Undercloak: Part Twenty Seven

by queenB

"I pace upon the battlements and stare
On the foundations of a house, or where
Tree, like a sooty finger, starts from the earth;
And send imagination forth
Under the day's declining beam, and call
Images and memories
From ruin or from ancient trees,
For I would ask a question of them all."

W.B. Yeats, "The Tower"

Hank McCoy races down the hallway toward the infirmary as he half- heartedly struggles with his bathrobe, still wiping the sleep from his eyes and stifling a yawn. While he had spent most of the night worrying about the outcome of tonight's events and the well-being of his teammates, he finally put aside his Legacy Virus research and forced himself to sleep, thinking it was the best way to forget his worries, the best way to keep himself remotely sane. As he quickly rounds a corner, gaining speed and traction by using his large arms to help propel him forward, he nears the large metal doors of the Xavier's School recently-reconstructed medical facilities and begins to regret that decision. He hopes his nap hasn't lost him any valuable time, hasn't wasted precious seconds that could be used to save a teammate's life. He then shakes his head and mentally prepares himself for anything and everything as the door swishes open and he steps into a nightmare.

The first thing he notices is an enraged Wolverine, snarling and shouting Psylocke's name in the corner as Rogue does her best to restrain him. From a casual glance, he can tell that his injuries are already quickly healing and that all he needs is an I.V. of fluids and a long rest. Pulling off his robe and grabbing a clean medical coat from the wall, he shouts over the din of crashing medical trays and glass, "I don't care what you have to do, just sedate him. Now!"

Rogue nods and reaches for a drawer of extra-strength tranquilizers reserved for patients with healing factors. As he turns away from Rogue and Logan, glad that the whole of the mansion's residents are familiar with the layout of the infirmary and rudimentary field-medicine, his gaze falls to Warren who is lying unconscious, much of his body covered with an array of bruises and deep cuts. Before he can say a word or make a movement to aid his fallen teammate, he feels Scott's hand on his shoulder. "I know it looks bad, but he can wait. I think you need to see Betsy first."

Unprepared for the sight set before him, Hank's jaw drops as he turns his head to glimpse Betsy for the first time. Jean stands close by, eyes closed and expression strained, encasing her fellow telepath in a tight, telekinetic cocoon. As he steps closer and surveys the damage done to Betsy's body he can't help but be overcome with a sense of deja vu. As he fumbles in his pocket for his glasses, he manages to say quietly, "It's just like... it's precisely like..."

Scott nods, a twinge of anger seeping through his stoical facade. "Like when Sabretooth attacked her. They're the same injuries, the same exact wounds. I'll explain later. But I think it's safe to say we should get her into a stasis chamber. Now."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Hank prepares a modified bio-bed as he says to himself, "Stars and garters, as if it wasn't ghastly enough the first time."

As Cyclops helps move Psylocke onto the bed and Hank lowers the Shi'ar equipment over Betsy's mangled body, Jean releases her telekinetic hold with a groan as she staggers momentarily, obviously worn from the evening's encounter. The equipment activated and Jean's presence finally gone from her body and mind, Betsy stirs and whimpers under the low canopy of the medical machines.

Hank stares at her in shock, noting the missing tattoo from her left eye and the ever-paling shade of her skin. He mutters, "I can't believe she's actually conscious."

Jean braces herself against her husband and places a shaky hand on her friend's damp forehead. "She's a fighter, Hank. You should know that."

Hank nods as he begins to fix sensors to Betsy's skin, preparing her for surgery. "It does appear that she hasn't lost as much blood as the last time I saw these wounds. I thank you, Jean, for your valiant efforts."

Assuming a congenial bedside manner, Beast then says to Psylocke as he smiles at her hopefully, "Don't worry, Betsy. We're going to prep you for surgery and when you come out, you'll be right as rain, kicking butt and taking names as usual."

Betsy returns Hank's smile weakly as a solitary tear runs down her cheek. "Liar."

