Disclaimer: Domino, Cable, X-Force and the X-Men are Marvel's characters, used without permission. No profit is involved.

Author's Notes:

Thank you to Timesprite for editing this piece. She did a great job! Any errors, of course, are my own fault. Should you spot any, please let me know! In real life, I'm a copy editor; errors are my enemies.

This is a Cable/Domino story told from Domino's point of view. It takes place while X-Force is living in the mansion, but diverges from continuity soon after that point. (No new characters, don't worry.) Rating (does anyone actually use this?) should be PG-13 for dark themes and images.

I finished this story last summer, but then my hard drive kicked and I lost the only copy. Luckily, the weeks before finals got a little boring (What, me study?) and I took the opportunity to rewrite this piece. I hope you like it, and maybe you'll take a moment to send a review my way.

Forbidden Territory

By Port

X-Force had a wing of the X-Mansion to themselves, and was it any wonder? Between Rictor's tectonic bursts of temper and Tabitha's practical jokes, none of the X-Men knew how long the building's foundations would last, so they tried to limit the damage to one side of the compound. It allowed the teens and their older leaders some privacy—that and their own bathrooms, television lounges and kitchen.

To Domino, the private space—or "the Forbidden Territory," as the kids liked to call it in front of the other team—made the situation livable. Nate still dragged her to Sunday breakfasts with his parents and the other X-Men, and she herself was responsible for coordinating shared use of mansion facilities, such as the Danger Room, as well as for attending the X-Men's regular meetings as an X-Force representative. But all in all, she didn't have to interact with the senior team between duties.

That suited her, for she preferred the kids. They were livelier, more raucous, sharp-tongued and frank. She fought alongside them, and on several levels, she had authority with them.

Not so with the X-Men. But that had to do with Cable and her relationship with him—

Their spit-in-your-eye, push-you-away, cover-your-back, drink-you-under-the-table, go-away-come-back, reminisce-and-bicker, long-long-and-wish-for-you, FUCKING relationship.

Domino was too used to it all to be sick of it.

What did make her sick was sitting next to him on the couch in the smaller television room. The kids had named it the "Little Old Folks Room," because she and Nate were often alone in there, and for all that went on when the kids were off doing who knew what, Domino thought the name perfect.

In short, nothing went on there.

Nate and she simply sat on the couch. They talked, they searched for the ever-elusive worthwhile television programming, and failing to find it, talked some more. Sometimes, they both read. Sometimes one read, and the other napped. They took turns. It was like an exasperating game. Sometimes the kids would silently open the door a crack and try to catch them doing something decidedly adult. She'd once overheard 'Star, Rictor and Theresa—of all people!—laying out the odds of ever opening the door of the Little Old Folks Room and finding their team leaders in a compromising position. The odds had been disappointingly low.

Yes, disappointing. She and Nate shared long hours of company in the their off-time, and through it all, her skin practically quivered, like a magnet near metal. Her heart tried to climb her throat. Her eyes examined every line on his massive body, and her tongue found each one delicious, positively rich and luxuriant, even without actually tasting him. He was like a plush toy set before a child, a dinner before a starving woman, a bottle before an alcoholic.

And he felt the same about her. He had said as much in Israel, as the M'kraan Crystal approached. When she had hesitated then, he had showed her he meant it. For one dazzling moment, he had held her, kissed her, opened up his secret thoughts to her—not using telepathy, but his body.

Afterward, though, when the crystal wave passed over the assembled teams, leaving them alive in its wake, Nate and she pretended their moment had not happened. Like the M'kraan itself, the exquisite moment had simply passed. They never discussed his kiss, for which she had waited so eagerly and which had been so startling in its arrival. Why? In the long nights alone that followed, she wondered.

Still, during those solitary nights when she lay awake wondering, and during all the days in between, Domino wished it were different. And Nate did too.

She could tell. He was tense, even when he slept on the other side of the couch while she read the Times. He was hesitant. He measured his words, even as he teased her out loud, made sly, pointed remarks about her that underscored their intimacy with each other, and told dirty jokes. But the jokes weren't all that dirty; he edited them for her as she knew he wouldn't have for Griz or G.W.

He was so very much aware that she was a woman.

Teammate, compatriot, partner, confessor and—she liked to think—friend. But in all things, a woman. And when he looked at her through narrowed eyes, sliding his gaze over each feminine curve, she could suddenly glance at him, "catching him in the act," and raise one elegant, black eyebrow, and she knew for certain that he wanted her.

That eyebrow was like a gate swinging, a drawbridge lowering, a door opening. It was a signal. When she "caught" him looking her over, all she had to do was raise that one eyebrow, and he knew, and she knew he knew. She was inviting him.

Then he'd smile, chagrined, and turn back to the television or his book or the silence, and she'd shake her head, all the time thinking, "Fucking idiot." Sometimes she thought about thinking it above her mental shields, where he would hear her.

The one time she did that was a Saturday evening when a housefly flew across her vision and she turned her head to follow it. It banged into Nate's cheek, and he snapped his head around. Their eyes met. He grinned foolishly. She quirked one side of her lips. His twitched. Then… he grunted and turned back to the TV.

Domino glared at the side of his head. The fly, caught in her line of sight, fell out of the air, dead. But Nate didn't look her way again. When would he get the effing message?

From the doorway came snickering, then it halted, and very soft footfalls scampered away down the hall.

She looked at Nate again, almost overcome by her desire for him, which anger quickly supplanted.

"Fucking idiot," she thought, well-above her mental shields. He looked at her then, all right, but she was halfway out the door.

