Undercloak: Part Twenty Eight

by queenB

"Don't be afraid to cry at what you see
The actor's gone, there's only you and me
And if we break before the dawn,
they'll use up what we used to be."

Peter Gabriel, "Here Comes the Flood"

Fighting her way out of a drug induced slumber, Psylocke timidly opens one eye and then the other as the florescent lights of the infirmary glare an unnatural, blue light. The world around her is hazy and disjointed as her memories come rushing quickly on her, reminding her where she is and why she feels as if her entire body is one giant bruise. The back of her throat is like a thousand pins and needles have somehow lodged themselves in her trachea and her head feels as if it could burst wide open at any moment. She dare not think about the rest of her body as she ignores the numbness from her neck down, her many injuries and pains too great for her body to register. She remembers them well and thanks the stars for Shi'ar adrenal compounds and painkillers.

As she stirs as much as the stasis chamber will permit, she feels a warm hand on her cheek, a hand that can only be... she tries to whisper his name, but gags on the word, a breathing apparatus limiting her speech. As her vision clears, she sees Warren's concerned face only a few feet away. She thinks it is the most beautiful sight she's ever seen. Without even saying a word, he knows her wishes and removes the tube from her mouth and throat and she looks up at him with a numb, broken smile. Tears spring to her eyes as he kisses her dry, cracked lips and she whispers, "I... thought you were... a dream."

His face shows nothing but radiant composure and joy, but his eyes give him away as he says, "No love. Not a dream. I'm right here, where I'll always be."

Lifting her head slightly, he holds a cup of cool water to her mouth and she drinks from the paper cup, the liquid soothing her parched throat only a little. She had forgotten how difficult the act of swallowing could be, how simple yet painful. It only serves to remind her how little time she has left. As Warren eases her head back down on the pillow, she jokes, "I... must look a fright."

He shakes his head as his eyes glaze with unshed tears and he kisses her gently on forehead. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known, Betts."

As she attempts to smile, her body reacts to one of her injuries and she can't help but wince as she coughs herself into spasms. She would ask for more medicine to numb the pain, but she knows she needs to be awake and alert. She can feel the world growing dim around her and she has so much to say, so much to share before she can leave it. As her head falls back to the pillow, she feels Warren dab her mouth and nose with a tissue and as she opens her eyes again, she can see the worry on his face as he tries to hide the scarlet-stained cloth from her. 'Eyes wide open,' she thinks. 'We've got to face this together.'

She turns her head to look at him as she struggles to speak. "Warren. I'm... I'm dying."

He nods slowly as he brushes a lock of hair away from her face. "I know."

After another coughing fit, she manages the raspy words, "I won't last... another day."

Furrowing his brow and looking down at her with pained but unblinking eyes, he says quietly, "I know that, too. Shh. No more words. Save your strength. Speak to me telepathically."

She closes her eyes as she reaches out to him through their telepathic rapport, cautious of doing so considering her state and the damage it could cause if she died while in his mind. She thinks that when the time comes, she will be able to close the link and spare Warren the pain of feeling her death. In the meantime, she knows it is worth the risk for both of them. She cannot leave without being close to him like this one more time.

*I love you, Warren.*

*I love you, Betsy.*

As their minds coil together, Betsy does her best to shield Warren from her physical pain, though he seems to gravitate toward it, thinking in some way that it is his alone to bear. She stops short of pushing him away as she says tenderly, yet forcefully, *No. Let me save you from this at least.*

They both open their eyes and Warren nods as he pulls his chair closer to her and drapes his arms over the bed, resting his head awkwardly on the pillow next to hers. He leaves her pain alone as he whispers, "You still smell like jasmine."

At those simple words, Betsy's eyes grow damp as Warren kisses her sorrow away as best he can, adding his salty tears to her own. *It can't end like this,* she speaks desperately through their rapport. *No. Not like this. Not trapped in this bed. Not with these machines. I can't even touch your face. I can't even see the sky... can't even feel the sun on my skin.*

Before she can send another thought, she hears the hydraulic hiss of the stasis chamber as Warren releases it and pulls sensors and wires free from her skin. Even though he is bruised and wounded, as his wings hover over her, turning the harsh light of the infirmary into a shimmering translucence, she knows he is her very own Angel of Mercy. Free of the stasis field, her wounds cry out to her painfully. But she fights back the pain as best she can, knowing that she can endure anything in order to be free this one last time.

