Chapter 27: The Loneliest Number
They dropped Isa off a mile outside Chicago: Emma did the mind wiping and Betsy didn’t ask. Each woman returned to their respective mental corners like weary boxers and wrapped the flight back to Westchester in stillness. By taciturn agreement, they kept away from the other and allowed the night’s horrid events to be processed. Betsy thought Emma mulled her company’s options. Emma thought Betsy wrestled with her conscience over killing. If they spent more time communicating than postulating, they would’ve noticed they were so very wrong.
Betsy had no qualms about killing the Dark Beast in a most gruesome, torturous fashion. The ogre made Hank’s life a living nightmare, and a violent dismantling was a long time coming for the evil imposter. Wasn’t this the least she could do for Hank after she did her best to avoid him all week? Of course, Betsy didn’t kill the fake McCoy just for Hank. In fact, if pressed on the issue, Betsy would’ve said Hank didn’t fit into the equation as much as Emma did. From the moment she burst out of her room, the drive to tear the face off of the person or people who hurt Emma stuck itself inside her head and wouldn’t be denied. So instead of evaluating her conscience, which stayed strangely silent and had no problems with her acts, she spent a vast amount of time on one thought which sifted through their bond during the rescue.
Love.
After Betsy took off McCoy’s collar on, Emma couldn’t shield her mind well. The blonde’s train of thought about strength, support, comfort, and love tumbled into Betsy. At the time, Emma’s feelings overwhelmed her, made her joyous beyond belief, but now, she wasn’t so sure. Lust or love--the difference between these words took on an added significance for Betsy.
Lusting for Emma’s body was one thing; loving Emma was another. Could love exist after only a handful of days? They’d experienced a great deal together, but was their attraction built on desperate times? In the heat of the moment, emotions burned like wildfire and little of it could be saved. When the fires extinguished themselves, would these feelings still persist or would they turn to ash? How many ill-fated romances had various X-Men found themselves in? How often had the passion of battle turned into short-lived physical passion? How much damage had these flings done? For Emma’s sake, Betsy needed to be sure of these feelings.
And that’s when Betsy became sure of these feelings. Her turmoil centered not on her own satisfaction, but rather Emma’s. Instead of selfish pleasure, she focused on selfless care and the betterment of another. Though this altruistic mindset ruled out pure lust, the issue of love still remained. Was this love of the friendship kind, tinted by a less than platonic lure? Was this love of the romantic kind, untainted by other impulses?
While Betsy examined the anatomy of love, Emma fixated herself on another creature: bitter rejection. Why? Because she was pathetic. Armed with her psychic powers and Betsy’s martial arts, one of her worst enemies still outmaneuvered and collared her: embarrassing for sure, but also incredibly pathetic. God, then the whole thing about loving Betsy pushed her over the edge. What kind of stupid romantic was she, going all glassy-eyed and swoon-prone when Betsy came flying to her rescue like a knight in shining armor? Emma Grace Frost never swooned, never ogled at women, and never needed anyone else...
Which was kind of paradoxical considering those sly glances she snuck at her companion. So Betsy had a runway model’s body. So she had that sexy British accent. So she had those chocolaty brown eyes. So she had an aura of sensuality. Big whoop, not like Emma hadn’t seen of it before.
Then why was she peeking?
Fine, the unique combination of body, mind, and soul which made up Betsy drew Emma’s attention, not like any of it was news. Her attraction made itself known that fateful night in the medlab. Through and through, Emma considered Elisabeth Braddock to be beautiful--difficult and headstrong, but beautiful nonetheless. Strong, dogged, persistent, passionate, considerate, independent, all the positive things Emma associated with a good person Betsy personified.
How could such beauty ever consider loving her? Never.
Wanting her body? Maybe, but never love. No one could love Emma Grace Frost.
See, Emma didn’t like herself much, in particular the White Queen persona she’d spent years hiding behind. Come on, no one liked a self-assured bitch with an inflated ego and icy demeanor. The abrasive, manipulative character reminded her of that spiteful patriarch she called a father. Yet, circumstances forced the White Queen image to engulf Emma, and after so many years, White Queen and Emma became one in the same. Every effort she’d ever made to better herself or break from the temperament met the same slow, horrible demise. Eventually, Emma just reveled in being what she hated, what she swore to herself she wouldn’t become: a judgmental subversive like her father.
Now then, she’d established herself to be a voyeuristic, pathetic, judgmental subversive. What part of that could anyone ever love? Betsy understood her, made a concerted effort to be there for her, but that sudden pulse of love Emma experienced couldn’t possibly be returned. Her downright hostile mannerisms, her overly guarded mind, and her overall attitude kept the world at arm’s length.
Less pain that way. Less joy too.
Keeping everything and everyone at arm’s length was Emma’s number one rule, and Emma only hurt when she broke said rule. Try looking at her attachment to her students and her company for examples. But, in the past few days, she’d been more intimate with Betsy than she had with anything else in her life. The closeness refreshed her, but disappointment loomed in the background. How could Betsy stand associating with a falsity like her? Well, she did, but what were the chances of love developing considering how much they pushed each other’s buttons? Did Emma want to be in love and open a new vulnerability, one which would wretch her heart out if it was exploited?
