As You Were: Part One

by Alicia McKenzie

The bar was almost empty. Nate Guthrie had counted on it being quiet at this time of day, midway between the lunch rush and the dinner hour. He sipped at his orange juice, his tired gaze drifting aimlessly around the room. The Phoenix, with its fast yet unobstrusive service, good food, and vintage decor - all soft colors and rich woods, definitely a refreshing change from the flashy neon-and-metal look currently popular - was the watering hole of choice for high-ranking XSE officers.

Which, Nate reflected, had almost made him decide against it. The idea of running into fellow command officers and having to tell his version of the events of the last couple of days wasn't appealing. But the most important thing was that the Phoenix was close enough to the Tower - only a few blocks - that he could walk back easily, if need be, rather than teleporting. Given that he'd had precisely no sleep in the last fifty hours or so, that was definitely a plus.

Besides, the ambience of the place was soothing. He'd spent enough time at the Phoenix over the last few years that it had plenty of good associations in his memory. Nate felt like he needed that today. His eyes burned, and he gave a heavy sigh, setting his glass back down on the table and wondering if he should have had the bartender spike it with a little something. He was technically off-duty, and Luke HAD offered--

--stupid idea, Nate told himself harshly. In the state he was in, sleep-deprived and starving - he thought he remembered having a sandwich a few hours before they'd hit the DaCosta building yesterday - alcohol would be a very bad idea. It would take very, very little to get him absolutely shit-faced drunk at the moment, Nate suspected.

Besides, it wasn't as if getting drunk would help. He could drink himself into a stupor and forget for a little while, but when he woke up, nothing would have changed. The memories would still be there. Nate took a deep, unsteady breath and shook his head desperately.

Technically, Stef hadn't actually committed the crime of unauthorized time travel--at least, the Stefano DaCosta sitting in a holding cell beneath the Tower hadn't. The Stefano DaCosta who had, who'd built an authorized Tinex and gone back to some of the most important nexus points of the last thirty-five years in an attempt to destroy the XSE, was dead. Nate had disposed of the body himself, tearing it apart on a molecular level, just as he had done to the body of his other self, the Nate Guthrie who'd followed his former best friend and surrogate brother back through time to stop him--the Nate Guthrie who'd been burned out and crippled by the Shadow King, and then killed upon his return to the present by the Stefano who hadn't left yet.

Nate had a comprehensive background in temporal theory, like every other XSE officer, but there was a difference between studying temporal paradox and seeing it working in his own life. Not that he was all that distraught about being alive with his mind and powers intact, but watching himself die had been--hell, he couldn't even sort out exactly how he felt about that. It was part of the reason he couldn't sleep. Sensing his own mind go dark--

Stefano, the one still living, had killed the other Nate, and very nearly killed Clare. Nate had seen that much in his other self's mind as the other Nate had died. So, really, the fact that this Stef hadn't gotten the chance to take that last irrevocable step back in time really didn't matter. He'd still burned his last bridges, as far as Nate was concerned. Something might have been salvaged, even after DaCosta International's experiments with mutates had forced the XSE to move against Stef's corporation, but not now. Nate could almost accept that Stef would have wanted him dead - his other self had burned some bridges himself by killing the other Stef, the one Farouk had driven mad - but he couldn't, wouldn't forgive him for trying to kill Clare.

His other self had told Nate that he'd been supposed to save Stef, to change him. Change a heart, change the world. Maybe it was just fatigue, but Nate couldn't think of a way that was possible with Stef anymore. Or maybe he just didn't WANT to think of a way. After all, Stef had nearly killed Clare.

Stefano had nearly killed Clare. Violent rage flooded up inside him, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming urge to march right back to the Tower, to Stef's cell, and kill him. Not creatively, or messily. Just quickly. A bullet in the head would do.

The moment passed as swiftly as it had come, leaving him feeling dizzy, sick to his stomach. What was the matter with him? Nate thought miserably, hunching over a little in the booth, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead as the vague feeling of illness swelled into a wave of nausea. He'd killed before, more times than he really wanted to think about, but it had always been in combat or self-defense. He wasn't a murderer. It went against everything he believed in--

There was a brief, gentle brush against his shields, the telepathic equivalent of a 'hello', and Nate looked around dully to see Nicholas Logan walk through the front door. Nick gave him a faint smile, and then went over to talk to Luke at the bar. Nate grumbled under his breath, and forced himself to straighten and take another sip of his orange juice. That sick feeling was passing, just as quickly as the anger had. Now he just felt numb and tired and--hurt, in a way he couldn't quite figure out. Still, it was much better than murderous rage.

Nick crossed the distance between the bar and Nate's booth, and sat down opposite him, setting a bottle of Scotch and two glasses on the table. "I ordered some food, too," his best friend said firmly, dark blue eyes meeting his almost fiercely. "I want to get you drunk, not make you sick."

Nate opened his mouth, then closed it again, glaring fitfully at Nick. "I don't want to get drunk, thank you very much."

"I'm sorry, I don't recall giving you the option."

Nate scowled. "Flonq yourself, Nicholas, okay?" Nick raised an eyebrow at him, and Nate leaned back a little, suddenly wary. Surely Nick wouldn't think of forcing the issue. The two of them were about the same height, but Nate had inherited his father's lankiness and Nick, though he wasn't QUITE built like a tank, definitely had the 'cross me and I'll break you like a twig' look going on. "And if you threaten to pour it down my throat, I swear to God I'll knock you across the room," Nate went on defensively, knowing that he was giving away just how exhausted he was - after all, he was supposed to be the reasonable, rational, perpetually polite one - but not really caring.

"You know, I'd like to see you try, in the state you're in," Nick said easily, filling one glass and then giving Nate's orange juice a thoughtful look. "Would you rather have it in that?"

Orange juice and Scotch? "I hardly think so."

