[It All Started With Duck Pajamas...]

School, John found, was gradually getting harder and harder to concentrate on as the week progressed.

He was sitting in the commons, watching with little enthusiasm as Blink kicked Bobby's ass at Slap Jack. It had been a week since he'd last talked to Kitten, and, God Damn It All, it was driving him absolutely insane. Every time he saw her in the hall, he fought the memory of the kiss to the back of his mind, though it was a fight he usually lost. And every time she wore that damned shirt, which had only been once since that day, it drove him to the point of insanity. He made a mental note to burn it once he got it off of her, because for some reason he just couldn't stand to see her in it without wanting it off. Stupid low cut, sexy-as-hell, thin strapped shirt.

He almost gave an audible groan of frustration as the card game switched to Black Jack and more people joined in. He flicked his lighter open and closed, but that only made his thoughts drift back to her. Fuck. Even his freaking lighterreminded him of her. One whole week of not talking to her, of not making contact with her, of her ignoring him. He shoved his lighter viciously into the back pocket of his jeans and all but threw himself off the couch and into the rain outside for a desperately needed rain-soaked walk.

This... whatever, he had with Kitten was a game. He knew it. She knew it. Anyone else who knew about it, knew it. Emotions didn't need to be involved in this at all, especially ones that were linked to wanting her. Good God, he'd known the girl for what? Two weeks? He growled and tugged at his auburn hair. Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

--

She walked in the rain, mascara slightly smudged under her eyes even though it was supposed to be waterproof. The dark green tee-shirt she wore was soaked through completely, black sports bra visible. Her jeans were drenched, weighing her down. Her worn down Etnies were squelching in a way that would have made her mother cringe. Her hair was a disaster; she didn't need a mirror to know that one.

All in all, her appearence was the personification of hell itself, but at that exact moment, she didn't happen to care.

She'd gotten a letter from her father that morning. The return address had been Santa Monica, California. No address, no zip code, just the city and the state. The envelope had smelled like a perfume that didn't belong to her mother. The letter was on lavender colored paper that obviously belonged to the woman he ran off with, and his handwriting was still the scribbly, messy loops it had been since she'd been able to read it. It said that he missed her, and that he'd gotten promoted to sheriff where he was working. He said that he hoped that she was having a good time at school and that he hoped she wasn't angry at him.

After reading it, she had crumple the paper, ripped it into tiny pieces, and then set those pieces on fire before putting the ashes in a little black box. She filled the box with rocks, duct-taped it shut, and drove out to lake Ontario, an hour's drive. When she got there, she winged the box into the lake as hard as she could and prayed that it stayed at the bottom of the great lake for all eternity, along with whatever respect, love, or care she had ever felt towards the man who dared call himself her father.

She wiped tears from her eyes as she prowled Xavier's grounds. Her father was a cheat. Her father was a liar. He hadn't always been that way. There'd been a time when he loved her and took her out for ice cream and bought her presents just because he loved to spoil his little princess. Even though she had a little sister, her father openly admitted to her that he loved her the most. He taught her to fix motorcycles, do algebra, and to study hard. He used to do science experiments with her when she didn't understand what they were learning in class. He used to play catch with her and he took her to the batting range to teach her how to use a baseball bat as a weapon, in case she ever needed it (to this day, she still had a baseball bat next to her bed that she never used).

When she became a mutant and her mother became distant, her father had only slipped away slightly for a few months, before he got used to it. He thought her mutation was the coolest thing in the entire world; he'd told her so. He told her that she'd be an amazing cop, because she could phase right through bullets. Her life would never be in danger in the way his was.

Granted, her life was in danger when she worked missions, but she never told her father that she got into the X-men, never told him that she fought at Alcatraz. He didn't need to know that his daughter had helped save the world. It was too much for her to wrap her head around, and she would never talk to her father ever again, anyways. He'd left her mother and little sister for some twenty-something blond in Santa Monica. He'd left his pride, his home, his family, his love, his everything, when he left the house that day, the second day she was home that summer.

