AN: This was the hardest thing to write. Honest opinion: is this moving too fast? Also, happy long weekend guys :3

The clock reads 2:23 a.m. when he comes back from the Danger Room. Jean knows the exact time because she's spent the last few hours staring at the red glow of the alarm clock, unable to sleep. Only when the door quietly opens does she realize it's because she's been waiting for him.

Scott guides the door shut behind him and starts moving about the room, trying not to wake her. Or maybe more like, trying to avoid her. He'd locked himself in for an impromptu training session just before dinner and, field leader or not, a nine hour training session was excessive for anyone but Logan. Scott knew Jean went to bed early. He'd known it even before he'd moved into her room (their friends had exploded with hushed, gossipy whispers. The Professor had turned a kind, blind eye). Since the catastrophic afternoon, they hadn't seen each other. But Jean hadn't really been sure if it was coincidence until now. She'd admit she'd spent longer than usual in the lab with McCoy, but under the circumstances wasn't that to be expected? And they'd both made themselves conveniently scarce when Tabitha started knocking on doors for the party - but it wasn't like either of them had been party animals, was it?

But now, with Scott padding silently around their room at 2:23 in the morning and cursing quietly when the drawers bumped, now she was sure. They had planned their evenings around each other, consciously or not, each engineering their schedules so they wouldn't overlap. They were avoiding each other.

Strangely enough, Jean felt a sharp prick of guilt for being awake. So she lay quietly on her side of the bed, back to the door, eyes open in the dark. She listened to the sound of his shifting clothes. The faint smell of sweat. A barely audible scrape of breath.

Should I say something? The question simmered in the back of her skull.

She was painfully self-conscious of how still she was laying. Did she normally sleep this still? Was it obvious that she was faking? Was she even faking at all? After all, with the red light constantly streaming out of his eyes and reflecting against his lenses, Scott had perfect night vision. And while she lay still as death, Jean's eyes were open. He just hadn't looked at her face, presumably. Or maybe he had, and just chosen to pretend he hadn't. Maybe he was only pretending he didn't know she was awake as much as she was pretending to be asleep. Maybe he just had nothing to say.

(And in her nightstand drawer, the ring was practically searing a bright red hole through the wood).

All things considered, she couldn't blame him. Part of her was surprised he'd come back to their room all. It wasn't as if Scott had never been found bunking on the library couch after a fight.

The soft click of the bathroom door and the sound of pipes coming on told Jean he'd gotten into the shower. She stared at the alarm, hating every second that flicked by every minute. Everything about this night, in fact. This week. This month. Herself.

She was still awake when Scott came out an hour later, wet and smelling of soap, to lie as far as he could on the other side of the bed. He didn't curl in from behind her like he usually did, fitting the curve of her back into his chest. Instead, he lay like a stranger on the other side of the bed. Jean thought she could see the red blink of his visor against the ceiling.

This whole thing was ridiculous.

"Scott?"

On the other side of the bed, the faint sound of his breathing stopped. The red glow of his visor on the ceiling blinked out and didn't come back. She waited, still. Only silence answered her. Jean held it, hoped against it, and then let it pass. She decided to let him pretend he hadn't heard her, or that he was already asleep (but Scott never fell asleep quickly, even when he was exhausted and bloody, ground out to his bones and dragging himself to bed). What could it hurt to let him pretend? It was just another little lie falling in place between them. Another little bit of distance. It wasn't like she could blame him, could she? She owed it to him, didn't she?

XxXxXxX

When the jeep pulled to a stop, Kitty stirred, prying her eyes open to see what looked like a two story, brick box of a building. RICK'S GARAGE was painted in block caps across the front, illuminated by a lone, orange-hued street lamp. Lance pulled the keys out of the ignition.

Kitty blinked, startled that she'd fallen asleep. She scrubbed at her face. Her skin felt five inches thicker than usual. Her head was swimming. "Where is this?" She croaked.

"Auto shop." Lance said unhelpfully, getting out of the car as if they did this every weekend.

Kitty looked around. The lot was nearly empty. One or two other cars were stacked on the back of a carriage truck.

"You coming or what?"

