sundown | mutant au

The headmistress is vaguely familiar to Cable. She's risen through the ranks in a way most mutants can't stomach. Granted, Cable has little interest in being the headmaster of a girl's school. Well. Not until recently.

His nose crinkles when he scowls, visibly disgusted by her. His anger starts to peak-- then it drops off distinctly. He feels the squeeze of her fingers on his wrist and shoots an irritated look at Francesca.

"Stop it."

But the calm and the distraction buy the guards accompanying Charlotte with the opportunity they need to snap a de-powering collar onto Nathan. He pulls away from Francesca, not by choice, but because his arms are being pulled behind his back. He's being restrained, which makes him furious. It makes him struggle, which makes the guards rougher when they start to lead him away.

She doesn't expect them to do that. She just doesn't want him to hurt anyone, least of all himself.

The last thing she ever wants is to see him hurt. When he's not with her, she spends much of her hours missing him and worrying about what he's doing, what could happen to him while he's away from her. It weighs heavily on her mind and nerves.

Francesca panics, trying to make a run for him, but being pulled back midway.

"Stop! Stop it, let him go, he didn't -- he didn't mean it. He came for me -- it's my fault --" The energy in the room begins to change, to almost ripple with something. Her distress bleeding out.

Initially, the guards ignore her. The nurses are trying to whisk her away to inspect her, sedate her. She's the most valuable thing in the room-- or at least, the mutant growing inside of her is.

Exemplified by the sudden display of powers. Immediately apparent that it isn't Francesca, some skepticism about whether it's from Nathan. Then a dawning realisation. Nathan's voice reaches their daughter, if Francesca hears it, she knows the message isn't for her.

"Stop."

Nathan stops fighting the guards, his hands drop obediently behind his back. He'll let himself be lead away.

She hears the command. Presumably, so does their baby. The pulsating ebbs away. The walls felt like they were closing in around them, the tension swelling in the room.

Everyone in the dormitory is awake now, disheveled with sleep. All eyes on the scene they're making.

The headmistress scrutinizes an anxious Francesca and turns to Cable with obvious pleasure. "Interesting. Very interesting." She snaps her fingers at the guards holding him at attention. "See that he's taken back to wherever it is they put grunts."

He's followed by brown eyes, dewy and sad, until she can no longer see him.

His punishment comes swiftly in the form of electroshock therapy-- one of the few things that really seems to get under his skin. It leaves him feeling too dull and too scattered to fight. It's the perfect time to reinforce the rhetoric. He's an important part in something bigger than him, this is about the survival of mutants and his compliance is important. He knows that. He should know that his fixation on Francesca could compromise his efforts so far-- and it will endanger her.

That doesn't sit well with him.

So it's a few weeks before he can't resist, but it's been a daily struggle that brings him to this point. He tries to fight the way he feels, tries to push her out of his mind. He's consumed by worry for her and their child, but he tries desperately to other himself from them. They're a mother and child. His involvement is unnecessary and he's certainly no father.

But the worry eats at him when he comes to find out that she's in a bad way. That there's talk of moving her to a different facility, because she's ill. He knows he'll never get to her now, but he has other options at his disposal.

It's after midnight, so he hopes she's somewhere private. He probes her mind gently before he announces herself, checking it's a good time without asking. When he's satisfied, he calls out to her in a gentle but concerned tone:

"Francesca?"

What Francesca comes to understand, over passing days and weeks, is that Cable wants nothing to do with her. Them.

Probably not of his own volition, at least at first. She knows the tryst for what it was -- an illegal arrangement. He could be discharged, were he not so valuable. But he is.

She had reached out to him, the next morning after his forced departure, across a mental pathway that he had first paved. Leaning forward, spanning miles to find him. Driven out of concern, an aching want to know that he's okay, even knowing it is wrong to even try to communicate with him.

She finds him -- or maybe it's the life inside her, gravitating to him like a moth to light.

But he doesn't see fit to answer. Not then, not the next day.

And then he's simply -- gone.

She's lonely, and then she's angry, so angry with him. Betrayed by a loss that wounds her so much more deeply than she thought it would.

Whatever he'd done, wherever he had gone, the results are swift. Without him to share it, her body and life force has to contend with the burden of the pregnancy alone. She becomes too ill to sustain anger, progressively worse and worse, until she is bed bound entirely. If there were doubts, they are gone. The clinicians worry whether she will be able to continue like this. They strap her to the bed, feed her fluids and sedatives.

He finds her in a different state than he left her.

She's deliriously tired when she hears it, a voice she can no longer recognize, one of so many these days. She struggles to sit upright, her mind pitching with fear as she scans her surroundings. An empty sick room, dimmed lights. Finding no one. Her eyes squeeze shut.

"No. No -- you aren't there. You aren't real."

