Paving the Road

Jaya Mitai

Author’s Note - Alicia McKenzie saved this. Thanks, you’re the greatest!

Nathan stared out the window and the clouds rolling by. They were merely rolling, when if fact they should have been flying by. Briefly he contemplating propelling the plane faster with telekinesis. It would probably compromise the integrity of the plane, but at this point he didn’t care.

His team watched him, but kept silent. They had learned what his set jaw meant. Most of them had no idea what he’d done. Those that did discreetly kept their eyes and thoughts to themselves.

It had been an ambush, plain and simple. They’d gone out to destroy a government installation in the southwest, funded by the FoH, only to find a squat, square, grey concrete building. They’d assumed that most of it was underground. And then Forge had noticed something.

There were no ventilation ducts.

They’d pulled away almost as the blast had gone off, and Warpath had been knocked unconscious. Other than that, they’d taken no casualties.

But that isn’t true, is it, a bitter voice grated. His voice.

His mind rewound the day of its own accord, and he cursed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Perhaps he was needlessly worrying. Maybe she was fine.

He laughed bitterly at the thought, the pitiful denial, refusing to reach down the link he kept with her. Refusing to search for her. There was no point. The end of the link dangled freely, blowing in the proverbial wind. He had, earlier. Oh, he had searched as far as his abilities would allow. Farther, harder, straining his telepathy past its utmost, dangerously so. And he had heard white noise, the mutters of millions of thoughts, blocked out, searching for just one from her.

He hadn’t found it.

He sensed Sam, not more than a boy, moving beside him, but even Cannonball was not brave - or stupid - enough to touch him. The team left him to his thoughts.

He knew well before they landed that his fears were not unfounded. The cloud of smoke rose nearly a mile in the air. It had been burning for almost forty minutes. The second the plane landed he was off and running. And, of course, he was stopped by strong arms around his waist, flown in the opposite direction.

"Sir, it’s too late!"

He didn’t care. "Dammit, boy, let me go! D-"

He couldn’t bring himself to even say the name. Instead, he telepathically forced Cannonball to release him, and dashed through the burning doorframe. The roar of the flames nearly drowned out Cannonball’s frantic cry.

"Cable! NO!"

He ignored him. Ignored them all. Without hesitation he threw himself through the burning doorframe.

Forge’s lab had burned nicely, taking most of the building with it, and the smoke was undoubtedly toxic. He held his breath for as long as possible, using telekinesis to bat parts of the semi-collapsed building away. The going was slow, and he had to re-route his path many times, cursing silently as his eyes wept with the sting of the smoke. He hadn’t even made it to her room when he had to breathe.

His lungs burned with the intake and he nearly pitched to the floor. Nathan reached out a metal hand to brace himself against the flaming wall before he continued, heading down a hall he had traveled down not four hours ago, coffee in hand, with the intention of saving her life.

The road to Hell . . .

He pushed at the door, ignoring the bits of flaming ceiling that struck him and burned. It wouldn’t budge. He pounded on it again and again, finally knocking it in as gently as possible with telekinesis, dimly hearing shouts over the roar of the inferno that raged around him.

Her room was not aflame.

The mug of coffee lay in pieces on the floor, the coffee all but evaporated now, the floor nearly dry. Yet the liquid had extinguished the flames that had traveled on the floor, buying him time.

She was there, on the bed, lying peacefully on her back, as he had left her. The ceiling was burning quietly, having been heated by the floor above, and threatening to collapse completely. He ran to the bedside as best he could, ignoring the crunch of porcelin beneath his boots. Tenderly, he picked her up. She was dead weight, her head lolling on his arm. He again was forced to breathe, and nearly passed out. His head grew heavy and his chest had begun to throb. He threw her over his shoulder, keeping the cough in even as he tasted blood in the back of his throat.

With a tremendous burst of concentration, he created a telekinetic bubble around them, just as the ceiling collapsed. A fair amount had burned away, yet it was almost more than he could hold. He ran from the room, down the hall, the way he had come.