"Fair enough," Nick said, filling the other glass and pushing it across the table at him. Nate gave him a chilly look, and Nick sighed, his midnight blue gaze tolerant, yet determined. "Okay, how's this? Either you get drunk, or I knock you out right now and keep you under for the next twelve hours. The choice is yours." He swirled the Scotch in his glass, smiling faintly. "Admittedly, with option number two you won't wake up with a hangover, but with option number one you're much less likely to dream."

Nate shuddered. "I can stop myself from dreaming," he said feebly.

"In the state you're in? Besides," Nick said more softly, "you might manage to suppress it for a while, but eventually it's going to come back and bite you on the ass." He tossed back half his glass with one swallow. "That's part of the reason getting drunk would be better. You'll wind up talking about it, at least--"

Nate gave a despairing laugh, rubbing his burning eyes. "Like that's going to help," he muttered, but gave in. His hand shook badly as he picked up the glass of Scotch, and his vision kept blurring. Nick was projecting--well, Nate's head wasn't clear enough to tell exactly what Nick was projecting, but it was warm and soothing and full of so much compassion that Nate was having to fight very hard to keep from breaking down entirely.

"I made somewhat questionable use of my security clearance and took a look at the report from yesterday's op," Nick said after a long moment. "Probably not the most ethical thing to do, but with you walking around looking like death warmed over and Clare wearing her 'pardon me, I must go throw myself out a window because I'm too much of a ruthless bitch to live' face, I couldn't help myself."

"She shouldn't feel guilty." Nate tried to match Nick's feat from a moment ago, and wound up coughing and wiping at watering eyes. "She didn't do anything," he wheezed once he'd found his voice ago. "Well, she did, but she didn't. Paradox. You know."

He'd been too upset, afterwards. He'd let Clare get too close a look at the memories he'd gotten from his other self, and Nate flinched at the remembered image of the stricken look in her grey eyes. She'd been visibly fighting for control throughout the entire debriefing. Quite a pair, the two of them had made. Nate's father and the other command officers carrying out their debriefing had been almost comically gentle with the two of them.

"She went to see him, you know," Nick said calmly. Nate looked up at him sharply, and Nick's mouth twisted bitterly. "Just after you left the Tower this morning. You'll never believe what he told her."

Nate's stomach churned. "Do I want to know?" he rasped, and downed the rest of his glass. His other self's memories of Stef screaming at him, telling him he'd have Clare, were almost the most vivid of the lot.

Nick refilled it. "Probably not," he murmured, and topped off his own. "But you should. This thing between them--it goes all the way back to when Stef split with his wife."

"Oh?" Nate asked lifelessly.

"Clare saw him hit her, the night Nariah left, and decided she had to step in. Stef--" Nick hesitated, something very cold and bleak in his eyes. "Stef didn't take too well to that."

Nate remembered Nariah, Stef's wife. She'd been a sweet, gentle person, but--fragile, in a way that the women in Nate's extended family had never been. He didn't know precisely what had happened between her and Stef, only that something had gone wrong between them after Roberto DaCosta's death. "So that was what started it," Nate said dully, and picked his glass back up. Somehow, after everything that had happened, he wasn't all that surprised to find out that Stef had been an abusive husband on top of everything else.

"He decided he had to get back at her for it," Nick said, and his face was absolutely stone-like now. "I don't know all the details, but apparently he was behind a lot of the stuff that's happened over the last few years." He sipped at his own Scotch, as if he felt the need for some fortification. "He was funding people your division was going after, screwing with our intelligence sources. That sort of thing. But then he got tired of going the indirect route and set her up."

Nate's heart plummeted to somewhere in the vicinity of his feet, and he looked at Nick in utter horror. "Oh, God," he said weakly. "Not the business with the Helix. Nick--"

"Yes," Nick said, very quietly, his eyes dropping to the tabletop and staying there.

Nate swallowed hard. Maybe he was going to be sick after all, he thought faintly, and gulped frantically at his Scotch. But he should be angry, that was the thing. Why wasn't he angry?

"He was their main backer," Nick went on, his voice very neutral. Too neutral. When Nick was that unemotional, generally someone was about to die. "He told them she was in Rio that day meeting with that informant--"

"Stop," Nate croaked, his hands shaking violently as he lifted his glass again. He didn't need to hear any more. Didn't want to hear it. It was just too much to know that Stef had been behind that, too.

It had happened almost eighteen months ago now. Clare had gone to Rio de Janeiro to meet with a woman who'd been their only informant among the ranks of the Helix, a mutant anarchist group who still to this day occasionally carried out frequent deadly attacks on the XSE. There hadn't been anything to differentiate it from dozens of other similar meetings. Some informants balked unless they had some reassurance as to high-level interest in their case, and Clare had always believed in leading from the front.

She'd had only minimal backup that day, a couple of officers from the Rio base shadowing her. Standard procedure, again, since there'd been no hint that anything at all was wrong. The Helix had used an agent who was a total null, undetectable by any telepath, no matter how strong. He'd been carrying a psi-screamer. Clare hadn't had much of a chance.

It had been a major coup for the anarchist group. At the cost of one agent - the null had been picked up by the XSE almost as soon as the dust settled - and a dozen or so civilian deaths - they'd shot up the street to provide a distraction - they'd captured the XSE's counterterrorism commander, a living symbol of everything they were fighting against.

XSE Intelligence had turned up information on their location after a mere three days. Nate was fairly sure that Uncle Pete had probably authorized the Intelligence telepaths to do whatever they had to do, to get results that quickly. There'd been rumors of an inquiry, afterwards, but it hadn't really mattered. The members of that Helix cell had never gone to trial, so the methods used to find them had never been an issue.

Nick raised an eyebrow as Nate looked up at him. "I didn't realize that bothered you," he said, a hint of a challenge in his eyes. "Them not making it to trial, I mean."

