Undercloak: Part Eighteen

by queenB

"There is a timbre of voice
that comes from not being heard
and knowing   you are not being
heard   noticed only
by others   not heard
for the same reason."

Audre Lorde, "Echoes"

Psylocke rests her elbows on the stone ledge of the balcony and looks out over the city. Traffic moves slowly under her gaze as people stroll casually through the art district, appreciating the slow pace of their Saturday morning. She thinks that their lives must be so simple compared to her own, so free and unfettered. She takes a deep breath as she watches a woman struggle with a small dog, then a young man a few paces behind linger by a store front. She focuses in on the man, picking up his thoughts with little effort. He likes that painting in the corner. Yes, the blues and greens remind him of the pond out behind his grandpa's farm in New Hampshire. It was always so cool and the fish were always biting. He thinks he should visit his grandpa soon. Yes, soon. It's been too long and one never knows what tomorrow might bring.

Tomorrow. Betsy's thoughts turn back to herself and she wonders what her tomorrow will be like, wonders where and who she might be. If she is to be anything at all.

"Betsy? I have your tea."

She turns away from the street to face the red-haired woman behind her as she smiles graciously and offers her a cup. "Thank you, Jean. Thanks."

Jean Grey-Summers stands next to her at the balcony and asks, "You do take lemon, don't you?"

"Yes. Yes I do."

She speaks quietly. "I thought so."

Sipping her tea, Betsy wonders when things grew so comfortable between them, when they started to understand one another. Maybe it happened yesterday while Betsy struggled with holographic ninjas on the Danger Room floor. Maybe it happened weeks before because sometimes it can be easier to try to understand than to destroy. Maybe it happened because a million different factors lead to this very moment. All she manages to conclude is that it is nice to have Jean here with her. It's comfortable and real. It's just what she needs at this moment.

She glances over at her teammate, Jean's long hair hanging in her face as she looks at the street below and she smirks to herself as she asks, "Can I ask you something, Jean?"

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Jean says, her thoughts clear and hopeful, "Sure. What's on your mind?"

"When did you stop being such a bitch?"

Jean laughs. "About the time you stopped being such a hussy."

Wearing a facade of seriousness, Betsy says, "Oh. I was never a hussy."

Jean smirks. "And I was never a bitch."

The two laugh for a few moments before Jean continues. "But seriously. I'm glad we've gotten to this point. I'm glad you don't hate me anymore."

Betsy rests her arms again on the balcony and stretches her back. "Hate you? I never hated you."

Even though Jean wears a smile, her eyes twinkle with a twinge of remorse. "Oh yes you did. Hated me to the core. And I wasn't exactly glad to have you around, either. I didn't take too kindly to this knock-out bombshell of a telepath on the same team as myself. And when Scott started paying you attention? What was I supposed to think?"

Running a finger along a line of mortar, Betsy shakes her head at the 'bombshell' comment and asks, "I thought we were past that?"

"Oh, we are. It's just... well, I was very jealous of you for a very long time. And it wasn't all about Scott."

Betsy can't help but laugh in shock. "You? Jealous of me? You're the heartbreaker on the team. And you're even a stronger member."

"Funny. You don't know how ridiculous that sounds to me. Remember when I first met you, during that whole crisis with the Goblin... with Madelyne? I didn't have my telepathy and I barely had hold on my sanity. I didn't exactly feel strong then. I think intimidated is the word."

Tugging on the string of her tea bag, letting it bounce in her cup, Betsy says, "Intimidated? By me? And I thought Warren was insecure."

Jean swings her head slowly away from Betsy to stare down at the street again. "See? We all have our hang-ups."

"That we do."