But most importantly, he'd left her.

She gave a shriek of frustration, a cry of anguish, as she punched the closest thing to her, which happened to be a tree. Tears stung her eyes as she felt her bones snap. Broken fingers. Lovely. She held her fingers to her, tears of anger, sadness, and pain falling from her eyes, as she sat down on the ground, leaning against the tree. She hit the back of her head on the rough bark, and winced as it scraped at her scalp. But for once, she didn't mind the pain so much. When that thought crossed her mind, she idly wondered if she was slowly becoming a subconscious masochist due to her sudden whirlwind depression.

Kitty let out a laugh. God, she was starting to sound like a shrink. Listen to the voice in her head. Pathetic. She ground her teeth, clenching her jaw as she stared up at the storming sky that gave a rumble of thunder as a response to her death-like glare. A flash of lightening flew through the sky. Storm must have been having a bad day if she wasn't keep the possible threat of lightening strikes at bay. Kitty didn't mind though. Maybe getting struck by lightening wasn't as bad as everyone made it out to be. Could she phase through lightening? It was pure electrical current, so probably not. Electrical currents made her atoms and molecules all confused, and it stung like hell. She remembered her first run in with phasing through electrical fences when she was running away from her home the day her father left. She had made it through, but her phase-form didn't wear off when she told it to, and she had an insane buzz, her heart rate messed up and her brain throbbing.

She looked back up to the sky as a lightening bolt hit the ground a mile or two away. That was way more powerful than an electric fence. She wouldn't risk it.

She stood up and dusted off her jeans even though they were soaking and the gesture didn't do a thing. She shivered, the coldness of the rain soaking her clothes suddenly violently obvious. She looked around, and spotted him staring at her a couple of yards away.

Had he seen her punch the tree? Had he seen her cry? Had he heard her laugh at herself?

"Do you stalk me or something?" she spat, glaring at him as his thoughts suddenly came back to earth. She was soaked to the bone, dark hair in a messy, dripping bun, slight mascara smears just under her eyes. Her fingers, which she was holding, were bloody and bent at an odd angle. John knew that kind of injury, having punched quite a few hard, unbreakable things himself. Broken fingers. He knew they hurt like hell. He tried to ignore the fact that he could see her bra as he walked closer to her, his eyes narrowed slightly against the downpour of rain that was suddenly coming down in several-ton buckets.

"You can make whatever you want of it," he told her, "but you should get inside. Those fingers aren't going to magically heal by themselves."

"Oh, so now you care about me?" she asked, laughing in a way that gave him the hint that she didn't honestly think it was funny.

"No, he replied, though something in the back of his mind told him different. He glared at her. "I just don't want to hear you bitch about them later. And you're going to get sick if you stay out any longer."

"Okay, mother," she said sarcastically, walking past him. He followed, intent on dragging her to the infirmary if it was necessary. He glared at her back. Why the hell did he care about her well-being in the first place.

Damn, stupid concious. Damn stupid, girl. Dam, stupid hormones.

Fuck his life.

--

He waited in the hallway as she went to change clothes. Something in the hallway smelled off, like bourbon, cinnamon, sugar, flowers, and the kind of smell that guys just always have. A mix of cologne and perfume. When he figured out that it was coming from Kitty's room, he made a move to speak up, but she had already phased through the door. Three seconds later, there was a thud, a gasp, and a French swear on the other side of Kitty's door. Two seconds after that, Kitty ran through the door, eyes and mouth three perfect circles of horror and/or shock. She was still dripping wet, her appearance unchanged other than the priceless expression on her face. He smirked.

"What's the matter, Kitten, never walked in on someone while they're taking care of bussiness?" he taunted. She threw him a glare before shivering, fighting off the instinct to let her teeth clatter.