The way he had come was impassable, as forty feet of the hall floor was missing, collapsed to the floor below.

He couldn’t TK them across the gap, and he knew it.

His frantic stumbling jog took them both they way they had come, heading towards the back of the house. He no longer heard yells for him, no longer even heard the roar of the fire. He keep going, tripping over flaming obstacles in his way, his telekinetic protection dwindling.

Spots danced before his eyes, and he took another breath.

And then he fell.

He saw the flames reach up to meet him, yet they never touched him. He was picked up and rocketed through the fire, through the wall. And then he was outside. Cool air kissed his cheeks, soothed his stinging eyes.

Only now, he couldn’t breathe.

"Ah got tah him as fast as Ah-"

"You did fine, boy. Lay him - oh God."

Someone took Dom away from him. He didn’t know who, and he tried to protest, only he couldn’t. Blood welled up from his throat instead of words, and he vomited. He heard indistinct sounds, and opened his eyes, tears still streaming down his face. They would hardly focus at all.

"D-domino?" Sam’s voice was cracking.

"Get the medkit from the plane. Move, man! Ric, get over here and help me!"

He saw the team. He saw Forge, pointing, and a shape run off toward the plane.

Someone was talking to him. "Nathan, dammit, breathe. Don't cough. Ric, turn him on his side. Gently!"

He saw Sam returning with the kit. He saw the sky, the harsh black smoke cleaving the beautiful blue into two unequal halves. His head fell to his left as he was lifted onto his side, and he saw her.

She was still sleeping. Her lips were blue, and a faint trickle of blood had worked its way from her mouth as she had been jostled over his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed. Her uniform was still arranged perfectly on her body, she still had her weapons. Her hair was hardly disheveled from the trip, and she had the tiniest little bit of dirt on her cheek.

Sam knelt beside her, reaching a trembling hand to touch her face. His tears tumbled down to his chin, where they fell, bathing Domino’s peaceful features, and from there, coursed down her cheeks to the ground.

She hadn’t even woken for it. Tears continued to run, as did the blood, and Nathan closed his eyes, despite the frantic shakes on his shoulders, the frantic calls of his name.

There was a authoritative banging at the door.

"Just a second."

Domino adjusted the shoulder of her costume and turned, watching her body in the mirror. Still as fit as ever, in tip-top shape. The bags beneath her eyes had been neatly concealed with makeup, and there was no other sign that she’d gotten five hours of sleep in the last sixty. She began adding weapons to her ensemble as she walked over to the door and yanked it open.

"I’ve still got three-"

Nathan gave her a semi-amused look. "Uh-huh." He stepped around her into the room, ready to go, bearing a cup of coffee. She eyed him suspiciously before kicking the door shut and adjusting another strap.

"I know what you’re going to say, Nathan. You’re tired, Dom. You need to sleep, Dom. Sit this one out, Dom." She turned her back to him, inspecting herself again. She could see him staring at her in the mirror.

"Looks fine from back here."

She rolled her eyes and pulled on her gloves.

"Well, then, if you already knew what I was going to say, I’m sure you’ve planned out your reply."

She didn’t bother to turn around.

"You need me on this one. You need someone to cover your back."

"You’re not the only other person on the team-"

"I’m the best shot."

Nathan’s gaze didn’t waver. "And?"

"And what if it turns out to be an elaborately planned ambush? Having me around certainly wouldn’t hurt." That was an understatement. She had a headache, a tightness in her stomach, and she knew what it was. It was a warning. Something terrible was going to happen, and it probably had to do with his leaving her behind. He was going to get killed if he left her. But how to tell _him_ that.

Nathan walked up behind her, looping one arm around her waist and pulling her to lean on him, holding the coffee in front of her.

"Look, I’m leaving this one up to you. You think you’ll be okay, then let’s go. If this place really is nothing more than another under-construction glorified FoH concentration camp, fine. If it’s a trap we could be there for hours. If you think you can handle that, then let’s go."