Kitty scowled at Lance's retreating back but started fumbling with her seatbelt nonetheless. She wished, for the millionth time, that her powers hadn't bailed on her. She was way too drunk to be dealing with... seat belts. Once freed, Kitty lowered herself out of the Jeep. Her skirt hiked up her thighs as she slid down, and she was suddenly very aware of just how mini it was. She tugged it down as far as it would stretch, and sent a quick thank you to whoever was listening that Lance had been facing the other way. "Did we break down?" she called, her voice thick with sleep. Lance just kept walking, as if she wasn't even there. Kitty stuck her tongue out at his back and then she followed him grudgingly across the lot. The pavement had kept in the summer sun's heat and was warm against her feet, because - for some ungodly reason - she was also barefoot. Another plus about Lance walking away from her: he couldn't see her slightly unsteady footing. "Last time I let Boom Boom talk me into anything," she muttered.

When they came to a plain, unmarked service door, Kitty realized that they'd walked up to the back entrance. Lance stopped at the door and started fishing in his jeans pocket.

"Seriously, Lance? You're breaking into an auto repair?"

Lance produced a set of keys with a pointedly loud jangle and inserted them into the door with a sharp twist.

Kitty gaped.

"I work here," he said, taking visible satisfaction in her shock.

"You what?"

Lance pushed his way inside and flipped a switch. Before the halogen lights had even buzzed to life, Kitty took in the smell of motor oil, must, and metal. Peering around Lance's back, she found the inside of a stereotypical mom and pop auto shop. A beat up Jetta was parked inside, along with what looked like one of the flat, square scooters she used to ride in middle school PE classes. Engine parts and tools were spread out on the floor. In the back, she thought she could make out a counter with a sink and refrigerator nearby, and next to that a door that was tabled TOILETS.

"You got a job," she said flatly.

"Nice one, Einstein."

"You didn't tell me."

"You didn't ask. Sit over there," he jerked his head at a small workbench and table along the left-side wall. Like most of the garage, the table was covered with parts and tools. But, without seeing any alternative, Kitty went over to it and sat, studying her surroundings. Once she looked past the clutter, she noticed the garage was actually a large, open plan. There was a flight of stairs along the opposite wall that looked like it might lead to a loft space, but from her low vantage point she couldn't see clearly what was up there.

Kitty pulled at a loose thread on her mini skirt, shifting it down to ward her knees again. The more she sat, the more anxious she got about at the whole situation. Alone with Lance, after she'd promised that she'd stay away from him until the whole missing-powers-thing was sorted out. Maybe even longer.

Suddenly, Kitty was annoyed. Angry, even. At herself for making the promise and then for breaking it. At Javelin for sneaking into a club and getting so stupidly drunk. At Tabitha. At Scott. Even at the Professor for making her promise to do something that should have been simple as breathing and but that everyone knew she'd never been able to manage: Stay away from Lance Alvers. She was angry at him too. Stupid, fucking Lance with his stupid sober bullying and his superior strength and his stupid, sardine-can of a car. Lance, who was complicated and a jerk and sometimes sweet and funny and wonderful. Even when he didn't know what he was doing, he made everything harder.

"So," Kitty said, catty. "Why am I here?"

Apparently, there was something in the fridge that was much more interesting than she was. Or else, Lance was just ignoring her again. Eventually he emerged with a loaf of wonder bread and a beer. He produced plastic solo cup from a cupboard and filled it with tap water. "Well, you ain't going to be sick in the Brotherhood's bathroom. And personally, I'd rather not get a laser beam through my face when the X-Geeks try to take me down for crunching a blade of grass on their perfect lawn." He came over and cleared some table surface with a sweep of his arm, setting the bread and water down in front of her. "Here."

"Always a classy date," Kitty said, dryly. She thumbed the tab off the Wonder Bread and pulled out a slice, holding it up like an oversized playing card between two fingers. "Got a toaster?"

"Nope," Lance said, sitting across from her. He used the edge of the table to pop the cap off his beer. He wasn't quite making eye contact with her, she noticed. Hadn't even looked at her, she realized, since their argument behind the club. "I think we got mustard or something somewhere."

"No thanks," Kitty said dryly, tearing off a piece of bread and pressing it into a cube with her fingers.

Lance stared at her.

"What?"

"Whose the class-act now?"

"It tastes better like this."