Along with feeling tremendously guilty, he feels furious. When he projects into his mind, he can feel everything. He can feel the last few, lonely weeks in her memories.

Before he can agonise much, he has to contend with the fact that he feels furious as well. He's alone, but not really, because there are people stationed outside his room. It takes will power not to kill them-- though he wonders why he offers them grace.

He can't make things worse for her, that he knows.

Before he can assure her, the little life growing in her recognises him just as well. It sends feelings of relief and joy through her, identifying him with certainty.

He feels it too. Troubling, because he's desperate to feel her belly again.

"It's me. I'm here."

The feelings of joy are so immense. Blinding. Their daughter recognizes him before she does. It's enough to jolt Francesca out of her stupor.

"... Nathan?"

Gentle, hopeful. Afraid it's a mirage or delusion. Mentally, she focuses -- and feels his presence, like a weight in her head. Welcomed. The relief that cascades through her body and soul is potent.

"You came back. I thought --" She was afraid he wouldn't.

Edited 2025-10-02 09:08 (UTC)

"I thought I was doing you more harm than good."

He offers her an answer without making her seek it out. Bitterly, he thinks he was made to feel that way. His pride won't let him say that part out loud.

"I was wrong." Obviously.

He probes deeper, trying to offer something to soothe her.

"I love you." He adds, after mutual silence.

"Both of you."

She sits in quiet dread and desperation, hearing him out.

He doesn't say it, but she begins to infer that somebody else ingrained that train of thought into him. He'd never seemed to worry about his place with her -- with them before they were caught. He was very emphatic that he didn't care about the opinions of others to that end.

Francesca knows the punishment for disobedience and rebellion. It makes her angry. It makes her sad that he let himself believe it. The most powerful mutant she knows.

She doesn't breach that yet. Let's his admissions wash over her.

Finally, she acknowledges him.

"We know."

She sounds tired. And distrustful of what that love means. Because he's not here. Because they're both government property.

"She misses you. Terribly."

There are some caged bird metaphors that are extraordinarily relevant. If, in the metaphor, the bird could kill it's captors with it's mind. It just doesn't know it yet.

It's strange to him that Hope, draining her mother of her strength, shows him just a fraction of his potential. Maybe it's because he's never wanted anything as much as he's wanted a family. He's never been as close to it as he is now. The tangible reality of his dream makes him more inclined to push on things he would normally ignore.

It bleeds into Francesca's mind. His dreams and hers. He's growing tired of being a disconnected voice, so the foundations of a shared vision start to appear in Francesca's mind's eye.

"Close your eyes and pretend to sleep."

It makes it easier for him to slip into the driver's seat. When he reaches with his mind, she'll feel his hands on her forearms. When she opens her eyes, she'll see him.

He looks clean shaven and healthy, which is not an accurate portrayal. He's scraggly and weary outside of their minds, but this is their place. There's no reason to present as anything but happy.

When he realises it's working, his arms close around her. Pulling her into his chest, putting his hand on her head.

Things within her field of vision begin to bend and manipulative themselves. She can't be sure it's him, or if it's Hope. Her powers has been growing in leaps and bounds; it's a not insignificant part of why they have kept her sedated. She doesn't know that.

She's naive. Still. Even as jaded as she's becoming, she doesn't grasp quite the reasons behind why the people in charge want to restrict her movement.

They're both chained animals. Nathan is just more inclined to chew his leg off right now.

Trusting him -- choosing to trust him -- she closes her eyes. When she opens them, it's not the yellowing walls of the clinic. She's not in a sick bed.

And he's there. The pressure of his hands around her arms. Not simply a voice.

His name falls from her lips, an octave above a breath. Close to a prayer. Her forehead falls onto his chest, her eyes swimming with tears of a mixture of exhaustion and relief.

He looks well -- she does not, with a belly significantly grown from the last time they saw each other. It presses against his own, her arms looping around his neck.

"You're real?"

His fingers bury into her hair and grip at the fabric of her clothes. His chin drops so he can press his lips against the top of her head, smoothing his hand down her hair.

There's a strange warmth between them, so subtle he can't parse if it's just body heat, his mind filling blanks or Hope reaching out to both of them. He does know that it feels nice. It doesn't heal the ache, but it soothes it.

"That's complicated." Because it really depends on her interpretation of "real".

"But it's me-- I couldn't-- I can't stay away. I need to show them that you need me."

It isn't fair, that this is all there is, but that doesn't register for the moment. All she knows, all she feels is a sense of keen relief. He feels real. She can smell him, feel the heat radiating off of him. Solid, unyielding. Strong.

He'll fix it. Either her subconscious knows it, or the life inside her fills her with its own surety.

