Chapter 4: Of Babes and Bullies
“... I hope you don’t mind the arrangement, Charles.”
Professor Xavier chuckled at the astral projection of Doctor Strange. “Of course not, Stephen. My gratitude for returning Elisabeth to us. Rest assured that we’ll do everything in our power to make her recovery as swift and comfortable as possible. Oh, and when did you say Brian and Meggan would be here?”
“Tomorrow at the latest. They have some loose ends to tie up here first.”
“Very good. We’ll be ready for them.”
“Till next time, Charles. Perhaps we can finish that chess match then.”
“Indeed.”
Strange disappeared, leaving the Professor in his office by himself. With a great sigh, he massaged the bridge of his nose. Just one crisis after the next, wasn’t it? The day began with Sinister and his Marauders attacking Scott and Jean while they enjoyed a breakfast off the school grounds. It ended with Sage, Gambit, and Logan disintegrating half the Marauders, Illyana demolishing the mansion gates, Sinister almost reducing the Blackbird to a scrap pile via a bomb (which Bishop alertly disposed of), and Elisabeth Braddock coming back from the dead.
Add to that Hank and Kitty were here, Emma Frost was suddenly more touchy than usual, the rulers of the Otherworld were showing up soon, and well, the man know as Charles Xavier needed a vacation. Bad. His poor heart couldn’t take much more excitement.
Then his phone rang.
“Xavier speaking.”
From the other end of the line came, “Everything is set, old friend. Are you ready?”
“Soon. There’s been a number of new developments here...”
“Come to Genosha when you have it sorted out. You know the place.”
“I do. Be careful yourself. I have a bad premonition about this.”
“Charles, since when has the future been kind?”
The line went dead.
“Great,” Xavier sighed.
Hoping to visit Psylocke, he made for the door. Just before he got out, he backed up to the mini-bar, grabbed a whiskey flask from the sea of drinks, and took a slight swing of it.
“Sean was right. It does take the edge off.”
He tucked it in his shirt pocket and headed to the elevators. The party, so to speak, was in full tilt by the time he got down there. Thanks to a slight mind trick, nobody noticed the Professor when he wheeled himself in. From two floors up, he already heard Rogue’s booming voice and wanted to know the cause without any sugar coating.
Though it pained him to think, even his most adult students could act like children when they put their minds to it.
“... and how do ya know whether ‘not she’s out to hurt us?” Rogue yelled. “Plenty o’ people have come to us for help and we’ve never turn anyone away without at least hearing their story! Ah dunno ‘bout anyone else, but if there’s a chance that it’s her, we can’t afford to just throw her out! We owe it to Betsy!”
“Damn it,” said Bobby Drake, slamming his fist onto a table. “Rogue, you haven’t been here since the beginning. You haven’t seen all the crap that gets thrown at this mansion. If we’d fallen for this routine like you are now, we would’ve been dead by Sinister’s or Mystique’s hands long ago! Get rid of her and say goodbye to another potential headache. Scott, Jean, back me up on this one. We’re stretched thin as it is! We can’t afford to have anyone baby-sit her!”
Gambit, none too happy with the conversation’s direction, placed himself between Rogue and Bobby. “You just went too far, mon ami. We’d been here long enough to see a’plenty. Wha ‘bout Bishop? Or Sage? Or Frost? Or Rogue? Or me? Half da people in dis room wouldn’t be here if you’d act da way you talk. The X-Men’s always been ‘bout helpin’ mutants an’ we do a fine job because we ain’t picky about who gets our help. And dis is Betsy too. Ain’t like you don’t know da woman.”
“Cajun’s right,” Wolverine grunted. “Be a real shame if that really was Betts in there and we’d threw the book at her.”
“Everyone,” Scott boomed, silencing the room, “Speculation will get us nowhere. Xorn, how are Hank and Betsy?”
The masked man glanced at the computer monitor. “Dr. McCoy should be coming to at any time. Ms. Braddock is still an anomaly. I’ve never seen someone with her physiology. She has no vital signs, but yet, her body moves and occasionally speaks, apparently like one caught in a fitful slumber. I’ve injected her with some sedatives to prevent any violent movements or other unfortunate acts.”