"It doesn't," Nate said harshly. It should, but it didn't. Not after what they'd seen when the strike team had broken into the warehouse where the Helix had been holding Clare.

Holding Clare, because of course they wouldn't have dreamed of killing her, at least not right away. In there twisted world-view, there'd been more to be gained by making an example of her, using her to demonstrate their contempt for the XSE. When the strike team had arrived, the Helix members had been--putting that idea into practice, making a vid-record that they presumably would have broadcast over the WorldNet on a pirate channel, the same method they'd used to publicize their claim of responsibility for Clare's kidnapping.

Their choice of methods had been--predictable. Nate had frozen at first, seeing Clare lying there, naked and battered. Looking so small, so--helpless and un-Clare-like, pinned beneath the bulk of the man on top of her.

He'd snapped, then, lashing out with his telekinesis and yanking the man on top of her away, slamming him into the wall so hard that he'd broken the bastard's spine. It all got a little hazy after that. There'd been a firefight, and a lot of angry people, both during and afterwards. He very clearly remembered a wild-eyed Zara pushing him away, shrieking at him to "back the fuck off, Guthrie!" as she and Raph and the medic went to Clare's side.

Two of the Helix members had survived the initial firefight, but they hadn't made it back to the Rio base for interrogation. Nate wasn't precisely sure what had happened - he'd gone back in the first personnel carrier, with Clare - but he remembered how livid his father had been, and how Nick had been demoted back to lieutenant commander and relieved of active duty for three months. Nate, and everyone else, had come to the logical conclusion.

"So," Nate said hoarsely, and wondered when exactly he'd emptied his glass again. He pushed it out to be refilled, and Nick obliged. "Is that going to be added to the charges against Stef, then?"

"I'd imagine so. The guard reminded him he had the right to remain silent, but Stefano didn't pay any attention." Nick shrugged very slightly, the attempt at diffidence not very convincing. "It's all on tape. The whole thing."

"Good." But not so good, if Stef had 'confessed' just to get to Clare, to reopen old wounds. Nate made a frustrated noise, and slammed his glass down on the table hard enough that some of the Scotch splashed out. "Damn it!" Nick opened his mouth, and Nate glared at him, suddenly finding him a very suitable target. "Why did I need to know that, Nick? So I'd be kicking myself less over killing him?"

Nick pressed his lips together. "You didn't kill him, Nate," he said after a moment, almost gently. "Remember?"

"Oh, take 'what is, is' and shove it up your ass!"

Absurdly, Nick smiled at him. "Do you want to hit me?" he asked, his eyes almost twinkling for a moment. "You can, you know. If it'll make you feel better, go ahead."

"Don't tempt me," Nate snarled, and drank what was left in his glass. He thrust it at Nick, who filled it again. "You're a manipulative son of a bitch at times, you know that?" Nick had never used to be like this. He was getting devious in his old age, or something like that.

"And you turn into your namesake when you're tipsy and upset," Nick said with another shrug. "Your point?"

The anger had faded again. Nate just felt bitter now, bitter and sick and so very tired. If Nick had told him about Stef's involvement in the mess in Rio to get him to try and shake off the guilt he felt about all of this, he shouldn't have bothered. It was going to be a long time, Nate suspected, before he could do that--if he ever could. He should have seen, he told himself with a flash of self-loathing. He'd been around Stef often enough these last eight years that he should have known. What sort of a pitiful excuse for a telepath WAS he?

"We're not omnipotent," Nick reminded him softly, obviously catching some of what Nate was thinking.

"That's a platitude," Nate said harshly, his hand tightening spasmodically around the glass. He didn't meet Nick's eyes, not wanting to see understanding or compassion or anything except the condemnation he deserved. "Forgive me if I don't fall for it."

Nick gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "Overdeveloped sense of responsibility," he murmured. "'Everything is my fault'. Uncle Nathan trained that into me, too." He leaned back against the cushioned back of the booth with a heavy sigh. "Life would be so much easier if he'd skipped that lesson, wouldn't it?"

Nate gave him an almost belligerent look. The Scotch was definitely hitting him hard and fast, the part of his brain that was still able to think clearly observed. "So let me guess, then. You're going to be a hypocrite and tell me to get over it?"

Nick sighed. "No," he said gruffly, and refilled his own glass. "I'm telling you to get drunk and forget about it for a while. It'll still be there in the morning."

He had a point. Swallowing hard, rubbing angrily at his eyes, Nate drained his glass, and reached for the bottle.

***

"--why tonight, that's all I want to know."

"A crisis was supposed to hold off just because you decided to go drinking?" The second voice was sly, laced with a fine malignant humor, and the sound of it instantly pulled Nate partway out of the potent haze of too much Scotch and too little sleep. "Yay for healing factors, really. I can imagine how unimpressed Uncle Sam would have been if you'd shown up for duty with alcohol on your breath."

"Oh, shut up." Nick sounded tired, and massively irritated. "This is the third flonqing incursion this month. I think the troops out there need a little pep-talk."

"Or a kick in the ass. But don't complain--I hear Dallas is very nice this time of year."

"Right. Just what I wanted, a vacation in Sentinel-city."

Nate looked around blearily. Someone's bedroom, he thought muzzily. How had he wound up in someone's bedroom? The last thing he remembered was being in the bar and starting on a third bottle. Then things had sort of gone all--swimmy.

Not that his head was much clearer at the moment. I--am quite comprehensively drunk, Nate reflected. He turned his head, peering at the bedside table. Either his eyes were playing tricks on him, or the clock said three AM and change.

Which meant that he'd misplaced twelve hours or so somewhere. Well, that was mildly disturbing. Nate raised an unsteady hand to rub his eyes and wound up hitting himself in the nose. A half-stifled curse escaped him, and the voices out in the hall stopped.