"Right."

"And no, I don't only think that when I'm drunk. Drunk-Ish. Don't look at me like that. Try it." She held out the dough-cube, realizing belatedly, distantly, that she shouldn't be offering him Wonder Bread dough cubes. She shouldn't be offering him anything.

"No thanks," Lance said. "I'm still getting over the last time you said that."

Kitty scowled. "It's bread."

"It was bread. You made it into a weird… dough cube… thing. You touched it. You cooked it."

"This is hardly cooking."

He stared stubbornly back at her.

"Fine," Kitty snapped. "Pearls before swine and all." She jammed the cube into her mouth and chewed.

"You're never actually eaten anything you've baked, have you?" Lance challenged, sipping his beer.

"Have too."

"You're a liar."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Whatever. Anyway, you're not supposed to eat your own food. You supposed to bake for other people."

"Yeah well do other people a favor and don't. Drink your water."

"At least I'm not kidnapping other people to my abandoned garage."

"It's not mine. I just work part-time shifts when they need someone."

"The fact that you work at all blows my mind."

"You'd rather I stole?" he said dryly.

Kitty kneaded another dough cube in her fingers. She could feel the food and the situation starting to sober her up. Under the circumstances, she wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. "Lance the part-time auto mechanic. Has kind of an appropriate ring to it." She chewed the bread deliberately and did her best to ignore the bite in her words. She'd always had a talent for being cruel to Lance, even when she wasn't trying.

"Not all of us have a fat savings account for college."

"Or, there's this thing called state school," Kitty said. "You might have heard about it. It's pretty much free."

"Nothing's free," Lance volleyed. "And you'd know it if you didn't have Daddy Xavier paying for everything. 'Sides, not like I'm going back in a classroom again. Been there. Tried that. No thanks."

Kitty scowled, hating the way Lance tried to make her feel like a sheltered princess who didn't know what the real world was like. "It's not like it's easy, you know. Being an X-Man and a college student is demanding."

"I'll bet," Lance said, sipping his beer. "So demanding you're getting wasted at clubs on Friday night. Life's being real hard on you, isn't it?"

Kitty glowered at him.

Lance glowered right back, but still without quite meeting her eyes. After a heated moment, he took a long swig from his beer, set it firmly to the side, and starting piecing together the transmission parts that were lying on the table between them. Kitty got the distinct impression that he was busying his hands so he wouldn't set off a round of tremors.

She watched him work, scowling. Her head rushed with a slew of different insults and comebacks, none of which she really wanted to say. Instead she watched Lance's hands as they worked over the device, piecing it together, deliberately ignoring her. It was a slow, detailed process, with a lot of different tools and a cleaning cloth involved. Kitty realized as she watched that she didn't think she'd ever seen Lance do something that required so much patient diligence. At some point though, she realized, he must have taught himself how to play the guitar.

Eventually, Kitty felt her anger collapse into fuming, then frustration and tequila-soaked tiredness. She watched Lance reassemble the transmission, sipping occasionally from his beer. Grease and motor oil had smudged along his fingers, black as crow feathers.

"We fight all the time now."

Lance looked up at her, catching himself just shy of her eyes.

"I mean," Kitty blinked, chin cradled in her hand, realizing she'd spoken aloud. "That's all we do. In high school we used to like… get along sometimes."

"You mean when you weren't shutting me down all the time."

"Half of that was a game," Kitty said, in a lets just get over it and call a spade a spade kind of way. "We used to talk on the phone until like, one in the morning. Remember?"

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth then, and Kitty felt the easing of a tightness in her chest that she hadn't even realized was there.

"Actually," Lance said, "you did most of the talking. I pretty much listened."

"Oh, really? And, uh, how many outgoing calls did you have listed on your phone bill?" She asked innocently.

Lance groaned, covering his eyes with a grease-streaked hand. She curbed a drunken instinct to lean forward and touch his smile, a real smile, as it widened under his palm. "Don't even," Lance groaned. "Pietro went through the roof – he nearly talked me into robbing a gas station to cover it."

Kitty laughed outright. And then they were laughing together. And after a moment, it somehow became awkward. As if they'd both just remembered they were supposed to be mad at each other. Kitty's laugh waned into a giggle, a nervous one. She reached for her water. Oh my God, Kitty Pryde, a voice screamed inside head as she guzzled the tepid water. What the hell are you doing?

