Dangerous Cocktail #48

The training field looked like a battlefield.

Young mutants lay sprawled across the ground, some groaning, others just staring at the sky in exhausted defeat. Muscles twitched, bruises formed, and egos were bruised even worse. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and damp earth, the only sounds the occasional pained grunt or heavy breathing.

Nathan Cross stood at the edge of the mess, arms crossed, surveying them like a drill sergeant inspecting his soldiers after a brutal exercise. After a moment, he gave a small nod.

"You did good today." His tone was neutral, but there was a rare trace of approval in it. "You're all improving. I can see it."

Lying on his back, Bobby Drake—Iceman—let out a breathy laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. He lifted his head just enough to glare up at Nathan.

"Easy for you to say when you've just been standing there shouting orders at us," Bobby grumbled, dropping his head back down into the dirt.

Nathan chuckled, not looking the least bit guilty. "This is too low-level for me to step in. I was doing this kind of shit when I was ten."

Bobby just winced, deciding it wasn't worth the energy to argue.

A few feet away, Kurt Wagner—Nightcrawler—was sitting up, rubbing his sore shoulder. He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Somehow... I have no trouble believing that."

Nathan shrugged like it wasn't worth discussing. "You guys just need to keep doing what I tell you to do. Push through. Soon enough, you'll be able to carry your own weight."

There were no objections. Just tired nods from the assembled group—Rogue, Jean Grey, Iceman, Kitty Pryde, and Nightcrawler—all too drained to do anything but accept their fate.

Nathan's gaze settled on Jean for a moment. "As for you... I don't know what you've been doing with Charles, but keep doing it."

Jean wiped sweat from her brow and gave a tired smirk. "That almost sounds like a compliment."

Nathan smirked faintly. "Don't get used to it, kid."

She rolled her eyes, but the hint of amusement in her expression remained.

Nathan gave them one last nod before turning to leave. "I'll see you next week."

He made it a few steps before Kitty Pryde's voice called out behind him.

"Hey! Nathan!"

He glanced over his shoulder. Kitty was still sitting on the ground, stretching out a sore leg. She looked up at him with her usual mix of confidence and playfulness.

"Give me a ride home?" she asked casually.

This wasn't the first time she'd pulled this. And truth be told, dropping her off wasn't much of a detour.

Nathan let out a sigh, but there was no real irritation behind it. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go."

Kitty grinned, pushing herself to her feet while the others continued groaning, too tired to do anything else.

As Nathan led the way, the rest of the group watched them go. They were already dreading next week.

...

The parking lot was quiet except for the distant hum of the city. The lot's overhead lights cast a dim, yellow glow over the pavement, creating long shadows as Nathan and Kitty approached. She rolled her shoulders, still sore from the brutal training session, but her curiosity quickly overtook her exhaustion.

She looked around and frowned. "Where's the Jeep?"

"Left it home," Nathan said, fishing his keys out of his pocket. "Brought something else."

Kitty gave him a skeptical look. "How many cars do you have anyway? Are you secretly loaded or something?"

Nathan barely spared her a glance as he unlocked the vehicle. "It's hardly a secret."

Kitty let out a scoff, crossing her arms. "Could've fooled me. You always wear the same thing—black jacket, black jeans, scuffed boots. I was starting to think you were living paycheck to paycheck."

Nathan's eyebrow twitched slightly, but he didn't take the bait. Instead, he clicked a button on his key fob, and a sharp chirp echoed through the lot as the alarm deactivated.

Kitty's attention immediately snapped toward the car in front of them—a blue convertible Mustang. It was an older model, but damn, was it in good shape. The deep blue paint gleamed under the lights, polished to near perfection, and the chrome details reflected like a mirror.

Even the tires looked pristine, with barely a speck of dirt on them.

Kitty let out a low whistle. "Okay... cool ride. Is there a special occasion or something?"

Nathan waved a dismissive hand. "You ask too many questions. Get your rear in the back seat."

Kitty blinked, taken aback. "What, you don't think I'm cool enough to ride shotgun in your fancy car?"

Nathan finally smirked, just slightly, and glanced at her. "No, you're plenty cool, kid. Shotgun's just reserved for someone a bit cooler tonight."

The look on Kitty's face said it all—she needed to know. No, scratch that—she demanded to know who, in this vast, ever-expanding universe, Nathan Cross could possibly consider cooler than her.

Her mouth was already half-open to ask when the sound of approaching footsteps made her pause. She turned her head just in time to see Storm walking toward them.

Ororo Munroe carried herself with her usual effortless grace, her sleeveless white blouse contrasting sharply against her deep brown skin, while a flowing purple skirt swayed around her legs with each step. Her long silver hair cascaded behind her, catching in the light, and for just a moment, Kitty could almost understand why Nathan had made his decision.

Almost.

"I didn't keep you waiting, did I?" Storm asked as she reached the car, her tone calm but expectant as she looked at Nathan.

Nathan gave a dismissive wave, stepping aside to open the door for her. "Right on time."

