The Thunder and The Sunshine
By Alicia.
Author's Notes: Disclaimer and notes: Most of the characters belong to Marvel, and are used without permission for entertainment purposes only. The movieverse adaptations of many of the characters within are inspired by the X-Project RPG.
This story begins nine months after the end of X2.
New York Now
"That won't actually make their plane land any faster, mate." Pete shook his head at the relentlessly pacing Nathan. Impressive that he was managing to do that in the midst of the crowded waiting area without running anyone over, but he was also starting to draw undue attention. And getting back to the school quietly was high on Pete's to-do list for the day.
"Five months, Pete."
"I know."
"Dom's going to kill me." But Nathan did come over and sit down. Definitely progress, even if the hair on the back of Pete's neck stood up at the increased proximity. When telepaths were twitchy, everyone in the vicinity got to share.
"You think?" Oh, how he wanted a cigarette. But a number of people, including the two they were waiting to greet, would have his head if he left Nathan alone. This was the first time the man had been off campus in those five months, and being in public, in the States, had to be a big part of the anxiety Nathan was so kindly sharing with the world. Six years was a long time, especially when your former employers had spent a goodly portion of that time hunting you like an animal.
"I probably shouldn't have taken off like I did." Nathan rubbed at his jaw. "But they were talking about doctors that weren't Moira. They didn't think they could get me to Muir in the shape I was in."
"And yet you made it to Liechtenstein. I guess you showed them." Pete grinned, waving off the glare he got for the comment. "Look, you're due a hard time for running off like you did, but you didn't drop off the face of the earth. They know where you are. They've known since we brought you back, and you've been in touch-"
"It's not that." Nathan sighed and rested his head in his hands. Pete watched him carefully, weighing possibilities. He'd have to be a blind idiot not to have noticed what was happening between his friend and a certain Scottish doctor. Neither of them were the type to advertise it, but hell, even the gossip mill had concluded that the two of them were sharing a bedroom, not just a suite.
Pete wasn't positive things had gone that far yet, but he was fairly sure they would. The changes in Nathan as Xavier continued to undo the remains of his conditioning might look subtle, but they weren't. Not to anyone who knew him well. Pete saw those changes written all over Nathan's face whenever he looked at Moira.
But that had implications. Meant there was much to sort out, which was one of the reasons they were waiting for Bridge and Domino.
"I'm not going back to Berlin." The words were muffled and a bit unsteady, but Nathan raised his head and met Pete's intent gaze without flinching. "But you guessed that a while ago."
Pete decided not to say anything about Nathan responding to unspoken comments. A telepath's shields couldn't help but be a bit ragged in a crowd like this. "I'd suspected. It's not like you'd ever been particularly happy with the freelance life." It had been an ill fit from the start.
"It's just that I'm starting to see why I made that choice in the first place. And I wasn't thinking, when I did." He stared down at his hands, his expression increasingly pensive. "It was the only thing I knew how to do, and I was so angry."
Charlie's been doing some talking while he unties the knots in your head, hasn't he? Probably a good thing, although thinking that likely made him a hypocrite. "You figure on staying, then?" It wouldn't be an easy transition. Nathan had never had anything resembling a normal life, except perhaps in the childhood Mistra's conditioning techniques had all but erased.
Nathan shrugged. "I'm not sure. Need to figure some things out, and I can't make any long-term decisions. Not while the government owns my soul." Despite the sardonic comment, Nathan looked abruptly white around the lips. His eyes were unfocusing, even as Pete watched.
"Deep breaths, mate." Pete kept his voice level and calm, stepping on the sudden twist of anxiety. The middle of JFK wasn't a good place for this. "You just remember that this investigation makes you safer than you've been since you left the bastards in the first place."
Nathan was now a federal witness, with blanket immunity and promises of whatever help he needed to reintegrate into society if he chose to stay in the States after this was all over. But the protection had a price. Mistra's former field commander was an intelligence source of incalculable value, and they weren't going to let go until they'd extracted every last drop.
"I wish I could believe that. Or that this was going to do any good." Nathan finally looked at him and while Pete couldn't say he liked what he saw in those gray eyes, at least the momentary flirtation with a downward spiral had passed.
Pete surprised himself with the completely uncharacteristic wish that he could say something reassuring. Before he could figure out where the hell that had come from and whether he actually wanted to do something about it, Nathan's head jerked towards the arrivals gate like a bloodhound who'd just got a whiff of a familiar scent.
"Here they are. Guess they got past Customs all right."
G.W. Bridge was nearly Nathan's size and towered over the rest of the newly arrived passengers. His shaved head only added to his generally intimidating demeanor, but his expression was mild, thoughtfully assessing. Only when he spotted Nathan did the diffident mask vanish, swept away by a delighted grin. He raised a hand in a wave.
Beside him was a slim woman, much younger than any of them and a head shorter even than Pete, who caught himself grinning at the sight of her. She had rumpled black hair, porcelain skin, and violet eyes that lit up with savage glee to see him standing there with Nathan. There was a definite 'later for you' edge to the smouldering look she gave him before she advanced on Nathan and punched him solidly in the shoulder, hard enough to draw a second look from a security guard.
"Ass." Her voice was deep and husky, the sort of voice most phone sex operators only dreamed of possessing. Fortunately, the young woman who still resolutely insisted upon calling herself Domino preferred the more straightforwardly illegal sort of fun, preferably involving explosions. Didn't mean that Pete enjoyed their phone conversations any less.
But she was focused entirely on Nathan now, something almost desperately intent about the way she scrutinized him. "Don't you ever do that again. I swear my fucking heart stopped when we found you gone."
"I owe myself five bucks," Bridge said as he joined them. He gave Pete a brief, wry grin before he clasped arms with Nathan. The look the two men shared said a number of things, none of which men in their occupation would say aloud. "I knew she'd hit you first."
"Shut up if you don't want the same," was Dom's rather snippy response.
"Let's not start fighting in the middle of JFK," Nathan said. "Tends to draw attention." Bridge hadn't let go of his arm, and Nathan shifted slightly under his steady regard. "I'm okay," he said, more quietly.
