Nathan and Pietro, Monday night

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Nathan's out flying to try and burn off some of his restlessness; Pietro's out running for more or less the same reason. The operation tomorrow comes up, of course, but the conversation ends in poetry. No, really.


It was snowing. Starting to do so rather enthusiastically, as a matter of fact, and Moira would kill him if she found out he was spending this much time out in the cold. But Nathan was inclined to live a bit on the wild side at this point. He'd been cooped up inside far too much, this last week and a bit, and he needed some fresh air - especially after the events of the weekend. The flying was just a fringe benefit.

The snow was starting to make traction difficult, but Pietro had run in worse and no doubt would again. At least visibility was still fairly good. Better than usual, in fact, he thought with a wry look up at the giant fiery bird circling the grounds. Struck by a sudden impulse, he whipped a tight circle into a snowdrift, kicking up a load of snow which a directed vortex sent sailing on its way. He squinted after it . . . yes, dead on target. Hah. Working with Crystal had definitely improved his aim.

The load of snow hit its target squarely, the firebird spinning partway around at the impact before Nathan righted himself in the air and glared down at the person who'd launched the attack. "If I'd fallen," he called down wryly, "I would probably have taken out half a dozen trees and then you'd be dealing with Cain for causing a landscaping catastrophe."

"If a little bit of snow is enough to shoot you out of the air," Pietro retorted, "then I'm not the one who has something to worry about. It's a giant forcefield made out of fire, Dayspring. Snow should be the least of your problems."

"It's not fire," Nathan said, landing. "It's... well, actually, I don't know what the hell it is, precisely," he said as the wings of the firebird folded back and the whole exoskeleton collapsed inwards, "but it doesn't give off any heat. Or radiation." He gave Pietro his best 'I'm a crazy man' smile. "Moira checked."

"Well, somebody has to keep you from killing yourself with bright ideas from the future that you don't actually understand." Pietro looked Nate up and down. "Busy day tomorrow, Summers tells me."

"Yeah. Should be fun." The laugh that accompanied that set off a brief fit of coughing, and Nathan found himself leaning a hand against the trunk of the tree beside him for support. He sucked in a somewhat ragged breath as soon as he could, straightening and trying to ignore the dull throbbing headache. Just the cold. He really ought to have gone in a while ago.

"You're not going, certainly?" Pietro's voice was incredulous. "Unless you're planning on negating his healing factor with whatever death germ you're carrying, I suppose. If so, I'd have a Plan B."

Nathan managed a rueful, rusty-sounding chuckle. "No. Plan A is a brief telepathic intervention from my part - at a safe distance." It struck him that maybe he shouldn't be chatting about strategy with a non X-Man, but then, Pietro had been the one to supply them with all of that intel in the first place.

"Always assuming you don't hork up a lung while you're fumbling for his brain." Pietro raised an eyebrow, giving Nathan a theatrically careful scrutiny. "And I don't seem to see any claymores sticking out of anywhere, so which part doesn't your wife know about? The mission, or the respiratory condition?"

"People seem to think my wife is a violent woman," was Nathan's only immediate answer, in an appropriately dry tone. He coughed again once, just to clear his throat, and then pushed away from the tree. "She's not. She's very reasonable. And she knows who she married."

"No, I think people just assume that very heavy blows to the head are the only way to really get your attention." Pietro's eyes narrowed. "Do you have a handle on this, or are you just putting up a good front so you don't lose your spot on the takedown? I'd understand the impulse, believe me, but my understanding wouldn't make it any less stupid."

Nathan gave him a level look in return. "Look at my daughter the next time she happens to make a mad dash for freedom sometime in your general vicinity and then ask yourself whether I'm liable to be taking particularly stupid risks anytime soon." The sharpness left his voice as he went on. "I'm not a hundred percent by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm fit enough for what they're asking of me. Jean may be the better telepath, but I've got more experience with feral minds."

"Just making sure. This is one I don't want to see screwed up." Pietro snorted quietly. "And I suppose I envy you the chance to be there, a bit. I know I've done my part already, but I admit to a petty desire to watch that psychopath hit the ground."

