Disclaimer: None of the characters contained here in belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for a little fun. No profit is being made on this, so please, don't bother suing.
Notes: This story is part of my Time, Tide, and Trauma series, taking place after the events of Broken Wings, and previous to After Long years. Those, and all other stories in the series can be found at Feedback is greatly appreciated and generally responded to with loads of gratitude. Thanks go out to the incomparable Alicia McKenzie for some much needed advice, as well as Lyssie and A.j. for their general support and encouragement. You guys are great.
Speculative Frost
by Timesprite
It was cold. What was more, it was damp. Not enough to rain--or more likely snow--but more than enough to soak right into his bones, the kind of cold that never seemed to leave entirely. It just seeped into his soul and stayed there, waiting for moments like this to weigh him down. He'd been so many things in his life--messiah, chosen and manipulated; soldier, grim and cold-hearted; husband and father, lover, martyr, and ultimately, alone. Alone. He felt so flonqing *abandoned* in this time, and knew it wasn't because X-Force had gone on without him. They'd take him back again, if that was what he decided. But it felt too much like an imposition. It felt like every breath he *took* was an imposition on the entire world. He shouldn't have been there.
There had been a brief moment on the scorching desert sands, wrought in incredible clarity by pain when he'd seen all things: joys, terrors, atrocities and regrets, truly the clichéd life flashing before his eyes. Images that tempted him to step boldly into the yawning abyss without hesitation, images that would have cajoled him into accepting death's velvet embrace like an old friend, if not for the lingering memory of sad amethyst eyes.
It had seemed an eternity before he'd opened his eyes again, though it had only been weeks in reality. He'd been disorientated, expecting to find himself sill lying amidst swirling dunes of sand, not in the muted quiet of the X-Men's medlab. His memory had been momentarily blank, though he knew one fact for certain.
He'd won.
That had been three months ago. Now he was walking the streets of New York in the bitter cold, searching. For a time, he'd been too injured to really think of much more than just living to the next day. Then there had been the visitors he didn't want to deal with. Scott and Jean, the other X-Men... They meant well, he knew that. But at the same time, they irritated him with all their questions. No, he had no idea what he was going to do next. And he didn't particularly *care* at the moment either. It seemed they all wanted him to find some grounding, something to *do.* Oath, he'd just fulfilled a life-defining destiny... wasn't that good *enough*? Didn't he deserve the chance to be lost for a little while? For once, he had absolutely no idea what the future had in store for him and the thought had him a little off balance.
In retrospect, maybe *that* was why they'd called G.W.
"Heard you tried to get yourself killed again. And failed miserably."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
He crammed his hands down in the pockets of his coat, trying to keep them warm. His right hand hit upon a small metal object--he thought it was a coin at first--but soon his fingers recognized the pattern on its surface, and found the chain that trailed off it and coiled in the bottom of the pocket. He ripped his hand from his coat and glared down at the pendant that now lay in the palm of his hand. He seethed at it, and for one wild moment considered throwing it as far as he could, ridding himself of the hateful thing and all it stood for.
Instead, he laughed.
He'd escaped, he thought wildly. After all of that--the careful conditioning and manipulation, the secrets, prophesies, and lies. He'd escaped the trap that fate had laid for him. He'd faced down Apocalypse, *defeated* him, and done the impossible. He'd lived. Admittedly, at the time it hadn't *felt* much like living, and he was still dealing with the repercussions. Odd the way life turned in circles. He'd been dimly aware of a presence by his side in those first few days, a familiar mind brushing his own, gently. A soft, healing hand that did its best to sooth the damage wrought when he'd unleashed the telekinetic blast that had torn the millennia old madman asunder, a blast fueled by the collective power of the Twel--eleven. Even then, in what he thought would be his last moments, he'd been painfully aware that there were only eleven figures on that distant sand dune.
