Viriditas

by Alicia McKenzie

She has mixed feelings about the garden. It's one of the few places in the Oasis that's anything like the old world, the one shattered so long ago. She loves it for that, because it's green and growing and normal in a way that feels so right it can't be wrong. But Lorna can never be truly comfortable here, because the garden isn't just a place to grow food, or to sit and contemplate life, such as it is these days. It's full of hidden places, quiet green bowers that the people of the Oasis put to a very particular use.

So many of her fellow refugees here are kind to her, if dismissive, but she wonders how tolerant they would be if they knew how many times she'd seen them when they'd gone into the garden. How many times she'd been drawn to the unmistakable soft noises coming from within those sheltered spots, and caught a glimpse of whatever lovers were losing themselves in the green and each other. It was never more than a glimpse, though. A flash of bare skin, a moment's view of a flushed face or eyes gone hazy with pleasure. Nothing she should feel guilty about.

Only she does. Not for eavesdropping--

--spying, but for the flickers of feeling that those moments awaken in her. The need she can't admit to herself. Even if she did, Lorna tells herself again (as she has countless times), no one would be able to fill it. They can't. She's frozen, and it's better that way. If she stays trapped in the moment, she doesn't have to feel.

In her world, they'd understood. After they'd taken her from Sinister's base and seen to her injuries, they'd sent her to a quiet house, where she'd had a quiet room overlooking a very different garden, and all the solitude she wanted. Lorna sometimes wonders what happened to that house, if there's anything that remains of it in any shift. Often, she dreams about leaving the Oasis and trying to find the house again, but she knows it would be a death sentence to walk away from this place.

Besides, there are reasons to stay. Surely if she tells herself that often enough, she'll begin to believe it.

Lorna moves silently through the garden, following her well-worn route. The tree she arrives at next is small and gnarled with glossy green leaves and violet-colored fruit. The fruit is shaped like an apple, but tastes like a blend of all the citrus fruits Lorna can remember from Before. Tart. Very tart. It makes a good cider. It ferments well, too, to hear the others talk. Not that she'd know, since she doesn't drink to forget, like so many do.

But she likes the cider. She likes the tree, too, and makes sure she visits it every time she works in the garden. There's fresh fruit on it every day, so it needs to be tended every day. Waste not, want not.

Lorna picks the most ripe of the fruit, one by one, and places them carefully in her basket. She can't seem to lose herself in her work today. Her mind refuses to be empty. Domino tried to talk to her last night about coming outside the shields, learning how to control the shifts--

She wants to be helpful, she really does, but she can't be what they expect her to be. It isn't simply that she's afraid of the shifts; only the mad aren't. If it were just fear, maybe she could deal with it, overcome it. The truth is, she doesn't have the strength to fight anymore. Lorna swallows, remembering Alex with his face blown away, their home in ruins, the Marauders hunting her down like an animal--

Her world was shattered nearly a year before the shifts came. All they did was finish the job.

It really wasn't fair. If you were one of the Twelve, you were supposed to be strong enough - or at least guilt-ridden enough - to keep fighting, but she doesn't fit the mold. She can't--

Noise. A sigh, almost a moan. Lorna darts away from the tree, into the shelter of thick, head-high ferns. Safety. From her concealment, she can see him.

Him. Cable. He's leaning back against the trunk of a huge gingko tree, his eyes closed and his posture uncharacteristically relaxed. There are scorch marks and huge rents in his clothing, she sees. He's been in a fight.

Of course he's been in a fight. He's always fighting. Lorna swallows, her throat tightening. She knows he's not the Cable from her timeline, the one who hurt her, but nevertheless, he terrifies her. He prowls the Oasis like a frustrated predator, and all she ever sees in his eyes when he looks at her - which isn't often - is disgusted contempt. She's always so relieved when he leaves.

But she does owe him. He found her--saved her, and she can't ignore that. Lorna crouches down, setting her basket on the ground beside her, and watches him. He makes no sign that he's seen her, or even sensed her. Is he asleep? In need of medical attention?

She wants to stand up and go over to him, make sure he's okay, but she can't get her legs to obey her. Lorna closes her eyes, a soft whimper escaping her. She imagines herself leaning over him, touching his shoulder--and wants to vomit up the tiny bit of food she'd had at the noon meal.

To touch him. When nothing she's done in all this time has driven away the nightmares of her world's Cable in Sinister's base. Wrapping her arms around herself, Lorna crouches there, shivering, and waits. Willing him to do something that will tell her he's all right, so she can go.

There's a rustling in the undergrowth off to the left, and Domino appears. Lorna breathes a little easier, and tells herself she can go now. Dom will take care of him if he needs it. Probably even if he doesn't.

She can go, back to her own little room in the house, and be safe and alone for a few hours. She can get up and walk away.

