Memento Mori

by Alicia McKenzie

Scott took one step into the kitchen and froze. "Nate," he said cautiously. "What are you doing?"

"Washing the dishes," was the terse answer from his son, who was sitting at the table, contemplating a cup of coffee, as the substantial pile of last night's forgotten dinner dishes calmly scrubbed themselves clean in soapy water, rinsed themselves under the tap, danced briefly with the teatowel and then flew across the room to whatever drawer or cupboard they belonged in. "What does it look like?"

Scott dodged a flying dinner plate and straightened, giving his son a wary look. "Are you--all right?" Nate usually wasn't much for domestic chores, and this sudden interest in them seemed--off, for lack of a better word. He's trying to distract himself--what the hell did he and Logan SAY to each other?

Nathan's head lifted, and Scott flinched at the sudden heat in his gaze. "He told you we--talked?" Nate's voice was brittle.

"Well," Scott temporized, "not really. I found him replacing the glass in the Danger Room's control booth. The computer had you logged in as the Room's sole occupant when the damage was done--"

"So you jumped to conclusions, in other words," Nathan said coldly.

Scott suppressed a sigh. Ducking underneath a line of forks winding their way over to the silverware drawer, he got himself a cup of coffee, and then came back and sat down across from Nate. "It's not as if I was down there to spy on you, Nathan. We usually have six AM Danger Room session these days--since I hadn't had one scheduled for today, I thought I'd use the time to come up with some new combat programs."

Nathan stared at him for a moment longer and then returned his attention to his coffee. Scott knew it was as much of an apology as he could expect to get. Not that Nate had ever been much for apologies.

He studied his son's expression for a moment, trying to spot a crack in the mask, something that would give him a clue to how Nate was feeling today.

"Stop staring at me. I get so tired of you all watching me all the time." There was a strange, strained tone to Nathan's voice, an edginess that bordered on hysteria, and Scott frowned worriedly.

"All--right," he said hesitantly, and then ventured a smile. "I should be watching the dishes, with the show you're putting on." The knives and spoons were weaving themselves into a figure eight pattern as they danced across the kitchen.

"Practicing," Nate said, his voice not quite as tense as it had been. "I'm practicing. Control exercises." He picked up his coffee cup, raised it halfway to his mouth, where his hand froze. "I have to make some kind of effort, if I don't want Xavier nagging at me from dawn to dusk about learning how to manage my powers."

Definitely some bitterness there--I need to tell Charles to take it easy. Not that he wasn't just as concerned about Nate's little 'power-up', but there were more important things to deal with than making sure his son mastered his suddenly-enhanced abilities.

More important things--like that broken psi-link festering away in Nathan's mind, getting worse every time he thought of Domino. Jean could barely stand to be in the same room with him lately, with all the pain she was picking up, and even with the fragility of the delicate link--more like a psychic thread, really--that Scott shared with his son, he could sense something of it, as well. A distant, yet distinctive ache that never quite went away, although it waxed and waned depending on physical proximity.

Three weeks since Domino's death in Genosha. Three full weeks, and Nathan hadn't let either Jean or the Professor in his mind since those first few days. Much more of this, and the damage would be irreversible, according to Charles. The thought of his son in agony for the rest of his life stirred a different, harsher ache in Scott, as if someone had just closed a fist around his heart.

"How are you feeling?" Scott asked softly, not sure whether the question would be greeted with a blank stare or a whole-hearted attempt to bite his head off. He never knew, these days. Jean pointed out that he inevitably got more of an emotional reaction out of Nathan than anyone else did, lately. She seemed to think that was a good thing, but Scott wasn't so sure. He was a little hazy on the idea that constantly probing this type of gaping emotional wound helped in the healing process. If only the circumstances were different, and they could afford to give Nate the time and space he needed--if only they could allow him that without risking permanent damage to his mind.

"Fine," Nathan said flatly.

"Did you get some sleep?"

A hesitation. "Not really."

Scott added a little milk to his coffee, deliberately not meeting Nathan's eyes. "You could ask Hank to prescribe something."

An icy silence. They'd had this discussion before.

"Or not," Scott murmured, unable to help the faint smile that tugged at his mouth. "Just a suggestion, Nathan."

"I sleep when I'm tired. It's not my fault I have too much energy these days," Nathan said harshly.