Archangel stuffs his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants as he follows Wolverine down a crowded sidewalk. He keeps his eyes on the back of the shorter man's dark head as he shoulders past fellow pedestrians, grimacing as the people brush past him, their presence intruding on his personal space. Warren has never enjoyed cramped spaces and detests uninvited human contact only a little bit more. It's tourist season in the Big Apple and the path he and Logan have been walking for the last half an hour has led them through yet another open air festival. He swears if he sees another stand selling gaudy, silver jewelry or tourist- centric postcards he's giving up and going home. After all, he thinks, what the hell is he doing wandering the streets with this man he can barely tolerate on a good day when he could, he should, be at home with the woman he loves?

For his part, Logan has barely spoken a word since the two left the curb in front of Warren's loft. If Warren had known they would be walking this far, he would have insisted on hailing cab. He's not even sure if Logan knows where he's going or if he's trying to do nothing more than annoy him to pieces. And if that is his goal, he is certainly approaching success.

As the two squeeze past the last of the revelers and around a corner, Warren grumbles, "So where are we going?"

Logan keeps his pace and doesn't even glace back at Warren as he says, "Just like I said. Out."

Rolling his eyes, Warren states flatly, "Logan, I'd say we are definitely out."

"Wow. Yer smarter than ya look."

He curses under his breath, realizing that the last thing in the world he needs at the moment is a confrontation with Logan. Betsy and Jean would both kill him. Still, he's not about to lay down and become Logan's verbal punching bag. He's in too foul of a mood to roll over and play dead. He retorts, "And you're more bull-headed than you look."

Logan stops suddenly and turns on his heel to face him. Warren stares back into his worn face, his cold gaze meeting Logan's angry one. He watches as Wolverine clenches and unclenches his fists, stopping himself short from either grabbing Warren by the shirt or punching him in the face. Warren isn't sure which, but he knows that look. He's seen it many times during the years he's known Logan. He knows he's just pushed a button and he can't help but smile inwardly.

Finally, Logan turns away from Warren and says matter-of-factly, "Ya know right now's not the best of times to be gettin' into this. An' I know you've been though seven different kinds of hell the last few days, so I'm gonna let yer mouth slide. But ya just watch yer back, Wings. Ya just watch it. I ain't in the mood."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Warren says, "Neither am I, Logan."

"Good."

Logan picks up his pace again, leading them farther away from the more trendy parts of the city. After a few more blocks, he stops in front of a dingy bar and pulls open the door. Before he follows Wolverine into the dark, smoky depths of the establishment, Warren reads the sign over the door. "Hardcase's." Fits Logan to a tee. Warren squints his eyes, letting his vision adjust to the yellow and blue glow of the mostly neon lit room. Several patrons are already sitting at the bar or playing billiards. Looking down at his watch, the gold plated hands indicate the time: 10:51 am.

Warren breathes a deep sigh and stands by Logan as he sets up a pool table for play, the smooth surfaces of the balls clicking against one another almost musically. "So this is it?"

"Yeah, Wings. This is it."

"Now what?"

"I rack 'em up while ya get us some beers."

"Beer?"

"Yeah. It's brown, foamy, made of hops and barley. I hear it's real big over in Europe. Gonna be the latest craze in the States soon, just know it."

Warren shakes his head and grumbles at Logan's sarcasm. "I'm not that much of snob, Logan. I've a had a pint or two in my day."

Silently, Logan looks up from the table and frowns at him. Warren says, "What? I mean it's not even eleven yet. Isn't it a little early for a drink?"

"Just get me one then. Domestic. And if ya bring me back any of that light crap, I'll gut ya."

Shaking his head once more as he walks to the bar, Warren flags down the bartender and orders the drink. He watches the amber liquid foam into the glass from the tap as the bartender gives him a look over and smirks to himself in amusement. Warren sighs and turns to look at the patron seated next to him, a toothless man who needs a desperate refresher course on hygiene and seems to think Warren is the funniest thing he's seen in ages. Turning away from the man and fishing in his pocket for his wallet, Warren glares at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar as he mumbles, "Great day this is turning out to be. Great day indeed."

