Undercloak: Part Two
by queenB
When Betsy Braddock wakes the next morning, she is feeling slightly herself. Not quite the self of ten years ago, but this self is a definite improvement over last night's. Still, she can't quite figure out why she's on the roof of Warren's penthouse, using his wings like a living down-comforter. And most importantly, she doesn't understand why he is staring vacantly into space, with his mouth hanging open most unattractively. Normally, she thinks Warren is fairly attractive, even including the blue skin; but right now he isn't, and he doesn't look like he's feeling very well either.
He's breathing, which is a good start. She rolls him onto his back, gently spreading his wings to either side and checking his body for broken bones. She finds none and for that matter, there's barely a mark on him except around his temples, which are badly bruised.
"Warren, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
*Warren. I'm here now.*
*...uhhhnn...*
He is in there. And we're wondering, of course where else would he be? Betsy, Warren and their sometimes compatriots, the X-Men, know more about this kind of thing than we might. Let's just say from time to time, they've seen people who weren't there. Betsy's pretty familiar with this whole fractured mind schtick, it's related to how she got in the body she's in right now; but like I said, it's a long story. Nevertheless, Warren's mind is still intact, just the outer layers of consciousness are a little fricasseed -- well actually, a lot fricasseed. They're more like a fine puree.
*Something's happened and you're in a terrible state. I'm going to try to piece you back together, but you'll have to help me.*
*...shadwcanthurt...*
*Shh... It will be okay. Trust me.*
Psylocke doesn't take the time to comprehend what he might be saying. Instead she worries herself with another, more intricate matter. And as an ethereal pink butterfly floats in the air above her face, indicating a surge in her telepathic power, she forms a link with Warren and the healing begins.
Archangel's sleeping almost comfortably now on the bed he left only a few hours ago. Psylocke just carried him down from the roof. Warren's pretty light for the big guy he is. He's got hollow bones, you see. I could make some silly bird pun here, but I won't, you've probably got your own anyway. So, she's put him to bed after mending his fractured thoughts as much as possible. He's got to do the rest, and is having some pretty wicked dreams in the mean time. Right now he's dreaming about Betsy. And not that kind either, this isn't that type of story.
He's accessed his most immediate thoughts of her, of what they've shared recently, or of what they've lost. He's a pretty melancholy guy, though he seems to be snapping out of it. Guess love'll do that to you, or inconsistent character development. But this is his unconscious mind and he's allowed to be masochistic, though I bet Freud would have a field day with this guy's dreams. See, it all stems from his inability to accept, and his consequential suppression of his masculine tendencies to... well, nevermind, sometimes a personal demon is just a personal demon, and this one just happens to be named Sabretooth...
It's the escape from Xavier's again, and Betsy's body lies broken on the holding cell's tile floor, twisted awkwardly in her own pool of blood. This time he's there instead of Tabitha, cradling her in his arms, whispering: "Betts please don't die, please..."
In this version he lashed out at Sabretooth, not Boomer, something he'd wanted to do for as long as the mongrel had been at the mansion. And Betsy was saving him, not her. But just like Tabitha he froze, unable to do anything, not because his power was exhausted but because of fear. So Warren watched, glassy-eyed as the person he claimed to care most about in the world was brutally disemboweled, Sabretooth hurling epithets at him all the while.
And right now in his nightmare, he's murmuring soft prayers intended to ward off death, while his dream's version of Psylocke looks up at him and speaks.
"Warren, why are you crying?"
"I don't want to lose you."
"Is it time for me to go?"
"I can't let you. It's not supposed to happen like this. We are supposed to be happy."
"But, I want to..."
"NO!"
He releases her blood stained shoulders from his grip and begins to put her back together, her anatomy becoming a giant jigsaw. No matter how he arranges them, Warren can't seem to make all the pieces fit properly. In frustration, he forces the last piece. A seemingly whole Psylocke lies in front of him. But she isn't moving.
"Betsy!?!"
He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her. Her head falls forward unanimated.
"Please, dear lord. Betsy, say something..."
Her head quickly snaps up, face bathed in shadows. Over her left eye is the mark of the Crimson Dawn.
"...You failed me..."
"But you're alive."
"Am I?"
Her eyes cloud as the shadows swarm, consuming her body. Betsy turns to ashes as he holds her close and realizes it's all his fault.
It's mid-afternoon when Warren wakes up from his dream, feet bound by the bed sheets he's wrestled in his sleep. He sits up half-screaming, half-muttering, swinging his fists at nothing, still half-conscious, still struggling with his dream-reality. Warren's never enjoyed feeling helpless, so he thrashes at the empty air around him in an attempt to shake off the sensations of inadequacy and self-loathing. Actually, he feels like this a lot of the time, but never at this intensity. This is an all time high on the Archangel "Angst-o-meter".
His vision is still blurred and distorted from his injuries and his fitful sleep; so Warren doesn't see Betsy, unflinching, directly in front of him until she reaches out and grabs his wrists.
"It's okay."
The Psylocke-shaped blur of purple in front of him is enough to set him at ease, even after the horrible episode on the roof last night. He's trusting that way. It's gotten him into trouble before and probably will again.
"How are you feeling, luv?"
"Terrible."
Betsy smirks as Warren slumps back onto the pillows. This is a definite improvement. At least he's talking. For hours she sat by his bed monitoring his subconscious, trying to make sure he was healing properly. Warren painfully, yet, flawlessly pulled his psyche back together. Xavier taught him well.
He groans uncomfortably, pulling a pillow under his head while she brushes stray locks of hair from his face, offering him aspirin from the nightstand. "You will probably have an awful headache for a while."
"How long was I out?"
"Well, I don't know exactly when you were attacked. But you've been unconscious most of the day."
He sits up, wiping the sleep from his eyes and taking the offered glass of water. "Betsy, you mean, you don't know?" His vision is clearing now, and he can undoubtedly see the bewilderment on her face.
"Know what, Warren?"
"My God, you don't remember a thing."
"What's going on?" Betsy stiffens as she quietly asks: "Who attacked you?"
"You did."
In a way she knew it the minute she saw the bruises, it looked like her own handiwork. And that explains why it was relatively simple to piece Warren's mind back together, why she didn't even think about phoning Salem Center for help. She herself had inflicted the damage and was very familiar with the destruction it would cause.
Funny enough, Psylocke is under the impression that her condition is getting better and this throws a monkey-wrench into that assumption. What she thought would soon become fact is now merely a hope that someday she might have her old life back, or at least one of them. And as she sits on the bed with Warren, her eyes unblinking, staring past everything and anything, that hope is dwindling rapidly.
Warren reaches out to her, touching the hand she has clamped over her mouth, pulling her out of her daze. "We have to talk about this. Now."
She shifts her gaze as far away from his as she can manage, listlessly dropping her hands into her lap.
"Dammit, Betsy! You almost killed me and you don't even remember it."
"Calm down. You might hurt yourself... your injuries."
He draws his hand away from Betsy, and traces a crease in the bed sheets with his finger tips, muttering faintly, "This isn't about me."
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