But she doesn't. She stays and watches. Drawn to the intimacy of the scene, to the barely-hidden tenderness on Domino's face as she kneels beside Cable and touches his face gently. Lorna knows that Domino is the only one who could risk startling him. He would lash out at anyone else, but not at her. Never at her.

"Nathan?" Domino calls softly.

***

"Nathan?" He opened his eyes, and Domino shivered at the pain in that hazy, mismatched gaze. The psi-link was vibrating with it, like the string of an instrument tuned too tight. About to snap.

She acted instinctively, knowing she couldn't let it. "Asshole," she growled, the right words coming easily as she got a closer look at his injuries. None of the burns and contusions looked serious, but what they lacked in severity they made up for in number. He'd tangled with something bad out there, obviously. "See what happens when you sneak out of here on your own?" she went on, surrendering to anger almost gratefully, because he would sense it, and react predictably, and it would steer them both onto safer ground.

He didn't disappoint her. "Fuck off," Nathan said feebly, anger kindling in his eyes. She hmmphed and pulled the blood-sodden fabric of his shirt away from one of the largest gashes, and he hissed in pain. His next words came from behind gritted teeth. "She would have killed you. She nearly killed me."

"She?" Domino asked, not surprised that it was a who and not a what. She'd figured he'd gone out after one of the Twelve. They'd been out scavenging supplies yesterday, and he'd caught some psi-signature he'd muttered about 'checking on later'. If she'd been thinking clearly, she would have expected him to sneak out. Steps could have been taken.

"Ororo. Storm." Nathan coughed, a deep racking cough she didn't like at all, and batted her hands away. "Leave it. I'm fine."

"Like hell," Domino studied him critically, trying to decide whether getting him on his feet and back to the house under his own power was feasible, or whether she needed to bring Franklin here.

"I'm FINE," Nathan said more insistently, giving her a baleful look. "Don't bother Franklin." Domino glared right back at him, not really inclined to put up with a fit of machismo at this point, and he looked away, his mouth twisting bitterly. "He's got enough to handle these days."

"Don't be stupid," she snapped, thoroughly vexed. By him, this stupid stunt he'd pulled, the fact that he had a point about Franklin--hell, life in general. Waking up to an empty bed this morning had sort of soured the whole day. "I should kick your ass, you stupid bastard."

Nathan grinned tightly at her, sweat standing out in beads on his forehead. "I love it when you swear at me. Makes me feel loved."

"If you don't want to feel me kicking you in the head, you'd better shut the fuck up."

His grin was turning decidedly nasty. "That's it, babe. Let the inner harpy out."

"Oh, FUCK you!" she snarled, losing her temper and shoving him back against the tree. A grunt of pain escaped him, but his hands shot up and grabbed her wrists, an instinctive defensive move. Domino winced at the strength of his grip, but didn't try to free herself. She'd provoked him, after all.

And predictably, he released her as soon as the reflex had passed. Sagging back against the trunk of the gingko tree, he raised a shaking hand to rub his eyes. "I thought I'd reached her," he said dully. "I really thought I had, this time."

Domino sighed, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "It happens, Nate," she said firmly, knowing that trying to be gentle was useless. He didn't want to be comforted. "It's happened so many times I've lost count. You need to stop letting it get to you like this."

Nathan tried to pull his hand out of her grasp, but she held on tight. "How can I get used to it?" he demanded, his voice raw. His eyes slid away from hers, going distant, almost shocky. "I kill them, Dom. I've killed so many of them that I'VE lost count. They're the only hope we have to fix any of this, but I keep winding up with their blood on my hands."

"Nathan--"

"I'm so tired of killing."

"It's self-defense, Nathan," she said calmly, still not letting go of his hand. Willing him to listen, to understand. To believe her, because damn it, he didn't deserve to suffer so much over this. He did the best he could, just like he did with so much else. If only he'd see that.

"It wouldn't be self-defense if I didn't put myself into the situation time after time. I provoke it. They think I'm a threat, and they attack me."

"So?" Domino asked challengingly. "If you left them alone, they'd die eventually. Even if you wind up killing most of them, there's still the chance that you can bring them back, that Franklin can help them. Isn't that better than nothing?" It was a cold, ruthless sort of logic, but then, it was that kind of world.

Nathan gave a gasping laugh and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "My voice of reason," he said weakly. "What would I do without you?"

Domino sighed, sliding closer and resting her head on his shoulder. "Keep sneaking out without me and I might decide you need to find out, lout."

"You could always go out on trips with Bishop." Nathan laughed again, the sound even more wild, and took a deep, shuddering breath. "At least then you'd never run into other members of the Twelve."