The door opened, and light flooded into the room. Nate winced and narrowed his eyes, raising a defensive hand. "Sorry," Nick said, sounding chagrined. "Just relax, Nate. I've got to get back to the Tower. Yellow alert, but nothing that involves your division, so you can stay here and sleep it off."

"I'll keep an eye on him, Nicholas," the other voice said sweetly. "You run along and kill a Sentinel or six for me."

Nate lifted his head off the pillow, and saw two figures standing in the doorway, backlit by the light from the hall. The tall one was Nick, of course, and the short one was--oh, Nick wasn't going to go away and leave him with her, was he? That couldn't be good.

Yellow alert, Nick had said. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but Nick was already turning away, saying something to his sister that ended with "behave yourself, or else."

"You don't trust me?" Zara purred.

"Well, there's a singularly stupid question," Nick grumbled. "Just let him sleep, all right?" Zara gave a soft, mocking laugh, and Nick sighed. "Please?"

"I'll think about it."

"You do that," Nick said irritably. "Think very hard."

"Oh, was that a threat?"

Nick growled something obscene in Askani, and a flash of amber-gold light lit the room even further as he teleported away. Well, that was that, then, Nate thought vaguely, and sagged back against the bed. Just the two of them. Him and Zara, alone together. Wasn't that nice.

There were butterflies in his head all of a sudden, and he wondered hazily why that was. Weren't butterflies generally supposed to be in your stomach? He was fairly sure about that. But these ones were definitely in his head, and they tickled--

Hold on. "What are you doing?" Nate muttered fretfully, squeezing his eyes shut. It was Zara, doing something she shouldn't be doing, like usual. He really didn't like the idea of her in his mind--but the butterflies were rather nice butterflies, all things considered. It felt--kind of good.

And he had SO not thought that--

The rippling laugh was closer than it should be. "Just taking a little peek," she said, and the bed shifted as she sat down beside him. Nate twitched in surprise, his eyes flying open. Zara Logan gave him a tiny, whimsical smile, pushing rumpled black hair out of her eyes. "You don't mind, do you? Nick was being typically close-mouthed about what happened with Stefano. I just wanted to fill in some of the details."

The haziness retreated a little further at the stab of guilt and helpless anger Stefano's name provoked. Muttering a feeble curse, Nate sat up. His head was spinning, and the room itself seemed to be lurching in the opposite direction entirely, but he managed to slid backwards on the bed so that he could use the headboard to prop himself up.

"Relax," Zara scolded, reaching out and laying a hand flat against his chest, as if to restrain him. Her eyes, usually the same shade of blue as her twin's, were nearly black in the dimness. Unsettling. "You've had a hard couple of days," she went on, a subtly mocking edge to her voice.

Whatever had roused Nick had clearly gotten her out of bed, too. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that covered everything that needed to be covered, but clung to every curve--and what the hell was wrong with him? Zara's smile returned, and he swallowed hard, flinching away from her touch.

"Spare me," Nate grumbled, concentrating very hard on not slurring his words. He was at enough of a disadvantage as it was. "You don't--do sympathetic well."

"Oh, I'm hurt," Zara said mock-sorrowfully, clasping her hand over her heart. "You've cut me to the quick." She held the pose for a cursory moment or two, but then dropped it, continuing to watch him. "You know, Guthrie," she mused, her gaze never budging from his face, "I've seen you this drunk before, but generally your manners don't deteriorate quite this badly. Is this is a special occasion?"

Nate flushed and looked away. "Would you go away? Please?" he asked feebly. Zara hadn't done anything. Not fair to snap at her just because she was squeezing his personal space and not wearing enough clothes--

"And leave you to stew in your own juices? Remember who you're talking to--I'm not that kindhearted." Zara leaned back, shifting gracefully until she was sprawled across the end of the bed.

Still too close. "What do you want?" Nate finally mumbled, knowing she wasn't going away.

"Complicated question," Zara said crisply. He looked up dully, meeting her level gaze. "Right now? Mostly, just to get you talking. You and Nick both picked up that nasty habit of internalizing things from Uncle Nathan. Very unhealthy." Her expression softened, just a little, and Nate flinched. "I don't like to see you like this."

He could take just about anything at the moment, except compassion. Shifting on the bed, wanting to move away from her but afraid his head would explode if he went anywhere too quickly, Nate settled for staring down at his hands. The hands that he could still see, in the memory that wasn't-quite-his, reaching up to snap Stef's neck--

"Nate," Zara said impatiently. "Look at me." When he didn't, he felt a warning tug at his mind, and looked up again reluctantly. "The Stefano that's sitting in a cell under the Tower DID kill the other you the paradox produced. You, on the other hand, don't actually have his blood on your hands at all." Her mouth curved in a humorless smile. "Try to remember that."

"No blood on my hands--just on my conscience." It slipped out before he could stop it, and Nate writhed inwardly, knowing how maudlin and self-pitying it sounded. So he was a sad drunk. Just great.

Zara shook her head. "Oh, grow up, Guthrie," she said scornfully, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "You're wallowing, you know." Abruptly she sat up, her eyes widening. "Wait--what are you telling me?" Her smile grew wider, almost malicious, and she started to slide forward on the bed, advancing on him slowly, with all the intensity of a hunting cat. "Did you actually WANT to kill him? Is that why you're beating yourself up over this?"

His head was spinning again. When had she gone from drawing clear lines between current reality and the paradox to mashing them back together again? He really wished she wouldn't screw with his mind while it was busy marinating in Scotch. Then again, that was probably why she was doing it. See a vulnerability, pounce on it; that was Zara's motto.

