A fresh poison each week
It's raining. Hard.
The rain is pouring down in fucking buckets, and he's drenched to an ungodly amount.
They both are.
"I'm sorry about all this rain, Pigment. Leave it to me to coordinate a grand escape only to have a storm blow in and slow us down. And a very nasty storm, at that."
"It is fine."
Her voice, cool and reassuringly familiar,reverberates in his mind, and although she says everything is all right, John can't help but feel angry with himself. The storm really is a serious hindrance, and the fact dangerous government agents are hot on their trail makes this entire situation extraordinarily shitty. He finds himself wanting to give her his coat but he knows he'd be of no use to her sick. He's taking them to New York - well, trying to - and any second they spend resting could be the second that well and truly fucks them over.
They don't say anything to each other for a while, the pitter-patter of raindrops and the squish of mud beneath their feet the only things keeping them from walking in total silence.
(Well, Pigment never actually says anything: being a Grey, she communicates by projecting her thoughts into his mind and allowing his brain to do the rest. But he's never been one to get too hung up on specifics.)
"Where are we going?" Pigment finally asks.
"New York," he responds, and it's only when he's greeted by silence that he realizes she has no idea what he's talking about.
"It's a city," John quickly explains, "a very large city, a place where we should be able to hide without the Majestic ever finding us."
"That sounds promising."
He laughs.
"You don't say."
There's another long silence, and John is again left alone with his thoughts. It's an interesting experience, to say the least, having an extraterrestrial being as his sole traveling companion. And a fairly reserved one, at that. Even when she'd still been a prisoner of Area 51, she hadn't exactly been overflowing with conversation. When they first met, and had been, at best, suspicious of each other, he hadn't been able to get anything out of her. As time had gone by, and John's belief in the righteousness of the Majestic 12 slowly whittled away, they'd developed a steady trust. And that trust became a partnership, and eventually, a friendship.
He knows Greys are emotionless beings, and do not - cannot - understand the feelings that drive the very concept of friendship. He knows that, but there is no other way he can classify the relationship he has with Pigment. She has emotions, though he has no idea how, and while she doesn't wear them on her sleeve, they're there. A few days ago, he'd playfully asked her if he could call her 'Miss Piggy', and while she'd told him no, he couldn't, he hadn't failed to notice a spring in her step afterward that hadn't been there before.
It wasn't until he had time to look back on the incident that he'd realized it had made him inordinately happy.
It wasn't until he had time to look back on the incident that he'd realized it had made him inordinately happy.
He still has yet to acknowledge the implications of this.
"Pigment?" he finds himself asking, before he can stop himself.
"Yes?"
John realizes, with a pang of embarrassment, he doesn't actually know what he wants to say. He doesn't even know if he really wanted to say anything in the first place. He just wants to know that she's still there, that she hasn't left him alone.
"John?"
"Hmm?"
"What did you want to say?"
"Oh, uh, nothing important. Just… how are you doing? Because of, you know, the storm and all."
He sounds completely idiotic, and before he can finish mentally scolding himself for even opening his mouth, Pigment responds.
"All right. Could be better. How are you?"
"Me? Oh, I'm fine, thank you for asking."
"No."
He's so shocked by this unexpected remark that he quite literally stops in his tracks.
"You are shivering."
It's a simple observation, but John is touched nevertheless. He chuckles and stuffs his hands into his sleeves.
"Am I really that bad of a liar?"
"Yes."
They go back and forth for a while, discussing the reasons why being caught in a rainstorm is not as exhilarating as it's made out to be and how wet socks are the most uncomfortable feeling known to man. (Pigment can't relate to the second bit, but she tells him she trusts his judgement, and if he thinks having wet socks is godawful, then it must be so.)
Eventually, they encounter a rock formation large enough to shelter the two of them from the rain. John hits the ground with a very un-Majestic plop, cleans his glasses and attempts to wring out his coat before realizing it's a fruitless endeavor. Pigment sits beside him, legs curled up, chin resting on her knees. John can hear his heart thundering in his chest, and tells himself he needs to enjoy this break, seeing as it might be the last one they get for some time. The storm has shown no signs of stopping anytime soon, and John hopes it slowed their pursuers down as much as it did them.
"This is bullshit," he stated, and he's unsure of where this sudden declaration came from.
"What is?" Pigment asks, turning her head so that she meets his gaze.
"This. All of this. The storm. Having the Majestic 12 dickheads after us. Being lost in a fucking desert that doesn't seem to fucking end. It's bullshit."
Pigment looks away from him, her shoulders tensing ever so slightly.
"When I, uh, say this is bullshit, I don't mean the part about getting you out of that place. That isn't bullshit. I just mean, well… I just hate everything that happened afterwards. It kind of all went to hell."
"I see."
She's adopted a haughty tone, which is an irritating habit she has of indicating she's particularly upset. He thinks she must assume he regrets their escape, as it's the reason they're in this predicament, no matter if he claims otherwise.
"Pig," he says softly, using the one nickname she permitted him to give her.
Silence.
"Listen. I don't want you to think I'd take back what happened back at the base. I wouldn't. And I never will. What those monsters are doing is sick, and you didn't deserve what happened to you. Don't feel like a burden. You're not."
She still won't look at him, but her posture is not as slumped as it was a few minutes ago. He's overcome by an urge to lay a hand on her back, and slowly he reaches out. When she doesn't flinch upon the contact, he rubs tiny circles into her back and shoulders.
"Is there anything else I can do to help?" John whispers, continuing the rhythmic motions.
"No."
It's a terse answer, but the obnoxious arrogance is gone from her voice: she's not as angry with him as she was.
"I'll keep watch for a while, so you can just rest, Pig."
"Thank you."