"It's cool. This space," Kitty said, changing subject abruptly once she couldn't drink anymore. "I still can't imagine you working here though." Or working at all.

"Yeah, well," Lance shrugged. He looked almost embarrassed under all that careful nonchalance. "It's part time. Just to cover the bills. The guys can't get used to it either, if it makes you feel any better. They keep trying to get me fired."

Kitty raised her eyebrows.

"They want to throw a party behind the manager's back," Lance explained. "Come on, Lance. It'll be fun, they say."

"Oh my God. You totally should."

Lance looked surprised for a moment, but then grinned slowly. "You're trying to get me fired too."

"Like you've never been fired before." Kitty stood up with her water still in hand, walking out to as close to the middle of the workspace as she could get. She stopped barefoot by the gutted Jetta and looked around. "Dance floor: right here. Massive speakers: over there. This whole place lit up. It would be killer."

"Killer on my paychecks, especially. Drink your water."

"I'm not thirsty."

"It's not about being thirsty. It's about avoiding the massive hangover you're headed for tomorrow."

She stuck her tongue out at him but took a swig. Then she lent back against the hood of the car, trying to ignore the way she swayed slightly as she did. "Well, if you ever do decide you're quitting, you should throw a party. Best resignation notice ever."

"Why didn't you phase out."

Kitty looked at him before her brain got the chance to catch up and tell her that was a horrible idea. Lance was watching her from the workbench, the transmission completely discarded. When Kitty looked at him, he looked back. Looked her straight in the eye, exactly what he'd been avoiding all night. Stupidly, the eye contact caught her off guard and it made her blush. And, even more stupidly, Lance noticed. Kitty looked belatedly at her feet. Lance stood.

"I told you," she said, heart going walnut-sized in her chest, grip crushing on the solo cup. "I didn't want to give myself away."

"No," he said. "Not then. With me. Why didn't you use your powers and phase away from me."

Holy shit. Kitty's heart downsized to acorn. Lance knew. 'I knew it,' he'd said to her in the parking lot. Of course he fucking knows, a voice berated inside her head. He knows you better than anyone thinks, and you've given him plenty of chances to figure it out. If you'd only done what the Professor and Scott asked…

"You said you didn't want to come with me, but you didn't phase out of the car. You made that big, dramatic show of fighting it out with me in the parking lot. But all you had to do was slip your wrist through my hand and nobody would have known."

"I was drunk," she said, trying to cut him off, and knowing that wasn't going to be a good enough reason. He might believe it, had already suggested it once, she remembered. But it still wasn't good enough.

"At the Institute, you slapped me," he continued.

"Lance-"

"After I kissed you."

"I don't-"

"But all you needed to do was phase away," he said it again.

He was moving closer to her, she registered in some far away part of her brain. That was bad. For a split second of drunk panic, she thought about chucking her water at him to get some distance. Instead, she swallowed and tried to clear her head. "I don't know what you want from me," she said.

"Just admit it."

Kitty was going to be sick. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do."

"I don't-"

"Just admit it, Kitty!" he hissed. "Just fucking admit it!"

"What!" She screamed. But honestly, she was going to be sick. Admit it, Kitty! Just admit that you don't have any powers!

"Just admit that you're playing with me!"

Kitty looked up. "Wh-what?"

"You heard me," he said, voice low and his eyes deadly dark and challenging and maybe just a touch wounded. (And that was the part that frightened her most. Because when Lance Alvers was wounded, he didn't carry himself home to lick away the sting. He came swinging right around to tip the scales back into his favor, and drew blood from anything and anyone he could).

Kitty stared, having no idea what she was meant to say. Oh my God, she thought, looking at him. Is he even really wrong?

Lance searched her face. Apparently he didn't like what he found. "Pietro was right," he said suddenly, looking away. "Everything he's ever said about you was right."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Lance said, voice tight, "that the only reason you've ever given me the time of day is 'cause you get off on the idea of being chased by a kid from the wrong side of the tracks."

Wrong. Kitty thought, gaping at him. How did you get to be so wrong?