"I didn't want him dead," he said a bit disjointedly, when it was clear she was prepared to wait as long as it took to get an answer. "Neither of us did." Stef hadn't given him--the other him any choice in the matter. Not after what he'd done, how he'd threatened Clare--Nate flinched, not wanting to examine his motives too closely. "You know what the scary thing is?" he asked, looking anywhere but at Zara. She'd laugh at him, call him too soft-hearted for his own good, but he wanted to say it. Maybe saying it aloud would make it sound stupid, rather than terrifying. "They don't--feel borrowed. The memories, I mean. They feel like my own."

Well, that hadn't worked.

Zara was silent for a moment. "But they're not," she finally said. "It's just your mind trying to integrate them. Playing tricks on you."

"Are you sure?" It was hard to concentrate--he was feeling awfully light-headed, and Zara was giving him a very strange look, but he pressed on doggedly. "I mean, what's the difference, a few hours? He wasn't a temporal alternate, he was me. I was almost him, and I can't tell the difference, it all feels real--"

Zara laid her hand against his lips, silencing him. "Nate, you're absolutely tanked. This is no time to be having this conversation." He blinked at her, and her mouth quirked as she let her hand fall to his shoulder. "Save it for the morning," she advised, squeezing gently.

His mind stopped running in confused little circles around the paradox and veered back right back in the direction they'd been headed a few minutes ago. Even worse, he couldn't seem to summon up the self-control to make it stop. Instead, he stared at her, thinking rather hazily that she really was beautiful. Shamelessly manipulative, lethally dangerous, and just a tiny bit sociopathic, but gorgeous. He'd always known she was, but he'd never actually caught himself feeling attracted to her before. The Scotch--had to be the Scotch.

Zara tilted her head slightly, smiling as if she'd caught the direction of his thoughts. Nate flinched, wishing he could summon up the coordination necessary to smack himself in the head a few times. What the hell was he doing? If only the hangover would hurry up and get here so that he could have the excuse of staggering out to the bathroom to throw up, before he did something REALLY stupid--

"Sweetheart, you're so transparent when you're drunk," Zara said, smirking widely now. She eased closer, and Nate's chest tightened as he looked down into those deep, dark, strangely mesmerizing eyes. Willpower, he told himself doggedly, and then shivered as Zara gave a soft, wicked laugh and let her hand slide teasingly lower. "Too good for your own good, too," she purred.

By all rights, he should be running for the door right now. Only he wasn't sure if his legs would hold him, and winding up on the floor would be bad, very undignified. Besides, maybe he didn't have to--

--no, going would really be the best idea. It didn't matter what he was drunk enough to think he wanted. Zara moved her hand upwards to the bend of his neck and shoulder, rubbing the tense muscles there gently.

Nate sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and willing his head to clear. But it wasn't working, and now there was a mutinous little voice at the back of his mind pointing out that it wasn't ALWAYS bad and immoral and downright evil to do what felt good. Even if you were inevitably going to regret it in the morning--

"Look at me," Zara murmured suddenly. He opened his eyes, squinting at her until her face came back into focus. She looked terribly amused by the whole situation, he thought a bit petulantly. Typical Zara. Her smile widened, and she rested both hands against his chest, watching him carefully. "Do you want me to go away and let you sleep?" she asked. her voice very serious for a moment.

He thought about it. Or tried to, at least. But he had a very scantily clad Zara all but sitting on his lap, and his capacity for rational thought was a little iffy at the moment.

"I thought we were supposed to be talking," he said feebly.

"Should I take that as a yes?"

"I didn't say that." It just sort of slipped out, and Zara laughed again, sounding almost delighted this time.

"I'll take that as a no, then." Leaning forward, she kissed him, taking the opportunity to slip past what was left of his shields. Nate stiffened as she danced through his mind like quicksilver, her presence shimmering with laughter. She knew exactly what buttons to push, too. His body started to respond, faster than it should have given the state he was in. He should be irritated with her for manipulating him like this, he really should--

One last feeble impulse made him reach out to push her away, but as soon as he touched her, he was lost. His hands shook a little as he let them roam down over Zara's body. She wasn't wearing anything under the t-shirt, Nate thought dizzily. Imagine that.

Only when oxygen deprivation started to become an issue did she break the kiss. Nate took a deep, shaky breath and started to fumble at his shirt. The room was too hot, that was all, a tiny voice at the back of his mind insisted desperately. Zara pitched in gleefully, with a fine disregard for leaving his clothing intact as she helped him remove it. When her turn came, he returned the favor, so flustered by the fact that he was actually doing what he was doing that he tore the t-shirt as he pulled it up over her head. She only laughed and pressed herself against him eagerly, projecting such fierce, unabashed hunger that a perverse part of him was almost flattered.

They wound up sprawled together on the bed, and Zara grinned triumphantly up at him. "Typical," she said breathlessly, tangled hair falling into her eyes as she squirmed impatiently beneath him. "How did I know you were going to want to be on top, Guthrie?"

He flushed and silenced her with a kiss. Her fingers tightening in his hair, Zara made an appreciative noise, and then shivered as he moved downwards along the line of her jaw to her neck. Tracing the thin, faded scar on her shoulder, Nate hesitated, still unsure of himself. His head was swimming, and it had been too long, nearly a year since that weekend in Geneva with that lieutenant from Intelligence. Out of practice didn't even begin to describe it, and he'd never been all that good at this to begin with. 'Considerate' was about the best compliment he'd ever gotten. Surely Zara was going to start laughing at him again any time now--

A flicker of telekinesis sent him tumbling over onto his back, knocking the wind out of him. Struggling to catch his breath, he pushed back instinctively, but with no focus behind it, all the telekinetic surge managed to do was send the lamp on the bedside table crashing to the floor. Zara gave a marytred sigh, and he blinked up at her dazedly as she straddled his chest.

"You're boring me," she said mockingly, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "When was the last time you slept with a telepath? Taking lamebrains to bed makes you lazy, Nate." Her lips curved in a teasing smile, and she stroked the side of his face lightly. "Shall I remind you how it's done?" Amber-red light shone around her, looking disturbingly like a halo, and then exploded behind his eyes as she reached out and drew him into a psi-link.

