Undercloak: Part Fourteen

by queenB

"Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves back together once again at the table."

Joy Harjo, from "Perhaps the World Ends Here"

'Where is she?' Warren Worthington asks himself bitterly as he sits at his kitchen table. Outside, the sun has set and he sits in the darkened room, not bothering to turn on the light, letting the dim glow of the city seep into his apartment though open blinds. With his jaw set tightly, he shuffles a deck of cards in front of him and he begins yet another game of solitaire. As he briskly flips each card into position and uses his enhanced eye-sight to see the cards, Warren doesn't think how ridiculous it is for him to be sitting in the near dark, playing solitaire and wishing the room's shadows would to come to life and miraculously deliver his lover to him.

Next to him, the telephone suddenly rings and Warren jumps slightly in his seat. For a moment, he stares at the cordless receiver in confusion before he realizes that telephones do ring for a certain reason, that he should probably answer it, that it could be her.

He presses the talk button on the phone and asks into its mouth-piece, "Betsy?"

"No, Warren. It's Jean."

Disappointment apparent in his tone, Warren murmurs, "Oh."

"I take it she's not back yet?"

Warren runs a shaking hand through his hair and then props his elbow on the table as he sighs, "No, she's not."

"I'm sure she'll be back soon."

Dropping his head into his free hand, he asks defiantly, "Are you?"

"Warren... look, I just called to see if she was back yet. And she will be. Just make sure to call us so we know she's safe."

"Okay."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

He asks distractedly, "Tomorrow?"

"Yes. I'm going to bring your car back into town. You left it here."

"Oh."

Warren hears a soft groan of annoyance on Jean's end of the line before she says as gingerly possible. "Goodbye, Warren. She'll be back soon. She loves you too much to stay away."

And then the line is dead. Warren looks a moment at the phone as its dial tone knells monotonously. Then, he dials a number which he has committed to memory in the last hour. When the U.K. operator answers the line to patch him through, he thinks he recognizes her voice, that maybe she is the same one he talked to only minutes before, that maybe he just keeps talking to the same operator over and over, that maybe he's only called once and all the other attempts he thinks he remembers are only a twisted form of deja vu. Maybe this is the first call, really... that he just imagined the others, that any minute he'll be talking to Betsy and he'll really know that she's safe. Maybe, just maybe.

He lets the phone ring and ring, losing count of them after a while. When the operator comes back on the line to inform him that the party he wishes to contact is not answering, he hangs up without pleasantries. Replacing the phone on the table, he resumes his game, losing his anxiety in its mechanical quality, in its monotony, trying his best to forget about how empty he feels.

And then he's blocked. He doesn't bother to peek at his cards, doesn't even debate the ethics of cheating at a game of solitaire, or wonder who he might really be cheating in such an endeavor. He just picks them up and shuffles them again, taking solace in the gratifying sound of plastic-coated paper hitting rapidly against more plastic-coated paper. Then he deals another game.

And then another.

After a while, the shadows gathering in the corner of the kitchen begin to shimmer and contort, and Warren glares at them angrily. They coalesce in a dark pool in front the kitchen table, and slowly Psylocke emerges. From the moment her face is visible, Warren can feel her gaze on him. To him it feels like her violet eyes are cutting right through him, and he knows if he returns her gaze, they might tear right into his heart. Though he tries hard to hide any emotion and dares not look directly at her, Warren can't help but be in awe of Psylocke's dramatic entrance as dark shadows pour off her like oil, leaving her seemingly untouched and radiant as ever.

He puts down his deck of cards and stares awkwardly at his suddenly empty hands as she walks toward him and says, her voice filled with levity, "Playing cards in the dark? My, how Gambit of you."

Ignoring her comment, Warren asks quietly but harshly, "Where the Hell have you been?"

Betsy puts her hand on his shoulder and says just as quietly, though with no malice, "I've been with Brian, in England."

Shrugging off her hand, he says, "I don't know why I asked that. I know where you were... Logan found Gomurr and he told... he showed him..."

Betsy crouches next to him and wraps her arms awkwardly around his waist, pressing her head against his chest as she says, "I'm sorry Warren... I didn't plan to end up there, I didn't think..."

Warren tolerates her embrace, though he sits stoically in his chair as he says, "I tried calling you. Why didn't you phone me? I was worried."