His TK had been crippled. By the time Jean had reached him, so he'd been told, the virus had already begun its hungry advance, as if furious at being held at bay for so long and eager to make up for lost time. They hadn't been sure in those first few hours whether Apocalypse would manage to triumph from beyond the grave, but Jean had pulled him through. The time she'd spent in his childhood helping him hold the T-O in check had made her an 'old pro' at it, she'd said later. Now, three months later, his physical injuries had all but healed, though he'd probably never be pain free again. 'Again.' The thought brought him a moment of wry amusement. He couldn't even *recall* a day that hadn't been laced with pain--the virus made sure of that. But he'd never again be the man he'd been that day, standing beneath the blaze of the Egyptian sun. There'd been too many broken bones, too much internal damage for that. Any sane person would have wisely decided that the days of crusading missions were beyond him now, though he wasn't prepared to throw in the towel quite yet. That would be too much like admitting defeat.
The current state of his telekinesis, however, was more distressing. The virus was safely under control for the time being, but the line between safe use of his powers and a relapse was thinner than ever. Even after all the recuperation he'd done, even with the flonqing Shi'ar bio-bed they'd acquired that took most of the burden off of his TK, little improvement had been made. All the more maddening, he *knew* that his range now was not much less than what he'd been capable of using when he'd first come to this era, but the last few years had spoiled him.
A sadistic part of him wanted to throw that in Scott's face. It would have been satisfying to shove all those 'learn to use your powers' speeches back at him, if ultimately futile.
More than anything, he was angry at his lack of progress. His normal routine of pushing himself past the pain in order to recover quickly just wasn't working this time around. All it got him was the mother of all migraines and another lecture from Jean. He wanted someone to rail at, someone who could understand his frustration, who'd sympathize with his inability to let well enough alone. That person had always been a phone call away, and her absence now was as disquieting as it had been on the sands at Akkaba.
"I haven't talked to Dom in more than a year. Near as I can tell, she's dropped completely out of sight. You hurt her, Nate."
He knew that, of course. He'd tried for the better part of three years to forget it. But he couldn't shake the accusation that'd been in G.W.'s voice.
He also couldn't get his mind off Dom. It'd been easier before to not dwell on it. He'd been so busy with everything else that was happening that while her absence was keen, it was manageable. Now however, there was a void that he couldn't help but want to fill, and she seemed to be an essential part in accomplishing that.
"Like I said, haven't talked to her lately. No one has, as far as I can tell, in at *least* four months. She *had* been working in Rio... Military contracts, my guess, but it's hard to tell with her. I don't think she wants to be found."
"So I just forget about it."
"Maybe. Just make sure you do what's fair for *her.*"
He scowled at the memory. He knew G.W. was right. The wind blew against him again and he sighed, finally admitting defeat. He didn't particularly want to return to the mansion, but he'd driven Blaquesmith off from the local safe house weeks ago with his 'irrational behavior,' and as much as he hated all the inane fussing the X-Men seemed intent on inflicting upon him, it was still better than being alone.
----
"Nathan?"
He glanced up from the cup of coffee he'd been staring at to see Jean standing on the other side of the table. At nearly six months pregnant, she looked... good, he decided. The fact that she'd kept it a secret from nearly everyone, *including* Scott, until after Apocalypse had been defeated had gone a long way to reinforce the respect he'd always had for her. She'd rightly assumed that her help would be needed, and that neither Scott nor himself would have *let* her help, had they known. To this day, he had to wonder if she'd threatened Hank or merely manipulated him into keeping her secret. "Yeah?"
She pulled out a chair and seated herself, eyes not moving from his own. "I thought maybe we could talk. You look like you've got something troubling you, and frankly, half the mansion has taken to ducking into spare rooms at your approach. Is something the matter?"
He frowned and took a swallow of coffee, then reached into his pocket, and tossed a small object at her. "You arrange for its sudden appearance in my coat pocket?"
She turned the medallion over in her hands, then sighed. "It must have come loose during the fight," she said. "I found it next to you in the sand, along side your psimitar. You haven't asked where that is, either."
"Don't need it anymore," he muttered.
"You can't just *forget* about everything now that Apocalypse is dead, Nathan. What are you going to do--pretend that part of your life never happened? That's not a good method of coping with it."
"Tell me," he growled, "exactly what *is* it everyone expects me to do? He's *dead* Jean. I don't see the point in dwelling on it. Do you want me to get up and tap dance or something?"
She sighed and gave him a mournful look. "No one expects you to be what you're not, Nathan. We're not expecting you to suddenly see the world as a beautiful place, or start expounding on how wonderful it is to be alive. I know how much your mission cost you. So does your father. And believe me when I tell you that if there were *any* way we could have changed that for you--" she reached out and gently laid her hand over his. "You've been acting as if the world has ended. It's disturbing, to say the least. *No one* expects you to be all smiles, obviously. But you've just accomplished something you've been working towards your entire life, and here you are, acting as if you were on the losing end."