She glared at his reflection in the mirror. "Your confidence astounds me."

He shrugged noncommittally. "Dom, you’ve pulled three shifts of monitor duty in a row-"

"Owed Forge. Besides, he’s working on something and was distracted anyway."

"-and you’ve been pushing yourself in the gym pretty hard lately-"

"I was getting a little soft."

He snorted, his eye gleaming, and poked her arm with a finger. "Yeah. You. Soft. Look, if I can’t change your mind, at least drink some coffee. You haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday."

She took the mug reluctantly, watching his eyes studying her intensely. Undoubtedly picking up on the faint signs of fatigue. From this close, he could see the dark shadows beneath her eyes, no matter what kind of makeup she applied, as well as a faint glassiness of her irises, her mood shifts. But she’d be fine, once they got into battle. Once adrenaline started going through her veins, there wouldn’t be a problem. She’d fought fine after 72 hours without sleep, on several occasions. His concern now was unwarranted.

She did take a swallow of the coffee, at least to avert an argument or perhaps being forced to stay behind. He seemed to relax a little, still keeping his arm around her waist.

Why was this so easy? Why did he let her convince him? Because my logic was sound, she decided, watching the glimmer of his eye.

Then a wave a dizziness hit, and she had her answer.

She spun, but of course her balance was gone. He easily caught her, real regret in his eyes.

"Sorry, Dom, but you need rest."

The coffee mug slipped from her nerveless fingers, and she never felt him lay her on the bed. The coffee splashed out of the mug on its journey toward the floor, then immediately back in, and the mug made its way over to the dresser. Nathan wasn’t even really watching it, not even paying attention to his telekinesis. The mug teetered on the edge as her frozen eyes watched, but never fell completely off the edge.

"We’ll be back before you wake up. I’m sorry, Dom, this is for your own good."

She tried to say something, but her tongue was heavy, and her head was heavy, and her eyelids simply wouldn’t stay open. Her last thoughts were of what a pain in the ass he was.

Nathan jerked awake, literally jerked, then tried to double over with the pain of it. He couldn’t; someone held him down and shouted something he didn’t catch.

He couldn’t breathe. It hurt more than anything he could remember. He started to cough, gobbets of blood sticking wetly to the pillow he tried to cough into. His chest was on fire, and there was a constant pressure, holding him down. He couldn’t open his eyes, he was coughing too hard. He felt the sharp prick of a needle in his arm barely at all over the rest of it. Whatever had been in the syringe had no effect.

Someone was talking to him, telling him to try to stop coughing.

He tried, he really did, and opened his eyes.

They’d taken him to Xavier’s mansion, to his parents and Hank’s lab there, considering the condition of their own home. He could see his father, watching him with concern, and Hank coming over with another syringe. He could see Jean. Her telepathic voice had been the one he’d heard. The blue mutant administered another injection, and the pain gave a mighty effort before fading slightly.

Jean watched him carefully, probing his mind gently. He politely excused himself, which is to say he gave her fair warning before shoving her out of his mind and erecting a barrier she could not breach. Her eyes widened slightly, then nodded sympathetically. She could understand his need for privacy, perhaps better than he.

"Nathan, can you understand me?"

He glanced at Scott, and tried to open his mouth. That pulled his throat, which made him want to cough, and to ‘talk’ to Scott telepathically would force him to lower the mental barrier, so he closed his mouth and nodded.

"Nathan . . ." Scott took up his hand and squeezed. Knowing the drill, Nathan squeezed back, surprised at the weakness of his normally iron grasp. "Try not to cough. Your lungs were damaged heavily by the smoke. Most of the conventional treatments have failed, Hank thinks maybe because of the presence of the TO virus. You need a transplant, and finding a good match is going to take some time." Scott’s voice was very steady and matter of fact, as though he informed his son every day that he was dying. Of course, infected with the TO virus, he actually was, a tiny degree every day. This just sped up the inevitable.