Only then did Bridge let go of him. "I'm glad. You lie too well over the phone, so I wasn't sure if there was anything you weren't telling me." Bridge looked at Pete, that affable mask descending over his features once more. "Long flight. Don't suppose you know a good bar that's not in the airport?"
"I've been here for the better part of a year, Bridge, of course I fucking do."
--
Bridge picked his moment carefully. For a good portion of the evening, he didn't take the conversation beyond the level of catching up, and gently but firmly quashed any attempt of Dom's to do so. But as soon as Pete and Dom wound up at the bar together for more than a minute, the reprieve was over. Nathan had expected that to be the trigger. It was an old habit, not to talk about the really important stuff around Dom.
Bridge leaned in closer, so that he didn't have to raise his voice; the bar was only moderately crowded, but the noise level was still pretty high. "You're not planning to be back in Berlin anytime soon, are you?"
His friend's gaze was steady, calm, totally unjudgemental, just like the question itself. As if both were calculated not to evoke any kind of guilt on his part, Nathan thought dourly. He sometimes thought G.W. knew him a little too well.
"I... don't think so. No." Nathan found himself staring down into his drink, rather than meeting Bridge's eyes. He'd been nursing the same drink all evening. Moira's instructions were still in force, after all. "This investigation... I can't just take off. And what Xavier's trying to do for me is going to take a while."
"Wait, you mean that twenty-five years of being mindfucked can't be undone in a couple of months?" Nathan smiled a bit unwillingly, and Bridge snorted softly. "Bro, if this guy's helping, more power to him and I think you should stay as long as it takes."
It shouldn't have surprised him. Nathan looked away, ducking his head to hide the change in his expression. G.W. had spent years trying to do what he could to help Nathan figure out how to make a life outside Mistra. He knew more than anyone, even Moira, about how hard it had been. How little progress he'd really made when it came to the important things.
So Nathan owed him the truth, however hard it was to put into words. "It's hard to explain." His voice sounded a little strangled. "I don't feel the way I used to. It's like I can breathe properly, for the first time in..." Nathan trailed off, not even sure what time frame he'd put to that. There'd been life at Mistra, and life on the run from Mistra, neither of which had been conducive to relaxation. "And there's Moira."
"Ah." Nathan's head jerked around at the volumes of meaning in the monosyllable. But G.W. was grinning at him. "I was wondering about that."
"Oh, were you."
"Well, yes. Having watched the two of you make eyes at each other for years."
"You make us sound like teenagers." It came out sounding a little more testy than he'd intended. But too many of the kids giggled whenever he saw him and Moira together, which was still unsettling. He wasn't used to being the subject of gossip, and he didn't like the feeling.
"If you were teenagers, Nate, this would be simpler," G.W. said with more truth than tact. "But maybe it's time the two of you took the time necessary to sort things out." He paused to sip at his beer, only his second of the night. "I won't say we won't miss you. But I think you're doing the right thing." He smiled. "You do tend to make decent choices when you put your mind to it."
--
Northern Cambodia, Six years and two months ago
He hated the jungle. Always had, no matter what the operation or circumstances. It was the humidity, so different than the desert he was used to. Made it hard to breathe.
Pretend it's the humidity. Nathan gripped the steering wheel of the jeep hard as he guided it down the twisting dirt road. The humidity, or the cracked ribs, or the continuing ache of the healing gunshot wounds. He hadn't spent enough time recuperating before leaving Mexico, he knew. But it didn't matter. He didn't need to be perfectly healthy to fight. They had taught him that, and he'd learned his lessons well. All of them.
Nathan's eyes flickered downwards to the map open on the seat beside him, held in place by his GPS unit. Still several hours short of the village where he'd stop for the night. He had an ample supply of American currency, more than enough to purchase lodging for the next few days. He needed a base of operations if he was going to pull this off. Sawyer's team was operating to the north, along the Mekong, and he wasn't going to get in there with a vehicle.
I'm coming, Thyra. Have they told you? Konda had been surprised, but then, he had been the first. Maybe the directors would warn the others, maybe they wouldn't. It depended on whether they thought it was worth protecting a handful of operatives who'd had the misfortune to be picked for that team, that day in San Francisco.
He wondered who else was with Sawyer, and if he'd have to kill them too. He didn't really want to, not if they hadn't been part of the team in San Francisco, but they might feel obligated to get in his way. Sawyer had to die, knowing who was killing her and why, and if her teammates didn't have the sense to stay out of the way, then they got to die too.
As the jeep reached the top of a rise, Nathan frowned at the sight of smoke rising up ahead. He slowed a little, not reaching for the gun that was also beside him on the seat - yet. The source of the smoke became visible as he came around the next bend in the road. Another vehicle was upside down and smouldering at the side of the road. There was a body there too, sprawled in the dirt, and Nathan's frown deepened as he reached out tentatively with his mind. He'd seen traps like this before.
But there was no one in the surrounding jungle, and the injured man was unquestionably unconscious. The road was narrow enough that there was no driving around him, and despite the situation, Nathan wasn't going to drive over the man like so much debris in the middle of the road. He wasn't that far gone. Muttering a curse under his breath, he pulled over, getting out of the Jeep and limping over to the man.
One assessing look told him at least the basics of the tale. The man was not Cambodian, but dark-skinned and nearly Nathan's own height. He had some visible injuries from the crash, but it was the multiple bullet wounds that would kill him first. Nathan knelt beside him, checking for a pulse; he found one, surprisingly strong given the blood loss the man had suffered so far. The man twitched at the touch, eyes fluttering open briefly and trying to focus on Nathan.
"Who the hell are you?" Nathan murmured, noticing other details. A shoulder holster, empty, and a Wenger watch. The man was wearing camouflage, not a specific military pattern but well-chosen for the jungle. Eyes narrowing, he laid a hand on the man's forehead, dipping very hesitantly into his mind. Under any other circumstances he wouldn't have even thought of doing this, but the man obviously wasn't capable of talking, and if he was American...
