Undercloak: Part Three

by queenB

The conversation began predictably enough, with Warren's detailed explanation of the night before: how Betsy attacked him coldly and mechanically without any spark of recognition. She reacted calmly at first, listening in her now usual detached manner. Although as Warren went on, sharing his feelings on the matter, as well as his gloomy dreams during his period of unconsciousness, things got a wee bit more emotional for her. Which is actually amazing, considering the Crimson Dawn not only seems to augment her powers, but siphon off much of her emotions as well.

The solitary tear trickling down her cheek could be thought of as an emotional outburst, considering the elixir's effect on her. For you scholars out there, she's exuding what William Butler Yeats would call a "cold passion." Through her stoic veneer, the fervor of her buried sentiment becomes all the more obvious, even in its subtlety.

Because of the amount of time he's spent with her and the invested interest he has in her, Warren notices the change immediately, and wipes her cheek dry. "What are we going to do about this? Hank's not been able to find any medical solutions, and Jean doesn't know of any way to bypass your new thought patterns, without altering your personality even further."

"There's always a psychic lobotomy. I'm sure the White Queen would be glad to..."

He places a finger on her lips, silencing her. "This isn't funny."

Almost forcibly, Psylocke brushes away Warren's protest. "It wasn't meant as a joke." She continues, barely noticing his horrified expression. "I am a menace, a danger. Perhaps it is best. If I were to attack you of all people, there's no..."

"This isn't even an option. I can't believe you're still talking about this."

"But it's true. I can't be trusted. I'm no different than Sabretooth."

"Or me or Rogue or... almost any of the X-Men. We're all risks at one time or another, that doesn't mean, it's never meant that extreme measures are justified..." Warren twines his fingers through hers and squeezes her hand gently. "Betts, you're not evil."

"I know. I hope, at least. It's just that, well, it's so hard to face being a hazard and being unaware of your own threatening inclinations."

"Trust me, I know. My old metal wings..."

Psylocke snaps her hand away from his, interrupting his impending soliloquy. "It's always about your wings, isn't it?"

Sliding shyly away from where they are sitting together on his recovery bed, Warren breathes deeply and slowly, calming himself, resisting the urge to snap at her. He tries his best to smooth a possibly volatile situation: "I was just trying to help."

"I know you were attempting to let me see that you supposedly understood. But I'm tired of your constant 'my wings this' and 'my wings that.' I don't want you to see my situation as linked your bloody obsession with those damn wings."

Archangel awkwardly and uneasily gets to his feet and leans on a nearby chair for support. "You're not being fair. And I am not obsessed... well, maybe I am, or was. Look, the important thing is that I want to help you through this."

"And why is that, Warren?"

"I can't believe you're asking me this."

"Why?!"

"Because I love you, of course."

"'Because I love you.' That is a noble reason, a worthy and virtuous pursuit. If that is the truth."

So much for things not turning ugly.

"I don't understand..." Warren collapses into the chair and shakes his head in confusion: "Why are you saying these things to me?"

Betsy walks to where Warren is seated and kneels in front of him, attempting to make eye contact: "Because I want you to see how I see. Sometimes I feel like a possession, something you want to keep safe, something you want to protect just so I can better serve your needs, to help fill the huge void you think you have. When I do not see this emptiness at all. I see a sometimes egocentric man, who never knows his own selfishness, who I can't blame for his naivete. Sometimes I think this way, Warren. I believe I am a tool to you, an appendage without a soul, like your blamed wings. Sometimes I..."

She drops her head, retreating from her quiet tirade, understanding that Warren may not comprehend the exact difference between how someone feels only at times, and what someone believes as truth the rest of it. So she whispers loud enough for him to hear, before he can even begin his protest, "I do love you, though."

Warren finally returns Betsy's gaze and speaks to her gently, "You're right, at least, partially. But you must know that you are a part of me. The part that keeps me going, the part that lets me understand the rest."

"I know that."

"I'm trying, Betts, I really am."

"I know, luv, I know. I just need you to be rational."

Warren lightly touches the purple hair cascading over onto his knee and laughs, "Rational? I'm the model of rationality."

Fortunately grasping his intended humor, Betsy manages a small smirk as she slowly rises to her feet: "Mr. Worthington, I do believe you are being sarcastic."

He stands unsteadily, reaching for her arm, still slightly off-balance from his injuries: "Me? Nah."

Out of the room's large-pained window they can see the sun setting over New York City. Night's coming quickly, and we know that means Psylocke's going to turn into a pumpkin soon, or rather, she won't be nearly this amiable.

"Betts, what do you want to do about the, um, situation?"

"Right now? Nothing."

"But it's getting late. That's when..."