"Shut up," she retorted. Honestly, it had been her first time walking in on people doing... that, and the fact that it was her best friend and that new Cajun only made it all worse. John smirked before studying her a minute. He looked at her drenched attire and shivering form before he sighed. Damn his sympathy to hell, specifically the sympathy he held for her.

"Come on, I'll lend you some clothes," he said grumpily, walking towards his own room, which was down the hallway and to the left. She followed, trying to fight of the fact that she was actually eager to see what his room looked like. Something in the back of her mind wondered why he was being remotely nice to her, but she shook it off, thankful for the kindness after such a shitty, emotionally draining day.

She walked next to him, feeling awkward if she walked in front of him but also awkward if she lagged behind, like some lost puppy. He unlocked his door and slid inside; she followed, shutting the door behind her before she studied his abode.

It was obvious that he shared it with Bobby, and it wasn't hard to see who's side of the room was who's. One side of the room had a Coldplay poster, a few pictures of Bobby and Rogue when they were dating, a few pictures of Bobby with his friends, a few hockey trophies. The sheets were dark flannel, and the blanket was a dark blue duvet that could do with a cycle through the washer and dryer. A pair of boxers lied forgotten at the foot of the bed, an a T-shirt was slung over the headboard. A Dave Matthew's band CD skipped in the CD player. John gave it a good 'thawk' with his hand, and it turned off, the music dying off.

The other side of the room so obviously belonged to John, it was crazy. The sheets were black, along with the blanket covering it. A few metal band posters, like Disturbed, Metallica, and Killswitch Engage littered the walls. No photos decorated his walls. Dark t-shirts, white socks, and a few pairs of jeans littered the floors. An ipod charged in the wall, and a pack of cigarettes sat on his bedside table, near to the window.

"You smoke?" she asked. She'd thought she smelled it on him on the way here, but didn't know for sure. He grunted.

"Family habit," he explained shortly, before throwing her a dark T-shirt and a pair of jeans that he used to wear back before he left Xavier's (he didn't know why he still had them, they'd been too small for years). She ducked into his bathroom to change (much to his secret disappointment), so he laid down on his bed, unlacing his boots and kicking them off. He heard her move around in the small room, the sound of wet jeans hitting the tile floor after squelching sneakers were removed, along with soaked socks that slapped the floor. He forced him mind away from the image of Kitty naked in his bathroom, willing himself to stare at the ceiling and think of things that made him pleasantly angry, like Dr. Suess, Spongebob Squarepants, and Hannah Montana. He heard the tap running and guessed that she was washing the mascara from her face. The rustle of clothes caught his ears a second later, and then she opened the door.

She liked to think that she was light-headed because she hadn't eaten anything, but honestly, she was used to that, so she knew that it was the way his shirt smelled absolutely amazing and how good it looked on her. She wasn't going to lie to herself when she had looked in the mirror: in his shirt, she looked damn sexy, at least sexier than she ever thought she looked in any of her clothes. His jeans fit like a glove, the perfect fit around her hips, and a little too long. They were obviously too small for him, knowing how tall he was. For a second, she let herself wonder what would happen if she just kept them before she shoved the thought out of her mind. She had given herself another once over before she rolled up the sleeves of the T-shirt a tad. Perfect. She should have tried the boyfriend look awhile ago.

"Thanks," she said quietly as he stared at her from his bed. Damn, she looked amazing in that Metallica T-shirt. And he might as well just let her keep the jeans; they looked better on her than they ever did on him. Her feet were bare, and she held her clothes and shoes in her right hand, a dripping mass of fabric. He desperately tried to ignore the fact that he saw her bra in said mass of fabric.

"You're welcome," he mumbled, flustered now. She stood there silently for a second before turning and leaving, locking the door behind her as it clicked gently closed. Her scent lingered in the air, and John sighed, tugging at his hair. First, he couldn't stop thinking about the kiss. Now, he was being nice to her and liking how she looked in his clothes.

Fuck his life.