He was unpracticed at this sort of contact, and the man was deeply enough in shock that it was difficult to get much that made sense. Flashes of unfamiliar faces, maps, all in a jumble. Muzzle flashes? Nathan sank deeper, trying to piece it together.
dideverythingrightnotfairtrustedyou- Friend. Partner? No, betrayer. Money instead of friendship and duty. Rifles in crates on the back of a truck. Cambodian faces, earnest and determined. Failure? failedthemmadepromisesthey'lldiedamnyou-
Nathan leaned back, staring down at the wounded man. CIA, he thought. Involved in some sort of in-country deal with the ANS, maybe? Strange how there seemed to be an emotional connection there. More than just devotion to duty. The man - Bridge. George Washington Bridge. Someone's parents had a sense of humor. - had fallen into the trap of seeing the people, not just the cause. Rare for someone in his position. Obviously a mistake, to judge by the position he was in now.
Bridge's eyes fluttered open again, managing to focus on Nathan again, briefly lucid. There was no plea there, no fear. Just a sort of resignation, and more silent dignity than a dying man should have been able to muster.
It hit him harder than it should have. You have business elsewhere, snarled the cold, angry part of him that had driven him back out of Mexico and into his search. But another, different voice persisted. They might have a doctor at the village. Would it really cost him anything, to put the man in the back of the jeep and continue onwards? It wasn't as if he'd have to turn back to find him help. A few minutes, that was all.
He'd written off people before. Operatives he cared about, because he'd been under orders, because the damned tactical personality had demanded it. Operatives like the ones you're hunting down right now? Who were under orders, doing what their tactical imperatives demanded... Nathan rocked back on his heels, his breathing harsh and labored for a long moment as he struggled to push the emotions down, lock them away.
The conflict needed resolving. He couldn't sit here frozen at the side of the road. Ironically, his tactical imperatives provided the solution, elegant as always. Forward, not back. Take care of the loose end, focus on the mission.
He rose, and Bridge's eyes closed again. "Be right back," he muttered. He'd have to rearrange some supplies.
--
Salem Center, Now
It was past three AM when Pete decided he had to say something. "Would you stop thrashing around?" He grunted as his lack of diplomacy got him an elbow in the ribs. "Bloody hell, woman-"
"Are you kicking me out of bed?" Domino asked, not quite sweetly, as she leaned over him. Her hair fell into her eyes and she pushed it back impatiently. "If so, I'm sure I could find somewhere else to sleep. That cute blond with the Kentucky accent we passed in the garage coming in, maybe-"
"No need to go that far, love, but if you don't stop squirming I may have to take steps." Pete pushed himself up on an elbow, his lips twitching slightly at the narrow-eyed look she was giving him. "Which I doubt you'd like, given that you prefer to be the one doing the tying down."
"Oh, shut up." Domino flung herself back down onto the bed. "You deserved what you got that time. You had no business even thinking of leaving me out of that op, let alone by shutting me in a storage locker. Bastard."
That hint of a British accent was back. One of these days he'd talk her into letting him find out just who she'd been before the fighting pits in Hong Kong where she'd spent the bulk of her early teens. But she was adamantly opposed to the idea, and claimed to remember nothing of her childhood before that. Which was plausible, given that she had to have been six or seven when she'd first been sold, although he wasn't positive how much of her failure to remember was actually avoidance.
"Did I ever deny I was a bastard? You had a fine time holding a grudge over the storage locker, as I recall."
Domino snorted and laid her head on his shoulder as he leaned back against the pillows. "I suppose," she said after another long moment. Then came the expected subject switch. "He didn't say what he's planning to do. Has he said anything to you?"
She sounded younger, suddenly. Pete turned his head, kissing the top of hers."I don't think he knows himself. If this old business with Mistra gets straightened out-"
"And what's the likelihood of that?" was her scornful report.
"-I could certainly put him to work," Pete said, ignoring her interjection. "The lot of you have been the next best thing to contractors for my government for long enough."
"And what about the rest of us?" Domino did sound woeful now, as if facing the prospect of a Nathan-less freelance career and finding that she didn't like it at all.
"Well, you've always had that standing job offer from me." He'd made it facetiously years ago, when Dom had been chafing at being too young to work with Nathan and Bridge. Once he'd gotten a look at how she operated in the field, he'd upgraded it to something more serious.
"Yes, because I really want to be your pet gunbunny."
"You're not giving me enough credit."
--
Rio De Janeiro, Three weeks later
Scott pressed himself back against the wall, waiting for the signal from the head of the Brazilian SWAT team. The police had set up floodlights outside, but the illumination coming from the windows at either end of the corridor was the only light they'd had while getting into position. Power to the building had been cut hours ago.
The plan was to create a smokescreen, to buy the small team of X-Men a moment of cover as they led the way into the library where the hostages were being held. SWAT would remove the hostages, while the X-Men dealt with the hostiles.
Hostages. Kids, damn it. Scott wasn't going to let himself lose sight of that. St. Isabel's had launched a new curriculum, one that took an integrated approach to teaching mutant and baseline children. It had attracted plenty of attention not just from the media, but also extremist groups. The terrorists who'd stormed the school earlier today called themselves Sangue Puro. They'd killed three security guards and taken over a dozen hostages, mostly children. They were threatening to kill all of them if the Brazilian government didn't release prisoners affiliated with their group.
The Brazilian police had enough intelligence information on the group to paint a dismal picture of how this would probably end. Hence the request through the American government for assistance.
"Check," he murmured softly over his com. They weren't losing any of these hostages. Not this time, not any time.
"Check," he heard Dazzler whisper in his earpiece. He'd hesitated before picking her, given her lack of combat experience. But she could strike non-lethally from a distance, and her flashbang trick was going to be helpful.
"Check," Logan, the more obvious choice, added. They needed someone who could block bullet without taking lasting harm if one of the terrorists managed to use his gun. Logan had volunteered without being asked.
There were four, maybe five hostage-takers. Betsy was in London, called back to consult on an old case of hers. Scott hated working without a telepath, but a few of the students and staff who had escaped had filled in some of the blanks, including some valuable information on obvious mutant powers among the terrorists.
They still had the element of surprise; the terrorists wouldn't be expecting other mutants to come in after them. That would have to do.