Pure, unadulterated lust flowed down it like a tidal wave, and worries about his performance suddenly became the absolute last thing on his mind. If this was what Zara felt every time, he thought dimly, it was a wonder she left any of her partners intact. The link was primitive, more empathic than anything else, but that was just fine, because conversation wasn't particularly high on his list of priorities at the moment either. Zara was working her way down his body, deft hands and demanding mouth and carefully applied teeth all at work, and the link began to burn brighter, a reckless, combative edge to it now.

Not his emotions, not really, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care about the distinction. So the line between them was getting a little blurred--so what? Nate grasped Zara's shoulders, pulling her upwards and then rolling the two of them over again. She gave a gasping laugh, twining her arms around his neck, and Nate wondered dimly if anything really mattered, beyond the here and now.

#Oh, what a concept,# Zara sent mockingly, pulling herself up to his mouth and kissing him again, harder this time. Nate stroked her body a bit awkwardly, but effectively enough to judge by the way the link quivered, tingling with pleasure.

He didn't think to mask his own reaction, and Zara sensed his flash of satisfaction as soon as it flickered across the link. With a deep, throaty growl, she reached between them, wrapping a hand around him and squeezing. Nate shuddered and jerked backwards, breaking the kiss. A groan slipped out from behind his clenched teeth, and satisfaction echoed back to him on the link--hers now, and edged with just a trace of malice.

Goading him? He caught her wrist, squeezing hard enough that she let go instinctively, and then forced her back against the bed before she could reach for him again. Zara made a frustrated, feral noise, shifting restlessly beneath him as he pinned her hands at her sides, but size was on his side and she wasn't getting back on top unless she used her telekinesis again. To forestall that, he bent over her, taking one hard nipple between his teeth and teasing it for a moment before turning his attention to the next. She whimpered and pushed her body upwards, an unspoken demand blazing insistently across the link.

Letting go of her wrists, he moved down over her body, letting the link tell him what she wanted, where to touch her. Better to rely on it rather than his own perceptions. Her skin was burning hot, and save for a few more faded scars, smooth as satin. Resting his hands on her hips for a moment, pausing to catch his breath, Nate reflected dimly that he'd never realized how tiny Zara was, how much the sheer force of her personality had skewed his perception of her.

And he certainly hadn't realized that he'd be undermining his own control, even as he demolished hers. The sensations he was provoking in her reverberated back and forth across the link, building to white-hot intensity as he bent over her again. Eventually, it left him so dizzy that he faltered, not sure where he stopped and she started. But by then, Zara was pulling him upwards, and instinct took over.

He pushed into her hard, holding nothing back. Restraint was a distant memory, and even if it hadn't been, neither of them were interested at the moment. Zara gasped and shuddered, her legs tightening around him and her hands clenching spasmodically in the sheet. He started to move against her, hard and insistent, and her breath began to come in shallow pants. The link crackled with feedback, scorching them both, but the pain only cast everything in a strange, feverish clarity, sharpening every sensation.

He could hear her pulse, feel it as if it were his own. It distracted him, just for a moment, and Zara sensed his thoughts wandering. She made another of those shockingly feral noises, twisting in her arms and clawing at his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. A red wash of hunger swamped the link, and he responded to it almost mindlessly, picking up the pace, almost slamming into her now. Hard enough to hurt, hard enough to leave bruises, but the first didn't matter, she was laughing at him in his head for even thinking about it, and the bruises would heal, that was what healing factors were for--

She arched against him, her hips bucking upwards to meet each thrust, and he barely held on to control. "Not yet," she hissed in his ear, and raked her nails across his back as if she wanted to leave scars. Nate heard her laugh, high and wild and breathless. "Something to remember me by," she whispered.

Endurance was more or less a lost cause, although they both gave it their best. In the end, Zara gave a soft, strangled cry and jerked forward, teeth sinking into his shoulder as she convulsed around him, pulling him over the edge with her. The link shattered under the force of their shared release, and Nate blacked out.

The sound of her voice, murmuring softly in Askani, drew him back to awareness of his surroundings. He was sprawled on top of her, his muscles quivering uncontrollably as pain pounded inside his skull. Backlash, he thought feebly. Zara kept murmuring to him, her cool fingers stroking the back of his neck soothingly. The pain eased a little, and he managed to summon up the strength to pull away, turning on his side so that his weight was no longer resting on her.

"Go to sleep," she told him, her voice low and calm and utterly steady.

He tried to say that passing out sounded like a better idea, but she laughed softly and nudged him into unconsciousness. The last thing he felt was her shifting closer and sliding an arm around him almost protectively.

There were no dreams waiting for him, and he was pathetically grateful for that.

***

The light falling across the bed was warm, which suggested sunlight, which suggested morning. Which was an idea he wasn't ready to deal with quite yet. Still, going back to sleep would be--well, cowardly, and while he could call himself a lot of things after last night, he didn't really want to add that to the list. With a pained sigh, Nate cracked his eyes open carefully, squinting up at the ceiling.

"Morning," Zara said from beside him, her voice pitched deliberately low. He appreciated it, given his headache. It was quite a headache, really. One might even call it a monumental headache. And he deserved every bit of it.

"At least you didn't say it was good," he croaked.

Her laugh was a little louder, and he tried not to wince. "At least your sense of humor's still intact," she said, trailing a hand over his shoulder and lingering on the place where she'd bit him.

Nate flinched, fighting back a surge of embarassment. Why couldn't that handy alcohol-induced hole in his memory have expanded to cover all of last night? What had happened between them was crystal-clear. Unfair, really.

"I can feel the headache from here," Zara said, sounding entirely too amused for her not to have picked up on his train of thought. "Want me to do something about it?"