“Jean? Any insight on Betsy?”
“It’s her,” the redhead quietly answered. Her eyes met Charles’ and he nodded. Given she was the only person in the room he couldn’t shield himself from, he felt it appropriate for Jean to end his eavesdropping session.
“Professor,” Jean greeted.
A circle of startled X-Men made room around him. “On my way down, I heard some debate about our guest,” he began. “Rest assured that we have more than enough manpower to sufficiently neutralize her should the need arise. Seeing as she is one of our own, the matter becomes how we can help Elisabeth through her trying times, not whether or not we will help.”
Bobby had the decency to at least look apologetic. Scott cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“It’s settled then. We’ll continue monitoring Betsy, but someone will be down here at all times in case she wakes up. I’m looking for volunteers, each doing a four hour shift. Any takers for the first rotation?”
“Me.”
Storm, quiet until now, stepped to the forefront. “I can also organize the rest of the schedule while I’m here.”
The meeting disband afterwards. Many stayed and milled about to check on their old friends and volunteer their time. Some, like Bobby, made themselves scarce. Jean nabbed her husband by the arm and gently pulled him to the Professor.
“We need to talk in private,” she said to the two men.
“Why?” asked a confused Scott. “Is something wrong with Betsy?”
“No... it’s... difficult to explain.”
*****************
Logan climbed onto the small, dusty balcony. Some of Storm’s many plants made their home here (a temporary arrangement, of course), but for the most part, this outcropping qualified as barren. It used to be connected to a guestroom, but after one of the mansion’s frequent destructions, the construction team sealed it off, perhaps in an attempt to do less work. The difficult access was exactly why it was one of Logan’s favorite thinking locales. Only Storm, Warren, and Rogue knew he frequented this place, and the three respected his privacy.
Tonight though, he didn’t come to think. He came because he followed a scent. The subject of his search, Kitty Pryde, had her back turned to him, but before he could get a word off, she spoke.
“Peter used to come up here, you know.”
So much for this being a private spot.
“Hmph,” grunted Logan as he walked to Kitty’s side. “How’d he do it?”
“Took the stairs up to the roof and hopped down.”
Logan glanced at the distance from roof to balcony--ten foot drop. Peter was a generous six something, so hopping down wasn’t an issue. Now, leaving on the other hand--twenty foot drop from here to ground. Not deadly, but still...
“How’d he get off the balcony?”
Kitty couldn’t repress a giggle. “He turned into his steel form and jumped.”
“Must’ve made a big boom.”
“Scared the living daylights out of me the first time,” she laughed at the fond memory. “My room was just downstairs, and one night, I heard this huge thud outside my window. I thought the mansion was under attack! So I phased outside in my pajamas, and low and behold, there was Peter brushing some grass off himself. My heart never raced so fast!”
As Kitty’s laughter petered off, they cast their eyes to the sky and watched the stars together.
Logan lit a cigar. “Just like old times, isn’t it?”
The tradition started long ago when Kitty was a raw, bumbling recruit in the X-Men. For all of Logan’s gruff exterior, he had a soft spot for wide-eyed, hopeful rookies. He took Kitty under his wing, and his first lesson was teaching her to be quiet. The purpose wasn’t to just shut her up, as Kitty often complained about, but it was also an exercise in observation. One could defeat frayed thoughts and tumbling emotions with enough patience, knowledge, and solitude. In those days, exuberance and naiveté were Kitty’s worst enemies.
Now, the enemies were of a darker, sadder nature.
This companionable silence used to greatly comfort Kitty, and strange enough, Logan didn’t mind her presence when he wanted to be alone. Time and time again Kitty sought out Logan to have a few of these moments. Today, the roles got reversed.
“Heard you saw Illyana,” he said between puffs.
The brunette dropped her head down and sighed. “I saw her die again, Logan.”
“Take it from me, watchin’ others go the second time ‘round doesn’t make it easier.”
“But I don’t want any more of this!” she yelled to the night sky. “I don’t want to see any more of my friends die!”