"That's it, isn't it? That's why you play these fucking games with me. Well, admit it. You don't give a shit about me. You've never-"

"I told you I didn't want to play games!" Kitty was shouting now. "That's why I called us off!"

"Oh, yeah?" Lance challenged. "Then why? Why bother to put up that stupid, flirting fight with me in the parking lot, and let me kiss you at all on the soccer field, when we both know you could just phase straight through me and never let me touch you again?"

Great questions, Kitty thought. I wish I could tell you the answer.

"Well, Kitty? Got a good reason for that one?"

She saw his hatred for her in his face, his immoveable resentment and thought again that she might be sick.

"I… don't," Kitty answered. "I just don't, okay?"

"No," Lance said. "It's not fucking okay."

"Look, I'm sorry," Kitty flared. "I'm sorry, alright? But if you think after all these years that I don't… I don't… care about you then you're stupider than I thought! I… care about you, Lance." She nearly choked on the words. Funny how lies flew out of her mouth when she was facing Lance, but the truth had always tied itself in knots and gotten stuck in her throat until it was near unrecognizable. Be responsible, she reminded herself, you made a promise to your family. Keep it. She took a breath. She couldn't be honest with Lance. But she could try to come as close as she could. "I care about you, Lance. But I just... I can't."

"Because I'm not good enough," he finished.

She stood, unable to deny it. It isn't that you're not good enough, she thought. You just aren't good. He wasn't good. He hurt people, destroyed things. She couldn't trust him. And it should have killed whatever was between them years ago. But somehow, it hadn't.

"And you wonder why all we do is fight," he said, suddenly close enough that she could feel the heat from his skin. Lance's voice had gone low and grim.

Kitty closed her eyes, taking a moment to clear her head. "I'm sorry. I gave you my reasons."

"Funny, all I seem to remember is getting slapped."

"You weren't listening."

"I'm listening now," he said. "Run it by me again. This time without the five-star to the face."

She took another breath and swallowed. She could do this. Again. "Things are different," she recited. "We're not in high school anymore. We're adults. We've got responsibilities." And I can't even trust you with the biggest event of my life. I can't trust you at all.

"Right. Sorry. You looked really adult and responsible tonight, staggering out of a club with some drunk guy making a pass at you, and your ex having to come to your rescue."

Kitty wrinkled her nose at him. "What a hero."

Lance stared her down until the sarcasm drained out of her, and she stood there, vulnerable and hating it. "Lance-"

"I would've killed that kid," he said, voice as quiet as stars burning out.

"…Yeah. That would have been great," she laughed, feeling close to tears.

"It probably would have made me feel a little better," he said, matter-of-fact. "I'm fucking angry."

"You usually are."

"You are playing with me, aren't you?" The resentment was still there this time, but it was tired this time, and coupled with something new. It sounded a lot like resignation.

No. Kitty wanted to say it, burned to even. But she couldn't. Because then she'd have to explain the real reason. And it wasn't just her safety that was at stake.

"You're right. We don't make sense," Lance said suddenly. "I've never understood us."

"It's not so hard," she said, trying to smile and feeling it stretch too thin across her face. "We just don't work."

"Yeah. You're adult. I'm irresponsible. You're an X-Man. I'm a Brotherhood punk. You've said it before. We still end up like this." He gestured to the narrow space between them. To being alone together in an empty garage. To the heat in Kitty's cheeks that she swore he must have been able to feel radiating off her face. "I've never fucking gotten us. I hate it."

The tiredness in his voice made her look into his eyes again. For once, she knew exactly what Lance was trying to say. And maybe it was the alcohol, or the guilt, or the weeks of worrying whether she'd be normal for the rest of her life, but she didn't want to lie to him, or to herself, again tonight. Not about this one small thing, in this one moment. She was too tired of it.

"I miss you too," she said softly. "Sometimes."

"All the time," Lance said, not having any of it. He closed the small space between them.

Kitty tensed as he closed his around her, shifting her off the hood of the car and into his arms. Her own arms spread out, useless. One hand held her water awkwardly out to the side. The other moved to lightly touch on Lance's waist, unsure if it was readying to pull him closer or push him away. "Lance-"

"Kitty," he interrupted, and when he pulled back it was only to smooth the hair from her face before bringing his to hers. "Shut up."