A sharp gesture, visible even in the dimness of the hallway, from the head of the SWAT team. One of his officers moved immediately, smashing the window in the library door and tossing in the smoke grenade.
"Go," Scott said sharply, closing his eyes behind his visor while Alison blew the doors open. The explosion of light was visible even through his eyelids, and immediately, there was shouting (deep and male) and screaming (young and terrified). One, two... He opened his eyes and followed Logan in, Alison right behind him. The SWAT team moved in behind them to remove the hostages.
Watch Logan. He could track the hostage-takers better than the rest of them could, although the smokescreen would mess with Logan's senses and Scott had nearly vetoed the idea on that basis alone. But the haze didn't seem to even slow Logan down. He tackled the nearest standing figure - claws in, thankfully.
Another turned to respond to the attack on his companion, and Scott waited only long enough to see the gun in the man's hand before he blasted him solidly in the chest. There was another, more controlled burst of light off to his left, Dazzler taking out another target. Three down. Scott moved to shield one of the SWAT team members dragging a child bodily out of the library, even as he looked for another target.
There. He took aim - and what felt like a fiery sledgehammer smashed into his arm from the right, sending him staggering. So there are five of them. It wasn't a gunshot, he knew what that felt like hitting the body arm. Energy blast? The smell of burned kevlar was obvious even mingled with the smoke.
"Cyclops, down!" he heard Alison shout. Scott hit the deck, squeezing his eyes shut. It saved him from being blinded, although the force of the explosion pushed him hard against the floor. He heard a shout, abruptly cut off, from the direction of that first energy blast, then a familiar Logan-like growl.
"Stay down, Cyke!" But Scott opened his eyes in time to see his teammate barrel past him in the other direction, slamming into the last terrorist. There was a brief tussle, and Scott's eyes widened as he saw the other man throw Logan bodily into the bookshelves, like he was tossing a rag doll.
Scott fired from the floor, the optic blast aimed right at the man's chest. It flung him into the wall, cracks spiderwebbing outwards at the impact. The terrorist reeled forward and came right back at Scott, who cursed under his breath and fired again, this time at his head. It often took more than one shot with physically enhanced mutants. Two did the trick this time, though, and the man hit the ground, unmoving. Scott rolled back to his feet, taking in his surroundings at a glance. None of the terrorists were still standing.
"Check!" he demanded shakily.
"Check!" he heard Logan grunt as he rose, a bit slowly.
"Check," Alison said from beside him, her eyes worried as she reached for him. "Cyclops, that doesn't look good," she said as the rest of the SWAT team rushed in around them, removing the last of the children. Her attention was all on his arm, and Scott bit back a rebuke about keeping her eyes on the fallen terrorists. He was. So was Logan. "You're still smouldering."
"Later," he said curtly. "Check the terrorists. Make sure the medics know to keep them sedated until the transport reaches a containment facility." He knew Brazil had one. It was beginning to be a necessity for any country, at least those that didn't simply shoot mutant criminals in the back of the head because of the difficulty of keeping them safely imprisoned.
Logan was already moving to check the terrorists. Scott tottered slightly as Alison moved away to join him, but then there was someone else at his side, looking just as appalled at the sight of his burns. Joao Cardoso was a federal police captain, and had been the officer in charge on site when the X-Men had arrived. Thankfully, he'd also been well-briefed by his government and much more flexible than many of the law enforcement types the X-Men dealt with.
"I think you need to sit down, Summers," Cardoso said, guiding him towards a chair that had miraculously survived the firefight. He looked over his shoulder, calling for a medic in Portugese.
"The children?" Scott asked tightly. He was starting to feel it now. Pain was good, though, with burns. Meant it wasn't that bad. "Are they-"
"No word yet on injuries, but they're all alive." The smoke was starting to clear, and Scott let out a relieved, if shaky breath to see that the only people on the ground were adults, and none of them police. Cardoso was looking around as well, shaking his head. "It could have been so much worse."
"It can always be worse," Scott muttered, looking around. It was a wonder that it hadn't been, really. He hadn't had the right mixture of people for a situation like this, hadn't had the versatility he really needed...
Back to the drawing board. Shit. This was going to take a lot of thinking. Once he was in slightly less pain.
--
Salem Center, Two weeks later
"Almost there." The gruff comment from the very large man preceding him was unsolicited. Cain Marko, the school's groundskeeper, had shown up at the door of Moira's suite this morning, mumbling about her sending him upstairs to enlist Nathan's help with something outside.
Nathan hadn't even hesitated before grabbing his jacket. He didn't know what Cain had in mind, but anything was preferable to continuing to prepare for his deposition. A bout of the bubonic plague would have been preferable.
"I hadn't been out this far before," Nathan said. He didn't know much about the other man. Eight feet tall and built like a tank, Marko had to be a mutant of some sort, but his background was one of the school's big mysteries, to hear the kids talk. He definitely had some sort of strange combative relationship with Charles. Nathan had heard the tail end of a couple of 'discussions'. Moira got along well with him, though, which said something.
"Not many ever do. Just me," Cain said with a rumbling laugh.
"Yeah. You planning to tell me what you need me for yet?" Nathan raised an eyebrow. "If you'll forgive me saying so, you don't really look like you need much help with heavy lifting."
Cain snorted and stepped out across a narrow, overgrown dirt road. "There's an old quarry back here," he said. "Granite, from back around the turn of the century. Got some water out there, and Moira thought that big brain of yours might be the easiest way to get it out." He indicated for Nathan to follow him as he stepped through the underbrush. "Right here."
"Ah-hah," Nathan murmured, looking out over the quarry. "Good place to work out some frustration?" he ventured, noticing what looked like fresh rubble.
Cain laughed again, a bit dourly this time. "Yeah. Been... digging out here for a few months now. Looks like I hit an old wellspring."
"Looks pretty deep, but I think I can probably take care of it..." Nathan stepped carefully down the slope, giving Cain a sideways look when the other man didn't volunteer a destination for the water. Well, he could play along. "Water's heavy. Good exercise."