Instead of being sympathetic, Logan took another deep drag of his cigar. “People die, darlin’. You could be a normal girl with a normal life, but that won’t change the fact that people die. Livin’s the greatest health hazard. Sooner or later, normal or not, you’re gonna be buryin’ the ones you love.”
Kitty glared at her friend. “Then how do you do this, Logan? You’ve been fighting for Charles’ dream long before me, and right now, I just want to lay down and die. You... you’re always here, year after year, death after death...”
“I ain’t fightin’ for Chuck’s dream,” replied Logan. “I’m fightin’ for mine. It don’t make life any easier, but at least I know why I go on. Every one of those people gone--Mariko, Peter, Moria--makes me wanna stop their fate from fallin’ onto anyone else. So, I get up every day, put on my boots, n’ do what I need to do.”
“Always fighting the good fight.”
“No,” he interrupted, tapping the ash off the tip of his cigar, “Fightin’ my fight, doin’ what I’m good at. If it’s one thing I know, the world’ll never leave well-enough alone. I’ve tried leaving it all behind, but something somewhere always comes back to bite my ass.”
“Sounds a bit like Magneto’s broken record,” whispered Kitty.
For the first time, Logan looked into Kitty’s eyes. “Man’s ideas aren’t all wrong,” he admitted, “He just has a flamin’ funny way o’ makin’ them happen. Hate to sound cliche, darlin’, but nothing’s free. Every happy moment has a sad story behind it. Can’t hide under a rock n’ expect the best to come to you.”
“Are you calling me a coward for quitting the X-Men?”
“No. You’re one of the bravest people I know, Pryde. Takes real courage to walk a mile in your shoes and not end up lookin’ like something outta a meat grinder. You’re grievin’ for the dead and worryin’ for the live. Last I checked, that’s normal. I’m just answering your question ‘bout how I do this day in and day out.” He paused, then grumbled, “Wouldn’t mind hearin’ a few ideas on makin’ the pain go away cuz I got no answers for that myself.”
Kitty let a few tears escape while Logan put out his cigar and threw the butt off the balcony. In the flash of an eye, she had Wolverine in a desperate, crushing hug, sobs stored from earlier in the day pouring out of her. He returned the embrace, patting the back of her head soothingly. He’d never admit it, but Logan not only had a soft spot for wide-eyed, hopeful rookies, he also had one for crying women.
“Let it out, Kitty,” he encouraged. “Hurt like yours does no good being bottled up.”
“I miss them,” she cried. “I miss them so much...”
*****************
Emma couldn’t sleep. The second Magik teleported them back into the mansion (and incidentally into the group of returning X-Men), she feigned exhaustion, snapped at everyone who wanted to talk to her, and rushed to her room for sleep. Fatigue wasn’t much a factor in her escape--the real reason was confusion. For extend periods of time on Limbo, she found herself thinking like Betsy, even remembering Betsy’s memories.
Case in point: on the way up to her room, Emma almost took a wrong turn toward Psylocke’s old room. Only by the slimmest of margins did she steer herself back on course. Oh, and even when away in another dimension, Emma swore she felt Brian’s consciousness. More disturbing was the urge to hug the man and comfort him, telling him she was fine and he didn’t need to worry.
That freaked Emma out. Other convoluted snippets added to the freak out factor.
Emma distinctly remembered never sniffing the scent of flesh smoldering with hellfire, but yet she knew the gut-wrenching odor. Smelled remarkably like one of Remy LeBeau’s inedible, Cajun kitchen creations, only less spicy. What about the horror of having the Shadow King live in your head? His constant hammering against his mental prison, his incessant yammering about revenge, and the fear of relaxing for just a split second because he could take advantage of any weakness--Emma recalled it like Jubilee’s second semester grades (which were quite pitiful). And while Emma suffered many wounds in her interesting life, none stacked up to feeling a sword run through her gut, puncturing stomach and spine, filling her insides with blood, then choking as said blood rush up her esophagus.
Honestly, if she ever met Vargas, she’d put the bastard’s brain through a blender.
