by Alicia McKenzie
DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Marvel, and are used without permission for entertainment purposes only.
It was only fog. He kept telling himself that, even though his visor couldn't seem to keep it from burning his eyes, even though it scorched his lungs every time he breathed.
Only fog. Meant to drive him back, to make him turn and run for shelter. Scott Summers wasn't sure how he knew that, but he did, with absolute certainty, an unshakable conviction that came from some hard and resolute place deep within him.
He didn't know who was out there. He only knew he had to keep going. Walking forward, he kept his eyes on the dead, broken ground beneath his feet, not wanting to fall.
That vigilance was the only reason he didn't trip over the first body. Scott stopped, his stomach churning as he stared down at the corpse. It was horribly burned, missing a left arm and most of its chest. "What happened here?" he whispered to himself sickly.
"W-Who's there?"
Scott whirled, peering through the fog, trying to find the source of that voice. A boy, he thought. Just a scared kid, trying to sound intimidating.
"It's--all right," he called back. "I'm a friend." Taking a few steps forward, he nearly fell over a body, this one even more terribly mutilated. The fog was a little thinner here, just enough to let him see the dark, motionless shapes lying on the ground for as far as he could see. More bodies. There was a faint, sullen breeze, and he flinched at the smell that it brought to him. Blood, smoke, burning flesh.
It was a battlefield.
"Where are you?" he called desperately. A kid shouldn't be alone in all of this. Didn't belong here, amid all this death. "It's all right, I'm here to help!"
No answer. Scott peered around, searching for any movement. Finally, he spotted a dark shape, smaller than most of the others, that looked like it was huddled in a sitting position, rather than sprawled unmoving on the ground. Scott approached slowly, careful to keep his posture unthreatening.
He was right. It was a kid, maybe fourteen years old, and--
Oh, God.
"Nate?" he asked brokenly. His son looked up at him, his face about the color of that one white lock in his brown hair, his left eye a dull, lightless gold, the pupil of the right dilated. He was shivering, but as Scott stepped closer, he snatched up the plasma gun lying on the ground at his side and leveled it at him.
"Stay back," he said miserably. "Stay back or I'll shoot you--"
A bleak, limitless ache swept over Scott like a tidal wave. He dropped to his knees, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "No, you won't," he said as gently as he could, ignoring the gun. Nate's hand was shaking violently, as if he couldn't force himself to hold the gun steady. "I--I'm not here to hurt you, Nate."
"How do you know my name?" Nate sniffled and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. He'd been crying, Scott thought, the ache deepening.
And he didn't recognize him. What did THAT mean? "Maybe we've met," Scott said, trying to smile, to keep his tone reassuring.
"I'd remember," Nate said stubbornly, with a shadow of the glower Scott had seen all too often on the face of the man his son would become.
"Maybe you would," Scott continued, reaching out, very slowly, and placing his hand over the gun. Nate didn't try and pull away, or resist at all as Scott took it away from him. He was in shock, Scott realized. It didn't really surprise him, seeing what had happened here. He's too young--what the hell is he doing here in the middle of all this? "Or maybe you wouldn't. Your memory can play some funny tricks on you, sometimes." Scott's voice broke, and he fought for composure as hard as he could.
Nate was here because he, Scott, had left him. That was the reason--the simple, unvarnished, horrible truth.
He'd left his son in hell.
Nate moved back a bit, wariness still written all over his face. But it was warring with something else, something that looked almost like longing. "You're--not Canaanite," he said edgily.
"No, I'm not," Scott said firmly, and Nate's expression grew a little wild.
"Then you're Pan-African," he said, backing away even further, sounding almost desperately. "The--" He said a word in some language Scott didn't know, "told us he'd kill us if we got caught fra--frat--doing anything with the enemy--"
"It's okay--" Scott said soothingly, inwardly puzzled. I'm NOT Canaanite, and that makes me the enemy? "I'm not--Pan-African, so you don't need to worry. I just want to help you. Tell me what happened?"
"I--I don't know, I'm just a conscript--all the officers are dead, and I don't know where I'm supposed to go, now--" Nate stopped, obviously fighting for control, and Scott reached towards him almost involuntarily. Nate flinched and shook his head, scrambling to his feet. "I g-guess that means I can go," he said unsteadily. "If there's no one left to make me stay--"
A conscript. "I--guess so," Scott said hoarsely, trying desperately to keep his voice level. "Who--conscripted you?" Nate looked more or less the same as he had the day Jean and he had been pulled back to their own bodies, in their own time. The same age, or as close to it as made no matter. Too young to be a soldier--damn it.
Nate blinked at him, as if he didn't understand the question. The answer, when it came, was soft, almost hesitant. "No one conscripts except the Canaanites. None of the other Clans need to." A single tear leaked down one soot-covered cheek. "Slym would be so disappointed in me. I got out of the city--I stayed free for months, and then I get picked up when I come back to steal ration bars. I was so STUPID--" Another tear escaped, and Nate was trembling again, more violently this time. "He'd hate me. Slym would've found some way out, instead of staying here and killing people for the flonqing Canaanites--"
Scott flinched. It took every bit of self-control he had not to get up and take his son in his arms. He wanted to, he wanted to so badly, but, for whatever reason, Nate was seeing him as a stranger, and so he didn't dare.