Sighing heavily and looking up at him, though he stares straight ahead into the darkness with cold eyes, Betsy says, "I know you must have been. And I was thinking of you the whole time. It's just been such a weird day. I knew I was going to come back to you... I wanted to see you so badly. I just didn't think..."

Finally meeting Betsy's gaze, Warren interrupts her, retorting, "That's right. You didn't think."

Releasing her hold on him, she stares at him before she says, "How dare you throw accusations at me! After all that's happened today... after that scene you put me through this morning... after abandoning me on a busy highway!"

Turning away from her, he says quietly but defensively, "That's different... you knew that I was okay."

"Did I?"

Warren closes his eyes and sighs deeply, and the two sit in the dark; Betsy glaring at him, her eyes full of distress and he as motionless as a statue. Finally, her voice cuts through the silence and she says, "Warren, this is so silly. I'm sorry, you're sorry. Please?"

He looks at her sitting on the floor awkwardly beside him and his expression softens. She grasps his hand in hers and pulls it to her face, rubbing her cheek gently against it as she says, "It was just such an odd experience, suddenly being so far away..."

Betsy goes on for a while about what it felt like to be trapped in the shadows like she was, how she finally learned how to make the jump, how her and Brian talked for a long while, how she's missed him terribly. As she talks, Warren feels a slight tingling at the back of his mind, a tickling even... like the gentle beating of a butterfly's wings as it rests on a flower. And then he realizes he is no longer alone in his mind, that not only is Betsy speaking these words, but thinking them, that he is beginning to feel the thoughts behind her words, the emotions rushing through her mind... and it's excruciating.

Suddenly pushing her away from him, he cries loudly, "Stop it! I can't deal with this. Don't do this to me again!"

Taken aback by his outburst, she stares at him, her eyes wide as she asks, "Do what, Warren?!"

Shaking his head and dropping it into his hands, he says, "Don't put yourself in my thoughts like that again. I don't want to fight you... But I will."

"Warren?"

"I can't go through that again. I won't... I can't lose you like that again. I can't go back to the way it was before."

Betsy looks up at him, her eyes pleading as she says, "But I'm a part of you now, and you're a part of me. It's not that simple."

Eyes wild with conflicting emotions, Warren raises his head and glares at her as he says, his voice cracking, "I can't do this right now. I don't know if I can again..."

Gripping tightly onto his arm, Betsy says urgently, "Warren... you're scaring me."

He closes his eyes and his face hardens again, his demeanor suddenly going cold. "Please. Go away."

"No, I'm staying."

He pulls his arm out of her grasp and turns to look at her, his eyes smoldering like a blue flame, "Leave me alone."

Betsy stands and questions him, her face reflecting her worry, "Warren?"

"Go."

So she goes.

She leaves the room unlike she left it, using her feet to take her upstairs toward their bedroom instead of the shadows. As she ascends the stairs, she mutters to herself, "Fine. I was tired anyway."

And Warren is left alone with his cards.

"Yes, Ororo. I'm okay," Betsy says into the phone as she sits cross-legged on Warren's large bed.

She fidgets with a tassel on her kimono, twisting and untwisting it through her fingers as she says, "It was easier on the way back."

Her stomach growls and she tries to ignore the gnawing in her stomach as she tells Storm, "Thank you for everything you did. I'm sorry I was such a bother."

"And you know I'd do the same for you."

Closing her eyes and massaging her forehead, she says, "I miss you, too. When this is all over... I promise."

"Okay. Good night. Rest well."

Psylocke hangs up the phone and collapses on the bed, pulling a pillow close and hugging it tightly to her. She thinks to her self, 'Damn him, he should be in my arms... not this bag of feathers.'

She throws the pillow across the bed, stretches out on her back, and stares angrily at the white ceiling. She tells herself that she is not going to cry, that Warren is just being stupid and will come around any minute, that any second he's going to walk through that door and apologize. But as the minutes tick by, he doesn't come and Betsy is left staring at the ceiling alone.

As she rolls over to turn out the light, thinking it would be best just to sleep on it, to work things out in the light of day, it begins to dawn on her that that may not be an option... that her time with Warren may not be much longer.

"Damn him," she says aloud as she puts her face in her hands, pressure building behind her eyes.

"Damn him," she says again as one then two tears escape.

She leaves the light on, knowing full well that sleep will not come for quite a while this evening. As she props herself up in the bed, her stomach growls once again. She rolls her eyes as she gets up from the bed and thinks, 'Why now?'