"I think I'd prefer to suffer," Nate muttered, trying to make it sound like a joke. Judging by the wry amusement he was sensing from her - headache or no headache, his telepathy seemed to be in perfect working order - he'd fallen a little short.

"Why, Guthrie, I never knew you were such a masochist."

He snorted, despite himself, and sat up gingerly, surprised when the movement didn't provoke any nausea. Actually, his stomach felt more or less settled, and that was a surprise. Nick must have made him alternate Scotch with water or something, last night.

"He must have. You're not nearly as badly off as I expected," Zara said, a mocking note in her voice. "Which is amusing, since you used to be the world's cheapest drunk."

Nate grimaced. "You and Nick always have an unfair advantage," he said hoarsely, running an unsteady hand through his hair. "Having a healing factor is cheating." Then, because he knew he was avoiding doing it, he forced himself to look at her. She was propped up on an elbow, watching him with a knowing look. The sheet was at waist-level, low enough to let him see the marks on her fair skin - already fading, thanks to her healing factor - and he flushed, shame mingling with embarassment.

"Oh, don't. It's not as if I didn't leave you with a few souvenirs," Zara said, her eyes glinting as she laid back against the bed and stretched, more tentatively than provocatively.

Noting the distinction didn't really help his state of mind. On top of that, the part of him that had wanted to go back to sleep and pretend none of this had happened was now urging him to get dressed and run for the hills. The more he thought about it, the more appealing an idea it was. Well, not running, per se, but leaving--

"I see," Zara said with a throaty little chuckle. "We've had the 'wham' and the 'bam' and it's time for the 'Thank you, ma'am' and a quick exit?"

Some bizarre impulse made him keep responding to her bantering tone, rather than steering the conversation onto serious ground where it belonged. "Depends," he said.

"On?"

"Whether you'd kill me if I did."

Zara gave a theatrical sigh. "Why do they always want to run?" she asked mournfully, and then winked at him.

The wink unnerved him even further. "I--don't think I'll answer that," he said, managing a strained laugh and wondering if he'd actually woken up yet from the drinking session with Nick. This was just--very surreal. All of these years of staying very carefully out of Zara's bed, and yet here he was. So much for bucking the trend.

"Good call," Zara commented approvingly, and sat up, leaning back against the headboard. The sheet stayed at waist-level, and Zara grinned as he kept his eyes resolutely on her face. "You make quite a notch on the bedpost, you know," she said idly. "Almost as good as the last time Harry and I set the sheets afire." She gave another alarming, vaguely obscene chuckle. "Figuratively speaking, of course."

Nate opened his mouth, then closed it, stifling his first instinctive response to what was almost certainly some sort of a calculated jab. "That's nice," he said lamely, looking away and trying to figure out exactly what kind of reaction she'd been trying to provoke. Trying to get him to bristle at the comparison? No, that was too simple. There had to be something more to it. It wasn't as if he hadn't known about her and Harry - there weren't many secrets between any of them - but why she'd brought it up now--

"Don't you want to know when the last time was?" Zara asked, with the big-eyed innocent look that meant she was deliberately toying with him and didn't care if he knew it.

A flash of anger gave him the impetus to slid out of bed and start retrieving his clothes. "Not particularly," he said through gritted teeth, ignoring her appreciative grin. Feeling self-conscious would be stupid. Besides, his pants had to be around here somewhere.

"Last month," Zara said blithely, although there was a sharpness in her gaze that hadn't been there a moment ago. "Which should tell you something about his current excuse for a relationship."

Oh, so that was it. It had nothing to do with him, or Harry, it was just her way of working around to the subject of Clare. How very fucking predictable. Nate sat down on the edge of the bed, reflecting bitterly that it seemed to be his fate to be at the mercy of women who could see right through him. "Zara," he said, trying to keep his tone of voice as conversational as possible as he started to pull on his clothes, "is there anyone in our little clique you haven't slept with? Besides your brother?"

#Thanks for the qualifier,# Zara sent with a mental snicker, and then answered his question aloud. "A few. When it comes to our most inner of inner circles, though, just Clare," she said with regret that sounded all too sincere for his peace of mind. "But not for lack of trying."

Nate actually shuddered, before he could stop himself. "Dear Lord, what an image," he said faintly. "The universe would probably implode."

Zara laughed delightedly. He flinched at the over-loud sound and went to get up, but she slid across the bed and wrapped her arms around him from behind, hugging him tightly. Nate flinched violently. "Actually," she confessed, still shaking with suppressed laughter, "I gave up on Clare years ago. If the two of us ever psi-linked at that level, we'd probably wind up resolving all our differences or some such thing, and that would take half the fun out of life."

"Of course," he said, as neutrally as he could manage with her pressed up against him. "Why didn't I think of that?" For a telepath, she really had no concept of personal space at all. He'd try and detach her, but if it turned into a wrestling match, he was afraid she'd interpret it as foreplay.

#You really are a sarcastic bastard sometimes, Guthrie.# Zara sighed and backed off, shifting around to sit beside him. "But the link's all that counts, you know," she said. He looked down at her dully, waiting for her to elaborate. "This--" She gestured dismissively behind them at the rumpled bed. "This is nothing. All that's important is up here." Zara tapped her temple, giving him that knowing look again.

"You're preaching to the choir, Zara," he said, a bit more harshly than he'd intended.

She didn't bat an eye. "It's what you want, more than anything," she went on placidly, as if he hadn't spoken, "and it's precisely what she can't give you."

Nate froze, his hands clenching in the fabric of his shirt. "Damn you," he said, the words coming out almost calm. He forced himself to start moving again and pull the shirt on. A few buttons were missing, but that didn't matter. He'd have to stop at home to get into uniform before he headed back to the Tower anyway.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

"Let's just--not go there, all right?" Dancing around the subject to piss him off was one thing; going right for the jugular was another.