She struggles to sit on her own power as she looks past the bandages that cover her body to Warren's face. He smiles at her, tears finally spilling out of his eyes as he removes the medical equipment from her body and cradles her in his arms. Returning his smile, she wraps her weak arms around his neck as they leave the infirmary together. And as she buries her face in his chest and listens to the strong beat of his heart, she knows she has never been happier in her entire life.

As Archangel makes his way toward the back door of the mansion, Betsy secure in his wounded arms, he notices nothing but her... the smell of her, the weight of her, the precious thoughts that twine tightly around his own. So he doesn't notice as Hank McCoy moves to intercept him and his love, speaking words of protest and "weakened conditions." He doesn't notice as Remy LeBeau places a hand on the worried doctor's shoulder, whispering about privacy and "last goodbyes" as the blue-furred doctor finally concedes silently, knowing in his heart that often the best medicine is compassion and love. Warren doesn't even notice as a small group gather at the back door, some clasping hands, some breathing prayers, and watch him carry his precious bundle across the warm lawn.

He sets her down on a small rise overlooking Spuyten Dyvil Cove as the sun hangs low in the clear, blue sky. Birds chirp in the trees and the grass blows from a gentle breeze as he gathers her in his arms and whispers, "I took you to your favorite spot."

Betsy nods gently as she looks out over the water, the first fingers of the impending sunset casting an orange glint across the shimmering lake. *The best view on campus.*

Reaching a hand up to wipe a tear from Warren's cheek, she thinks into his mind, *I've been so lucky in this life.*

As he leans his head down to kiss her lips, he ignores the sharp tang of her blood on his tongue and breathes her in, wishing this moment would freeze itself in time, wishing the sun would never set over the trees. But time has always been his enemy. "I love you so much."

*I know, dearest. I know.*

He pulls her to his chest as his wings wrap securely around them both, protecting them from the quickly approaching inevitability of goodbye. As he closes his eyes, he feels a swell of thoughts and memories pour through their rapport and he allows himself to become lost in them, living a lifetime of secrets and unspoken desires in a matter of minutes. For the first time since he has known her, he has actually seen Betsy in her entirety. She is more beautiful than he could have ever imagined, more real and true than the earth they sit on.

He is not sure how he will go on without her.

Attempting to keep the wings of her butterfly beating in his heart, a cold shiver forms on his skin as he feels her pulling away from him, attempting to sever her end of the rapport and retreat into her own mind. His eyes snap open as he says quietly, "No."

His wings spring away from her body and he holds her tightly to his chest as he mutters, "You can't leave me, Betts. You can't."

Looking at him with fading, violet eyes, Betsy whispers, "But I'm free. I'm finally free."

He shakes his head and buries his face in her hair as he clutches desperately at the retreating tendrils of her astral form. "Promise... you'll go on without me."

Betsy coughs weakly and Warren pretends not to notice the quickly fading color of her skin. "Warren. I love you. Let me go. Please... let go. For me."

Warren whimpers as he finally gives into the full force of his grief, "No, Betts. No!"

And then as the sun sets over Breakstone Lake, the last breath leaves Elizabeth Braddock's body and she is gone, her body growing cold as Warren looks up at the pitiless sky through tear-blurred eyes, crying out her name as his world falls to helpless bits on the ground.

"We're so sorry for your loss, Warren."

"She will be missed. She was a great woman, a wonderful person."

"She was the bravest person I've ever met."

Words and faces stream by Warren Worthington as he stands unspeaking in the drawing room of Braddock Manor. He stares into the slowly crackling fire in the large fire place, each low flame flickering bright and unheeded in his unblinking eyes. It was a beautiful ceremony, he understands from Kurt Wagner. He said that Betsy would have liked it. It was truthful and simply elegant, just like her. Warren wishes he could agree, but he can barely remember it. Every minute of the last three days has transpired in a motley blur of numb sadness and panic, cold anger and denial.