Scott thought that was probably overstating the case a little. Nathan didn't look particularly well-rested or energetic. There were definite shadows underneath his eyes, and a tension in his posture that was just noticeable enough to be bothersome.

"How are you--coping with the new psi-link?" he asked, casually, and nearly jumped out of his seat as Nathan slammed his mug back down on the table.

When he spoke, however, his voice was surprisingly level. "You want to know what Magneto's doing right at the moment? I could tell you, but it wouldn't matter. He's going about his daily routine, playing the grand statesman one moment and the ruthless dictator the next. He's IGNORING me. Even if I sit here and think about nothing but--" Sweat stood out on his forehead and his hand clenched on the mug, so tightly that Scott half-expected to see it shatter. "Nothing but--" A stifled moan escaped from behind gritted teeth, and the last few dishes clattered to the floor, the glasses shattering on impact.

Scott jumped to his feet, moving over to stand behind Nathan's chair. He laid his hands on his son's broad shoulders, ignoring the shudder that went through Nathan at the physical contact. "Think of something else," he said hoarsely, feeling so wretchedly helpless that it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Try, Nate--"

"I can't--"

"You have to." Scott kept his voice as low and calm as he could. "The kids were talking about dragging you out to a movie this afternoon. You could start thinking of excuses to give them--" Nathan gave a faint, breathless laugh, and Scot smiled briefly. The sympathy-ache started to dull a bit, too, if not entirely. "Some comedy that looks absolutely ridiculous to me--I think they think you need to laugh more or something."

The broad shoulders beneath his hands shook for a moment. Not in a laugh, this time. "I think--they think that if they keep trying--" Nathan trailed off for a moment, and then continued, his voice a little unsteady. "That they'll get me to--snap out of it or something." That silver head drooped slightly, and Scott took a deep, ragged breath as that pain in the back of his mind grew worse again. Fine tremors were running through Nathan's body, as if he was trying desperately to hold something in. "They think it's that easy. That I'm being selfish, clinging to--"

"They don't think anything of the sort," Scott said softly, but firmly. "Which you'd know, if you responded with more than the occasional monosyllable whenever they tried to start up a conversation with you." Scott sighed deeply. "They're worried, Nathan. They don't--want to lose you too."

"I--" Nathan's voice was choked, raw with emotion he hadn't displayed since that night almost two weeks ago at Domino's grave, when he'd finally given in to his grief and cried in Scott's arms. Scott's eyes stung at the memory, at the hopeless, uncontrollable sobs that had racked his son's tall frame, the way he'd clung to him, so much like he had as a child whenever he'd had a nightmare. Only there was no way to wake up from this one, no escape.

Feeling Nathan stiffen, Scott immediately backed off a step, pulling a chair around so that he could sit beside his son, rather than across the the table. There were times when keeping a distance was important. This wasn't one of them.

"Talk to me," he said softly, unsure whether he should be pushing or not. It was like walking on a layer of eggshells over a lava floe, each step doing damage, each step coming closer to disaster. Nathan's eyes were tightly closed, as if he was trying to block out the world. "Nathan," Scott said more insistently.

"Leave me alone." A bare whisper, but unmistakably a plea.

"I've done that too often," Scott said with a faint smile. "I'm turning over a new leaf."

"You're overcompensating." Nathan opened his eyes and gave Scott what might have passed for a repressive look, if it wasn't for the tears trickling down his cheeks.

"Story of my life." Scott hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say next. His gaze drifted to the window, fixed on the sunrise. "Looks like it's going to be a beautiful day," he offered.

"Ororo will be out planting her garden," Nathan said hoarsely. "She'll probably try and coax me into helping, again. 'Fresh air is good for you, Nathan'."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt you," Scott said mildly.

"What's the point?" Scott's head whipped around as he heard a tinkling sound from behind him, but it was just the broom and dustpan sweeping up the broken glass. Nate wasn't even looking in that direction, but his telekinetic manipulations were exquisitely coordinated, and the mess was quickly dealt with. "Flowers are depressing. They're beautiful, and then they die."

Well. Doesn't take much analysis to see what's behind that. "It wouldn't hurt you to get out and around a bit," Scott pointed out gently. "You spend too much time inside these days."

"Maybe I'm developing agoraphobia," Nathan muttered. "Or maybe I'm hiding." He wiped his eyes, meeting Scott's gaze almost challengingly. "Is that what you wanted me to say?" he goaded.

"I don't think you're hiding," Scott murmured. "I think there's something out there you don't want to face."