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as he returns to his work, motioning for Cyclops to prepare a sedative for their teammate. As much as he hates to admit it, she's right and he knows it. They all know it. The only thing they can do is delay the inevitable. No earthly power could save Betsy then and it still cannot now. Betsy looks up at Phoenix as she asks with a small, weak voice, "Warren. Where's Warren?"

Delivering a warm smile, Jean says, "Resting. He'll be okay. Don't worry."

As Scott returns with a syringe and an I.V. drip, Betsy turns her attention back to Hank as she furrows her brow, doing her best to ignore the pain and speak to him clearly. "Hank. Promise..."

"Promise what, Betsy?"

Drawing in a shallow breath of air, she attempts to speak again, "No more magic. No more cheating death. I... I can't take anymore."

Hank looks to Jean and then over at Warren's prone form, words failing him. Somehow managing to free a hand from the apparatus covering her from the chest down, Betsy grasps his arm with a strength that takes him by surprise considering her weakened state. "Promise me, Hank!"

Swallowing hard, his throat suddenly parched and dry, Beast nods his head solemnly. "I promise, Betsy. I promise."

At his words, Betsy relaxes against the frame of the bed and smiles, finally allowing herself to drift into unconsciousness. As he continues to stare into the bruised face of his teammate, Jean says quietly, trying her best to alleviate Hank's worry. "She's been through so much, Hank. Had her body tampered with so many times... Mojo, Spiral, the Hand, the Crimson Dawn. If she says it's time for her to go... it's time. None of us will hold it against you. We all know her wishes. And while we know you'll do your best to save her, we know also she hasn't much time."

Turning his gaze toward Jean, he sighs and stares unblinkingly into her green eyes. "Even Warren?"

Jean nods. "Yes. Even Warren."

Time... the most precious commodity in the universe. It dawns on Hank that he isn't fighting to save his patient's life, but to buy her more time. He's already been defeated before he has even begun to fight and the reality of it hits Hank squarely in the chest. An optimist by nature, Beast can't help but be aghast by the truth of it, the painful horrible truth all he can do is make her as comfortable as possible and pray that time is a kind master.

The sun peeks a timid finger of tawny morning light over the horizon as Scott Summers walks quietly into the infirmary. He had promised Hank he would get some sleep after his own wounds were sutured and he had showered and eaten. It was a promise they both know he cannot keep, not tonight, not after all he has seen, not when he has teammates that need him.

As the metal doors swish shut behind him, he surveys the occupants of the room. Logan is still unconscious from the double dose of tranquilizers Rogue had to use just to keep him from destroying the med lab and Warren is resting well, his wounds proving to be mostly superficial with only a few torn muscles and a dislocated shoulder. If his teammate weren't already going through his own personal hell, Cyclops would call him lucky. But as he turns his gaze towards Psylocke and the advanced monitors that surround her bed, he knows luck was the one thing that was not on their side this evening.

Next to Betsy's bed, Cyclops smiles weakly as he sees the form of his wife bent uncomfortably in a chair, obviously ignoring the advice of Hank as well. Scott would expect nothing less of the woman he loves. Her compassion has always been her most alluring and often frustrating virtue. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders as he pushes a lock of unruly red hair away from her face, he knows that if he moved her in the night without her knowledge, there would be hell to pay. So he leaves her where she is and decides to attend his own vigil, his own watch.

Pulling a cold, metal chair next to Warren's bed, Scott sits uneasily as he folds his arms over his chest, trying his best not to think of what he would be going through if it were Jean in that stasis field instead of Betsy. How he couldn't bear to face losing her again. He takes a deep breath as he pushes the thoughts out of his head. If anyone understands what Warren will be going through once he regains consciousness, it will be Scott Summers. And even though the two of them have been through their share of strife over the years, he is bound and determined Archangel is not going to wake up without a friendly face to calm him. If anything, he is going to make sure that his teammate will not feel the unbearable sting of being alone.