He nodded and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. After a while, the concerned voices died down, though he didn’t realize until it was too late that they weren’t leaving; rather, he was falling asleep.

Jean nodded once to Scott’s unspoken question, and the two turned from the sleeping man to Hank. Dr. McCoy studied the blood gases report and frowned.

"Henry?"

Hank looked up at Jean, surprised to find tears glittering on her cheeks. Scott quietly took her hand. Jean looked at him imploringly.

The big mutant sucked in a mighty breath, held it for a moment, then released it in a large sigh.

"There’s no way we’ll find a match for him in time. The coughing when he awoke destroyed another 6% of his lungs, and his blood oxygen levels are critical. You saw what little effect the coedine had." He shook his head slowly, still holding Jean’s gaze, trying to find a way to break the news to a telepath that probably already knew. "He probably won’t make it through the night," he finally admitted quietly.

"I’m working as fast as I can," Forge snapped from the back. All about him were pieces of machinery, various glowing things that even Hank couldn’t identify. "I have many adjustments to make because of the TO virus and his . . . tendency to reject implants."

The intercom clicked. "Scott?"

He released Jean’s hand and went over to the intercom, pressed a button. The sound was incredibly loud in the silence that had descended upon the Infirmary.

"Yes?"

Ororo’s voice sounded sympathetic. "I think the . . . Cable’s team would like an update."

Jean looked up, trying to compose herself.

"I’ll handle it, Scott. You stay here until he wakes up again."

Scott watched Nathan’s face as he slept. Thanks to Jean and being able to manipulate his memories, he had an incredibly clear memory of Nathan as a baby. No, not Nathan. Now he was Nathan Dayspring Askani’son Summers. He was no longer Scott’s son, but rather the Askani’s. And he was older than Scott himself was.

Scott immediately curbed the thought before it could settle and fester. The Askani had done this to him. Sent one man to the past to fix all their problems. And look at him now.

Scott continued to study Nathan’s face quietly. His pain was evident even as he slept, the lines about his mouth and eyes etched deeper than before, his brow furrowed. His breathing was labored, but Henry said a respirator would probably not help him. They would, of course, hook him up towards the end, but Hank estimated that it would only add another ten to fifteen minutes to his life, and at that point he would be in a coma.

Scott closed his eyes, remembering the tiny little blue-eyed bundle that he’d handed to the Askani. Remembering his wide, curious gaze, his tiny little fists. Remembering how scared he had been, how terrified that little Nathan would be killed by the TO virus, how he’d handed that tiny bundle to the Askani, to save him.

How they had, he though bitterly, before he could stop himself. And he had let them, giving them Nathan before the child even learned to recognize Scott as his father.

Nathan moved slightly, his breathing sped up, his heartbeat increased slightly. Scott watched him for many moments, before quietly speaking.

"Nathan, you awake?"

Nathan didn’t respond any more than to open his eyes, so Scott picked up his hand, not quite sure whether that was acceptable, considering the relationship he’d had so far with his son. He found it like ice. Hank had said that his body was responding to the lack of oxygen by shutting down blood flow to all but the necessary organs, and his hand was not one. He rubbed it, trying to encourage circulation.

After a moment, he heard Nathan’s voice, strong and steady, in his mind.

#Circulation going, too?#

Scott frowned, surprised that Nathan simply hadn’t taken the information from his mind. Was he too weak, or did he want to talk?

"Your lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen into your blood, so it’s shutting down the flow to your extremeties. Hank can’t do a whole lot about it."

Nathan nodded in something close to resignation and closed his eyes, slowly relaxing, as much as he could. His face was still tight, giving away the pain he felt, and his mouth had that little bitterly humored quirk that Jean so hated. It was the little frown Scott himself frowned, when he was blaming himself for screwing up. Still unsure Nathan really wanted to talk, Scott spoke.