"What the hell was that?" he sent to her. She sent back the vivid image of a closed door, with a sign hanging from the knob: "Stay Out."

She retreated beneath the shields, but the psilink kept them attuned to each other. She felt traces of his emotions and wondered if her own leaked through to him. Probably. But that just made her madder.

As she simmered in her room, staring out at the darkening twilight sky, she methodically examined what she felt from him.

First, sexual attraction, but it was muted somehow, like he was trying to deny it. "No surprise there," she muttered.

Second, frustration. "Naturally."

But then.... Guilt?

"Now why would he feel guilty?" Beyond the usual, of course. He'd led a rough life. He was a warrior. He had a life behind him. Didn't everybody? So she thought she understood. She reigned in her desire after that, so that when they saw each other the next morning, it was almost as if nothing had happened.

A good thing, because it was Sunday morning. "Back to the trenches," she thought privately as she and Nate walked over to the large dining room in the mansion proper. On these Sundays, she always felt like a teenager meeting her boyfriend's parents for the first time. A funny feeling, first of all because she'd never had such an experience growing up and second because she'd known Scott and Jean and the rest for quite a few months now.

It was probably because Nate acted differently. In the Forbidden Territory, he was the father-figure. The kids did all but call him Daddy. In the X-Men's part of the house, he was, literally, the son. He was polite, he made table conversation, he smiled, he relaxed.

And Scott and Jean ate it up. So did Storm and Hank and Rogue and whoever else was around. Well, except Logan. He just sat quietly sipping coffee. Once she turned to find him smirking at her over the rim of his cup, dark eyes shadowed by his forehead and hair. Before she could stop herself, she stuck out her tongue, Tabitha-style, and had the pleasure of seeing him spit out his coffee over the front of his shirt. She smiled tightly at him, only to turn back and find Nate and his parents staring at her. Jean had her hand over a grin.

"It's all right," Domino said. "He'll tell people it's blood stains."

A wicked smile crossed Nate's mouth, and she saw a sparkle in his eye. Over the link, with Scott's and Jean's laughter in the aural background, she felt his... pride?

That was when she started to rethink her impression of Nate during these 'family' breakfasts. Polite, conversational, smiling, relaxed—but for whom? Certainly for his parents. But also... for her?

The thought had frightened her at first, and she begged off the following week. It was unusual for her to get scared, especially when she wanted him so badly, but what was he trying to say to her on Sunday mornings?

You're wanted?

You belong?

I want you to belong with me and mine?

Well, obviously. It was more than that.

When a man wanted a woman—for more than just sex—he showed her what he could offer. All her serious pursuers had done that, in their own ways. Even Milo.

These breakfasts.... He was a family man there, and good at it. The X-Men who attended really liked having him, and he liked participating in their please-pass-the-salt—my-pleasure family playacting.

In fact, he'd warmed up outside of those times as well. The kids trusted him. Most of them came to him with their problems. A few, like Bobby, Sam and Theresa, spent extra hours training with him, even though they didn't really need to. And though they called it the Little Old Folks Room, most of the youngsters wandered through it when they were bored, just to say hello to him.

Come to think of it, they treated her the same way.

Shit. The thought made her mouth quirk.

Well, anyway, Nate was mixing his signals. He was showing off his ability to be a family man, a provider, a human being. Yet he treated her like a leper.

She lay in bed that Sunday morning under warm blankets as sunlight slowly crept across her floor and onto the comforter. She could feel him through the link and almost see him as he chatted with somebody. She thought it was Rogue, but she couldn't tell why. Something very subtle about his demeanor let her guess who he was talking to. It was like that sometimes. They could be halfway around the world from each other, and all of a sudden, she simply knew he was talking to Jean or Sam or Scott. Or thinking about them. Sometimes she felt as though he were talking to Tyler or Aliya, but of course he wasn't. Once she'd been surprised to sense him talking to Griz. Since she'd killed him the previous year, she'd freaked out until she realized Nate must have been thinking of the big guy, not talking to him. She was glad he still thought of Theo.

"Hey," his telepathic voice said, interrupting her lazy thoughts.

"I thought I told you never to call me here," she sent back.

"You should have come," he said. "We're having hash and crepes."

"You just want me to let you off the hook," she said, remembering the last time they'd served crepes. He hated them. Too dainty, he'd said in her mind. Why couldn't they just serve pancakes, like real men? She'd sent back: Because Betsy cooked them. And before he could insult the British telepath, Domino had casually stolen them off his plate with her fork. Betsy had gushed, finding the action and Nate's feigned annoyance too cute.

"It worked last time," he said.

She realized he was still talking with Rogue. "Can't you stick with one conversation at a time?"

"One interesting one," he said, in a sort of mutter.

She sent him wry amusement. "Then tell her to shut the hell up! Aren't you man enough to make yourself clear?"

"I'm man enough for anything," he said, "but I'm not suicidal."

"Then stop two-timing," she said off-handedly, beginning to feel sleepy again. "It's me or Rogue, Nate. My room or their dining room." She yawned.

Just as she was about to fall asleep, she realized he hadn't replied. "Nate...?" She could feel him engaged with Scott and Jean, so she turned over and was about to slip into a familiar dream when he sent, "Good night, Dom."

It made her breath catch, the way he said her name, but she didn't broadcast that emotion. "Night, Nate."

In the dream, she lay just like this, only Nate was in the bed too, holding her close.

Continued in Part 2.

Forbidden Territory, by Port
pyrofae (at) mad.scientist.com
The Elysian Fields: http:www30.brinkster.com/silverylining/index.html