No, this ended now, for both their sakes.
“Elisabeth, I need to apologize.”
The soulful brown eyes locked in on and Emma went under its spell. “Why?”
With one innocent word, Betsy sent shivers up the blonde’s spine and rained blows against her resolve. “Because I was out of line,” replied Emma.
As she tapped lightly against their psychic rapport, puzzlement and worry descended over those drowning eyes. “You’re tense, Emma. Did McCoy do something else to you?”
“No,” the blonde replied, cursing her weakened state, “I wanted to apologize about my... my...” Damn, she couldn’t say it, couldn’t give a form to her neediness.
Betsy waited patiently, never demanding but never wavering. Compassion, understanding--the White Queen dealt with harsh, unforgiving reality, not these fairy tale qualities. Emma sighed and sank into her flight chair, frustrated at herself, Betsy, and this whole affair. Why did life throw these morsels of hope at her when it was just waiting to take them away? Why did the world tempt her with joy when it knew everything she touched withered away?
Betsy was just another crushing opening for another enemy. She might’ve been enamored with Emma, but the infatuation couldn’t last. Each had their own lives, their own personalities, and their own problems to deal with that anything but a cordial friendship couldn’t and shouldn’t be sustained. They couldn’t be good for each other; at least, Emma was certain she couldn’t be good for Betsy. If nothing else, Betsy mattered, Betsy was beautiful, and Emma didn’t want to hurt Betsy.
“Emma?”
“What?”
“Can I say something?”
Didn’t trust the care in her voice. Didn’t trust the words threatening to make themselves known. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“And what am I getting into?”
Goaded by the words, Emma glared at Betsy. “I know you sensed my pitiful tirade on love. I recognize that inflection in your voice. You want to talk about it, reassure me everything’s fine and that the feeling is mutual. It’s what you do best, isn’t it? Talk? All you want to do is talk, and guess what? I don’t want to. It’s pointless garbage, water under the bridge.”
“Fair enough,” said Betsy, “What do you want then?”
Good question, one that became more relevant by the second--for all of Emma’s work, for all of her guardedness, what did she hope to accomplish? Quite sobering to imagine one’s life without a goal or meaning. Her hesitation already answered Betsy, but she voiced the response anyway.
“I don’t know.”
Betsy’s stare took on a fiery intensity. “I know what I want. I want to be me, Elisabeth Braddock, not Psylocke, not X-Man, not mutant, not model, not Brian’s twin, not Braddock child, not Hand assassin, not Captain Britain’s go-for. I want to be free from the many roles I’ve been given since birth. It’s hard because everyone expects something from me and doesn’t understand the person underneath their expectations. Been that way so long, I’m not sure I even remember what being myself is like, but when I’m around you, Emma, I remember.
“You understand the frustration of living an act and how much you just need to be free. Think acting the way you do will make everyone go away, but it doesn’t happen. More people bother you, more expectations come your way.”
The emptiness in Emma’s chest throbbed, memories of past wounds seizing her body, the weight crushing the air from her lungs. Those eyes... she couldn’t look away from those smoldering eyes. “Are you talking about me or you, Elisabeth?”
“Both of us,” she softly murmured, clasping her hands around Emma’s, “You understand but don’t judge. You see the world like I do. When I’m around you, I can say my innermost thoughts and act as contradictory as I want because there is no point in lying to you. You give me confidence in myself and you demand I be true. When I’m not around you, my mind keeps returning to you, wondering how you are, connecting things to all that is you.”
Betsy breathed and steeled herself. “You free me, Emma. You’ve trapped me, but when I’m with you, I’m freer than I’ve ever been because you drag me out of my false selves. Is that love? Maybe, maybe not, but whatever it is, I don’t want to lose it.”
She paused a beat. “I know what I want. I want you, Emma.”
A million ways to respond went through Emma’s mind. Her first impulse? Pull away and dash Betsy’s affections. No, couldn’t hurt Betsy so had to let her down slow. Consequently, a well-thought out treatise on the difficulties of an X-Men tinged lesbian relationship unfurled itself. Logic, yes, logic never hurt anyone. To remove the extraneous emotion she could even assume her diamond form. But why be logical when Betsy was being so... so... emotional? Had to match her emotions; another argument would do the trick. A nasty verbal joust could quell all positive feelings and drive Betsy away like a kicked dog. These responses and more wove through Emma’s mind, but most of them hurt Betsy, and Emma didn’t want to hurt Betsy.
She settled on her most primal response.
Exploding from her seat, Emma captured Betsy’s gorgeous lips with her own. Velvety smoothness overwhelmed the sensitive skin, and like a drug, Emma yearned for more. Her tongue wanted in on the action and begged Betsy to let out its playmate, which she did. The two wet, nimble extensions introduced themselves, brushing and twisting and tangling around like dance partners. Their bodies slide into each other, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. Hands roamed, each instinctively knowing where to caress to coax forth the sparks of arousal.