"Maybe I am," he muttered.
Jean's eyes widened slightly at his tone. She'd become used to his morose, rather pessimistic outlook on life by now, but this was something much more bleak. "Nathan..."
His eye flashed balefully as he jerked his hand away and stood from his seat. "Look, I did everything that was expected of me. I sacrificed everything I had and now--" he took a few stumbling steps towards the door, a haunted look in his eyes. "Just... leave me alone." The door slammed shut in his wake, leaving Jean alone in the kitchen with the reverberating echoes.
"Oh, Nathan..."
----
"I'm sure he's just a little disorientated, Jean. He needs to readjust, that's all." Scott closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It was fairly late, and he was tired, but he wasn't about to tell Jean it could wait until morning. What he wanted to do, more than anything at that moment, was give Nathan a stern talking to about upsetting Jean like he was. She was worried, and he *knew* she didn't need the extra stress.
"You weren't there Scott, you didn't see the look in his eyes. They were... empty. Like he didn't care about anything anymore."
He sighed and brushed his wife's hair back, palm resting against the side of her face. "What do you want me to do, Jean? He's not a child. I can't just walk up to him and tell him he needs to get a grip. I can't walk up and say *anything* to him anymore."
"I know," she frowned. "I just feel like we should do something for him. There's such a sense of pain that radiates from him. It's so frustrating."
"Believe me, I know," he said gently. "You tried, at least. There's not a whole lot we can do. He's a grown adult, his choices are *his* to make."
Jean sighed and sank down on the edge of the couple's bed. "I've just got this sick suspicion he wishes he were dead."
----
"Did Jean send you?" Cable grated, staring at the man standing in front of his table. He'd left the mansion again in search of peace. This certainly didn't fit the bill. He wasn't drunk enough to deal with Logan at the moment, he didn't even feel any joy at the thought of throwing the smaller man through the nearest wall. "I don't need baby-sitting." He took a swig of his beer. "Well?"
"No one sent me." Wolverine took a place at the table. Nathan considered telekinetically removing the chair from beneath him, as his baleful glare was obviously not enough of a clue, but he decided it wasn't worth the headache he'd get from doing it. "And if you didn't want anyone finding ya," Logan continued, "you should've picked someplace further away than Harry's."
Cable snorted derisively. "I'll keep that in mind. Why the flonq are you here?"
"For a beer," he retorted, holding up the bottle. "And to see if maybe you've got a reason behind the jackass routine you've been pullin' on everyone lately."
"Oh, I see." He bobbed his head up and down a few times. "So you're just being the mouthpiece for the ones who are too cowardly to talk to my face." He regarded Logan with a look of utter disgust. "Go to hell."
"You wish." He took a long drink. "Frankly, *I* don't care what stick you got up your ass, Cable. I just got a question for ya. You heard from Neena lately?"
Cable laughed, loudly and wildly, then downed the rest of his beer. "You're a flonqing comedian, you know that Logan? No, I haven't heard from Dom." He gave the smaller man a sadistic smile. "Not in three years. She dumped me." He laughed again. "The mission. Well, can't say I blame her. Go ahead, I'm sure you're glad to hear me say it. Probably been telling her to get rid of me for years."
Logan frowned. "What that girl does with her life is her business an' you know as well as I do that she's too damned stubborn to listen to what anyone else tells her. If she left you it was of her own free will, and you probably deserved it for being a Grade A asshole to her."
He smirked. "Probably. I don't know where she is. You asked your question, now piss off."
"Look, bub," Wolverine growled, getting up from his chair. "You want to be bastard? That's your call, an' I couldn't care less. But do me a favor and stop taking out your hang ups on the people who *do* give a fuck about your sorry ass." He took a final swallow of his beer, slammed the bottle down, and left the bar.