Cursing her stomach and herself for neglecting it, Betsy walks down to the kitchen, hoping that Warren isn't there. She knows they need to talk, and desperately. She had hoped to give him some more time to cool down and is afraid her appearance will force another fight. 'Besides,' she thinks, 'He's probably out flying anyway.'

Resisting the urge to psychically locate him, not wanting to pressure psychic contact after his reaction, she eases her way into the dark kitchen. Glancing over at the table, she sees that he is indeed still there, his large wings darkly silhouetted by the window behind him, looming over his drooping form like a pair of sentries, guarding him from what ever dangers may threaten him in the night.

Her eyes now accustomed to light, Betsy is unable to see in the dark as easily as before... and she wonders if night-vision may be another aspect of actively using her powers. Right now, she doesn't want to experiment with it. She just wants to be normal, if there is such a thing, if only for an hour or so. So she clicks on a light over the stove, trusting it's dull light will not disturb Warren too much.

Now that the light is on, she is able to see the room easier. By the far wall of the kitchen, on the opposite side from Warren, Betsy sees a scattering of playing cards, obviously hurled in aggravation by Warren, who is sitting at the table, slumped over with his head buried in his arms. He's completely quiet and motionless save the occasional twitching of his wings.

Betsy stares compassionately at him, resisting the urge to go to him and soothe his pain. She knows that is the last thing he probably wants right now. The urge to comfort him seems an odd reaction as she thinks about it. She thinks that under other circumstances, she would have left him alone to brood and might have stayed away until he finally sought her out and he begged her forgiveness... repeatedly. But she knows these aren't normal circumstances, that right now she needs to be here with him.

As she thinks of these things, never turning away from him, Warren looks up at her, his eyes very red and tired. They stare at each other a moment, before Betsy stammers, "I... I was hungry. I've barely eaten all day."

Unspeaking, Warren turns his gaze away from her and stares ahead. Betsy can't tell if she's being ignored by him, or if he's just trying his best to deal with her return to the kitchen, slowly re-erecting his stoical facade.

Finding herself without the energy to psychoanalyze the situation or to pressure a response out of Warren, she turns to the refrigerator and says quietly, "Brian tried to feed me... something brown. I think it was mutton. Who actually eats mutton anymore?"

Betsy looks over her shoulder at Warren, who is still seated and looking away from her. She wishes he would laugh that wonderful, hearty laugh of his, or at least smile... his smile always could light up his face. But instead she gets no response, no amused smirk, nothing. She opens the refrigerator, its light illuminating her face with a bright light, and asks, hoping once again to break his mood, "So are you hungry, luv?"

Again, she gets no response.

She retrieves a small carton of strawberry yogurt and places it on the counter, then a carton of blueberries. Glaring at her choice in dissatisfaction, she puts them back into the refrigerator and instead picks a jar of olives, suddenly finding herself craving them.

She tries to open the new jar and finds its lid stuck fast. She bites her lower lip and puts more strength into her effort, wishing that for once something would go right in this otherwise horrible day. Just as she feels the lid's seal about to break open, the jar slips from her grip and crashes on the floor, glass shattering and olives spilling everywhere.

"Oh, God," she gasps as she surveys the mess below her on the floor. She quickly kneels down and begins to gather the broken shards in her bare hands, wincing as one of them pierces her palm.

Dumping a handful of glass into the trash, and beginning to pick up more, she crouches again over the floor with tears welling in her eyes as she awkwardly laughs, "Will nothing go right today... nothing?"

As her laugh grows in intensity, she thinks she sees Warren out of the corner of her eye. She looks over her shoulder and sees him standing at the table, his form blurred by the tears now obscuring her vision. Even though she can't see him, she knows that he is looking at her, perhaps in concern, perhaps in annoyance. It's doesn't matter... the thought of either drives her to tears, her nervous laughter turning into ragged sobs.

And then he's there, taking the glass from her hands as they shake, her body wracked by the sudden out-pouring of emotion. Then he picks her up in his arms and sits her on the far counter, keeping her bare feet from the mine-field that has become the kitchen floor. Betsy sits on the counter, tears streaming down her face, still holding her hands in front of her as he checks one foot, then the other, luckily finding no cuts and removing any bits of glass that cling to her feet. He then picks up her wounded hand and removes the glass, wiping away the small amount of blood with a clean, wet towel.