Storm nodded in appreciation before sliding into the passenger seat with practiced ease. Meanwhile, Kitty sat in the back, alternating glances between the two, her suspicion mounting by the second.

Storm and Nathan? Together?

The thought sent her mind spiraling into theories—conspiracies, even—but before she could ask anything, she simply phased through the car door and settled herself in the back seat, arms crossed, mischief dancing in her eyes.

Storm raised an eyebrow as she turned her head slightly. "I didn't realize you'd be tagging along, Kitty."

Kitty shrugged innocently. "Nathan's just giving me a ride home." Then, with an exaggerated tilt of her head, she smirked. "Why? Would I be getting in the way if I did tag along?"

Storm glanced at Nathan, who was already making his way toward the driver's seat, before rolling her eyes and exhaling lightly. "It's not like that," she said, shaking her head. "This was Charles' idea. There's been a misunderstanding, and we're simply having a cup of coffee to clear the air."

Kitty's smirk widened. "Riiight. Coffee."

Nathan, completely oblivious to—or more likely, uninterested in—whatever silent battle of wits was unfolding between Storm and Kitty, settled into the driver's seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror with a flick of his fingers, barely sparing the two a glance.

Storm, however, wasn't nearly as dismissive. She shot a quick look at Kitty, who was still grinning like she was seconds away from saying something stupid, embarrassing, or—knowing her—both.

Before that could happen, Storm cleared her throat and smoothly redirected the conversation. "I must say, Nathan, I appreciate your taste in cars," she said, her eyes scanning the pristine interior. She then glanced upward at the night sky above her, feeling the cool air brush against her skin. "I certainly like the open space."

Nathan gave a noncommittal hum, resting his hands on the steering wheel. "You'd probably like my Harley even more."

Storm's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her face. "You own a motorcycle?"

Nathan arched an eyebrow, shifting into gear. "A couple of them, actually. Is that so hard to believe?"

Storm tilted her head slightly, considering him. "Not hard to believe, exactly. You just strike me as… cautious." She let the word hang for a moment before adding, "And motorcycles, well, they don't exactly scream safety."

Nathan chuckled, tapping the gas pedal just enough for the Mustang to purr beneath them as they eased onto the road. "I don't indulge often, but motorcycles are a guilty pleasure of mine." A smirk ghosted across his lips as he added, "They were the closest thing a guy like me could get to flying... until recently."

From the backseat, Kitty let out an exaggerated sigh. "That's right. We peasants can't all just go nap on the clouds whenever we feel like it."

Storm turned in her seat, offering a rare, amused smile. "Fair enough."

Nathan just shook his head, adjusting his grip on the wheel as the city lights blurred past them. The drive was quiet for a moment—comfortably so.

But Kitty's grin hadn't faded. If anything, it was growing.

She wasn't done yet.

...

The café had the kind of atmosphere that practically forced you to relax—whether you wanted to or not. Soft, ambient music hummed in the background, blending seamlessly with the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of ceramic cups against wooden tables.

The air smelled of cinnamon, dried lavender, and something vaguely medicinal, the kind of scent that promised clarity and inner peace—or at least a placebo effect convincing enough to charge sixteen dollars a cup.

The walls were lined with shelves of loose-leaf tea blends, their names written in delicate calligraphy on small wooden plaques. Moonlit Serenity, Elderflower Renewal, Jasmine Eclipse—each one sounded less like a drink and more like a spell from an old grimoire.

A small chalkboard near the counter proudly advertised the Herbal Infusion of the Day: Saffron & Lemongrass Detox with a note that read, "Pairs well with a mindful heart."

Nathan Cross sat at the table, flipping through the menu with a blank stare, his expression darkening the longer he read. Across from him, Ororo Munroe barely glanced at hers before setting it down with practiced ease.

When the server arrived, she smiled politely. "I'll have the hibiscus and honeybush tea," she said, her voice smooth and certain. "With a hint of ginger, if possible."

The server nodded, scribbling down the order before turning to Nathan, who was still staring at the menu like it had personally offended him. His brow furrowed as he flipped it over, as if hoping the back page held normal options. It did not.

After a long pause, he finally closed the menu and looked up at the server, expression blank.

"Coffee," he said flatly. "Black."

The server blinked. "Sir, we specialize in—"

"Coffee. Black."

The young man hesitated before nodding. "Right. One black coffee." He jotted it down and walked off, glancing back once as if trying to figure out what kind of person came to this place and ordered that.

Ororo smirked, resting her chin on her hand. "That's a rather bland order in a place like this."

Nathan leaned back in his chair. "I might be adventurous when it comes to transportation, but not refreshments."

Ororo let out a low chuckle. "We can't be perfect, after all."

He gave her a sideways glance, but the teasing lilt in her voice softened the remark. Soon enough, the server returned, setting down their drinks with an effortless grace—Ororo's tea arriving in a delicate, hand-thrown ceramic cup, the deep red liquid inside steaming faintly.

Nathan's black coffee, in contrast, was in a plain white mug, looking almost out of place among the artful presentation of the other drinks being served around them.