----
The mansion was dark and silent when he returned. Logan was probably still skulking around someplace, but he hoped the man was bright enough to refrain from resuming their earlier argument. He was tired--more tired than he'd thought possible. The kind of tired that came from an internal source and never really went away. A tired that felt like it could kill him, if he let it. He trudged up the main staircase, skipping the ninth stair to avoid the gunshot like creak it always gave under his weight. Reaching his room, he stepped inside and shut the door, not bothering with the light. He undressed, tossed his clothes in a heap on the floor, and pulled on the pair of sweatpants lying crumpled on the bed.
He laid down and stared up at the ceiling.
The room felt strange around him; had since he'd gathered enough strength to leave the medlab and drag himself up the staircase. It wasn't the room, really. One room was like another in the mansion, except when an occupant had been there significantly long enough to bother with redecorating. He hadn't. He could have lived there a thousand more years, and it still wouldn't have been right. Couldn't be right.
He'd had a... ritual of sorts with X-Force. On the nights when they weren't off someplace battling for their lives, he'd made rounds. Just the barest of telepathic touches--not enough to feel anything from anyone, but just enough to know they were there. And he'd always reached for Domino last and longest, the touch somewhat deeper through their link. Some nights, he could feel her smile, and some nights, she got up and came to his room, lying down beside him without a word.
He sighed.
The last few weeks they'd shared before she'd left had been desperate and hungry. In retrospect, they'd both known what was coming. She just hadn't been able to walk away while he watched. It was seared into his memory now, hot and desolate as a desert waste. Those last few empty nights spent trying to commit to memory her hair, her skin, the fit of her body against his own, because it was only a matter of time before, like a mirage, it was gone.
His chest felt tight at the memory, and he took a deep breath, knowing it wouldn't help but wishing it would anyway. He wanted to find her. He wanted to see her face again, even if she decked him for it, because a part of him needed desperately to know she was alive and well. G.W.'s words had made him uneasy. He didn't like what they implied. He didn't like that Logan had been forced to come to *him* for information. People like Dom didn't just disappear. She loved action far too much for that. He also knew that it wouldn't be fair. Dom had never really said no to him, and he knew that he'd want to ask her to come back if he saw her again. It didn't seem right to depend on that, to plan on it.
He took another deep breath.
He needed to let her get on with her life. He needed to let go. There was a sinkhole of despair at the center of him, so intense he knew it couldn't be right. Couldn't be normal. It *hurt.*
Living wasn't supposed to hurt that much.
----
Scott Summers sighed wearily and made his way across the frost-laced grass of the estate, towards the rear entrance of the mansion. Back in the boathouse, Jean was tossing restlessly, uncomfortable in her sleep. It had left him wide awake, and with nothing better to do than stare at the ceiling beside her, he'd gotten up to run some tests on the Danger Room's systems. It was past two in the morning, and even the most insomnia-prone members of the team were usually done running themselves to exhaustion by now. It would also give him time to figure out just what he was going to say to his son.
Jean had made him promise the night before that he'd talk to Nathan, and he had planned to catch him earlier in the day, but he'd never put in an appearance. According to Jean, he'd been asleep--which, knowing the sheer amount of painkillers Henry had him on, was really not all that surprising. He'd apparently also been out quite late the previous night. He knew Nathan was still recovering, but it was a slow and painful process, and one that had him worrying every bit as much as Jean was about its impact on Nate's mental state. So it was not a terrible surprise when he finally reached the Danger Room, and found it occupied. Part of him had been afraid he would.
The room was locked down. A few taps on the controls told him that the safeties were off, and the computer had been keyed to voice override, both things that were flat out forbidden, especially without a spotter in the control booth. But he knew his team, and he knew the rules were bound to be ignored, so he'd long ago programmed in a alpha-override to let him shut down whatever settings the room's occupants had programmed in. He tapped a few commands, switched off the voice key, and hit the door control.
The program itself was still running, and what he saw as the doors slid open made his stomach lurch.
"Computer, freeze simulation!" Around him, the chaos of the program froze, the grizzly nightmare stopped in its tracks.
"What the flonq," Cable snapped, breathing heavily, "do you think you're doing?"
"Keeping you from doing something stupid. Unless you *like* the sight of the medlab ceiling, in which case, by all means, continue," he replied, doing his best to ignore the carnage around him. Nathan was hunched over, as though he couldn't quite catch his breath, face curiously pale despite his obvious exertion. He was just praying to god at this point that Nate hadn't caused himself a serious internal injury.