Then there were her own rebellious memories, those she spent much of her young adult life repressing, boxing neatly, then burying under the largest mound of overwhelming emotions she could find. All of them came back like she’d only run away from home yesterday. Her father’s stinging slap burned her cheek. Her dear mother’s numbed, glazed over eyes watched her but never saw her thanks to all the drugs she took. The dirty dishes she washed, the men who tried to take advantage of her, and the people like Astrid Bloom and Ian Kendall who deadened her heart--memories she’d taken great pains to never see again, but here they were, larger than life and absolutely ruthless.
She needed to do something about this. What though? What to do, what to do...
Crying felt like the most natural response, but Emma Grace Frost did not cry. Screaming? No, she’d done enough of that for one day. Curling into a fetal position was harder than it looked, especially when she’d gotten worked over by Betsy. Laughing hysterically never cured anything, and in Emma’s experience, never made her feel any better. Meditation? Please, what she wanted was a dulling of the pain, not a full introspection.
Emma peeled herself off the bed and padded to the bathroom. Warm water, tiny bubbles, absolute privacy--perfect to soothe the body and refresh the mind. Her entirely too expensive and now ruined outfit got thrown into a corner while she ran the water. Minutes later, she submerged herself into a fragrant and luxurious tub. She watched the water vapor dance, curling and rising until the wisps disappeared. Her muscles relaxed, her eyes grew heavy, and...
Damn it. She still sensed Brian Braddock. She still remembered Adrienne’s betrayal of their sweet brother, Christian, and his near suicide. She still felt Matsu’o’s caresses and Spiral’s manipulation. Damn it all to hell. Mood soured, Emma toweled herself off, threw on her silk robe, and slipped out her door.
2:30 AM at the mansion. A little telepathy told her everyone slept except for Bobby Drake and Bishop. The former sprawled himself out on the couch and watched 80’s action movies while the latter busied himself cleaning his guns in the... the... medlab? Yes, and he had Betsy under guard thanks to a royal decree by Scott “Holier Than Thou” Summers.
Bishop’s presence annoyed her. Was that how they treated their own? Like a prisoner? No matter--he wouldn’t be a factor. With startling ease, she wormed into his mind and put him to sleep, making him collapse onto his impromptu workbench. No one noticed and no alarms sounded. She used the stairs, and in no time, stood over Betsy.
Someone had unplugged the heart monitor. So much advanced technology and none of it was hooked up to Betsy. Only the IV dripped away. One brief touch on the woman’s wrist revealed no pulse. A minute’s time showed no breathing.
But Emma knew Betsy lived. The psychic bond between them still existed, and occasionally, flashes of disturbing dreams would hit Emma. They were almost worse than the unwanted memories.
Under this assault of images and emotions, Emma made her decision.
She admired Betsy for her determination. All too often she’d seen prideful people break, but Elisabeth Braddock had a rare stubbornness possessed by few--Emma considered herself one of those few. Yet, underneath the sure stride and icy blood lurked a girl who hadn’t found her place in the world, who despite being full-grown had serious questions about her identity. No one understood her problems, no one could help her with herself, and even when surrounded by others, she was alone. Burned too many times to count, she forged on ahead, sure that whatever the future held could only be an improvement over the present, only the future held new lows. Emma knew the feeling well, she herself a repeated victim of this cycle. With their combined experiences, the disappointment, anger, and helplessness multiplied, and she knew Betsy didn’t need the extra pain.
Gracefully, Emma touched Betsy’s cheek. She considered the woman beautiful, inside and out, and Emma hated spoiling beauty. Emma’s memories, especially her time in the Hellfire Club, weren’t a bowl of cherries, and Emma wished none of those thoughts on anyone else, least of all Betsy. The woman had a tough road ahead of her, and she needed all her strength if she wanted to come out intact.
People accused Emma of many things, but none ever accused the White Queen of not cleaning up after herself. She made a mess in Betsy’s mind, and she would put this right.
