something you'd never told anyone else, if I remember right?"
“Ah, indeed I did.” John settled back in his seat and, to his surprise, found that he was feeling quite relaxed and comfortable. “But it’s something that only the Professor knows. Even he promised to make the necessary change in my file. My name’s not John.”
Kitty looked at him strangely. "What, do you have a secret identity?" she asked. That would be kind of cool. Unless he turned out to be an evil spy or an alien or someone from another dimension.
Hey, it was the X-Mansion. Stranger things had happened.
“No, not really. But I have the most stupid birth name ever in the history of ever. If Bobs found out, he’d never stop mocking me about it.”
"I won't tell Bobby," Kitty promised. "I won't tell a soul. I bet it's not the most stupid. Just tell me!"
He ducked his head shyly.
“St. John.”
Kitty stared. "Your parents," she said, "put an abbreviation in your name."
Then she started laughing.
Almost immediately, the open, affable expression that had been in his face vanished. It was like flicking a lightswitch, like turning off the happiness instantly. “I knew I should have kept it to myself,” he said, his tone a little bitter.
Kitty covered her mouth, trying to stop giggling. "No," she said. "No, it's a - it's a fine name. It's great."
She giggled for a few more seconds before saying "I think my respect for you has just gone up. It's like being the Boy Named Sue."
He stared at the menu with intensity. It became slowly evident that sharing the secret of his birth name with her had been a massive thing for him to do.
"John, it's not that big a deal," Kitty said, face bright from laughter (and trying to contain more of it). "I swear I won't tell a soul, anyway."
He raised his eyes to her and they were hopeful. “You promise? I hate it. My parents were…are…really religious types.”
"I promise," she said earnestly. "Scouts' honor. Well, girl scouts'. It's not your fault - it's not like you picked it, anyway."
Keen to change the subject, John prodded at the menu. “It all looks pretty good. What do you fancy?” The waiter returned at this point and asked what they’d like to drink. John ordered himself a coke.
“And for the young lady?”
"Just water, please," she told the waiter. Water was the perfect beverage. No cost, no calories.
"I don't know," she said to John when the server left, scanning the menu and searching for something not drenched in ricotta cheese. "I don't even remember the last time I had Italian food that wasn't Chef Boyardee. I've halfway forgot what everything is."
Plus, half the menu was in Italian, which didn't help.
“Spaghetti Arabiatta,” he suggested. “That’s not too calorific.”
The sentence startled her. She didn’t think John would have noticed how strict a diet she kept to. She also didn’t think John would have been so knowledgeable about Italian food, but then what DID she know about him?
The waiter returned to take their order and John ordered some cream-laden delight.
Kitty blinked, then blushed slightly. She really didn't think anyone had paid enough attention to what she ate to guess how nervous she was about eating anything that would push her over her daily requirements, which, though elevated because she burned so much dancing, weren't THAT elevated, especially now that she didn't practice for competition.
"Cool," she said, looking at the little description. Spaghetti was comfortably familiar, anyway. "What's Arabiatta mean?"
She ordered it anyway, deciding to trust John with this one. "How do you know so much about Italian food?"
He laughed warmly. “They tell me it means ‘angry sauce’. It’s tomato based, good pinch of chilli in there. Keeps you warm on a cold night. And I know so much about Italian food because I shared an alleyway with an Italian guy for a few months before I came to the Institute. He taught me a lot about Italian food.”
"Think about that one," Kitty said. "Your name could mean 'angry sauce.' I wouldn't think twice if I met a girl named Arabiatta."
She took a sip of her water, which the waiter'd left with John's coke when he took their orders. "You shared an alleyway?"
“Yeah,” he said, nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly. “I was a street kid for a while, remember?”
It was the first time something that had been little more than a whispered rumour about John had found actual fact out loud. Of course, he’d alluded to it in many of he and Kitty’s late night messenger conversations, but to hear him mention it so blithely gave it form.
"I guess I just never connected it to actually being on the streets," Kitty said, a little somberer. "I didn't really believe the rumor until you sent me that thing you wrote."
Kitty, on the other hand, hadn't ever even shared a bedroom until summer camp. "But I guess you picked up some useful knowledge, right? Silver lining."
“Oh, yeah. Really useful knowledge.” Like how not to die on a near-freezing night. Like how to scavenge for food and clothing. Like how to plunge the depths of despair and totally believe that death was a better option.
He had only been fourteen years old when he’d hit the streets. He’d aged a decade in the first month.