Fortunately, Scott does not have to wait long for Warren to regain consciousness. As he lies on his side, one of Warren's massive wings twitches as his face contorts. It is as if he is struggling with something deep within, as if he is fighting within a dream, perhaps recalling the evening's events in his mind. As Scott reaches forward and grasps the bed railing in his hands, he knows Warren will dream of this night for a long time. It will haunt him for months, maybe even years to come.

Through a tight-lipped grimace, Scott then hears Warren whimper pitifully, "Betts."

Then, before he can react, Warren sits bolt-upright in bed, fists swinging as he calls out loudly, "Betsy!"

Managing to save a medical tray before it crashes to the floor, Scott sets it on a side table as he watches Warren look around the room with wide eyes. Finally his gaze settles on Scott as he asks, his words filled with panic, "Betsy?! Where is she?"

Scott can feel Jean stir through their rapport and then return to sleep while the rest of the room remains unphased by Warren's outburst and completely silent save for the occasional blip from the machinery by Betsy's bed. He says quietly, trying his best to calm Warren, "Resting. She just got out of surgery."

A small amount of relief apparent on his features, Warren puts a hand to his head, fingers resting lightly on a bandage as he whispers, "Then she's alive."

Sitting back in his chair, comfortable enough in the fact that Warren isn't going to create a scene, Scott says, "Yes. She is."

Studying the bandages over his arms and uneasily fingering the I.V. needle in his hand, he says quietly, "How does it look?"

Stirring in his chair, Scott is at a loss for words. Should he sugar coat the matter and lie to his friend? He isn't sure if he has the heart.

As he wrestles with the question, he feels Warren's cold stare on him as he says in an earnest, yet controlled tone, "Don't lie to me, Scott. Not now. I need to know."

His decision made, Scott averts his hidden eyes from his teammate as he says, "It doesn't look good."

"How bad?"

Turning his gaze back to the bed, he sees his own blank face and lifeless ruby-glasses reflected in Warren's eyes as searches his face for any sign of hope. Warren shakes his head as he swings his bare feet toward the floor. "That bad, huh?"

Scott nods as he remains motionless in his chair and watches Warren struggle to remain composed. "You knew it would be."

Drawing a deep breath, Warren stares over at Betsy's bed, the reality of the situation obviously coming back to him with full force. "I knew it would be... but I hoped it wouldn't."

Blinking away the tears that threaten to fall from his eyes, Warren says quietly, "The head and the heart always seem to disagree."

"Yes. They do."

Warren sighs as he looks around the infirmary again. "I was hoping Gomurr would be here. Maybe he could do something, maybe take Betsy to see the Hand... something ridiculous like that."

Scott can't help but watch as he sees Warren doing his best to access Betsy's situation. It's rather like being an unwitting observer of a seven-car pile up or a train-wreck. Even though he knows the outcome will be ghastly, he still can't avert his eyes as much as he wants to look away. "But I suppose the time for magic is over, right? I know she wouldn't have it. I know she'd never forgive me if I tried for her."

Scott winces as Warren tugs at the I.V. in his hand, pulling it out of his blue skin in one quick motion. In other circumstances, he might even try to stop him, chastise him like an irresponsible child. But at the moment he hasn't the heart. He has been in this man's shoes one too many times. Reaching out to help Warren gain his balance, his chair scrapes against the tile floor of the infirmary as he says, "Listen. It might not mean much now. But I'm here for you. If anyone understands what you're going through, it's me."

Standing on his own power, Warren stares hard at him, his eyes cutting through him like a hot knife as he seethes, "I'm sorry, Scott. But I don't think Betsy's a Phoenix. She doesn't have Jean's luck. This is it for her, for us."

Pursing his lips, Scott looks to the floor, refusing to let Warren see how his words have shaken him to the core. If Warren needs a punching bag, fine, he'll be his punching bag. Now was not the time for fighting, he was a bigger man than that. As he keeps his emotions locked up tightly, he feels Warren's hand on his shoulder as he speaks, "I'm sorry... I didn't mean that. It's just..."