"Mm. I've noticed that." Bishop had been here for what--six months, now? Yet he'd never brought back another member of the Twelve, hadn't let on that he'd ever even encountered one out there. If he had, he would have told Franklin, and in that case, Domino would have found out at some point. Franklin was good about keeping her informed. "Does he avoid them?" she asked casually, feeling a flash of anger at the idea that Bishop wasn't carrying his own weight.

"He doesn't sense them like I do. And the ones that are far enough gone would sense him and stay away." Nathan waved a hand in what was probably supposed to be a sweeping gesture, or would have been, if there'd been any real energy behind it. He was tired, Domino thought with a sudden rush of concern. Hell, they all were, all the time, but the psi-link felt--ragged, heavy in a way she hadn't sensed since they'd come to the Oasis. "Energy manipulators are better with the shifts. Look at Mikhail. How many Mikhails have I killed?" He blinked down blearily at his hands. "I lost count. Did you keep count?"

Domino shuddered, despite her best efforts not to react. Time to get him to Franklin, she told herself harshly. "Come on," she said softly. "Let's get back to the house and have Ilsa take a look at you." He might resist seeing Franklin, but surely he wouldn't have an excuse not to see Ilsa.

Nathan seemed to pull himself out of it a little at her suggestion. "I want to stay here for a while," he murmured. His gaze grew sharper, straying away from her towards a stand of ferns. "Control--it's all about control, you know. Bishop doesn't understand yet that you have to lose it to see clearly, and Lorna's afraid of seeing anything." He smiled, and it was possibly the most unpleasant expression she'd seen on his face in months. "He won't hear and she won't see," he concluded, almost mockingly. "What a pair."

"Nate--"

"She's worse, you know," he said harshly, glancing up at her almost defiantly, as if daring her to dispute it. "Useless. Bishop might change, but she won't. She won't let herself."

Domino flinched, and then grew suspicious as he looked back at the ferns, his smile turning almost sly. "She's watching us, isn't she?" she murmured in a low voice, one meant not to carry.

"Ghosts in the trees," Nathan said, looking back at her keenly. His eyes were far too bright all of a sudden, almost feverish in their intensity. "Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain. She's not really there."

"Right," Domino said with a heavy sigh. Trust him not to pass up the chance to needle Lorna. "You know, sometimes I actually manage to forget that you're basically psychotic. Must you make a point of reminding me?

"What an odd thing to say."

"Yeah. Come on." To her surprise, he didn't resist, but let her help him up, docile as--well, as docile as Nate ever was. "That's it," she murmured encouragingly. Limping heavily, he leaned on her for support she was glad to give as they headed towards the edge of the garden.

Domino didn't look back to see if Lorna had emerged. She would, eventually, or Kitty would come looking for her. Either way, Domino didn't really care. She had her hands full with Nathan, quite frankly, and had neither the desire nor the energy to take on a lost cause.

That was what Lorna was, in the end. Sometimes people were so badly broken that they had passed the point of no return. Lorna was like that. Domino could see it in her eyes--not just the damage, but the lack of any will to pull herself back together.

It was sad, she supposed. But this world wasn't kind to the fragile.

***

Lorna waits until they're out of sight, and then picks up her basket and walks back to the tree. Back to the routine. It's not the first time she's overheard conversations she might have preferred not to hear, and it probably won't be the last. That's what happens when you're silent. People forget you're there.

Only Cable hadn't. He'd known she was watching, although not for all that long, Lorna thinks. Certainly not for the entire duration of the conversation. If he'd been aware of her from the beginning, he never would have revealed so much.

Nathan needs his armor, like she needs her silence. It's funny that she can understand that, Lorna thinks, when she spends most of her time trying to avoid him. She picks another fruit and lays it gently in the basket, so that she doesn't drop it. Her hands are shaking, so she has to be careful.

An eavesdropper never hears good things about herself. She remembers someone telling her that, long ago. Her mother?

Only it wasn't really eavesdropping if the person knows you're there. And Cable had. He'd been taunting her, saying those things just to hammer in how much contempt he feels for her--

--but does that make it any less true? Any of it? It's true that Bishop has never found another member of the Twelve. It's true that she's never even tried--

--no. She isn't supposed to feel. Let alone feel guilty.

Lorna blinks and then opens her eyes very wide, looking around at the garden she loves. Letting herself absorb the fact that it might not always be the refuge it was now. The life here, the very thing she loved about it, ensures that stasis is impossible.

Change will come. It always does.

She watches the tree begin to sprout blossoms in the bare spaces where she'd taken fruit from, and is suddenly overcome by a feeling of melancholy that almost makes her want to weep. But she can't cry. Her tears dried up long ago, and all that's left is--

All that's left is--

What IS left?

The blossoms swell and open, beautiful and fragile and alive, and Lorna drops the basket, something too broken to be a sob escaping her as she whirls and runs from the garden.

fin

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