Her fingers inched up, brushing from Betsy’s cheek to her temple. She breathed in deeply and prepared herself to-
Suddenly, Betsy’s hand shot out and grabbed Emma’s wrist. Their punch-drunk eyes met, sparkling in the eerie, computer monitor glow of the medlab.
“You were going to mind wipe me.”
No accusation. No condescension. Just a statement of fact.
“Yes.”
No remorse. No guilt. Just Emma.
Betsy sat up but didn’t let go of the wrist. Nose to nose with the blonde, she asked, “What’s the point?”
“It’s too much,” Emma quietly said, “We have enough problems ourselves. Forgetting everything would be easiest on us.”
“What about you?”
“I’d mind wipe myself after I finished with you.”
Unlike plenty of foolhardy X-Men, Emma didn’t view retreat as cowardice. If you didn’t have to deal with it any more, Emma considered the problem solved. Sometimes, the best solution to a problem was running away and never letting it find you again.
Wouldn’t retreat working swimmingly in this situation? Tuck all those nasty memories away, rip apart the remnants of the psychic integration, sweep the tight little package under the proverbial rug, and go on with life. No mess, no fuss.
“You’re afraid,” said Betsy, leaning infinitesimally closer, “You don’t like others seeing you for anything less than the unapproachable, untouchable White Queen.”
The words stunned Emma. Out of the goodness of her heart, she went to calm Betsy’s mind. Have no doubts about it, Betsy needed solace--whatever Emma felt reflected itself on Betsy. Her fitful unconsciousness proved the vastness of her pain.
As she yanked her wrist away, Emma’s eyes narrowed. “I come here to help you and this is the thanks I get?”
Unfazed, Betsy stood and forced Emma to back away. “You have my thanks, but you can’t say you’re only doing this to make our lives easier. Our minds fused, Emma. I know you like I know myself. There’s a part of you that’s furious because I don’t see the invincible Emma Grace Frost. It’s the same part that bristles when you can’t break through another telepath’s shields.”
“This isn’t about me...”
“Yes it is. I don’t think any less of you because of what I’ve seen in your mind. In fact, I think you’re one of the strongest, most loving, most kind-hearted individuals I know. There’s few people who can take the losses you have and still find the will to devote themselves to others, but here you are, teaching at the school of a former enemy so you can better the lives of children. You’re not doing this to prove your daddy wrong or to show Xavier how to really teach mutants. You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, and you should be proud of that.”
It didn’t happen often, but Emma flinched away from another’s gaze. Fine, so a tiny part of her felt exposed and vulnerable. The more ruthless side of her feared Betsy would do no good with her knowledge. No matter though, she could deal with rejection, manipulation, disgust, and threats; actually, she looked forward to a refreshing “no-I’m-right-and-I’m-doing-this-for-your-own-good” fight with Betsy.
However, Emma couldn’t deal with Betsy’s acceptance. Compassion took the wind out of her sails. She came to be a martyr, one who would take someone else’s pain and make it her own. She dealt from a position of power, of prestige. Why? Because Emma hated being vulnerable to anybody. The White Queen never owed anyone anything. Now, Betsy turned the tables. Instead of the one giving comfort, Emma receive it.
Betsy cupped Emma’s chin and turned the blonde’s head so they faced each other again. “You’ve seen what I’ve been through. You understand, and we both know finding someone who understands is the hardest thing to do. Why not take advantage of the situation? After all, misery loves company.”
Never one to turn down comfort, Emma found Betsy’s mouth with her own. The blonde pressed her body closer to her counterpart’s, backing her down onto the bed. For Betsy, surprise grew into panic, and she pushed the woman away, her lush, pouty lips and nimble tongue be damned. That had the unfortunate consequence of tipping the IV over (thereby yanking it out of Betsy’s arm) and sending it into nearby equipment, accompanied, of course, by a large crash.
Bishop shifted in his seat and kept snoring.
Meanwhile, Emma had on her largest, most pretentious smirk. “You enjoyed it.”