Cain grunted. Nathan shrugged inwardly and imagined a massive version of one of those spiral straws. He started to pull the water up into it, slowly. His telekinesis had been all but inactive for too long. Rushing into anything was likely to give him a headache. He let the water fountain out from the top of the 'straw', scattering over the grass on the far side of the hill.
"I don't think this'll solve the problem." Talking and using his telekinesis like this at the same time was good exercise too. "There is some sort of spring under here, I can feel it."
"Yeah, I figured. Hey, you ever need to blow off some steam, feel free to come on out here," Cain said. The offer sounded like something made on the spur of the moment. "Do it a lot myself, when those damned kids get on my nerves." He gave a thunderous snort. "Chuck kind of frowns on smacking them one."
"Some of them could definitely use a good kick in the ass once in a while. Not my place, though." Nathan muttered, thinking of Manuel. He continued to siphon the water, but pulled at a half-dozen of the mid-sized rocks as well and started to juggle them, to settle his nerves a little.
He'd not been able to avoid the boy completely, and although they hadn't spoken since the day of their little incident, even being in the same vicinity as an empath made his skin crawl. It was different than telepathy. Couldn't be defended against, unless you were a broad-enough-spectrum psi to have empathic potential yourself, and Nathan wasn't. His talents lay in other directions.
Cain picked up a basketball-sized rock and flung it acros the quarry. It hit the rock face, exploding into dust. Nathan raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Been tempted to make it my places some days," Cain said. "But I can wait them out. Don't suppose this school of Chuck's is going to last forever."
"Waiting for the day when school's out forever, huh?" It was a grim assessment on Cain's part, but the pessimist in Nathan couldn't disagree. A place like this... well, the world was likely to kill it sooner or later. Nathan eyed Cain as he continued to siphon and juggle.
"Some of them are good kids," Nathan went on, wondering why he felt the need to defend them. "Some of them need 'I will be grateful for the opportunity to be here' written across their foreheads, true. But some of them appreciate it."
It came out rather more vehemently than he'd intended. But he'd noticed a number of the kids complaining about various things - school rules, teachers' attitudes, everything under the sun. He supposed that teenagers did complain. It was just that he looked at the things they got upset about and his sense of proportion simply wouldn't work. Some of them really had no idea how lucky they were.
Cain grunted again, dropping into a crouch. "Don't agree with what Chuck's doing, but most of these kids have it better here than where they came from. Those that don't appreciate it need some sense smacked into them."
"They need to do a little more living," Nathan said and dropped the rocks to the ground. "Same's true with a number of the others, I imagine. They're trying to figure out their places in a world that doesn't like them very much, remember."
"Suppose so. Moira keeps telling me it's harder for them, growing up in this day and age. In my day, worst a kid had to worry about was getting caught stealing from the liquor cabinet, small stuff like that. Now they're on government blacklists and getting sprung from mental wards, or getting the crap beaten out of them because they've got horns and a tail..." Cain shook his head, his expression mildly scornful. "Problems like that, they aren't going to get fixed with a hug."
Nathan levitated another set of rocks, moving them in a figure-eight this time. "They need to want the help," he said absently. "Or to be convinced that they do..."
Cain twitched visibly. "Convinced?" he asked warily.
Nathan eyed him, catching the sudden, arrow-like suspicious thought. "Not like that," he said, unable to keep the disgust for the idea out of his voice. "I just meant that they needed to be shown that it's all right. That they need the help and it's not weakness on their part to accept it. A lot of these kids have had a rough time. They're not used to anything good being offered voluntarily, without a catch." And who are you talking about, Nathan? The kids, or yourself?
Cain was still looking at him sideways. Uneasy, suddenly, where he hadn't been before, and Nathan suddenly realized why. "I wasn't trying to read you there," he said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "You were projecting. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. But I don't go digging."
A long moment passed before Cain gave a gusty sigh. "I figured. Moira trusts you. It's just... I ain't had much reason to like people in my brain."
There was a story there, but it wasn't his, and it wasn't the issue right now. "You and me both," Nathan muttered. "Look, I may be a telepath, but I had decades of them screwing around with my head. Doesn't make me want to emulate their fine example. My mind goes nowhere near yours, I promise. You've got my word."
Cain stared at the sky for a long moment. "Moira trusts you," he repeated, as if reminding himself. "Can't say I'm thrilled at the thought of more telepaths around, but the doc, she's a good judge of character. Besides," and the big man's smile was a bit wry, "there ought to be one honest telepath in the world. Exception to the rule and all."
It was all he could hope for, and when it came right down to it, really, it was pretty damned good. They spent another twenty minutes or so in the quarry while Nathan finished with the water, before Cain headed off to check the fenceline to the west. Nathan waved at him and headed back towards the mansion, the slight throb behind his eyes telling him he'd probably done all the telekinesis he should for the day.
He really needed to get back to some sort of regular practice, Nathan thought as he walked. Being this out of shape wouldn't have been permitted at Mistra. Maybe he didn't need to hold himself to those standards anymore, but it was unsettling, to know he was so far from being at his best. Maybe Moira would have some ideas?
He crossed the dirt road, moving deeper into the woods once more. It wasn't quite as sunny as it had been when he and Cain had set out; there were clouds rolling in, and Nathan wondered idly if Ororo was arranging for some rain for the outside gardens. Living in the same house as a weather manipulator was occasionally interesting. He'd never encountered that particular ability at Mistra.
But that thought led him back to thoughts of his deposition, and Nathan's expression grew more bleak as he walked back towards the mansion. The past and the future are both messing with me. I just can't get a break. Too much self-pity in the thought, and Nathan tried to force his mind back to something more innocuous. It wasn't working. There was a lack of 'innocuous' in his life.
As if to emphasize that, the red-haired woman from his visions stepped out from behind a tree.
Nathan tottered, grasping at a nearby branch for support. It was like someone had just thrown him into ice water. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering, and she just stood there gazing at him calmly, bare feet visible under the hem of her white robe.
Not possible. Or maybe it was, because she wasn't really there, not in the way a person should be to his telepathic senses. She seemed to shimmer, briefly translucent as she stepped towards him. Her lips didn't move, except to curve upwards in a faint smile, but he heard her voice in his mind, speaking that language Doug Ramsey had been trying to help him understand.