"Well, I don't know anything about Italian - anything," Kitty said encouragingly. "You're officially useful. More useful."
She played with the hem of her sleeves, twisting the buttons that held her cuffs together. "You're not there anymore," she said gently, trying to catch John's eye. "It's fine now, right?"
“Yeah,” he said, softly, his hand briefly closing over his lighter. “Yeah, it’s fine. Hey, how about a little candlelight?”
"Okay, good," Kitty said, then looked worriedly at the lighter.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked. It was like driving when you were emotional: you hit the gas a little too hard and ended up careening to your death over the edge of an overpass, which was a fate that always lingered at teh edge of Kitty's mind when she took the freeway anywhere. "We're in public."
“Aw, c’mon, Kitty, its just one little flame – what can go wrong? Let go. Live a little.”
Kitty gave the lighter another dubious glance and only said "be careful."
“Trust me,” he said and flipped open the Zippo. His thumb rested on the ignition wheel and he looked up with a grin. “You DO trust me, right, Kits?”
"Sure I trust you," Kitty said. "Just not sure why some days."
“Figures,” he said, that same bitter tone creeping into his voice as he thumbed the ignition on the lighter. “You and the rest of the Institute, huh?”
To her surprise, he didn’t use his powers, merely leaned forward with the lighter and touched it to the wick of the candle.
"Well, some days, you make liking you quite an adventure," Kitty said pertly, not wanting to get John off on another angst trip again.
She smiled as he simply touched the lighter to the wick of the candle. "Thanks," she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said setting the lighter down again. It was obvious from the slightly defensive set of his shoulders that he felt wounded by her words, however. John may have been in some ways somewhat of a mystery, but his emotions were never hard to divine.
“Could do with being a bit brighter, though,” he murmured thoughtfully, fixing his green eyes on the flickering flame, which flared slightly to his thought process.
"I didn't mean anything by it," Kitty said. She hated doing this. She was so DUMB sometimes. "I'm sure I get annoying, too."
"Could do with being a bit brighter, though."
The candle flared up a little, and Kitty looked at John warily. "How much?"
"I didn't mean anything by it," Kitty said. She hated doing this. She was so DUMB sometimes. "I'm sure I get annoying, too."
"Could do with being a bit brighter, though."
The candle flared up a little, and Kitty looked at John warily. "How much?"
There it was. What she was dreading. A maniacal grin.
“As bright as you want, Kitty. As bright as the sun, if you like.”
"I really don't think that's a good idea," Kitty said, resisting the urge to press herself back against the booth. It wasn't John she was scared of (she said), it was the flame, but both were across the table from her, and she didn't want John to get the wrong idea. "I think it's fine... just like that. Fine."
“Aww, just a little more?” he said, almost plaintively.
It would all have gone so well if the woman at the table seated next to them hadn’t taken that very moment to laugh, a high-pitched squawk of a laugh that drew his flighty attention away from what he was doing.
It all went out of control very quickly from that point as the candle flame burned suddenly very brightly indeed. John turned to get control of it back, misjudged his approach and sent the flame bursting from the candle instead.
Straight towards Kitty.
Kitty threw up her arms with a shriek, but unfortunately, 90%-10% cotton-spandex blend didn't appear to be quite as flammable as her hair, especially with the gel she'd thrown in it to make it hang right.
The shriek turned into a full-on scream when she realized that her head was on fire. Rationality was out the window.
Well, her head was on fire. It was not going to be a rational moment.
It was milliseconds before John acted, but it seemed like much longer for Kitty, who was, after all, the one on fire. He drew the flames from her like someone would wipe a spilled drink and immediately extinguished them. “It’s over,” he said, anxiously. “The fire’s gone, Kitty…Kitty, are you OK?”
Kitty gasped when she felt cool air against the nape of her neck, which suddenly stung a lot. A hand came up reflexively to clutch at her hair - little more than singed protein now as it crunched off in her hand, at least the long pieces.
"It's over. The fire's gone, Kitty... Kitty, are you OK?"
She sat perfectly still for almost two seconds, breathing hard, the inches of the still-whole roots of the burned hair still in her fingers, her eyes hugely wide, before she stood up and, in a single, smooth, reflexive movement, she picked up her water and threw it into John's face. It seemed like the only thing to do in the moment.
Without a word (but with an enraged/horrified sound), she turned and ran from the restaurant, not even stopping to get her coat back from the host.
John sat there for a few moments, water dripping from his face, a look of mortified horror on his face.
“Well, it could have been worse,” he said, morosely as he headed for the door.