Betsy suppressed the urge to exclaim “What was that?!” She knew what “that” was: Emma hated being out of control, and “that” was her bid to tilt the conversation in her favor. Maybe Betsy sounded and acted too intimately. Calling Emma loving? What about the taking advantage of the situation spiel? Putting her hands all over the blonde? Granted she’d overstepped some boundaries, but the kiss was uncalled for.
Despite knowing what Emma intended to do, Betsy still fell for it. She failed to clamp down on her wide-eyed expression, and now, Emma sashayed and pranced, once again assuming her White Queen persona to hide her insecurities. That explained why Emma had her left hand roaming around on her thighs, and-
Betsy gasped, a wave of sexual pleasure walloping her.
What in the Lord’s name was she doing with that other hand?!
Dipping her head down for another kiss, Emma’s shit-eating grin faltered for just a second. She whispered in a tender, truly loving voice, “I’m sorry,” and pressed her lips against Betsy’s.
If Bishop was awake, he would’ve seen Emma Frost and Elisabeth Braddock engaged in one of the most passionate exchanges he’d ever witnessed, and that included all the adult videos Bobby Drake made him sit through after he admitted not knowing what “Skinemax” was. If another telepath was present, he or she would’ve seen an explosion of psychic energies consistent with a mind wipe in progress.
However, neither telepath nor Bishop saw anything. Too bad for them... and Betsy.
Thoughts dimmed. Someone was switching off the lights in her head. Memories so stark seconds ago became unidentified impulses. Despite the violation, Betsy felt good, satisfied even. While she cut memories away, Emma stimulated the pleasure regions of the brain. The more she stayed in Betsy’s mind, the more Betsy wanted her to remain.
“NO!”
Surprisingly, Betsy resisted Emma. The blonde found herself rudely closed off from Psylocke’s mind and returned to her physical body, which at the moment draped itself over Betsy and dutifully kissed away. Emma got up.
“How could you?” Betsy snarled, rolling off the bed. “You had no right.”
The White Queen folded her arms. “You have the right to my memories? Don’t forget, Elisabeth, I helped you with the Shadow King, and it’s because of my assistance that you have my memories: I didn’t willingly give them to you. All I want is my privacy back.”
“So you admit it. You’re doing this for yourself, not to be benevolent.”
“What if I am? What if I don’t like sharing or opening up to others?”
“Then I’d say that’s why you’re never happy. You like to keep everything to yourself, including your sadness, and it only gets worse.” Betsy lowered her voice, “You still see Christian hanging himself, don’t you? What about the debauchery at the Hellfire Club? Any of that go away?”
No more nice White Queen. She lashed at Betsy with a fearsome psi-blast, but this time, Betsy prepared herself, protecting her mind against the blow. Their astral projections rose from their bodies, clad in their respective uniforms and ready for battle.
A spear of mental energy flew past Betsy, but it was only a diversion for Emma to get in close. The blonde hoped to end the fight quickly, but she underestimated how slippery Psylocke was and how painful her psychic knife could be. An unexpected slash reminded Emma, and she responded by reversing the flow of energy, overloading her opponent. Psylocke’s gasp gave Emma all the confidence she needed, and she pressed her advantage by establishing a foothold in the other’s mind. With masterful deftness, Betsy did the same, entering Emma’s consciousness through her connection, and like so, they found themselves in a standoff.
Betsy was in Emma and Emma was in Betsy.
*You knew what I wanted to do,* Emma dryly noted.
*I could say the same about you.*
Years later, our two heroines would spend much time reminiscing about what happened after they got into each other’s minds. They’d call themselves pathetic, funny, and generally screwed up in the head. They’d receive their fair share of jabs from friends and family alike. Many would press Bishop for the gory details, but he swore he didn’t see anything.
But the past was always more amusing than the present. What would be funny years later was drop-dead serious now, and this was as drop-dead, very-not-funny serious as anyone could get.
True to her nature, Emma fired the first proverbial shot, shredding Betsy’s stolen memories of Generation X. Proving she could give as good as she got, Betsy returned the favor by dismantling the White Queen’s bond with Brian Braddock. Next went the childhood moments, something both women didn’t feel comfortable with sharing and thus vigorously attacked. Afterward, Emma dove after her embarrassing adolescent memories while Betsy annihilated her formative time with the Hand. Failed relationships went flying out the door, accompanied by private conversations, powerful business deals, and shady agreements.