"I can--handle myself."
"*Look* at yourself, Nathan. You're dead on your feet here. Do you really think you can stop all of this--" he spread his arms to envelop the frozen Clan Chosen and Canaanite forces, "by yourself? Computer, terminate sequence." The holograms around them faded, leaving only the featureless walls of the Danger Room behind. "I know this game you're playing, Nathan, I've done it enough times myself. But these are only simulations. Even if you could change the outcome here and now--that doesn't *change* what happened then. All it does is weigh you down with guilt over things you had no control over." He sighed wearily. "Jean is concerned, and I think she's justified. I know how driven you are, I'd like to think that's something we have in common. But you have to find some other outlet for that energy. Self-flagellation gets you nowhere. Trust me, I know."
"You *don't* know, though, do you?" Cable growled. "You try and pretend that we're the same. Maybe that makes you feel better." His tone dropped dangerously. "But you keep forgetting one very important detail." His expression shifted to a flat out sneer. "We both may have lost everything we had, but *you* got it all back again."
The comment hit him like a fist to the stomach. "Is that what this is all about?" He asked. "Nathan--"
Nate drew himself up to his full height, obviously in pain, obviously doing his best to ignore it. "Save it, Slym. I don't want to hear it."
----
Sunlight was leaking in around the edges of the heavy curtains, casting the room in odd shadows. He hadn't slept. Any hope he'd had of wearing himself into a decent night's sleep had been shattered by Cyclops' intrusion, and now, long after the adrenaline had worn off, he sat cross-legged on the floor, staring blankly at the adjacent wall.
The posture hurt. He hadn't tried even a partial meditation since his confrontation with Apocalypse, and his body was loudly voicing its complaint. Something in his chest felt... off, and he probably should have seen McCoy about it. The prospect of setting foot in the medlab again, however, made ignoring it preferable. Either it would go away, or it would kill him.
At the moment, he didn't really care which.
He rested his back against the frame of the bed, and closed his eyes. There was nothing peaceful to be had in that darkness, though. Nothing but a yawning space of emptiness. Dead dreams, failures. Far too many of them. Sometimes he thought the weight of them might suffocate him, and the idea seemed almost welcoming. He'd *done* his job. He'd given up so much, and done things that still haunted him decades later, all in the name of the flonqing mission, and this was what he was left with. A handful of ashes that were the remnants of a life.
Sam had called earlier in the week. Had, in the course of some insignificant small-talk invited him out to San Francisco to the base X-Force had set up for themselves when he'd handed over temporary leadership to Sam and they'd decided to leave the mansion. At the time, he'd been grateful. He didn't want any of them involved in his mission--would have flat out refused to let Sam along on what was to become the final showdown with En Sabah Nur, had it not been preordained. He'd turned the offer down, partially because he would have felt uncomfortable there, and partially because he knew he was still weak. He would have been in the way, and he certainly didn't want his own team coddling him.
An envelope had also arrived. There'd been no return address, but he recognized G.W.'s handwriting easily enough. There'd been nothing but a slip of paper inside, with seven numbers and an area code. He knew what it was. He hadn't called yet. He wasn't sure he would.
There was a knock on the door, and he stifled a groan. He should have sensed Jean coming before now. His mind ran through a list of ways to get her to leave him alone, but none of them were going to work. She'd just keep trying. She was amazingly stubborn when it came to things like that, so much more so than Scott. He was sure Scott felt a certain sense of relief every time he met with resistance. But Jean... Jean remained undaunted. The knock sounded again, and he sighed. "Come in."
"Nathan."
The lights flipped on. He didn't bother opening his eyes. "What do you want?"
"You know why I'm here."
He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes reluctantly, uncrossing his legs and watching Jean as she carefully seated herself on the floor. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Well, too damned bad," she replied with a ruthlessness he hadn't quite expected.
He gave her a humorless smile. "What are you going to do, *spank* me?"
"Don't tempt me," she retorted. "I could do it, and you know it."
"I don't fit in here," he said, choosing to ignore her comment. "What am I supposed to do, sit around and wait to play big brother? Stop trying to turn us into one big happy family, Redd. Oath, do you have any idea how *disturbed* that is?"
She smiled thinly. "I'm not trying to force you into anything, Nathan. But at the same time, I don't want you to feel excluded. You're never going to cease to matter to us, no matter what happens."