Betsy takes another sip of her tea as she and Jean gaze down at the street in silence for a few minutes. She still can't believe Jean's words, that she would be jealous and intimidated by her when she had felt exactly the same way. All those months of back stabbing and in-fighting could have been avoided if they had only noticed the irony. Still, she is glad that they are here, glad that she can finally count Jean as one of her few friends in the world. She smiles to herself with the contradiction of it. The woman she resented for much of her stay at the Xavier Institute has now become her confidante, her friend.

"They all make it look so easy from up here, don't they?"

Pulled from her reverie, Betsy asks, "Make what look easy?"

Turning away from the street, Jean leans her back against the balcony as she smiles at Betsy. "Oh. You know... life, living, all the baggage comes with it. I mean, there are some people down there that are dealing with some serious issues. Real life problems. But most of them are just worried about what they're going to eat for lunch, if their pants make their rear ends look big or whether to buy low or sell high."

Betsy rests her cup on the ledge. "And we're different?"

"Of course we are. You know we are. If being a telepath has taught me anything, it's that most of the people in this world walk around in a haze, never really thinking anything of great depth, never really appreciating what they have. Sometimes people need to be reminded of how special life is while they're actually living it, you know?"

Studying her friend's expression, unable to read her thoughts regarding the matter, Betsy asks hesitantly, "What are you trying to say, Jean?"

Seriousness suddenly apparent in her features, Jean looks hard at Betsy. "You can't hide it from me, you know. I can feel it in you now. I could feel it even more yesterday. You're afraid, deeply and terribly afraid of what might happen to you tonight. But still you hide your fear, won't let anybody see it. And you're pushing people away, when what you need to be doing is letting them in."

"Warren?"

Jean nods. "Yes. You can't do it to him, Betsy. Not now."

Betsy breathes a deep sigh and leaves her cup unattended as she sits in a cushioned chair next to the table she and Warren ate breakfast at just an hour before. She idly presses a finger against a leftover crumb and rolls it in her fingers as Jean sits across from her. She looks at her, almost telling her it is none of her business, that she should be left alone with her thoughts, her misery. But then she remembers the day before, how reassuring it was for that brief time to share a mind with her. And somehow, she knows that Jean understands.

Jean reaches across the table and pats her once on the hand, looking at her with concerned, green eyes. "You can't push him away. Not if you really fear that your time together might not last another day. You can't do that to him. You can't do that to yourself. You should be together, more than you ever have before. You should celebrate what you have left. And if everything turns out for the best tonight? Wonderful. But if it doesn't, at least you had today."

Betsy closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to pound her fists against the fragile glass top of the table, shattering it into a thousand tiny fragments... wants something to feel as broken as she is, but mostly she wants to feel a little less powerless, a little more in control. She imagines pummeling her fist first into the glass, then into the windows and the glass french doors. And it feels good. Skin and bone and muscle shattering the cold, razor sharp panes, the blood running in rivulets down her forearms as tiny shards slice through sinew and vein. But it doesn't matter. For once she is angry, for once she is in control. She is powerful.

Then through the red haze of her fantasy, she hears Jean shrill, "Stop it!"

Betsy opens her eyes and glances back at the large windows, the morning sun glinting brightly off the intact panes. She then looks across the table to Jean, whose green eyes narrow as her jaw tightens and she whispers, her voice tinged with anger. "Betsy. You're projecting."

"Am I? Oh God, I am." Betsy takes a deep breath and lets her body relax, focusing on the steady rhythm of her heart. She breathes softness into every cell of her body, her head growing light and the anger she felt only moments before pushed farther back in her conscious thoughts.

As the beat of her heart slows, she hears Jean's musical voice ask, "Better?"

Though not completely purged of her frustration, she can feel her emotions stabilize, the serenity she has learned to harness during her training and meditation balancing the white-hot rage from only a few moments before. Betsy opens her eyes. "Much."

She watches her friend fold her hands demurely in her lap as she says softly, "Good."

"I'm sorry about that Jean, it's just..."