She looks at him in disbelief as he raises her palm to his face and gently kisses the wound as he closes his eyes, his lips lingering a while, warm and soft against her hand. He then looks at her, his face not very far from her own, and he whispers as he bandages her hand with some gauze Betsy guesses he must have found in a nearby drawer, "Does it hurt?"

Her tears easing a bit, Betsy places her free hand over her heart as she says quietly, "Only here."

Warren touches her face gently, wiping her tears away with his thumb, and she closes her eyes letting the sudden intimacy between them wash over her thoughts and ease her anxiety. When she opens her eyes again, she is greeted with his intense gaze, a look that to her speaks volummes, says exactly how sorry he is, how much he loves her, how scared he was when she was gone. Slowly, he lets his fingers wander to her lips, and he looks down at her mouth as he touches it, his thumb softly caressing her bottom lip. He then lets his hand drift down her jawline and he pulls her face to his, pressing his lips against hers, kissing her passionately.

After a few moments, Warren breaks the kiss and drops to his knees, resting his head in her lap as he says, "I'm so sorry, Betts. I'm such an idiot. I didn't mean to..."

Running a hand through his blonde hair, Betsy interrupts him quietly: "It's okay, luv. I know how hard this has been on you."

Lifting his head to look at her, Warren says, "No. It's not okay. And look at you. You're sitting here trying to comfort me. Me. Right now, that's supposed to be my job."

Betsy places her hand on his cheek. "Shh. We do what is needed."

Taking her hand in his own, Warren asks, "And am I needed?"

She smiles, tears still twinkling in her eyes as says, "Oh, God. Yes."

He stands and holds her hands close to his chest, gazing at her intently as he says softly, yet earnestly, "Then show me, Betts. I want you in my mind again. I want to be in yours. I've missed you so much."

"Warren, I..." Betsy leaves her words unspoken, afraid to voice the doubts pervading her thoughts and decides to show them to him instead, to feel them with him. She closes her eyes and breaks the dam that she has erected between them, and both their thoughts and feelings rush across the telepathic bridge like the waters in a river after a heavy thunder-storm. Betsy opens her eyes and watches Warren as his face contorts, reflecting the torrent of emotions washing over him, over both of them.

She closes her eyes again as flashes of Warren's memories, glimpses of his recent anxieties and long forgotten fears, settle within her mind. And then she feels his arms around her. He pulls her close and whispers softly, "Oh God, Betsy. I love you so much... Don't leave me again. It was so cold... alone. You were so cold, in the dark... I won't let you be alone again. Take me with you if you need to. I'll be there for you next time, I promise. I've been such a fool. You should have shown me before."

Betsy returns his embrace and speaks into his thoughts, *But I'm showing you now.*

Pulling away from her, he nods as he looks into her eyes and she not only sees the regret on his face, but feels it in her heart. She can feel the hundreds of waiting to be asked questions on the tip of Warren's thoughts, how much he is dreading what her approaching encounter with the proctor of the Crimson Dawn might bring, how he is afraid that he doesn't have enough time to say everything that he wants to. And then, as their thoughts mingle and twist around one another, they realize that there will never be enough words, or perhaps too many. This will have to be enough. This simple, yet glorious sharing of their minds and hearts must say it all for them.

Warren presses his forehead against hers, and she squeezes his hands gently before she releases them, enjoying the closeness of him, the soft musky smell of him, the soft fluttering of his breath on her cheek. Running her bandaged hand through his hair, she thinks for the both of them, 'We can't let this go. This might be all we ever wanted.'

Startled by the urgency and unity of the thought, Warren snaps his head up at looks at Betsy, as he says, "It's never worked like this before... Never so close. It's like we're sharing a soul."

Betsy holds his face between her hands as he continues, "I think I could get lost."

She smiles timidly, gauging the gravity of his comment, but knowing though their rapport that Warren has no intention of running away from her again, not tonight... not ever. So she kisses him, her lips reveling in the warmth of his, in the feel of them on hers. She then telepathically sends to him, *Let's stay lost... if just for one night.*

He responds to her by deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth and mingling with her own. Though accustomed to the way her telepathy often heightens moments of passion, Betsy is startled by the tide of emotions pervading her thoughts. The intimacy is staggering for a moment before she accepts it and begins to celebrate it. She then pulls him closer, returning his kiss in kind.

Then there are no more words: just thought, action and feeling. And as Warren pulls her into his arms and carries her to the bedroom, away from the broken glass littering the floor of the kitchen and toward the soft comfort of their large bed, that is more than enough.

[next part]

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