Now, mind wiping usually wasn’t painful. After all, the goal was to make a subject forget about a certain incident and inducing a splitting headache wasn’t conducive to subtly. Telepaths took great care in leaving no traces of memory tampering behind, elevating this activity to something of an art form. Ones like Emma certainly prided themselves in doing the cleanest job possible.
Neither telepath occupied themselves with doing a clean job. Instead of relying on the “mental scalpel,” they used the brutal “mental sledgehammer.” Result? Pain. Unadulterated, eye crossing, nose bleeding, brain pulsing, migraine-the-size-of-Siberia pain.
The mind link connecting the two severed, both unable to maintain their attacks on the others’ psyche. Of course, they weren’t exactly “quiet” in the telepathic sense either, what with throwing incredible psychic energies about like dodge balls. Their exchange had the effect of a rock concert next to a library, and unless Charles Xavier was in a coma, he would be carting himself into the medlab in about the next thirty seconds. Fortunately, Bishop slept like a baby...
Until Betsy, hanging on the bed for support, started chuckling.
Emma squinted and bit out between puffs of breath, “What’s so funny?”
The chuckles grew into laughter. “I... I just, I mean.... wow. We are two stubborn people, aren’t we?”
Did seem funny, didn’t it? Emma was sure she arrived with good intentions, but Betsy pushed all her wrong buttons. The kinship earlier dissipated during the fight only to now reassert itself when they became too tired to continue hating the other. What struck Emma the most was that, for being so hurt, she couldn’t remember why she’d been so pissed off. She suspected the same with Betsy.
Fucking mind wiping...
Emma’s scowl wavered as she absorbed the thoughts Betsy haphazardly threw her way.
*Come down to be an angel of mercy. Trying to do the “right thing.” Want to help ease someone else’s suffering. Make them forget. Offer a shoulder to cry on. Instead of thanks, there’s a fight about who has a right to know what about a person. Think you understand someone after your minds fuse but they surprise you. Got in a mental bitch fight. Why? I forgot. We’re fucked up, probably could’ve killed each other. I look like I escaped from a mental asylum. You look like you stepped out of one of Bobby’s terrible movies. Oh yeah, and we’re half naked too.*
The blonde looked down at herself and saw bare flesh staring back her. The bathrobe didn’t do anything for covering up and Betsy’s hospital garment started to come loose. Remnants of Emma’s lipstick smeared itself over Betsy’s face while the blonde herself sported a bloody nose from their psychic battle.
Took Emma a few moments to fully grasp the absurdity of their situation.
Did she really kiss Betsy?
What did she do with her right hand?
Was she suffering from brain damage?
Were they actually offering to comfort each other at some point?
Those stolen memories made absolutely no sense now, but at least they weren’t painful anymore. Good or bad?
And what episode of Springer would they show up in?
“You know,” said Betsy, trying desperately to contain herself, “I hope we didn’t wake the house.”
“Too late.”
Emma and Betsy turned in the general direction of the voice, which belonged to Bishop. Beside him stood Tessa (in some strikingly elegant, black silk PJs), Jean (decked out in her husband’s oversized “I brake for redheads” t-shirt), Scott (wearing his glasses and track pants), Bobby (sporting a wrinkled up Aerosmith sweater), Alex (clad in plaid), Lorna (Bathrobe. ‘Nuff said.), Logan (in his traditional flannel getup), Rogue (covered head to toe by sweats) and a staff wielding Remy (who had on a pair of incredibly manly Carebear boxers).
Everyone seemed at a loss for words. Wasn’t often the X-Men got caught flat footed and nearly flashed by members of their team. They all looked at each other, in particular studying the two women around the bed who couldn’t stop laughing. Wolverine reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar from his thought to be never ending cache. As he patted himself down for a light, a certain something caught his eye.
“Nice boxers, Gumbo.”
“Hey, Roguey gave dem to me.”
********************
- To be continued...
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