"Nathan, I know what you’re thinking. You’re blaming yourself. Because you can’t find another person to blame, and you won’t blame her."

Nathan didn’t speak, but he didn’t turn away, so Scott continued.

"I know that you feel responsible, because I did, when I thought Jean was dead. I probably felt just like you do now."

Nathan’s eyes snapped open and burned into his.

"It’s not the same thing!" Scott jumped as he realized Nathan had spoken aloud. The fierce anger vanished beneath a fit of coughing. As Hank had warned him, he leaned over Cable’s chest, holding him down and clamping the oxygen mask over Cable’s mouth. He already had a lead in his nose, and the amount of oxygen he was getting now was nearly toxic, yet his lungs could only absorb such a tiny amount. He was contemplating calling for Hank when the coughs petered out, and Cable took a few exhausted breaths.

Scott left the oxygen on him for a while more, until his breathing sounded less labored, came with less effort. Then he removed it and sat back down.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cough . . . but it _is_ the same thing. I know it wasn’t Jean now, but I didn’t then. And wasn’t I the one who couldn’t quite convince her to throw off the Phoenix’s influence right before Charles attacked her? Wasn’t I the one who led the team of X-Men that were to protect her from the Shi’ar, and failed? Wasn’t I the one standing a few yards away when she was burned to ash?"

He picked up Nathan’s hand. It was still as cold as ice.

"It took a long time and a lot of flak from the team before I realized that it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I made good, logical choices, weighing the consequences. It could have gone either way, and I was not at fault. Neither were you."

Scott took another breath. "I don’t know what kind of relationship you had together, but I’m certain that sedating her was necessary to keep her from going on the mission with you. She never struck me as someone who took orders well. Like some people I know. You didn’t do anything wrong, and neither did she. It just happened that way. I know it doesn’t make the hurt go away, or the emptiness-"

After showing no previous response, Nathan flinched, physically, his eyes betraying the depth of sorrow he felt, the blame, the vulnerablility that hurt him so to show. Scott spoke gently.

"It wasn’t your fault, son."

Nathan sneered, to cover up his moment of weakness.

#Oh? She’d be alive, right now, if I hadn’t been such a stupid, stubborn-#

Scott felt a faint smile creep across his face, finally understanding how frustrated Jean must get with him. "According to Jean, I taught that to you, so then I guess this was my fault, wasn’t it."

Nathan continued his twisted smile. #That’s ridiculous.#

Scott realized that Nathan’s hand wasn’t getting any warmer despite the massage, and laid it gently on Nathan’s stomach. He needed to warm Nathan up, and not by angering him. "Listen to yourself, Nathan. You’re making about as much sense. Nathan, she died without pain, and she died knowing that you loved her enough to want to keep her safe." He stood. "I’m going to get you an electric blanket. Don’t go anywhere."

Nathan gave him a look that plainly said, Yeah, right. Scott watched his son one last time, a feeling that this was the very last time he’d ever talk to him. Then he left, to get Jean, and Hank. And an electric blanket.

After a few hours, Nathan awoke to find the Infirmary quiet.

The link was empty. His mind was empty. He hadn’t realized how much her presence comforted him, kept him warm when he was alone. Now the spot she had claimed as her own was cold, hard, empty. He felt as though there was a draft in his mind, making him shudder. The movement brought with it another wave of pain, and it was all he could do not to start coughing again.

He couldn’t very well give up, not now. It went against everything he believed. He had an Apocalypse to prevent, lives to save. He’d lost loves before, this wasn’t the first time. And, in part, he was responsible for their deaths.

But he’d never killed someone he loved, before.

He was as responsible for her death as the FoH that destroyed their base. He had drugged her, making sure she got a heavy dose of the sedative even if she did only drink a single sip of the coffee. He had laid her in that bed, he had been responsible for protecting her, taking away her ability to do so herself.

And now she was dead.