"I don't think he'd--hate you for doing what you had to do to survive," Scott whispered. "I think he'd just be glad you did."
"You don't know that," Nate muttered, rubbing his eyes again. He pulled off the green surcoat-like thing he wore, and then hurled it to the ground almost violently. "So what anyway?" He was obviously trying to keep his expression cold, but his eyes and the slight tremble in his voice gave him away. "He left me, why should I care what he thinks?" He bent over, picking up a weapon lying beside one of the corpses and making a futile attempt to wipe the blood off it. His hands were shaking badly, and he nearly dropped the gun numerous times.
Scott's vision blurred with tears. "You don't have to be so tough, you know," he said with a ghost of a laugh, no humor in it at all. "It's okay to--"
"What? Cry?" The tone was classic 'scornful-teenager'--almost. Despite his contemptuous words, there were tears rolling openly down his face now and a faint, wild edge to his voice that Scott doubted Nate himself heard. "That'd do a whole lot of good, wouldn't it?"
"Might--make you feel a little better, to admit you're feeling--scared, and alone--" Scott said awkwardly, and wondered rather bleakly what his motivations were, here. Selfish ones, a cold, judgemental voice inside him pointed out. He wanted an excuse to offer comfort--comfort he had no right to give, not anymore.
"I'm supposed to be alone." The words were tight with suppressed pain, but oddly flat at the same time. "That's the way it's meant to be."
Scott closed his eyes for a moment, struggling vainly for control. When he opened them again, Nate had given up on trying to clean the gun, and was peering out into the fog, a mixture of frustration and fear on his face.
"I don't know where to go," he whispered in a lost voice. "I don't even know where I am."
Something snapped into place for Scott, hearing that. A decision, making itself. "I know the way out," he said in a stronger voice, getting to his feet. "Do you want me to show you?"
Nate looked suspicious for a moment, and then shrugged, as if apathetically. "I guess," he said, and tried to smile. It was a brave attempt, unsuccessful or not. "Beats wandering around in circles, I guess."
Scott chuckled weakly. "Glad you--think so. Come on--it's this way." He gestured for Nate to follow him back the way he'd come. Nate hesitated for a moment longer, and then followed. He was slow, a little unsteady on his feet, as if he were exhausted, and Scott slowed down to keep pace with him. "Where will you go?" he asked tentatively.
"I don't know. I guess--well, I've always wanted to see the Far Islands." There was something very close to bravado in that suggestion, and Scott actually found himself smiling, despite the choking fog, despite everything.
"If you want to, you will."
The fog--was clearing, he realized. Slowly, but inexorably, it was thinning out, the grayness in front of them getting lighter--changing color.
"They say that the cities there are beautiful," Nate said from beside him, almost shyly. "That the acid storms never come and you can eat whatever grows without worrying about getting sick."
"Sounds like a beautiful place."
"Well, it's probably a load of flonq, but I want to see for myself. You know--just to say I did."
"To climb the mountain because it's there?"
"What?"
"Nothing," Scott said with a chuckle. The change in their surroundings was growing more dramatic, and he stopped, shaking his head in slow wonder. "The sun's coming up."
"Yeah. Never thought it would, after last night." That shakiness was back in Nate's voice, despite the determined cheerfulness of his words. Scott started to turn, to say something to him, but stopped as a cold hand reached out and took his, almost hesitantly. "You sure you know where you're going? Scott?"
"Don't worry, Nate, I--" Scott? What--
#Scott? Scott!#
His eyes flew open and he stared up at his wife, who was leaning over him, a peculiar look on her face. "What?" he asked a little unsteadily. Bed. He was in bed. In the boathouse.
Home.
It had been a dream? His heart gradually started to slow down, and he took a deep, shuddering breath that was more of an indrawn sigh. A cold knot of pain settled itself in the middle of his chest, and he blinked quickly, his eyes stinging with tears.
"You were dreaming, Scott," Jean said softly, tucking rumpled red hair behind one ear. "Only it wasn't your dream."
He blinked up at her. Then, understanding hit.
***
The kitchen door opened, and Scott smiled faintly as his son, clearly only half-awake, stalked over to the coffeemaker and then stopped, dead in his tracks, as he saw a fresh pot already made.
"I was up early," Scott said casually, "Thought I'd stick a pot on."
Nathan gave him a narrow-eyed look, and then lifted the lid off the pot, sniffing suspiciously. "Your idea of coffee and mine are two entirely different things," he muttered, as if in explanation.
"Don't worry," Scott said dryly. "I made it strong. It could probably do double duty as a tar substitute, actually."
"Good," Nate grumbled, pouring himself a cup. "I feel like I need it this morning."
"Didn't sleep well?" Scott asked, quite calmly, as his son came over and sat down at the table.
Nathan's brow creased. "Weird dreams," he muttered.
"Oh?"