He shook his head. "I'm not jealous. That's what you're thinking. That's what Scott thinks--" He stopped short, realizing she probably *knew* what Scott thought, because he would have told her. He gave Jean a more critical look, her reasons for coming now more suspect than ever.
She obviously sensed his train of thought, and her green eyes hardened ever so slightly into what he knew was a warning look. "What you said to your father was utterly out of line."
"He told you," he sighed. He'd half-hoped Scott would just keep that little outburst to himself. He hadn't really meant it--well, he had, but not in the way it had come out. His thoughts hadn't been as clear as the should have been. Nothing was clear anymore. It was tangled, confused... he'd lost the center around which he'd built himself, and everything was collapsing into darkness.
"He wasn't going to," Jean replied, eyes searching his face, trying to find some clue to what he was feeling. He wasn't letting her in. "I had to pry it out of him. You hurt him, Nathan. He still feels guilty about everything that happened with Madelyne and I don't need you adding to that. The insinuation that you somehow don't matter to us hurts me, as well."
He didn't reply, and she rested a hand on his shoulder. "Nathan," she continued softly, "I know this is hard for you. I can only imagine what it must feel like. But your mission is over. It's time to let go and move on."
He looked up, and Jean was startled by the sudden look of pain that flashed across his face. She saw something broken and pleading in his eyes. "To what?" The question was a harsh whisper.
Jean smiled sadly at her son. "I don't know. You've had people telling you what to do most of your life, Nathan. It's time *you* dictated terms. Find what makes you happy. I know that's a stretch, but..." She trailed off, her smile tinged with humor now.
Nate stared down at his hands. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt," he said finally. "Not again. I pushed them away... It was *my* mission, I didn't want anyone else to have to pay for that." He paused. "I think I screwed up."
He looked vulnerable then, exposed as the hard façade he'd been wearing cracked. Underneath it, Jean saw he was frightened and hurting, though he'd refused to let it show. "Maybe, she replied. "But there's time to fix it. It doesn't have to stay this way. *Whatever* you chose to do, I want you to remember that your father and I are *always* going to be here for you."
"Redd...?"
She reached out, wrapping him in a warm mental embrace as she leaned in to give him an awkward hug. #It's okay, Nate. It'll be all right. I promise.#
----
He had to be a masochist. It was either that, or Jean had far too much influence on him. He vaguely suspected it was the latter--the woman could manage to make him feel all of ten years old with nothing more than a stern look. She had amazing powers of persuasion, of the distinctly maternal sort.
It was about the only thing that could have ever prompted him into spending an afternoon with Scott, assembling nursery furniture. Admittedly, Scott seemed about as fond of the arrangement as he was, and the two had hardly spoken a word to each other all afternoon. His father was currently staring intently at a set of instructions, without much luck, if the look on his face was any indication.
"I would have thought you'd be good at this sort of thing," he replied, tightening bolts on... well, he wasn't exactly sure what part of which piece of furniture it was. He'd never had reason to familiarize himself with the trappings of a 20th century nursery.
"It's... been a few years," Scott replied hesitantly, mind no doubt searching frantically for some way out of the discussion.
"Hrmp. I suppose it has." He glanced sidelong at his father. "Would you please stop guilting so loudly? You're giving me a headache."
"Sorry," Scott replied, and set down the instructions with a sigh. "I'm starting to think learning Chinese would be easier."
"You're assuming the Chinese instructions make more sense," he replied.
"*Something* has to. We've been working at this for hours."
"The amazing Cyclops, defeated by baby furniture," he remarked sardonically. "You're slipping, Slym."
"Look, Nathan, about last night..."
"Do we have to do this?"
"Pardon?"
"Do we have to do this awkward little father/son bonding thing again? It never works. I'd have thought you'd realize that by now."
"Damnit, Nathan," Scott hissed, his jaw clenching momentarily in frustration. "I *want* to include you in my life. And I know I'm absolutely terrible at getting my point across, but despite all the... bickering we do, I'm grateful to have you around. I don't know what else I can do to *prove* that to you. I know you're not exactly comfortable with any of this, and I know we're probably never going to get along--"
"Scott?"
"Yes?"
"Stop trying so hard. You don't have to try and prove yourself to me. I... understand."