~What do you see? What do you see, little brother?~
Her. He met her eyes and they swallowed him whole. He didn't feel his knees hit the ground, or much of anything until she was there kneeling in front of him, hands on his face a physical weight, a warmth that felt nothing at all like human hands.
Not real.
~See what you see,~ she said, or he thought she did, at least. There was some layer of meaning there he was missing. Maybe several. ~See what you see,~ she repeated, more insistently, and the world seemed to spin slowly around them. ~Rise from the snow and pick up your sword. Your world is waiting to change.~
It was poetic. Beautiful. It made no sense at all. "~Leave me alone,~" Nathan growled, trying to pull away. Not realizing, then or later, that the words came out in the same language she was speaking.
"Nate? You all right over there?"
Nathan jerked away from - no one, there was no one there. He stared blankly at the space where she'd been, then forced himself to look in the direction of the other voice. The slight girl in the leather jacket staring back at him was trying very hard to look diffident, but real fear was showing through the cracks.
"Amanda. I'm... fine," he said after a moment, slowly. Moira would kill him if he scared her, after all the work she'd done to try and make Amanda Sefton feel at ease around her - around them both, when it came right down to it. The girl apparently needed rather a lot of help, although he didn't know all the details of her story. So many stories around here.
See what you see.
"You don't look fine." Her voice sounded like an instrument string pulled too tight and vibrating dangerously.
"No, I am." He just wasn't sure he wanted to get up just yet. The dizziness was beginning to recede, and amazingly, if this had been some wacky new kind of precognitive vision, his head didn't hurt.
Amanda was giving him a strange look, as if she was staring through him instead of at him. "Right. So why's your aura's gone all strange?"
"My what?" Nathan gave her an uncomprehending look as he rose gingerly. He wasn't sure what to think about this supposed magic of hers. It wasn't something he'd ever encountered before. According to Moira, at the root of it was just another variety of energy projecting and channeling.
"Your aura." Amanda crossed her arms over her chest, the gesture unmistakably defensive as she wrinkled her nose. "Looks like it's on fire. Like you've got something in there you didn't have before." Nathan stared at her for long enough to make Amanda shift uneasily, unfolding and refolding her arms. "Just telling you what I see."
What do you see? Nathan shook his head quizzically, straightening. Precognitive visions didn't take shape in the here and now and start walking around.
He needed to talk to Charles. Again.
--
Paris One week later
Foley disliked it when the Directorate sent him out in command of a field team. He always wondered if they were setting him up to fail, giving him sole responsibility for a team when he'd trained from the start as Morgan's XO.
But then, they'd sent him to Paris with three other first-generation operatives, unusual given how thin the first-gens were stretched these days. That told him how high this operation ranked on the Directorate's priority list. It was an assassination; they had to kill this arms dealer, Van Beek, and recover the prototype EMP weapon he was trying to sell to an unknown client from North Korea. Another team was outside Brussels right now, preparing to hit the lab where the weapon had been built.
Their half of the job called for a certain degree of care. They couldn't just destroy the car or they'd take out the weapon. Which mean direct engagement, but Van Beek had mutant bodyguards and Intel hadn't been able to provide much background on them. Foley didn't like the number of unknown factors here, but as the saying went, you don't get paid to like the mission. In fact, you don't get paid at all! It ceased to be funny very early on.
He lowered his binoculars, his mind snapping back to business as he spotted the car. "One to team," Foley said. "Target is leaving the parking garage. Everyone in position?" They'd considered trying to hit Van Beek inside the parking garage, but that risked leaving behind surveillance footage.
"Two here. In position, waiting for your signal." That was Lauren Bayliss, on the roof of the building across the street. An energy-projector, she'd help him trap Van Beek's car on the street while the other two members of their team moved in to handle the close-in work.
"Three here. Four and I are in position at the café." Foley could see Anika Bender's blonde head even from up here. Across from her at the table was Matt Sabin, her regular partner - and lover, not that it made much difference in the field. Bender was a true feral, while Sabin had a range of physical enhancements and the same feral mental patterning as the rest of them. He'd asked for them in particular; they were the best for this kind of work. And failure, as usual, was not an option.
"Estimate three minutes before a police response, once we hit the car." The locale wasn't ideal. Morgan hadn't liked the idea of hitting the car in broad daylight on a public street, but this was the only opportunity they could be sure of getting before the weapon reached its buyer. "Speed's critical, but be careful."
"Roger."
"Check."
He didn't need the binoculars anymore. The car was progressing on its expected route, coming closer. Intel had established the site of the meeting with the buyer, and although Van Beek's driver could take a range of routes once he got past this particular bottleneck, he wasn't going to get the chance.
"Two, ready to go," Foley said, and raised both hands. Sonic waves erupted from them; he didn't need the gesture crutch, but it helped him focus when he was aiming for precision. Like now. He was aiming at the pavement, not the car, and the sonics plowed a perfect trench in the road, timed perfectly so that Van Beek's driver had no time to do anything but swerve.
And then swerve again, to avoid the wall of plasma fire that appeared in front of him, streaming down from where Bayliss stood on the opposite roof. The car went out of control, flipping onto its roof as the left-side wheels caught on the edge of the trench, then sliding down the street with a scream of tortured metal.
Foley swore. A little more dramatic than he'd intended. "Three, four, move in," he snapped, and ran for the line he'd attached to the side of the building. Unlike a couple of the other operatives he'd known with sonic-based abilities, his didn't allow him to fly. But the line did the job just fine and he was on the ground in seconds, quickly enough to see Sabin and Bender move in for their part of the job.
They moved in perfect unison, so attuned to each other that they didn't even have to think about it. Sabin fired two shots from ten feet away, targeting someone in the car, then crossed the distance in a run. He kicked out the still-intact passenger's side window and Bender was crawling through the opening he'd created even as the glass shards finished falling. There were two gunshots inside the car, and then she was back out, a metal case tucked under one arm.
"Target down, box acquired!" Foley heard her report, barely out of breath.