The simple ceremony passed in a complete and utter blur. He thinks he recalls Meggan singing, her pure and lilting soprano singing the words of "Amazing Grace." And he remembers Brian speaking and maybe even Jean. He would have liked to have said something, but he couldn't find the words. There were too many and too few. He couldn't have done Betsy justice. So he stands in the Braddocks' large and very English drawing room as the last of the guests say their good-byes, back as close to the wall as his large wings will allow.

"We'll be staying at an inn in the village. The Lion's Gate." The voice is Jean's. He feels her hand on his arm as she speaks, her words filled with worry, "Call us there if you need anything. Anything at all."

He turns his head to look at her, her hair as red as the flame of the dying fire on the far side of the room, and nods to acknowledge her offer. Next to her, Scott extends a hand as he says simply, "You're in our thoughts."

He shakes the offered hand absently as he hides once again in his own lonely reality, not willing to face the sympathy of the outside world or the pain he's pushed into the far crevices of his mind. As Jean and Scott reluctantly leave his side, he turns his gaze to the far wall. He feels a pair of hard eyes on him as he tries his best to look beyond anything and everything in the room. It does him no good as the gaze bores into him and he shakes his head, adjusting his focus and staring straight into the face of Logan. He knew he was here. All day the two of them have avoided each other and everyone else, their only companion their cold- faced grief. As Logan nods simply to Warren before he departs for the evening, he finally understands that Wolverine loved her just as much as he did. In his own way, she was just as important to him and for some reason Warren finds a tiny bit of solace in the realization.

Finally alone, Warren breathes slowly, pulling the musty air of the rarely used room into his lungs as he steadies himself, placing his hands on the back of a leather, wing-backed chair. So this was where Betsy grew up. It seems so unlike her for some reason, so large and drafty and cold. He closes his eyes as he imagines her running through the halls, playing tag with her brother, blond pigtails bobbing against her shoulders as she finally catches him and declares him "it." He can see the frustration in Brian's young face, smell the scent their father's pipe as they race for the study, feel the texture of the heavy rug under her feet as she spins and dodges her brother's outstretched hand. It is as if he is there himself, as if it were... real?

His eyes snap open as ghostly, child-like laughter rings in his ears. In the periphery of his vision, he thinks he sees her running quickly away... as if she wants him to give chase, to start the game all over again. He spins quickly on his heel and comes face to face with Meggan, her green eyes wide with surprise as she cries out and then giggles in spite of herself. As he looks over her shoulder with wild eyes, he notices the room is completely empty save the two of them.

Her face etched with empathetic concern, Meggan asks quietly, "What is it, Warren?"

Meggan nods as she floats a few inches off the floor and wraps her arms protectively around herself. "Yes, it has been."

They stay there in silence for a few moments, both staring awkwardly at the floor before she finally continues, "Brian sent me to find you. He's got a pot of tea on if you would like some."

"That would be nice. Thank you, Meggan."

Meggan smiles and turns to lead him to the kitchen at the back of the house. The two walk through the main hall of Braddock Manor and past a large collection of family portraits, both ancestors and more recent images. Their unblinking eyes seem to bore a hole into Warren's soul as he walks by them and he averts his eyes quickly, daring not to find Betsy's likeness in any of their features.

As he finally steps into the warm, homey light of the kitchen, Warren finds himself at ease for the first time since he set foot on the grounds. The kitchen is bright and inviting, cheery and real. And as he sees Brian seated at the table, his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and tie loose with a warm fire roaring behind him, he understands why Betsy always thought of this place as her real home.

Getting quickly to his feet, Brian pulls a chair out for Warren and Meggan pours him a cup of tea. Warren sits, letting his wings droop over the low back of the chair as he rests his elbows on his table. He nods and thanks them both as he takes a sip of the tea. As he swallows, the rich scent fills his palate and warms his stomach and he is truly thankful for their hospitality.

Brian takes a sip of his own tea and sets it down gently on the table as he says, "I took the liberty of preparing a room for you here. It's ready for you as soon as you'd like."

Warren wraps his hands around the delicate cup. "Thank you. I hadn't even thought to make arrangements. That's too kind of you."