"You do?" Scott asked skeptically.
Nathan snorted. "I'm not Stryfe, you know. I don't need unconditional love from you and Jean. We're never going to be much of a family, as much as any of us might want to be." He tipped his head to the side slightly. "It's okay."
"I suppose you're right," Scott said, picking up the instructions again. "I just wish..."
"Yeah. So do I." He looked back down at the piece he was assembling. "You know, Redd, it doesn't do much good to hide outside the doorway when you're projecting such a sadistic sense of glee."
"I'll have to keep that in mind, " Jean replied, stepping into the room. "I thought you two were going to get some work done."
"This," Scott replied, waving the directions about as he stood and gave his wife a quick kiss. "was obviously designed by a madman."
"I told him he was loosing his touch," Nate commented, and started to haul himself to his feet, dropping abruptly to the floor again at the sharp stab of pain that tore through his chest. "...ouch," he joked weakly as he caught his breath.
"Nate?" Jean was at his side, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Behind her, he heard Scott sigh.
"He hurt himself in the Danger Room last night." There was a tone of weary resignation to his voice. "I'm right, aren't I?"
"Don't--have to rub it in," he replied tersely. "I'll be okay."
"You don't look okay," Jean said, tipping his chin up so he was looking her in the face. "You're white as a sheet."
"It's nothing... really." He hauled himself to his feet, doing his best to stifle a groan.
"Mmhm. I don't believe a word of that. You'd better let Henry--"
"Redd, please?" He hadn't meant for his tone to sound that pleading. But he really didn't want to wind up back in the medlab.
Jean arched an eyebrow. "Fine. Prove I'm wrong. Can you stand up straight--*without* wincing?"
He looked at her. Jean stared back, unwavering. He half expected her to start tapping her foot. He could feel the full force of 'I raised you for twelve years, and I know what's best' looming behind those green eyes.
It really was a lost cause.
----
"Verdict?"
"It would appear your rib fractures were not as completely healed as you believed," Beast mused, looking over computer displays from the medlab's advanced Shi'ar tech. "There's not much I can treat, I'm afraid. The best medicine in this case would be a restriction of any strenuous activity on your part for the next several weeks. I take it I'd rather not know how you caused yourself this further impairment?"
"No, you don't," he grunted in reply, pulling his shirt on gingerly.
"I thought not," the blue-furred doctor sighed. "I almost regret my decision not to sedate you longer," he murmured, filing away the medical information in the computer's databanks.
"Can we just skip the lecture today?" He snapped. "I've heard it before."
"No lecture," he replied. "I doubt very much that it would do any good. But I do know that we will both be much happier once we no longer have to *see* each other quite so often. Things are much quieter when you're not around, my friend. May I please offer my free and unbiased advice on this situation?"
"You might as well," Nate muttered. "Everyone else has."
Hank adjusted his glasses and sighed. "You're depressed. Not terribly surprising given the sheer amount of change you've been forced to face the last few months. I *could* throw another prescription onto your ever-growing pile of them, but I somehow doubt that's going to do you any real good. Nathan, we have *all* faced challenges. I won't diminish yours by pretending I can empathize with your current situation. I do, however, wonder why you seem so adamant in insisting you have nothing left in your life that's worthwhile. You have faced what I can only imagine has been tremendous loss. But has your life here in this time truly been so *empty* that there's nothing left worth living for?"
Nathan gritted his teeth. "That's just it, though. I was so flonqing *determined* that I lost all of that, McCoy. I lost my team, I lost--" He stopped short looking up at Hank. "I know what you're thinking. It's the same thing everyone else has. 'Why the hell doesn't he just call her and get it over with?'"
"If you refer to your rather enigmatic comrade-in-arms, I do admit to pondering the issue. Of course, I have no insight into what caused your parting of ways, so it would be rather presumptuous of me to assume that this is an avenue open to you."
"Actually," his mouth twitched up in a faint, wry smile, "I have her number."
"Do you," Hank murmured in reply. "Then I have to admit I *am* perplexed. I've known you to border on the masochistic before, Nathan, but surely there's no harm in giving the fair lady a call."
The smile was gone. "It's what everyone expects me to do. Go running to Dom. Let *her* deal with me." He paused. "It's really starting to piss me off."