At least she didn’t feel it, the bitter voice whispered. He ignored it, closed his eyes again. His lungs hurt badly, almost as badly as the back of his throat, and behind his eyes.

"Nathan, you awake?"

He opened eyes that were suspiciously moist, and found himself staring into a ruby red visor. Scott took a seat beside the bed, and picked up his hand awkwardly, then frowned and began to rub it. Nathan didn’t feel a thing.

Nathan did a quick scan. Jean was upstairs, and had no intention of coming down, so he lowered his mental shields enough for telepathic speech. #Circulation going, too?#

Scott continued to frown and nodded. "Your lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen into your blood, so it’s shutting down the flow to your extremeties. Hank can’t do a whole lot about it."

Nathan nodded slightly, then closed his eyes again. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was bawl like a child in front of Scott. The irony of that thought almost made him smile.

"Nathan, I know what you’re thinking. You’re blaming yourself. Because you can’t find another person to blame, and you won’t blame her."

Nathan didn’t acknowledge.

"I know that you feel responsible, because I did, when I thought Jean was dead. I probably felt just like you do now."

Nathan turned angry eyes toward his father, one startlingly blue, the other glowing fiercly despite his injury.

"It’s not the same thing!" he rasped, and immediately fell into a coughing feet. Scott held him down and clamped a clear plastic mask over his face. After an eternity, he was simply too exhausted to cough any longer, and found that a few swallows allowed him to breathe again. After a few more minutes, Scott removed the mask.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cough . . . but it _is_ the same thing. I know it wasn’t Jean now, but I didn’t then. And wasn’t I the one who couldn’t quite convince her to throw off the Phoenix’s influence right before Charles attacked her? Wasn’t I the one who led the team of X-Men that were to protect her from the Shi’ar, and failed? Wasn’t I the one standing a few yards away when she was burned to ash?"

Scott sighed, taking up Cable’s hand again, and rubbing it. He still felt nothing. Nothing at all. While it should have frightened him, it did not. He was disappointed, a little, but not frightened. He expected to die. But to go as this? A cripple?

Scott stared at his son hard. "It took a long time and a lot of flak from the team before I realized that it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I made good, logical choices, weighing the consequences. It could have gone either way, and I was not at fault. Neither were you."

He paused, watching Nathan. "I don’t know what kind of relationship you had together, but I’m certain that sedating her was necessary to keep her from going on the mission with you. She never struck me as someone who took orders well. Like some people I know."

Nathan didn’t react. Scott sighed.

"You didn’t do anything wrong, and neither did she. It just happened that way. I know it doesn’t make the hurt go away, or the emptiness-"

Nathan flinched, and cursed himself for it. Scott just watched him.

"It wasn’t your fault, son."

Nathan just stared at him. #Oh? She’d be alive, right now, if I hadn’t been such a stupid, stubborn-#

A ghost of a smile touched Scott’s lips, and faded. "According to Jean, I taught that to you, so then I guess this was my fault, wasn’t it."

Nathan’s face twisted. #That’s ridiculous.#

Scott leaned back, placing Nathan’s hand on his stomach. Nathan felt the weight, but little else. He was getting a little chilly, and he knew it wasn’t due to poor circulation. The pain in his chest was gradually fading.

"Listen to yourself, Nathan. You’re making about as much sense. Nathan, she died without pain, and she died knowing that you loved her enough to want to keep her safe."

Nathan blinked again, fighting the moisture that threatened to collect there. Dom would have killed him for that. If he hadn’t her. Scott rose. "I’m going to get you an electric blanket. Don’t go anywhere."

Nathan gave him A Look, and the ghost smile returned. Scott watched his son for a moment, as though . . . as though memorizing him. And then he left.

Nathan gradually won the fight against his tears, and the lump faded into his swollen throat. His mind refused to contemplate anything, his heart refused to feel.

She died without pain, knowing you loved her.

She died without pain.

She died.

He started to cough.

On to Buying the Farm by Mercutio

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