"I don't--" Nathan's jaw clenched, his voice shaking. "I don't want to walk out there and think about what a beautiful day it is."

"Why?"

"I don't--I don't want to FEEL anything like that!" Nathan snapped restlessly. "There, are you happy? I can't go out there and admire Storm's garden, or go out with the kids and laugh at their stupid flonqing movie--"

"Can't?" Scott asked levelly, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. "Or won't?" Nathan's breathing had quickened again, and he wouldn't meet Scott's eyes. His gaze kept darting towards the door, as if he was measuring the distance, trying to decide whether or not to make a run for it. Scott took a deep breath, and then said it, wishing he could take the words back even as they left his mouth. "Charles swears up and down that you're not--going to try and harm yourself anymore. I believe him, but it looks to me like you're doing something just as destructive in the end. You're suffocating yourself, can't you see that?"

"I didn't--ASK you for your opinion!" Nathan said raggedly, getting to his feet. That faint edge of hysteria was back in his voice. "I--I don't have to sit here and listen to this!"

"Nathan, wait," Scott said swiftly, rising as well. "Listen--"

"No, I have to--" Scott stepped in front of him, and Nathan cursed softly, swaying on his feet. "Please," he said in a cracked voice. "Scott, I can't do this anymore--" He tried to step around him again. Scott reached out, but Nathan jerked away in something that seemed alarmingly like panic. "Don't--don't TOUCH me, all right? Just don't--"

"All right," Scott said soothingly, but didn't back off. "Just listen to me, okay?" Seemed like as good a time as any to bring up what he and Jean had talked about last night. "Jean and I--were thinking of taking a week or so, going up to Alaska."

"And?" Nathan rasped.

"I was thinking--a change of scenery, maybe?" Scott said gently. "You'd like Alaska at this time of year, and I know my grandparents would like to see you--" Not to mention the fact that if they got him away from here, away from all the memories, he might be more amenable to letting those shields down so that Jean could heal his psionic damage.

"Scott--"

"I'm not going to say anything trite about distance giving you perspective," Scott continued, softly but firmly.

"Good," Nathan said, his voice breaking. "Because it doesn't, Scott. The--last time, after--Aliya died, I ran two thousand years to get away from the pain. And you know what? It didn't work. Not even for a second. It just followed me, wherever I went--"

"Nathan--"

"No--just leave it," Nathan said, his eyes wild and disoriented as he pushed past him, out the door before Scott had even finished turning around.

Scott gritted his teeth and headed after him. Out in the hallway, though, he ran into a somewhat agitated-looking Tabitha, who didn't catch his expression and thus didn't hesitate to place herself in his path.

"Umm--Scott--"

"Not now, Tabitha--"

"But Berto and Marrow are going at it--"

Scott stopped dead, a frustrated sigh tearing itself loose from deep inside his chest. "Not again." Marrow had some pretty harsh opinions surrounding Nate and how he'd reacted to Domino's death. Most of X-Force, consequently, had something of a problem with the ex-Morlock. "Where are Terry and Sam?"

"I don't know, and it's not as if I'd have a problem with Bobby toasting her bony little ass--"

"Tabitha--"

"But it's kinda getting out of hand."

Casting one desperate look up and down the hall, he looked back at Tabitha. "All right. Did you see Nathan?"

"Yeah, he was heading that way," she said, pointing in the opposite direction. She froze, a look of dread on her face. "He's not--"

"No," Scott said bluntly. "He's not. Now, where are they?" He had to break this up and get back to what he'd been doing, he thought worriedly, following Tabitha down the hall. After he had a very sharp discussion with Terry and Sam about discipling their team--and one with Marrow about behaving herself. Blood on the walls--I don't remember it being THIS bad the last time X-Force was in residence, Scott thought resignedly.

***

Cable reeled into his room, telekinetically slamming the door behind him just in time. His knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor, trying to hold back the tears.

Stab his eyes. He should have known better than to let Scott draw him into a conversation. This had been happening regularly since--since--the day, and his father always saw right through him. No matter what he did, what he said--and he always said too much!

Scott was right about one thing, though. He had to get away. He had to leave this place, all its ghosts. Rising unsteadily, he stumbled over to the dresser, pulling out some clothes. Have to go--somewhere where they're not all WATCHING me all the time--

Still watching, waiting for him to crack. Wanting him to crack, like it was some kind of virtue or something. And the other side of the coin was still beckoning, the anger he'd given into this morning with Logan. It had been so easy, so satisfying, just to lash out, to let that rage fill him. At least he hadn't been quite so cold inside, then.