Scott looks again to Warren. "Don't worry about it."

Warren nods, his mind obviously already turning to something bigger than biting comments. Scott watches him stand vulnerably, in nothing but an open-backed hospital gown, unsure of his next step, his next breath. While he knows there is nothing he can do or say to assuage Warren's mental anguish as he walks shakily toward Betsy's bed, he knows he can at least make him more comfortable.

As they walk to the bed together, Scott offers him his arm for support, but Warren refuses with a shake of his head. He expected no less, but knows the offer was appreciated in Warren's own way. As Archangel begins to cope with the horrible grief hanging over him, he might even remember the gesture and the words spoken on this night. He might even realize that whether he likes it or not, he has a friend who understands.

Once they reach the bed, Scott furrows his brow as he catches a glimpse of Warren's expression as his eyes fall on Betsy, the sensors and wires running over much of her body, the bandages and bruises so visibly obvious and numerous. He looks like a man who has just lost his heart, his soul, and Scott can't help but recoil from the sight. Reaching out to his wife, he says quietly as she stirs from sleep. "Come on to bed, Jean. Betsy has a visitor."

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Jean looks up at Scott and then Warren. He feels a twinge of pity and sorrow through the rapport they share when she notices the expression on Warren's face. His wife then touches his arm gently as she sends, *They need to be alone.*

Scott nods as he helps her to her feet. Silently, Warren pulls Jean's chair closer to the bed and sits, resting his forehead on the metal of the stasis chamber. Before they depart, Scott says quietly, "I'll bring you some clothes and something to eat, okay?"

Sniffing once, Warren speaks, his voice barely above a whisper, "Okay."

Jean squeezes his hand tightly and they walk slowly toward the infirmary's exit. As they enter the hallway, finally leaving the two lovers alone, a chill runs down Scott's spine as he hears the low tone of Warren's ragged sobs and mournful keening, for he knows it will only get worse before it gets better.

In the dim light of the infirmary, the man known as Logan wakes quietly. As he sits in his bed, his head still hazy from the remaining tranquilizers in his system, he tries his best to focus his eyes and observe his surroundings. Next to him is an empty bed, the sheets tossed aside with a few white feathers scattered across the mattress. Through the windows of the med-lab office he sees the blue form of Hank McCoy slumped over a computer as he snores quietly. Ignoring his torn uniform and stiff muscles, he slips noiselessly off his bed and walks toward the softly beeping pile of machinery in the corner.

As he steps around the exhausted Warren Worthington, his wings twitching behind his sleeping form as his arms splay awkwardly across the low arc of the stasis device, his eyes are locked on the bruised face of Psylocke and he can't help but whisper, "Betts..."

He stands by the head of the bed and brings a lock of her long, purple hair to his face as he breathes in the scent of it. "...I'm sorry I failed ya, darlin'."

Droping his head, he presses his lips against her forehead and then stares unblinkingly into her face. "I'm so sorry."

As he turns to go, he looks quickly at Warren and then back to Betsy and says quietly, "I promise to look after him for ya... in my own way. It's the least I can do."

Without another word, Wolverine walks quietly out of the infirmary, his heart beating loudly in his ears. As the doors shut behind him, he feels something twist in his gut, something snap deep inside and he races through the halls, toward the surface levels of the mansion. In the claustrophobic elevator, he feels as if he is going to claw right out of his own skin and as the lift doors open to the ornate interior of the mansion's great hall, he runs for freedom, for the only solace left to him.

Tearing a path of destruction toward the forest lying on the far side of the mansion's property, he feels his vision go red and his anger eats him up inside. So it goes for the man who tries day in and day out to keep his own bloodlust quiet. So he goes, ripping all the foliage within his reach to shreds as a mournful howl escapes his lips. So it goes... until he exhausts himself and collapses on the forest floor, whispering the name of his fallen friend.

[next part]

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