Again, Pigment puts her chin on her knees, arms wrapped around herself. When John notices she's nodding off, he removes his hand and leans back against the rock. Fifteen minutes ought to be just enough time for them to recover their strength before getting back on the move. He just hopes he'll be able to keep himself awake during this respite. Now that they're out of the rain, the storm has become much more pleasant overall, and the sound of raindrops hitting the earth is almost hypnotic. In order to fight the temptation of sleep, John tries to mentally plot out the fastest route they could take that will lead them to New York. As of now, they're still in Nevada, and he thinks their best bet would be to keep their course as linear as possible. From here, they'll make their way to Utah, then Colorado, then Nebraska, and so on. Of course, he also needs to take the Majestic 12 into account, which may require making a detour or two in the hopes of throwing the agents off the scent. Maybe once they reach Iowa they could travel south to Missouri, then go to Illinois from there. Or maybe they could -
Maybe they could sit around wondering where the fuck they go from here. John gives a frustrated sigh and puts his face in his hands. He really has no idea what to do. If the Majestic 12 get ahold of them, they're done for. That much is certain. There's no way in hell the Majestic would ever let a deserter and a Grey pay for this with anything but their lives.
"John?" a small voice asks, and when he looks up, Pigment is looking at him with her head cocked. The sight almost makes him laugh.
"Mm hm?"
"Are we going to leave soon?"
Wonderful. In his moping, he'd lost track of time. It really doesn't pay to wallow in self-pity.
"Yeah, we're going to leave right now. Just start preparing yourself for more wind and rain for the next four hours or so."
"Will do."
John gets to his feet, adjusts his glasses and slips his coat back on. It's still wet - uncomfortably so - but it's just a minor annoyance if he's putting it in perspective.
"Are you ready for this?" He looks down at Pigment, and she's staring intently at the landscape before them, as though she's having second thoughts about going out into the thunderstorm.
"We have no other choice."
He's taken aback by the truth in her words.
"Is that just a fancy way of saying we're probably fucked?"
"It might be."
They've been walking for at least an hour before the rain finally lets up. At the very least, it's no longer coming down in sheets, which John is profoundly grateful for. While Pigment hadn't verbally complained during the downpour, John had been able to tell by the way she'd been hunched over and solemn for the greater part of the hour that it hadn't put her in a very good mood. He wonders if rain had been common on the Grey homeworld, and is about to ask before he remembers she'd never actually lived there.
"I do not know. The planet was long gone by the time I was created," she replies, having scanned his mind and seen his thoughts. John, now mildly uncomfortable, does not acknowledge this. He enjoys Pigment's company - he truly does - but her ability to know exactly what he is thinking does bother him somewhat. It feels awkward at best and terribly invasive at worst. He considers asking her if she could just tune his thoughts out. Or something like that, at least.
"I apologize for any discomfort I may have caused you. I am very accustomed to looking into others' minds out of suspicion they are holding information back. But if you want me to stop, I will."
"Yes, please do. It's one of the creepier things you're capable of, and I think it would be better for us both if you stopped. Besides, if you did it at the wrong time, it could get pretty embarrassing, if you know what I mean," he adds, raising an eyebrow suggestively at her.
"I do not."
John rolls his eyes and feels his face grow hot.
"Just - just trust me when I say it would be very awkward for the both of us, all right?"
"Very well."
They don't talk again for another hour. John suspects Pigment is upset he left her in the dark about his earlier remark. He doesn't feel bad: if she wants to be pissed off at him all because he kept a stupid little innuendo from her, then that's her problem. He can deal with being given the cold shoulder. When he notices Pigment speeding up, as though she's trying to walk ahead of him, he chuckles and effortlessly strides ahead of her. It's immature, what they're doing, but he's angry that he's angry and right now, he doesn't mind giving in to such childish behavior.
"Are you really going to just leave me behind?"
John looks behind him to see Pigment struggling to keep up, taking about two steps for every one of his. She's undoubtedly cursing her small stature, and he's about to make a joke when her temper gets the better of her and she begins stomping across the desert floor; the soil muffles the sound, however, and the sight is comical rather than intimidating.
"No, I'm not. You've caused me far too much trouble."
The statement was meant to be lighthearted, but John learns too late Pigment is not in the mood for sarcasm.
"Then leave if you think of me as a burden!"
This is the second day in a row he's seriously offended her, and he knows if they're going to be traveling companions, they have to stop provoking each other, intentionally or not.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to hurt you. I really didn't. But what we both need to understand is, well, we're all we've got now. It's just the two of us, maybe for the rest of our lives. And if we can't figure out a way to express our feelings to each other in ways that don't always involve screaming and pettiness, we're fucked. Even if the Majestic 12 never catch up to us. From now on, we need to be a team."
Pigment takes a sudden interest in her feet, and when she doesn't comment after several minutes, John begins making peace with the fact they're going to be at each other's throats for as long as they live. Which, admittedly, might not actually be very long at all.
"All right then. If survival means cooperating and accepting each other as we are, flaws included, then so be it."
Pigment is looking at him now, and he can sense there's something she desperately wants to say to him that has nothing to do with a promise of teamwork.
"Forgive me for what I said in my outburst. I know you do not think of me as a burden."
A pause. Whatever she's hoping to say isn't coming easy to her.
"I hope you know I do not consider you a burden."
At first, John isn't sure what do, what to think. Pigment's comment is the kindest thing anyone has said to him in a very long time. The Majestic 12 are not exactly known for their warmth, and he does not recall any of the agents ever saying anything to each other that might suggest even the slightest hint of warmth, let alone concern. He chuckles humorlessly when he considers how the Greys are supposedly a species devoid of feeling, yet have demonstrated - on more than one occasion - a great deal of emotion. Sometimes more than most humans.
John makes a mental note to himself to ask Pigment about this sometime.