"Don't apologize. You've got a lot of anger. A lot of fear. Trust me, I understand. Look at what happens when you bottle it up, though. Look at how you affect the people around you. Most likely you've been driving Warren crazy without either of you knowing what's going on. Especially with your rapport."

Tears well in Betsy's eyes as she folds her arms against her chest and whispers as she remembers the strained words she shared with Warren only an hour ago, "What do I do, Jean?"

"You let him in. You show him your anger, your fear. But you must also show him your hope. There is some hope, Betsy. Hold tight to it. Don't let it go. It may end up being your salvation."

Betsy's brow furrows tightly as a solitary tear escapes and she stares through Jean with pleading eyes. The red-haired telepath pushes her chair away from the table as she stands, the metal legs scraping against the concrete with a muffled screech. As her vision blurs, Betsy feels Jean's warm embrace around her shoulders as she says quietly, "Shh. You must be strong, now. You will be even stronger if he stands beside you. Two are more solid than one. If you let him in, you can beat anything. You will win."

Betsy wipes dry a tear and grips Jean's hand as she asks, "So love will conquer all?"

"We must hope, Betsy."

A sudden smile surfaces on Betsy's tear-stained face and she turns her face up towards Jean, a mirthful twinkling in her eyes as she says, "Always the romantic, aren't you?"

Jean grins as she squeezes Betsy's hand before she releases it. "Always."

Though she marvels at the calming effect Jean has over her, Betsy accepts it and holds her warmth and serenity close in her thoughts. She sits in silence for a moment, before Jean finally speaks. "I think it would be best if someone was there with you tonight. Someone besides Warren and this Gomurr fellow."

Betsy narrows her eyes and eyes Jean suspiciously. From what she can tell, there is no ulterior motive in her mind, nothing but genuine concern and a little residual guilt. She takes a deep breath before she says, "It might be a good idea if you were there, Jean. You... you keep me focused."

Surprised by the quickness of her response, though as gracious as Betsy would expect, Jean says, "I'm glad you trust me. But... Logan?"

Betsy smirks as she shakes her head. "You and I both know he planned on finding a way there anyway. I think I'll save him the trouble of making anymore deals with Gomurr and just teleport the both of you in my wake. Besides, if you know where he is, you can keep him out of trouble."

She watches Jean nod her head and examine her watch. She knows without using her telepathy that her teammate is thinking of her husband, Scott. He must be how she was planning on getting back to Salem Center in case Betsy forbade her presence this evening. So Betsy volunteers, before the matter can even become an issue, "And Scott can come, too. As many differences as we've had in the past. I will... appreciate his level-headedness."

Furrowing her brow at Betsy, Jean asks, "Are you sure this is what you want? I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Jean, I am already 'uncomfortable.' But I think having people nearby that I have trusted time and again with my life would be a wise choice. It would be foolish to enter blindly into this challenge. Besides, it will help to give me strength. Just promise me you will all keep your wits about you. This is my fight."

Jean nods and winks at Betsy. "And we will be your back up... just in case."

Closing her eyes, Betsy says quietly, "Yes. Just in case."

Releasing a deep sigh, she thanks Jean and swears her to silence about her emotional state and the telepathic projection of her anger. She can't begin to fathom how worried it would make Ororo, Logan and the others. As Jean declares she won't tell another soul, Betsy can't help but think about Warren and how he is handling his morning with Logan.

Warren plants a tall, frosty mug of domestic beer on the wide, flat rim of the pool table as he watches Logan break. He pulls a straw out of his own drink and sniffs the contents.

"What ya got there, Wings? Rum and coke? I figured ya were more the Manhattan or Martini type."

After taking one timid and then one surer sip of his drink, Warren pulls up a stool and says. "I am. But this is just a diet cola."

Logan snorts as a few patrons walk past the table, glaring at the out of place Archangel and mumbling under their breath as they cue up at the next table over. "And here I was thinkin' ya were gonna cut loose on me. Be careful. That Nutrasweet'll kill ya one of these days."