"It usually feels better to be there yourself," Nathan said, then shook his head slightly. "Usually. Not always." He took as deep a breath as he dared - no coughing this time, thankfully - and then let it out. "It'll be good to be able to tell Alison, when this is done."

"You were on the team that went in after her, weren't you?" Pietro asked. "Creed mentioned you in passing, I think, after he limped back. Saved most of his ire for Marko, as you might expect, but not all of it."

"Yeah. I'm surprised he didn't curse Scott's name a few times, too, after Scott did his best to blow a hole through his chest." Nathan's eyes were distant, though, remembering that night under Ryker's and then the hospital. "I've known people who... entertained themselves like that before. A few times they've entertained themselves with friends of mine, too. But that night... stands out."

"I've seen his handiwork." Pietro's expression turned inward for a moment, and he barely suppressed a shudder. "Far too closely. He's .. . in many ways, he's my father's opposite. When Father kills, it's cold, clinical, and for a purpose: he decides that someone's death will serve his aims, and so they die. With Creed, it's always personal. Even when he's only killing because he's been ordered to, he always finds a way to make it personal . . . and then he lingers over it, as much as time allows."

"That's why he's going down tomorrow," Nathan said with a certain grim humor. "Because while it's personal for us, too, we can put that aside." He leaned back against the tree with a sigh. "I'm finding that easier and easier lately - it's a funny feeling. Spent so much of my life being driven by anger at one person or another..." It struck him that he was rambling, and he gave Pietro a brief, apologetic smile. "Sorry. I keep having these discussions with the boy about the risks I take, so I spend far too much time thinking about why." Despite the 'boy' comment, there was a warmth in his voice as he mentioned Angelo, and he didn't apologize for that.

"I'm headed the other way, I think," Pietro replied wryly. "All that time reacting cerebrally, and now I'm starting to notice my actual feelings waking up again. Very odd sensation; I'm still not sure whether or not to trust it."

"You need to have time to acknowledge the emotional reaction, if you've been suppressing it for as long as you have," Nathan said, with an 'I've had far too much therapy, can you tell?' smirk. "I spent sixteen years knowing that I risked my life if I gave in to emotional weakness. As in, they'd take me out, shoot me in the head, and bury me in the desert." He thought Pietro would know exactly what he was talking about. One of the few people around here who probably did, come to think of it.

"I only had three, and the arrangement was--of course--not quite so formalized, but yes, it was always very clear that if Mystique or Creed got an inkling of what I was really feeling, I would either quietly or messily vanish." Pietro shook his head. "I'm trying to take time to recenter, but I suspect it'll be difficult until I've permanently concluded my business with the government."

"You can't do anything with that hanging over your head," Nathan agreed quietly. "At least you've got a goal to shoot towards, though? A point at which you'll be able to say 'This is done'."

"In less than a month, I devoutly hope." Pietro frowned. "Tracking down the last few bits of data is proving troublesome, and some of it's fairly crucial."

Nathan proceeded to get a strange, unfocused look that only someone who'd caught him scribbling in his poetry notebook would have recognized. "Assembling pieces of a death, trying to find a life," he murmured, the rhythmic nature of the words immediately obvious.

"I suppose I am, at that." Pietro raised an eyebrow. "Though I don't think it's ever inspired spontaneous poetry before. Is this one of those repetitive-head-injury things?"

Nathan laughed, sheepishly, and there was a little more color in his face than the cold could really explain. "A lot of things inspire poetry. I write. Poetry, I mean. There's a long story behind that involving a year spent undercover at an impressionable age with Kazakh nomads who liked to sing poetry around their fires at night... but anyway." He mustered a shrug of entirely feigned diffidence. "It's an interesting dichotomy, in any case."

"I'll give you that much." Pietro snorted. "Though, to continue the logic, does that mean I'll find it a futile endeavor in the end?"

"Which part?" Nathan asked with more dryness than tact.