Challenge: The Album Challenge
Summary: Kitty decides to help John after he's imprisoned.
Disclaimer: I don't own John or Kitty. I don't own X-Men. I don't own Blue October
Author's Note: Written to "She's My Ride Home" by Blue October. Here are the lyrics.
WARNINGS: Uh, talk about lack of hearts, breaking people out of prison, and murder. Other than that, there's really nothing offensive at all. At least, I don't think so.
I close my eyes, barely holding back a smile. It's nighttime now, and there's hardly anyone on the road. I'm not worried about being caught. If the cops come, we'll hear them, and Kitty will see them.
Neither of us has spoken for a long time. Not since the first hour of the trip. It's not like there's much to say, though. We know everything that's happened. We both know that, after Alcatraz, I was captured, and we both know that she came to save me. There's nothing particularly interesting about that—nothing new to either of us. All she did was visit me and sneak me a lighter. It didn't take much effort after that.
Honestly, the only thing that surprises me is that Kitty would care enough to spring me. The way I remember it, neither of us liked the other before I left, so how could she possibly care about me of all people?
I glance over at her, barely opening my eyes, to take in the sight of Kitty Pryde, behind the wheel of whatever kind of car this is and driving. All she does it drive. Glance between speedometer, road, rearview mirror, road, side mirrors, road, clock, road, speedometer, hand placements on the steering wheel, road, speedometer, engine temperature, road, clock, odometer, road, and then all over again. Her eyes stare at the road the most (generally a good thing, in my opinion), flitting across everything that the headlights bring into sight before they pass by.
For a hesitant moment, I think she glances over at me, but her eyes are the road again before I can be sure. Maybe it was just my imagination. No matter what, I know that she knows I'm watching her. I'm not sure if that's good or bad—or even if it's either.
I turn away and close my eyes again. After another moment of slightly unbearable silence, I clear my throat and say, "Why did you do it?" That's the only thing that we don't both know. She must know (I should hope so!), so why not ask her?
She doesn't say anything, but she finally succumbs, sighing in an unperceivable way before replying, "Why not?"
I feel the need to open my eyes but refuse to allow myself to do so. For some reason, I don't feel like frustrating her. Not that that would happen if I just looked at her.
"I just…" she tries again but pauses. "I just know that you didn't deserve that."
I have to open my eyes at that and raise an eyebrow. Something about the way she said that doesn't make sense. All right, so the entire statement and all of her inflections that go along with it don't make sense. I'm a murderer, aren't I? So why wouldn't I deserve prison? She doesn't make any sense. "What do you mean?" I ask, furrowing my eyebrows at the side of her face.
She doesn't seem to notice that I've said anything. She just continues like I haven't said a word. "It doesn't matter what other people think of you, does it? Of course not. I know I shouldn't be doing this. It's not very smart, is it? But I have to do this. I just feel like, if I can't help you, who can?" Her left hand leaves the steering wheel as she speaks and finds its way to her necklace. I hate that stupid necklace. "Maybe, if you feel some sort of remorse… maybe you'll be able to live a normal life again."
Does anyone else feel like laughing at that? I certainly do. But I don't laugh. No, I'm not developing manners. I just don't want to make the person who helped me escape from jail to be angry with me. That could prove disastrous. So I don't laugh. And I don't say anything. If I squash her hope now, she may just send me back. I don't want to go back. I just want to go forward.
Speaking of forward, I can't help but let, "Where are we going?" slip from my mouth before I can stop myself.
She answers without a moment's hesitation. "Home."
All right, that makes me nervous. "Uh, Kitty, where's home?"
This time, I know she looks at me, even if it's for a minimal amount of time, and a small smile flashes across her face. "Guess, John."
"Pyro," I correct immediately. I'm not John. She should have realized that.
"As long as there's hope left, I'm calling you be your name. You're John."
"Pyro," I correct again. Hadn't I just decided not to squash her hopes? Although, it's not like she's really going to give up yet. It'll be a while before that happens, I think. Still, I shouldn't try to make her unhappy. For some reason, that just seems so wrong to me.
"Home is where the heart is," she says, ignoring my repetitive correction.
I consider that for a moment before asking, "Your heart or mine?"
"Since Bobby's decided you don't have one and also because I don't know where your heart is—metaphorically speaking—then mine."
"They'll probably have it on tape, though. Security cameras, Kitty. Your house will be covered with cops by now."
"That's a good point, John," she acknowledges, her voice wavering in slight concern. She glances at me again. "If not there, if not the mansion, where to? Where is your heart, John?"
"I thought I didn't have a heart."
She smiles at that. "Where?" she asks again, her small smile leaving her face just as quickly as it had come.
I shrug. "Just drive." I think I can be content with that. Almost anywhere seems fine right now. As long as Kitty's there with me.