"I know. We'll worry about it tomorrow. Right now I need my full concentration on controlling whatever's taking place in my mind."

"But what if it happens again?"

"I'll just sleep downstairs and you can lock your door."

"But the shadows?"

Betsy releases a heavy sigh. "Then sleep with the lights on."

Almost defensively, he replies: "I'm sorry if I'm trying your patience, hon', but what if you disappear and I can't find you?"

"I stayed here last night." She tries to place her words as delicately as possible: "No matter what your insecurities may tell you, Warren, I'm not going anywhere without you... whether I'm aware of it or not."

Warren winces over the words Betsy chooses, but is comforted enough by her conviction, and merely asks as she turns to leave, "Where are you going? It's still early yet."

"To make you some dinner, you haven't eaten all day."

"Like you said, you need your concentration. I can do it."

"Peanut-butter and jelly is hardly the height of nutrition. And I can manage, I don't think your system's quite ready for a seven course meal or anything so taxing. Soup and salad are fine."

"We should have hired a butler."

As Betsy descends the stairs toward the kitchen and living area, she jokes as best as she can: "You never can find good help these days."

Warren Kenneth Worthington III has exquisite taste. He's always bought the best of everything, or at least what any shrewd-minded sales associate convinces him is the best. Much of the time they're right on, too; money can get you lots of things and this spectacular, fully-stocked kitchen is proof of that.

Right now, Psylocke's drinking espresso made from the elaborate espresso/cappuccino machine that Warren's never used himself, anticipating the long night ahead and trying to stay alert as long possible. Resting her demitasse cup on the Italian tiled counter, she opens the stainless-steel refrigerator and begins her hunt for salad ingredients.

After depositing the produce on the counter-top, she scours the utensil drawers for a caviar spoon, and of course, Warren has one, plated in sterling silver and 24 karat gold. Like I said, the man's a sucker for the "finest". As Betsy poises the spoon over her fishy quarry, she hears the water from the bathroom's shower cut on over-head, and is sorry that she's going to miss Warren's daily spectacle. It's only been a few weeks since he's gotten his feathered wings back and he's yet to remember how to shower with them like he used to. They aren't as water-friendly as his bio-metallic wings, which folded neatly onto his back. Let's just say they can be quite unruly in cramped, wet quarters.

Turning her attention back to the jar in front of her, Psylocke gently dips the spoon into the black treasure-trove of caviar. She lifts it, heaping, to her mouth. But before she can swallow the delicacy, she runs to the sink, gagging and coughing. 'Damn, I forgot how much I hated this garbage! Of all the over-rated, over-priced... No wonder Warren buys it.'

Then from the ceiling she hears a loud banging and thumping. Worried for Warren's safety because of his weakened state, she releases her psi-self to investigate and is greeted by a drenched and grumbling Archangel, who is merely caught up in his normal hygienic hijinks, with one of his wings tangled in the shower curtain. For a while, she watches him, unnoticed, while he wrestles with the curtain, nearly pulling the rod out of it's fixtures, and flooding the bathroom floor with water.

*WARREN!!*

He jumps, startled, almost slipping on the wet tile. She's always loved using her telepathy to sneak up on him. If her emotions weren't being muted by the Crimson Dawn, no doubt she'd be laughing uproariously right now.

Acknowledging the translucent pink butterfly floating in the air in front of him, he asks, anxiously: "Betsy, what's going on!? Are you okay?"

*Everything's fine. But, might I suggest a bath instead?*

Warren rolls his eyes and laughs lightly, continuing his skirmish with the curtain, answering in a sing-song manner, "I'll clean up the mess, I promise."

Betsy withdraws back into her physical self, returning to the task at hand: dinner. Next on the agenda is soup. Normally, she would make a nice tomato bisque or even corn chowder herself: she's very proud of her culinary expertise. But right now, she hasn't the time or patience, so canned soup it is.

She walks to the pantry, hoping the selection is palatable. But as she turns on the light switch, she senses something is not quite right.

Someone or something is very close.

Cautiously, Psylocke scans the tiny room, paying close attention to the shadowy corners, wondering how anyone could have gotten this far without her knowledge. Everything seems in order until she notices the cookie jar. She never remembered it having a hat, especially one so over-sized and familiar. She reaches out stealthily for the straw hat looming over the body of the porcelain-bear cookie-jar, and quickly lifts it high into the air. Problem is, it's attached to a head and the head is attached to a body whose feet are dangling precariously over the cookie-jar from whence they were so forcibly removed.

"Gomurr?!?"

She drops the wizened little man onto the floor of the pantry, and he spits out the chocolate chip cookie he's munching on, grinning mirthfully at Psylocke, exposing the few teeth he has left: "Who were you expecting, child, the cookie monster?"

[next part]

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