Nathan set his coffee cup down, giving Scott an exasperated look. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
He might not remember, Jean had said. Maybe better not to push him, if that's the case--
"No reason," Scott said, feeling oddly dissatisfied at the idea of leaving it this way.
Nathan grunted, and glanced up at the clock. "I've got a Danger Room session with the kids in fifteen minutes," he said with a snort, "and none of them are even out of bed yet."
"Look at it this way," Scott said with a faint smile. "You can have all the fun of chewing them out if they're late."
Nathan smirked. "I guess so. Look, I should go and settle on a program--I'll see you later." Rising, his coffee cup in hand, he headed for the door.
"Nathan?" Scott asked softly.
Nathan hesitated, just short of the door. "Yeah?" he asked, not turning around.
"Why did you never tell me you were conscripted by the Canaanites?"
Nathan's whole body stiffened, as if he'd just been frozen in place. Then, slowly, as if he was having to force himself every bit of the way, he turned around. His face was ashen. "How--how did you--"
"Weird dreams," Scott said, trying to smile, to make it into a bit of a joke.
Nathan winced visibly, understanding dawning on his face. "Oh, flonq. I thought that was you--but I thought I was--"
"Jean says it happens every once in a while. A telepath gets pulled into someone's dream, or pulls someone into theirs--especially when they have a connection with the person." Scott shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said gently. "I just wish you'd told me--"
"I was--" Nathan sighed, leaning back against the wall, as if he needed the support. "I didn't want to tell you. It wasn't--it would only have made you feel--" A tired, humorless smile flickered across his face. "Oath, every young male of fighting age in that part of the world probably spent time as a Canaanite conscript during the civil wars. Mine wasn't a particularly unique case--"
"Nate--"
"I mean, the fact that I actually survived the Veldt War was unusual, but you could probably attribute that to dumb luck--"
"Nate," Scott said, more firmly. "I remember the dream--pretty clearly. I remember what you said--about how you thought Slym would hate you."
Nate sighed again, this time almost wryly. "You would have to remember that." He gave Scott a very direct look. "I suppose there's a little part of me that still feels that way, deep down. But that's just a remnant of the boy who was so desperate to live his life like his--parents taught him. Before he found out he couldn't, in his world--that he'd have to make compromises, if he wanted to survive." Nathan's smile was a little unsteady. "I suppose I was probably right about disappointing you, then--"
Scott shook his head slowly. "Do you think I would judge you?" he asked painfully. "Do you think I'd rather you'd--I don't know, taken up pacifism and gotten yourself killed by some damned Canaanite version of a drill sergeant when you wouldn't fight?" Just the idea that his son could be thinking anything like that made him furious. "I may not agree with the way you think sometimes, Nate--or some of the things you've done--but you're my son, dammit! And to know that you lived through THAT and worse, and still have the strength to fight for what you believe in, to care for the people around you--it makes me proud. You think I'm disappointed in you, Nate? That couldn't be farther from the truth!"
Nathan stared at him for a long moment, almost as pale as he'd been when Scott had dropped the 'bombshell' initially. Then, he swallowed, as if past a lump in his throat. "Thanks," he said, hoarsely. "That's--good to hear."
Scott suddenly had the absurd urge to laugh. "You should--hell, we make a great pair, don't we?"
Nathan's smile returned, a little more sardonic than it had been before. "Jean's sitting in the boathouse laughing at us, isn't she?"
"I'm almost afraid to find out."
Nathan's eyes went distant for a minute, and then he chuckled ruefully. "I was right." He gave Scott what could only be described as a look of pure impudence. It reminded Scott so powerfully of the boy Nate had been that his heart almost skipped a beat. "I'll try and keep my nightmares to myself next time."
"Too bad--I think you could call this an illuminating experience."
Nathan smirked. "Yeah, but it messes with the 'air of mystery' if I keep giving away my secrets."
Scott sighed. "You know, if you ever want to talk--about this, or anything, you don't need to worry about sparing my feelings, Nate. I really do want to hear about things like this--"
Nathan's shrug didn't quite manage to be diffident. "Why rehash everything?" he asked, too casually. "Besides, if I'd never gotten conscripted, I would never have met Tetherblood--he was in the same boat I was. And if I'd never met T, I probably would never have wound up leading a rebellion against the Canaanites--in which case, I may not have ended up back here." He smiled faintly. "Cause and effect can be comforting, sometimes."
Scott couldn't help a smile. "I'll have to give it a try," he murmured. Inwardly, though, he was still mulling over what Nathan had just said, trying not to let his pleasure show on his face.
It was the first time he could ever remember Nate talking about being here, in this time, as a good thing, something he was happy about.
It struck him as a very significant step.
Nate's expression was suspicious once more. "You're giving me that look again."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you--" Nate sighed, and downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp. He went over to refill his cup, shaking his head. "I need to go pick a program," he grumbled.
Scott chuckled. "Don't be too hard on the kids, now."
"They're tough," Nate tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "They can take it."
"Yeah," Scott whispered to himself in a sort of wistful amusement as the door swung shut behind his son. "Just like their 'dad'."
fin