"I see." He tapped a finger against his chin. "So you're countering this perceived communal pressure by purposefully lashing out against it? I have to say, that's *usually* a tactic most people dispose of by late adolescence, Nathan."
Nate arched an eyebrow at him. "You think I'm throwing a *temper tantrum?*"
"It *does* appear that way."
He had the sudden, insane urge to borrow one of the beds' pillows to smother himself with. "I'm not... I just don't want everyone to think I *need* her around."
"You *do* enjoy Domino's company, yes?"
Nathan narrowed his eyes. "Yes," he replied warily.
"Has it occurred to you that perhaps everyone is simply acting on previous empirical data, and thus deducing that her presence may greatly improve your affability?"
"You make it sound like I'm being an idiot."
Henry grinned at him. "Your words, not mine." He rested a hand on Cable' shoulder and continued in a more serious tone, "I merely think that you're limiting your chances of future happiness for somewhat... trivial reasons. Predictability is not *always* a bad thing, you know."
He sighed, the motion interrupted by a stab of pain that caused him to wince. "I'm not sure it's the right thing to do," he said finally. "I'm not sure she wants to be found."
Hank gave him a speculative look. "You sound concerned."
"I am..." he admitted. "I just--I don't know. Apparently she hasn't been talking to anyone, and that's not exactly like her. She was certainly pissed off enough at me, but it doesn't--it's not quite right. But I haven't exactly got any business butting into her life after all this time. She *left,* and I should be able to respect that."
"Nathan. If you *truly* feel something is amiss, it's worth your time to call. As a friend. Who knows? She *may* have forgiven you for your past transgressions by now."
A sharp bark of laughter escaped him before he could stop it. "You don't know Dom like I do."
"Then look at it this way," Henry replied, grinning. "She cannot *possibly* cause you any physical harm over the telephone."
----
The mansion had gone eerily quiet for the rest of the day. For the first time in months, it seemed, no one tried to engage him in 'helpful' conversation, or offer advice. Even Logan reduced his snide, offhand comments to monosyllabic grunts when they brushed past each other in the halls. Only Jean continued to watch him with concerned eyes, though the one time he'd caught her actively watching him, he'd tried his best reassuring smile on her. He doubted it had worked.
He was staring at the ceiling again. The pain in his chest had diminished, but it hadn't gone away, and his thoughts were keeping him awake. He'd made the mistake of glancing at the quiet, shielded part of his mind where the remnants of the psilink with Dom lingered, atrophied to the barest of connections, but not gone. He never had been able to bring himself to sever it, but he'd shielded it over so tightly that nothing leaked through. He hadn't wanted her to worry over anything she might have felt from him. Had he died, she might not have ever felt a thing. He'd avoided looking at it since the day he'd locked it up.
He could feel it now, though. Try as he might, he couldn't stop sensing the curious numb spot, his attention drawn over and over again to that absence, no matter how hard he tried to push it into the background again. His conversation with G.W. drifted back to him.
Four months of silence.
He didn't want to worry about it. He couldn't help *but* worry about it. G.W. wouldn't have given him the number if *he* hadn't been worrying about it. He sighed past the pain in his side and the even tighter feeling in his throat. He stared hard at the ceiling one last time, then got up and walked over the low dresser. He flattened the paper there with his fingers and stared down at the numbers.
Four months of silence, and three years of living with her absence.
In the end, it wasn't that hard a choice to make.
----
She tossed her bag down on the floor with a heavy thump and ran her hands back through her hair. God, she was tired. She really could use a shower, too, but at the moment, she wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't pass out standing up. She settled for splashing her face with cold water from the sink, brushing her teeth, then stripping off her uniform and tossing it in a heap on the other side of the room before slipping between the sheets.
She'd been out for all of ten minutes when the phone rang. Who the hell was calling at this time of night? Better yet, who the hell was calling, period? The number was unlisted, and no one she could recall giving it to should be trying to reach her. She tried ignoring it, but it kept ringing. Muttering a colorful string of expletives, she groped blindly for the receiver on the battered nightstand.
"What the hell do you want?" She snapped groggily at the person on the other end.
"Dom?"
Her eyes snapped open and she sat up in the bed. Though it had been years, there was no mistaking the voice on the other end.
"Nathan?"
*end*