Betsy had a weakness on her left side a few inches below the ribs.
Emma loved it when someone played with her hair just right.
Betsy shuddered, a fleeting finger stroked her earlobe.
Emma moaned, a foot gently grazing the inside of her calf.
Every nerve lit ablaze; every touch excited them. An unquenchable thirst arose in them, their closeness dulled only by their clothes. They needed more of each other, but they couldn’t let go long enough to take off their garments. The mental distance they kept from each other disappeared and the thoughts they entertained earlier tumbled out like two crates of legos, not that they cared now. Bond reopened, their arousal fed back in a loop, Emma feeling what Betsy felt and vice versa. They rode each other’s pleasure, each touch, each caress, each gasp felt two fold--it was like nothing they’d ever experienced.
They strained to take in more.
Not a millimeter of space separated their bodies
They shared one mind.
They melted into one form.
Neither could tell where the other began or ended, and for a beautiful moment, they were free, free to enjoy being themselves and free to let their thoughts roam wherever they pleased. The world’s troubles faded away, replaced by a numbing fulfillment that couldn’t be dutifully described. From head to toe Emma tingled with life; for a split second, Betsy swore her unbeating heart started again. A kaleidoscope of colors and emotions twirled into their visions and minds, and then, like all good things, receded.
They returned to themselves. Emma, still on top, opened her eyes first and watched as a euphoric Betsy--lips slightly parted and face angelic--sighed in satisfaction. The blonde traced a finger around the features, eventually making Betsy’s eyes flutter and open half-lidded.
“Beautiful,” Emma whispered.
“The view from down is nice too.”
“I’m sure it is.”
When the finger ran over Betsy’s lips, she kissed it before putting on a sad smile. After all, they had unfinished business. “Do you still want to push me away?”
But this felt so good, too good, so good Emma choked. Whatever the case, she owed Betsy the truth. “Yes.”
“Is it because of me?”
“No, it’s because of where the existence of ‘us’ might lead.”
“What’s life without a hint of danger?”
Emma Grace Frost never cried, but the powerful businesswoman in stiletto boots wasn’t in: only Emma remained, the grown up girl who decided to be better than everyone because she wasn’t good enough for anyone, the vulnerable woman who wanted to be loved but was too scarred to be rejected again. Tears rolled down the blonde’s face, buried hopes and dreams exhuming themselves. Accepting would be easy and uplifting, but the negative consequences crushing. For all her thickened skin, Emma couldn’t take another disappointment, much less Betsy’s disappointment as well.
“I could hurt you.”
“More than spitting on my emotions, crushing them, and having to be around you every day because I can’t leave you alone? More than watching you, wanting you, and never having you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”
“Don’t joke about it, Betsy. The repercussions are very real.”
“So are the rewards.”
“Be logical
“I am,” said Betsy, sitting up to get herself even closer to Emma, “I’m bonded to a like minded woman who has walked through as much adversity as myself. Out of genuine respect and fondness, we look out for each other to the detriment of ourselves. I just experienced the most intense feelings of my life when only our lips touched. Why in God’s name would I let her go?”
“Because I’m a disaster waiting to happen.”
“No, you’re a perfectionist. Your standards are so high you can’t always meet them.”
“My students-”
“Many are still alive thanks to your training. Look at Paige, Jubilee, Monet, and Jono--they wouldn’t be here without you.”
“My company-”
“It’s not gone yet. McCoy might’ve outed you, but it’s not the end of the world, not yet. Too many depend on Frost Enterprises just to see it drown. You’ll find help and pull through.”
“This coming from a precognitive?”
“No, this coming from someone who believes in you and gives you the credit you don’t give yourself. You’re not a voyeuristic, pathetic, judgmental subversive. You’re the strongest person I know, and trust me when I say no one could live your life and still end up as unbelievable as you are.”
Emma kissed Betsy. It wasn’t needy like last time, but the gesture remained as deep, meaningful, and emotional as its predecessor. It still left them breathless when they broke away.
The iciness in Emma’s eyes warmed. “You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”
“I had time to think things over,” admitted Betsy. “Couldn’t get you out of my head.”
A wicked grin made it onto the blonde’s face. “Do you remember some of the first words I said to you when you came back?”
Betsy raised her brows and shook her head.
The grin widened. “I’m more than you can handle, darling.”
“We’ll see about that.”
On the verge of joining the mile high club, an abrupt mental shriek pulled both women off of each other. “The Professor,” gasped Betsy.
Emma frowned, the moment shattered by one bald headed man. “I only sensed a nonsensical blurb, not that Xavier makes sense to begin with.”
“He said he needs help. Something about traitors.”
“Traitors?” the blonde asked, “A lot of good that does us. Did he say who?”
Wouldn’t you know it, just as the Blackbird cut across the Upper New York Bay, one of the engines exploded and sent the plane into a graveyard spiral. Metal bent and tore from the sudden downward force. Halfway through the unplanned trip, glass shattered and ripped the inner cabin with unrelenting winds.
Emma turned to diamond and covered Betsy.
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- To be continued...
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