"Why not?" Zara asked. He shook his head at her, and she arched an eyebrow. "You're thirty-four years old, Nate. You should have found some amiable woman by now and settled down to produce lots of little Guthries." A trace of malice colored her words as she went on. "Instead you're being an idealistic idiot. What do you call this thing between you and Clare, anyway? Some twisted take on medieval courtly love?"

"Just leave it, Zara," Nate snapped, standing up. His hands were trembling, and he clenched them into fists at his sides, telling himself to get a grip. She was just doing this to get to him, or maybe just for her own amusement, he didn't know. Or care. Really.

Zara tilted her head, staring up at him, and his stomach twisted at the calm, direct look in her eyes. "The girl you fell in love with died when she was twenty-one years old," she said, her voice soft but inexorable. "Go lay flowers at the Denver Memorial if you want to remember her. Just stop deluding yourself that Clare's the same person."

Nate sucked in a quick, angry breath. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded, glaring down at her in something close to open hatred.

She folded her arms across her chest, staring up at him resolutely. "Because I care about you, and I want to see you happy."

The presumption was just astounding. "Oh, that's rich," he snarled almost feverishly and whirled away, starting for the door. He could have teleported right out of the room, but his coat had to be around here somewhere, and besides, he had a profound need to slam something.

"Why is everyone always doubting my motivations?" Zara called after him. He looked back over his shoulder at the bitterness in her voice. She was on her feet now, giving him a strange, twisted smile, and something about her expression, some trace of pain he sensed even through his shields, made him hesitate. "That's what my tombstone's going to say, you know," she went on. "'Here lies Zara Logan, perpetually misunderstood.'" Her t-shirt floated up from where it had been lying in a heap on the floor, and flew across the room to her hand. "Is it so hard to believe I want the best for you?" she asked, her voice muffled a little as she pulled the shirt over her head.

"Please," Nate said, not sure what to say, whether he'd actually managed to hurt her feelings. He hadn't intended to, but he just didn't know how to deal with Zara when she was being serious. It wasn't a side of her that he saw all that often. "Just drop it, Zara," he asked again, stretching a hand towards her almost imploringly. "Please?"

"Nate." Now it was her turn to shake her head at him, and her expression changed, became wise and weary and profoundly unsettling. "You've got the kindest heart of anyone I know," Zara said very carefully, as if she were explaining something to a five year-old. "And that's exactly why she'd hurt you."

Nate swallowed past the twist of pain in his chest, and found himself smiling at her, for some bizarre reason. "I probably would get hurt," he murmured, "but that's not exactly the same thing, is it?"

Zara was still shaking her head. "It would kill her to hurt you," she said in a low voice, breaking eye contact. "It'd crush the last tiny bit of the Clare you fell in love with, and all that'd be left would be the Iron Bitch."

"Have you ever thought I might love the Iron Bitch, too?" It was perverse, but he did. In his more honest moments, he could admit how drawn he was to the dark side of her personality--when it wasn't directed at him personally. But the women in his extended family had taught him to admire strength, and that Clare had in spades. Too much for her own good, he sometimes thought, but that was another matter entirely.

Zara flipped her hair back over her shoulder and laid her hands on her hips, tilting her head and giving him a brash smile. The mask had descended over her features again. Nate wondered why she'd let it slip in the first place. To hammer the point in? "Well," she drawled, "I've always been rather attracted to the Iron Bitch myself, but then, that's my power fetish."

Some peculiar impulse made him move back across the room and kiss Zara on the forehead. "Don't--worry about me, okay? I know her," he said when she gave him a sardonic look. "Probably better than any of you do, except for Harry. There are things I don't like much about her, but--" He shrugged helplessly, knowing he didn't need to explain any further.

Zara rolled her eyes. "You're utterly hopeless. You know that." He gave her a sheepish grin, and she bared her teeth at him. "If you're not going to listen to reason, do something for me?"

"Um--maybe," Nate said warily, alerted by the tone of her voice. One didn't make deals, details unseen, with Zara. It would be something like selling your soul to the devil.

That fierce not-quite-smile widened. "It's harmless," Zara murmured, stepping closer until there was barely a breath of space between them. "Just a simple thing."

"Uh--okay, then," he said weakly, getting the impression that he was in over his head again, and sinking fast. Had he just said okay? He had. Crap.

"Don't go quite yet?" she purred, and started playing with the buttons on his shirt. Her gaze, full of a sultry challenge, flickered upwards to meet his. "Once is good," she said sweetly. "Twice would be better. You don't actually have to be back on duty until this afternoon, do you?"

Nate closed his eyes, prayed briefly and desperately for self-control, and took a step back. "Zara--" he started, flushing.

And Zara laughed gleefully, dropping the seductress-act and grinning at him wickedly. "You blush so attractively, Guthrie," she said, and he tried very hard to glower at her. She waved a hand at the door, almost dismissively. "Go on," she said, still chuckling. "Get out of here before my brother gets back and takes me over his knee for taking advantage of you."

Nate edged towards the door, wondering a little wildly if she was actually going to let him off the hook this easily. He doubted it, he really did. Zara was as bad at keeping personal secrets of this type as she was good at keeping XSE-related ones. "You don't--need to tell him do you? If I'm out of here before he gets back?"

Zara's grin turned almost nasty. "Oh, come on, Guthrie, do you actually think I have any 'virtue' left for my menfolk to protect? Seriously, he's more likely to kick my ass for sleeping with you in the first place."

Nate thought of pointing out that she hadn't answered his question, thought better of it, and continued to back towards the door. "Well, okay," he said lamely. "I guess that's--"

Zara blew him a kiss. "Get lost," she said with a giggle, "before I decide to jump you right here. You're too adorable when you're flustered."

Discretion being the better part of valor, he did as he was told.

to be continued...

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