He lifts his eyes as Meggan hovers close to Brian, studying them both with reserved compassion. "It was Meggan's idea. She's been such a help through all of this."

Warren crooks his mouth in a faint smile as he looks thoughtfully at her. "Yes. Thank you. For everything."

Meggan beams as she nods her head low toward Warren and squeezes Brian's hand as she says, "Now I'll leave you two alone. Let me know if you need anything?"

Brian watches her retreating form, love abundantly apparent in his eyes, and Warren cannot help but recoil at the expression. He fights down his momentary twinge of jealousy for the love the two share as well as the pain and emptiness he's battled with for the last three days. Across the table, he hears Brian breath a sigh as he speaks in a deep baritone voice, "I want you to know that you're welcome to stay as long as you want and return whenever you wish. I have long thought of you as family, even though we hadn't met before yesterday. You will always be welcome in my home."

Warren purses his lips and clears his throat. "Thank you. That means a lot, Brian. Betsy spoke of you so often, I feel as if I already know everything about you."

Smiling a warm grin, Brian says mirthfully, "I know the feeling."

Lifting his cup again to his lips, Warren takes another sip. As he sets it down in the saucer, he says awkwardly, "I'm... I'm just glad she made it back here one more time... before..."

Brian speaks, relieving him of his uncomfortable burden, "I am, too. It was good to see her. Good to talk to her."

Warren nods as he feels Brian's eyes on him, studying him with a concerned expression. "She loved you so much, Warren. You made her happier than I have ever known her. For the first time in her life... she seemed complete."

Tears form in Warren's eyes as he bites his lip and folds his shaking hands in his lap. Though he's heard people speak of Betsy all day, these words are the first that have really touched him, the first to have cut to his heart. Perhaps it is because of the special bond she shared with her brother, or maybe it is because there is so much of her in his accent and expressions. Regardless, he feels as if the world is spinning around him as he says unsteadily, "I'm just glad I was fortunate enough to know her."

"As am I."

They sit in silence for a long while as Warren works hard to regain his composure long enough to bid Brian good night and find his room. He finishes his tea with barely steady hands and then he says, "I think I'll be off to bed now. It's all been such a circus."

Brian collects his cup and saucer as he says quietly, "You could probably use some time alone. Your room is up the main stairs and at the end of the hall."

Standing as he pushes his chair away from the table, Warren looks around the room feeling as if he has forgotten something, but pays it no heed as he extends his hand to Brian. "Thank you so much for putting me up. It means a lot."

Brian grips his hand in a tight handshake, his eyes warm and real... like family, Warren thinks. "It means a great deal to me, too. Rest well, Warren. Sweet dreams."

Taking a deep breath as he exits the room and ascends the dimly lit staircase, he knows he has a fitful night of sleep to look forward to, most likely plagued with nightmares and murky half- dreams of Betsy. As images of their life together pass through his thoughts, he pauses in the hallway as his knees nearly buckle beneath him and he braces himself against the oak-paneled wall for support. Shaking his head and wandering aimlessly down the hallway, he swears he can smell her perfume and hear the gentle murmuring of her voice in the back of his mind. He shakes off the sensation and attempts to clear his thoughts as he realizes he has stumbled into the wrong room.

As his eyes adjust to the dark room, lit only by the light from the hallway and the tiny sliver of a moon that has risen over the English countryside, he sees a shelf adorned with riding trophies, a curio filled with small porcelain figurines, and a silver-plated vanity set. Without thinking, he picks up a small horsehair brush and lets his fingers linger over the engraved initials on the back. Her initials. This is her room, her things, and her past. As he sets the brush back in its place, he turns his head, half expecting to see her behind him, laughing that lilting laugh of hers or chastising him for being so melancholy.

But she's not there. No, it is just him standing in a room full of memories... alone.

He swallows hard as he walks quickly out of the room, rushing for the safety of his own room. As he turns the crystal doorknob of the guestroom and shuts the door behind him, he realizes that sleep will not come easy, not tonight or the next and he's not sure if his dreams will ever be sweet again.

"The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, -- 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, -- to sleep; --
To sleep! Perchance to dream: -- ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause..."

William Shakespeare
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
Act III, Scene I

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