Hope tumbles excitedly, as if she, too, can sense how close her father is. The oceans he's crossed. It manages to summon a smile to her face, despite the tears. She shifts so that he might feel the activity as well. How lively she now is, even more so since last he was with them.

"We need you." Amendment. Therein is a firmness. One she might not have voiced so well last time. Her voice falls, soft. "Both of us."

"Both of you." He says, if only to remind himself. He's never gotten this far into fatherhood, it makes him wonder if he's meant for it or if he's setting their family up to fail.

His anxiety is brief, because when he feels Francesca's faith and Hope's joy it seems to bolster him somewhat. He squeezes her upper arms gently, finally inviting her to look at their surroundings. It will be unfamiliar, because it's a warm, little homestead he's imagined for them.

"It's as close to a home life as I can give." He admits, sheepishly. Knowing she's lying in a hospital bed makes his stomach turn. He needs to lean into this so she will as well. He starts to lead her by the hand, walking backward toward a chair he invites her to sit in.

"Here. Put your feet up."

Weeks ago she had been livid with him for surrendering. Now, she lets him lead her. Her steps feel lighter than they ought to, it's the only thing that reminds her they aren't actually in a cozy home.

And cozy it is. Small, with the charm such places carry. She takes in their surroundings with wonder, no hint of disappointment to be found. A fire pops nearby. It's a far cry from the four walls containing her, keeping her bed bound, all but strapped in.

Clumsily, she sits where he instructs her, but refusing to let him put any space between them. Her fingers remain curled around his wrist. She turns her gentle eyes to him.

"It seems very ... familiar? Did you -- did you create it for us?"

Nate smiles as the fire pops up. He notices the way she grasps him and he lifts her hand to his lips, reassuring her with a kiss.

When she sits, he lowers himself to the ground in front of her. He guides her feet up onto an ottoman.

"A bit of me, bit of you." Things he's seen on TV, things she remembers, things they've read about. He peels her shoes off her feet, replacing them with his hands. He rubs her feet with slow, firm circles. When he looks up at her, he looks absolutely besotted with her.

"And her." He finishes his thought, finally. His eyes fall to her stomach, smiling.

Fran watches him a little too attentively, as if he might disappear at any given moment.

She wasn't wearing shoes a moment ago, but now he's pulling her feet free of them. That tickles something inside her. His hands encourage a sigh, her back arching with newfound relief.

" -- oh. That's lovely."

She notices his smile. Under his eye, her hand smooths over the roundness of her belly. A surge of pride swells her chest. Less and less does she want to show off their child; not for lack of pride, but for a burgeoning sense of unease. Protectiveness.

"She's gotten so much stronger. And clever, too. I think she'll be as strong as you." She bites her lip. "Maybe more."

Briefly, Nate feels a little guilty for finding her reaction arousing. He pushes the feeling down, but it makes his heart thrum anyway.

His smile turns lopsided when she suggests that Hope will surpass him.

"Maybe." Non-committal, mostly to challenge his unborn child. He shifts closer to her, realising he's never been this close to a woman this pregnant. It makes him feel a little too much like a rookie for his liking. He doesn't want nerves to control him.

He slips his hand under hers and over her belly, circling slowly and watching carefully.

"I think she'll be kind like you."

"Hm." She hums back, chin tilting so that her hair falls over her ear. She felt that stir of passion, only for it to be tempered. Nevertheless.

"Doesn't feel very kind when she's beating on my bladder." Hardly much of a complaint. If she really wanted to get into it, the state of her would be enough -- but being here has returned some of the color to her face, diminished the shadows under her eyes, and soothed the sharpness that has hollowed her softness to angles.

All in jest. She's very evidently basking in his attention, the sweep of his hand. Her eyes flutter shut, briefly, but her hand circles his wrist, pressing her thumb against his steady pulse. She's quiet for a few beats.

"I missed you. And I don't want to go back."

"I'm sure she can't help it." Nate reasons, though there's a tone in there that suggests Hope should consider not doing that anymore. Some things he can't control.

Wanting to be closer, he tucks his head against her stomach and shuts his eyes as well. He feels truly robbed now, knowing how good this feels. Nothing feels worth giving it up again.

"I'm here now." He assures her, it's all he can offer her.

"I'm going to fix it." He has absolutely no idea how, but he feels resolute about it now. If he loses his girls, he'll never recover. For now other than assurance, he's offering what he can in the way of washing his power over her body. Letting her absorb some of his energy, soothing her nerve ends and her nausea.

He's all but climbing the chair to get closer to her, but it's not practical nor comfortable for her. When he plants his hands either side of her head, the world goes topsy turvy for a second as she shifts from sitting upright to her back.

She lands gently, but with enough oomph to make the fluffy quilt of the bed underneath her puff out air. The movement also flicks rose petals up into the air around her.

mutant au | cable

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