He allowed himself a tight smile. "Fall back. See you shortly."
He was starting to turn when he saw it happen. Someone in the car was still alive. Unconscious mistaken for dead or something else that didn't matter, because there was a bloodied arm half-emerging from one of the shattered windows, shaking even as it aimed the gun. Bayliss saw it as well and turned back, already aiming a plasma blast. She was a second slower than the injured bodyguard. Her blast tore through the car, but not before the bullet smashed into Sabin's neck. He fell, clutching at his throat, the blood gushing from between his fingers.
Bender started to turn back. Even from where he stood, Foley could see the shock on her face, the need to return to Sabin's side. But her movements became jerky, slowing down as her obedience imperatives kicked in.
She'd been given an order. By him. Sabin's body twitched, the spreading pool of blood beneath his head further testament to the bullet having hit an artery, and even as Foley opened his mouth to tell Anika to go back for him, the words froze and died. The pressure built behind his eyes, that subconscious push swelling in strength, demanding that he focus on the mission.
The cold voice at the back of his mind reminded him that a critically injured operative was only to be rescued if it didn't put the operation in jeopardy.
A dead operative was to be left where he'd fallen.
Sabin was dying.
There was no chance of getting him medical attention in time.
No chance that the authorities could identify a dead operative.
No point in retrieving the body.
No-
No.
Retreat.
NO!
RETREAT! The part of his consciousness that the conditioning had separated from will and emotion and anything else but cold tactical judgement forced its way into control. The tactical personality was too strong to fight. That was the way it had been designed, as a biological battle computer. Half-blinded by pain, Foley staggered, trying to ignore the taste of blood at the back of his throat.
"Fall back," he ordered again, in the dispassionate voice that wasn't quite his. He turned away as soon as he saw Bender obey.
I'm sorry, Ani, he thought miserably, in the corner of his mind that was still his.
It took him longer than it should have to get back to the warehouse. But taking a circuitous route was essential to make sure that they weren't followed, especially when they'd just carried out a broad-daylight assassination. Twenty-three minutes by his watch, long enough for his conditioning to reset itself now that the crisis was over and he was no longer fighting it.
It hurt more to be back in control. To know that he'd left Matt Sabin to die, for the sake of a fucking EMP weapon that probably didn't even work. Foley stumbled, rubbing at his eyes, hating the Directorate and the conditioning teams and most of all himself. But it didn't change a thing. This wasn't the first time this had happened. It wouldn't be the last. One day it would be him, and then it would be over. The thought was a relief, if a cold one.
The warehouse was quiet when he got there, and for a moment, Foley wondered if he was actually the first one back. But no, the case Bender had been carrying was here, set clearly in view on the table.
Mission accomplished.
"Ani?" he called, his voice a little rough. His head was still throbbing, but he forced himself to focus. This would be bad. She and Matt had been together for four years. This was the downside of getting attached. He got no answer, and fell silent, listening. One of the fringe benefits of his ability was extremly sensitive hearing, and Foley could hear stifled, gasping breaths from over to the side of the warehouse, in the shadows. Sobbing? No, that wasn't...
"Lauren!" he snapped, and flew to Bayliss's side, seeing the way that she clutched at her side. Shot? he thought a bit wildly, checking her for other injuries and then putting pressure against the wound. Who could have shot her? She'd hit the car squarely, and nothing could have survived that. "Hold on," he said, eyes darting back and forth, searching for a threat. "I'll call for-"
Something smashed into the back of his left shoulder. Foley lurched forward, turning to defend himself. He wasn't in time. Another bullet hit him low on the left side, and he fell back beside Bayliss, biting back a groan.
A shape loomed above them both. Unmistakably familiar, crowned with disheveled blonde hair. Anika's expression was twisted with pain, but there was something else in her eyes, something too tired and bleak to be called calculation.
He'd seen that look before. Years ago, in his mentor's eyes. "No... Ani, don't," he grated weakly. "Don't run." If she ran, they'd try to kill her, too. And she wasn't Nathan, she had no chance of getting away. He had to stop her. But he couldn't raise his arm and his concentration was going, stealing away the focus he'd need for a sonic blast.
"I'm sorry, Mick." Her voice was ragged, like someone fighting back screaming that would never stop if it started. "But I can't let you stop me, and you need to be able to explain why you didn't follow me."
He wanted to say something, to remind her what had happened the last time, to beg her not to go. But she was turning away, soundless in her going, and he couldn't follow.
–-
Salem Center, Two weeks later
She wasn't sure what drew her out of sleep. There was no sound, even when Moira opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom. She laid there, still and tense in the dark. Something was wrong. She tried to focus on the feeling, like a knot in her throat, of fear and tension and... Nathan.
Moira immediately slipped out of bed. She stopped only to pull on a robe before she opened her bedroom door and walked across the suite's living room to Nathan's door. It was open just a crack, and she pushed it open a little farther, just to check on him, as she had done at least twice a night for all these months. Even once his condition had stabilized, she still hadn't been able to stop herself from checking repeatedly to make sure that he was all right.
Nathan laid there rigid beneath a light blanket, visibly trembling in the faint moonlight from the window. His breathing was shallow and far too rapid, and the sense of wrongness, of being trapped, was overwhelmingly powerful standing here. Moira swayed slightly, grasping at the doorframe as muted voices and barely perceptible images washed over her mind. Knowing he was projecting in his sleep didn't make this any less unsettling.
She closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to calm and compose her thoughts. Inspiration hit and she focused hard on an image of the beach at Muir. On the memory of walking down there on one of countless mornings and finding Nathan staring out at the sea. He had always been drawn to the water. She'd always found that strange, in someone who'd spent so much of his time in the desert.
This was the only thing she could safely do. Approaching him mid-nightmare was foolish. Down that road laid black eyes and awkward explanations in the morning. So Moira stood there, her mind focused on that memory, on that single powerful image. There was so much weight and texture to it in her mind. The smell of the sea, the sound of the waves and the wind. Them alone together, in the one place that was theirs.
Moira bit back a soft gasp as Nathan abruptly sat up, drenched in sweat and paler than he should be. But the look in his eyes was lucid, and focused entirely on her.