Shaking his head at Wolverine's levity, Warren says, "Logan, you know I'm not like that anymore."

Logan raises an eyebrow, "What? Fun?"

Warren holds his tongue and offers a friendlier retort than the one he had in mind. It's times like this he thanks the stars Logan isn't a telepath. "No. The whole life of excess thing."

He thinks back to how he used to be, how Logan must perceive him after knowing him in only a superficial manner all these years. In the past, he had been known to buy a sports car on a whim, take the woman with the longest legs and lowest neckline home, drink until his vision blurred and snort a line to make sure the party lasted until dawn. His life was fast, but empty... hollow. But the important thing was he at least looked like he was having fun. When he met Candy Southern and grew to love her, things just escalated. She was cut out of the same cloth. While she wasn't a bad influence on him, per se, she made no effort to quell his urges. Perhaps that was the reason they no longer trusted one another... until the bitter end. When his life changed at the hand of Apocalypse, things only got worse when he withdrew inside himself, when he no longer had the confidence he once had. He almost retreated from the world completely. Almost. He vowed never to regain the "playboy" lifestyle again, no matter how his life might improve.

As Logan chalks his cue, he says, "That's real good. I hope ya decide to stick to it. Now get yerself a cue and let's play some eight-ball. An' I'll be nice and not take any of yer money. No bets."

"You're too kind."

"Don't say I never did nothin' for ya."

Warren walks to the far end of the table and retrieves a cue- stick from the stand. As he pulls a cue from its position, one of the patrons from the next table over stands next to him as he balances a cue in his hand, Warren assumes feeling the weight of the stick. As he turns to leave, he hears the man mumble something under his breath.

Turning his head to face the man, he asks, "What was that?"

The man leers at him, his face mottled with thick black stubble, his teeth gray with years of abuse. He stares hard at Warren with bloodshot eyes and says gruffly, "I said, we don't much care for you richie-rich types around here."

Warren walks away from the man, rolling his eyes as he departs, his expression unseen by the local. "Okay. I'll take that under advisement."

When he returns to the table, Logan asks him, arms folded over his chest, "Ya okay over there?"

"Yeah. Fine. Just some yokel telling me I'm out of place here." Warren grins, "Like I didn't know that already."

"Well, what do ya expect coming in here with those pretty-boy looks and wearin' Izod or Tommy Hilfamaflodgie or whatever you've got on."

Looking down at his khaki pants and white button-down shirt as he rolls up his sleeves, Warren says defensively, "Hey. If I had known you were going to take me here, I would have worn something different. And for the record, it's Nautica."

Logan grins. "Oh, well excuse me then. Yer turn, Wings."

Warren sinks his first shot and misses his second. He doesn't think it's half bad for someone who hasn't played in years.

"Not too bad. But now it's time to watch a master at work."

Warren grins as Logan sinks his first two shots. Before he takes a third, he drinks from his beer, emptying half the mug in one swallow. As he poises himself to land the three ball in the top left corner, he says, "Ya know, yer good for her. As much as I hate to admit it."

As the ball ricochets off the right rail and rolls into the pocket, Warren asks, "What?"

"Ya heard me. I won't say it again, but ya make her real happy. I know the two of ya have been through all kinds of bull since you've been together... but that happiness still shines through it somehow. Current situation aside and before the whole mess with Sabretooth, I've never seen her happier and I've known the girl a long time."

It takes every ounce of grace Warren possesses not to drop his glass or let his mouth hang open in shock. "Thanks, Logan. That means a lot."

Logan purses his lips and nods as he sets up his fourth shot. "Ya just remember that tonight when things look their darkest. That girl's special. Real special. Ya just count yerself lucky she graced yer life. I know yer the one with the wings, but she's the real angel."

"I know, Logan. I do."