Ororo took a slow sip of her tea, savoring it before setting the cup down gently. "So," she said, tilting her head slightly, "what does it take for someone to turn out the way you did?"

Nathan arched an eyebrow, cradling his coffee in one hand. "What, exactly, do you think I turned out as?"

She hesitated for only a moment. "A man shaped by war and violence."

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Shaped is a polite way to put it. You might as well say forged." He took a sip of his coffee before adding, "Or broken."

Ororo regarded him carefully, the flickering candle on their table casting shadows across her face.

Nathan leaned back, a smirk ghosting across his lips. "Or—and this is just a wild guess—you meant to ask how someone becomes a murderous psychopath."

Ororo's eyes widened, caught off guard. "I wouldn't have used those exact words, no." She studied him. "But if that's what you took from my question, then by all means, elaborate."

Nathan chuckled, shaking his head. "Relax, it was just a joke." He took another sip, but his expression made it clear he'd been half-serious. "Then again, with the way you've been treating me, one might easily come to the conclusion that's what you think of me."

Ororo let out a quiet sigh, setting her cup down. "Yes, I've been rash." Her voice was even, but there was a note of regret in it. "And for that, I apologize." She met his gaze without wavering. "In the end, that's why we're here—you and I—to reach a better understanding of each other."

Nathan studied Ororo for a long moment, his fingers idly tapping against his coffee mug. The rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk was the only sound between them as he mulled over her words.

Then, with a slow nod, he exhaled and said, "You're right. I've been told I can be petty at times. Sorry about that."

Ororo merely smiled, the warmth in her expression making it clear she wasn't holding anything against him. Nathan huffed out a breath—something close to a laugh, but not quite.

"But to answer your question," he continued, "it's a cocktail, really. First, you gotta grow up in an orphanage—alone, untethered, directionless. And while you're at it, you also need to lack the capability to take on a positive role model."

Ororo's brows furrowed slightly. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Nathan leaned back in his chair, gaze flickering toward the candle between them before settling back on her. "You know how kids grow up bit by bit? How their personalities shift and change depending on their environment?"

She nodded, though the confusion in her expression deepened. "Of course."

Nathan tilted his head slightly, voice quieter now, but still sharp. "Well, that wasn't the case for me." He tapped his temple with one finger. "Up here? I was already grown. Since my age was in the single digits."

Ororo blinked, taken aback. "You're saying you never developed?"

"Not in the way most kids do," Nathan said, swirling the last dregs of his coffee absently. "I didn't start as a blank slate, waiting to be shaped by experience. I was set in stone from the beginning."

And it wasn't a lie. It wasn't some poetic metaphor, some exaggeration meant to make him seem more enigmatic than he really was.

Nathan Cross had awoken in this world, shackled inside the body of a child—yet still carrying the mind, memories, and scars of a man who had already lived and died. A man who had felt the agonizing heat of a roaring fire consume his flesh, who had heard his own screams turn hoarse as death took hold. A man who had seen a world far different from this one and had known, in the marrow of his bones, that he did not belong here.

And yet, he was here.

Suffice to say, he had been in no condition to assimilate into polite society. His earliest years had been spent wracked with doubt, questioning the very nature of his existence.

Was this a dream? Some cruel, unending hallucination? A cosmic joke played at his expense?

Were the people around him—laughing, crying, living—even real?

He had seen them before, after all. Their faces, their stories, their triumphs and tragedies, played out in comic book panels and flashing television screens.

How was a man—one who had already met his end—supposed to make sense of it all?

Nathan didn't say all of this out loud. He wouldn't.

But his expression darkened just enough that Ororo caught a glimpse of something beneath the surface—something heavy, something unspoken. She studied him carefully, not pressing, not probing, simply listening.

For a brief moment, Nathan's fingers stopped tapping against the mug.

Then, as if snapping himself back to the present, he let out a short exhale and leaned forward again, shaking his head.

Nathan exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a weight that never quite left.

"Anyway," he said, his voice lighter now, but still edged with something sharp, "you mix all that together, throw in a few more choice ingredients—like an obsessive fear of death—and you get me. Well… the me from a couple of years ago."

Ororo tilted her head slightly, watching him carefully. "And how does one shed such a former self?" she asked.

Nathan let out a short chuckle, one devoid of humor. "Trauma," he said simply. "The kind that makes you rethink your entire existence and realize what you've turned into."

His fingers flexed slightly against the table, as if grasping at something unseen, something intangible. A memory. A moment. A turning point.

Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before continuing.

"And then," he murmured, "you meet a child. One who isn't even half your age, but somehow… somehow, she's suffered more than you ever have."

Ororo's expression softened. She didn't need to guess. She already knew.

"Lily," she said quietly.

Nathan nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yeah."

There was a pause—brief, but weighted. The noise of the café faded into the background, distant and insignificant. For a moment, it was just them, sitting across from each other in shared understanding.

"She was my wake-up call," Nathan admitted, his voice lower now, almost reverent. "A sign from heaven to get over myself."

He let out another slow breath, shaking his head.

"The world didn't make much sense back then," he murmured. "Then I'd see her smile… and everything just magically started making sense."

...

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