"Moira. Sorry. I... damned dreams, again."
Moira took a deep breath and came forward into the room, sitting down at the edge of the bed. Her hands were unsteady, but she folded them together in her lap, clearing her throat slightly and giving him a wry smile.
"You'll note I've learned. I stayed right over there until you were awake and talking."
"I appreciate that. I hate it when my subconscious throws furniture at you." Nathan laughed weakly and rubbed briefly at his arms. When he stopped, Moira reached out and took his hands in hers.
They were cold. She squeezed gently, eyes locked on his face. "What was the dream?"
"I was back in New Mexico. Standard variation one hundred and... whatever." Nathan's eyes flickered away from hers. "I've got to stay away from those files after dark. That's the problem."
Moira didn't point out that he'd had nightmares for as long as he'd been her patient. They'd always been the same. He didn't scream or thrash. It was as if the dreams paralyzed him. She'd asked him about it once and gotten a very terse explanation that disruptions in the barracks at Mistra had "not been permitted". Whatever that meant. It was one of the many things she didn't want to examine too closely about the life he'd led there. Anger and tears didn't help him.
"It might not be a bad idea," she said instead, quietly. "No need to make this any harder on yourself than it needs to be." And she'd have a talk with Pete and Charles, who'd talk to Ms. Cooper. The Americans wouldn't get anything out of Nathan if they drove him to a breakdown. She ran a finger gently over a scar on the back of his hand.
"I don't think it can be anything but hard." His voice was tighter than it had been, and he wouldn't quite meet her eyes. Moira just held onto his hands and waited to see if he'd go on. She'd learned not to push. "I understand they've got to have this, and I'm the only source they have right now. But it feels like living it all again."
"It is different, you know. You're telling the story in hopes of moving past it - for good."
"Maybe." Nathan gave a hoarse laugh. "When I'm not dreaming about Mistra, I'm dreaming about her. I don't know what's harder."
A disapproving noise slipped out before Moira could help herself, and her grip on Nathan's hands tightened. "I'm not sure I like the idea of a strange woman in your head," she muttered. The latest developments had both her and Charles mystified. It was looking like this secondary mutation of Nathan's was less precognition and more... chrono-variant telepathy, if there was such a thing. It was totally unique in their experience. "Even if she is thousands of years away in the future."
~I'd prefer you.~
The voice in her mind was unmistakably Nathan's. Little more than a whisper, yet perfectly clear. Moira blinked, meeting his eyes and feeling rather like a deer trapped in the headlights all of a sudden. A faint, oddly defensive smile was playing on his lips.
"In your head?" she finally asked, her voice only a bit unsteady.
"There, yes. Other places, too." Nathan freed a hand, touching her cheek in a fleeting caress. Almost involuntarily, Moira leaned into his touch slightly. His smile grew but stayed uncertain.
"Stay?" he asked, after a long moment. "I don't mean... well, I don't know what I mean. Apart from the fact that I'm not asking you to be my security blanket. I promise. Really, I'm not that needy." There was a suspicious gleam in his eyes suddenly. "I've been meaning to ask you this for weeks. I swear."
Moira blinked at him again - and then shocked herself with a peal of laughter. "Oh, you dear, daft man," she said, smiling helplessly. There was a strange, not unpleasant sensation of butterflies in her stomach. She rose, and his smile faltered for a moment, but all she did was slip out of her robe. "Move over, love. I hope your feet aren't as cold as your hands."
Nathan turned the blankets back, shifting over obediently. "I honestly don't know. It's been a while since I had anyone to complain one way or the other." He readjusted the blanket over both of them as she laid down beside him. "Did I tell you what G.W. said, about us not being teenagers and this being complicated?"
Moira gazed up at him. He sounded more anxious than he had. "Well," she said after a moment. "He does has a point. If I were a teenager, I'd say something about how tab A fitting into slot B really isn't all that complicated..." She couldn't keep the smile back as he laughed, slumping back against the pillows. "Or something about riding a bike."
"Stop it. You're killing me." Nathan groaned, covering his face with both hands.
She did not giggle. Really. Whatever sound was emerging, it was not a giggle. She rested her forehead against Nathan's chest for a moment, feeling as well as hearing his own supressed laughter.
"There would be far worse ways to do this," she finally said, softly, mirth mingling with something warm and almost shy. "Laughter's not a bad thing."
"I expect if we do this, there's going to be a lot of laughter. Mostly yours."
"I don't think you give yourself enough credit." She watched him sit up and pull the t-shirt he was wearing over his head. Despite having been his doctor for years and having seen him in various states of undress in a purely professional capacity, she felt a strange, unfamiliar sort of pang as she saw the scars marking his torso with different, more personal eyes.
He'd lived a dangerous life for so long. Yet he was planning to leave that behind, and he'd told her, in just that many words, that she was a major factor in that decision. It was a choice that would need support, and as much of it as she could give. It frightened her a little. Not because she couldn't give him that support - she could, and gladly. But what if it wasn't enough?
"Stop stewing," Nathan said softly, bending over her. He kissed her forehead, the spot between her eyes where a crease appeared when she worried. Moira sighed and took his face between her hands, tugging him downwards to where she could kiss him properly.
"I'll stew if I bloody well want to," she said after that, her accent thickening. Her heart was pounding in her chest. "I worry about you, love. I think I always will."
"Quiet. I think you're thinking too much."
They shed the rest of their clothing somewhat clumsily and then tumbled back together, trying to fit the right position, the right fit. It was awkward at best, having been far too long for both of them. Despite his comment earlier, Moira felt no desire to laugh, only too much tenderness to measure. He was in her mind, hesitant but listening so carefully, paying such close attention to her reactions to his touch that his own reactions took him by surprise. There was something so endearing about that, and Moira smiled, pulling him closer.
"Tha gaol agam ort-fhein," she whispered, wrapping herself around him and closing her eyes. Letting go, as she so rarely did. But the arms that held her were strong, and the warmth that encompassed her thoughts was something she could have lost herself in gladly.
It was past time, and she had wanted this, wanted him, for years.