Wolverine sinks two more balls and grins in satisfaction to himself as he swallows the rest of his beer and Warren can't help but smile. He never thought he'd hear this from his teammate. He knows he must have thought it very important or it wouldn't have been said. Oddly, he finds that fact both comforting and frightening. He lets the subject rest and offers to get Logan another beer instead. He takes Warren up on the offer and Archangel returns to the bar for another round.

Midway between their table and the bar, Warren is stopped by the man who had been giving him problems earlier. He stands in front of Warren, his arms crossed over his chest. As Warren moves to sidestep around the man, he blocks his path, poking a finger into his chest.

"I don't think you heard me right. I said we don't like your kind in here."

For a moment, Warren panics, thinking that maybe his image inducer has malfunctioned without his notice and the color of his skin has given away his mutant status. But remembering the earlier threat and glancing down at his Caucasian-toned hands, he realizes his inducer is working properly and the fact that he is a mutant is not an issue. So he asks, "And what type is that?"

"I spend all week punchin' a clock for suits like you. The last thing I want to do is drink the same beer with them on the weekend. You're all the same. Buncha money-grubbing, cold-hearted snakes you are. You'll burn someday for it."

Warren shakes his head, unable to control the snide remarks surfacing in his brain. "And I'm sure you'll be there right beside me, considering the courtesy you show your fellow man."

"What was that, richie?"

"You heard me."

The man tightens his fingers into a fist and leans closer to Warren, shoving him by the shoulder with his free hand. "I don't think I did."

Pursing his lips and staring hard into the worn face of the man, Warren says coldly, "Then let me say it clearly and slowly so your little mind can properly understand it. Rot. In. Hell."

He grins as he prepares himself for the man's punch, easily dodging the drunken left jab and preparing a right hook of his own. But before he can make contact with the man's jaw, Logan steps between the two and asks bitterly, "What the Hell are ya doin', Jimmy?"

"I'm about to kick this Wall Street pansy's butt is what."

The man grumbles as he lunges toward Warren again and one of his friends walks closer, still observing from a distance, but ready to involve himself if necessary. Wolverine stops the man easily and says as he eyes the man's friend, "Ya know this ain't about him. Take yer anger out on somebody else. This here 'pansy' is with me."

Glaring at Warren, the man seethes, "Then you need to be getting a better class of friend."

Warren looks to Logan and shrugs his shoulders. Logan shakes his head and says to the drunk, "Suit yerself. I'll trade him in for someone as charmin' as ya, then. Come on, Warren. We're leavin'."

Just as Warren is about to turn his back and head for the door, the man slips past Logan and makes a leap for him. Before Warren can react, Logan grabs his attacker by the back of his shirt and drags him to the floor, then sends him sliding backwards into a pair of bar stools with a clatter. When the man stands back up and makes for Warren again, Logan easily blocks his path and levels him to his knees with a single punch to the stomach. Before his friend can react, Logan says to him, "It ain't worth it. I recommend ya stand where ya are if ya know what's best for ya."

The man then picks his friend up from the floor and mutters something that approaches an apology. Warren and Logan leave without another word.

They walk in silence for a few blocks, their feet pounding slowly but steadily on the pavement. As they wait for a light to change so they can cross the street, Logan finally speaks. "Jimmy gets like that when he's drunk."

Warren looks down at his teammate, feeling a little less contempt than he did only an hour before. "Thanks."

Pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, Logan grins as he holds it between his teeth and lights it almost gracefully with a match. As he draws a puff of yellow smoke, he says, "Don't mention it. Couldn't have that handsome mug of yours getting bruised."

Warren shakes his head and returns Logan's half-smile. "I could have handled it myself."

"I know. Just doing my part for a teammate."

"I owe you one."

"Naw. This one's on the house."

After the light changes, Logan steps out onto the street and Warren follows closely on his heels. They're heading back to SoHo where Betsy and Jean will be waiting for them. Warren breathes a pollution-filled, New York sigh as he glances up at the noon sky. So little time, he thinks. It is already seeping from his grasp. Night will be upon the city sooner than he can fathom. He never thought he could be so afraid of the dark.

[next part]

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