But it was getting harder to separate the two. So easy, to lose himself in that anger when he was dealing with sanctimonious types like Xavier, or old rivals like Logan. But what if he lost control with one of the kids? He flinched violently at the memory of how easy it had been to throw Xavier out of his mind, to snatch Logan from the control booth and hurl him to the floor of the Danger Room. Casual, easy violence that had felt all too good.

He was teetering precariously between the pain and the anger, waiting to see which reached up to grab him next. He had to get away. Had to find someplace where he could BREATHE.

Cable froze as he pulled out one drawer a little too far, revealing the item pushed right to the back, hidden there for three weeks now. Slowly, like a man in a trance, he pulled the uniform tunic out, fingers running lightly over the bloodstains.

Jean would be appalled if she knew he'd kept this.

Bloodstains. Domino's blood. From that day, that afternoon on Genosha, when she'd bled to death in his arms.

He'd felt its presence here, like a malignant shadow at the edge of his vision. He hadn't let himself look at it since he'd shoved it into that drawer, but he'd known it was there.

He hadn't had any other choice but to keep it.

It would remind him, if he was ever selfish enough to try and forget. Remind him of her. Of Domino.

The pain was like a second pulse inside his head now, beating rapidly, desperately. He hugged the tunic to him, deliberately throwing himself into the memory. Visualizing every detail of that day. The shivers of pain that had wracked her body. The tears in her violet eyes. The blood. The color of it, the smell of it. How weak her voice had been when she'd gasped out those last few words.

Every detail. And the pain got worse, turned white-hot and merciless. He tasted blood, realizing dimly that he had a nosebleed.

He didn't care.

Every detail.

Every--word. Every--breath. He clung to them fiercely, mercilessly, as the fragmented end of the psi-link twisted and writhed, digging into his mind like shards of glass.

"Dom--" he whispered, the room going hazy, spinning around him as he sank to his knees.

There was suddenly shock, alarm, a cascade of entirely foreign thoughts in his mind.

Cable! What are you doing?

Magneto.

Stop it! Panic. Can't you feel what you're doing to yourself?

#Dom--#

He couldn't hear Magneto. Didn't care. All he could see was her, the light in her eyes fading. He felt the carpet against the side of his face, realized dimly he had fallen to the floor.

Every detail a telepath's memory could retain. Which meant all of it, of course.

He hadn't forgotten. He wouldn't forget. Tears of relief fell as the pain swept over him in a great white tide and carried him away.

***

Scott was busy lecturing an unrepentant Marrow, barely noticing his headache steadily increasing. If he had, he probably would have written it off to the stress of dealing with a smirking ex-Morlock and a glowering solar-powered ex-New Mutant.

"--and if you both can't be trusted--" Scott grunted as the pain suddenly crested. My God, what is--

And then he heard Jean shriek in his mind, echoed by a cry of alarm from Charles.

#SCOTT! Nathan--in his room!#

He ran. He didn't hear the frantic calls from the kids, didn't care when they started to follow him. His heart was trying to burst free of his chest, but he took the stairs three at a time, tearing down the upstairs hall to Nathan's room.

The door was shut, but not locked. He threw it open to find his son lying on the floor, motionless. "Nathan!" he gasped out, gently turning him over, feeling for a pulse. He found it, slow but steady. "Nate, can you hear me?"

"What happened?" Tabitha gasped out from the doorway. Scott ignored her.

"Nate!" he called desperately. Nathan's face was chalk-white, bleached of all color, and blood was trickling sluggishly from his nose. His eyes were closed, but moved back and forth rapidly, as if he was dreaming.

"Out of the way!" Jean's voice suddenly barked, and Scott glanced hurriedly back over his shoulder to see her pushing her way through through the kids. She came over and knelt beside him, laying her hands gently on Nathan's temples. "I was afraid of this," she whispered, paling. "We waited too long."

"What do ye mean?" Theresa asked in a hushed voice from the door. Tearing his gaze from his son's still face, Scott turned around to glance at X-Force. They all looked terrified.

Jean continued to stare down at Nathan, and then finally looked up at him. INTO him, as if the two of them and Nathan were the only ones in the room.

"He's slipped into a coma," she said softly.

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