Chapter 5: What Would You Do With a Drunken Sailor
“Jesus Christ, Emma, what did you do to yourself?”
“Can it, Scott. Your obvious concern is like a fine misting of drool--disgusting and pointless.”
Most of the team attended to Betsy, corralling her for the Professor and bombarding her with questions, hopeful wishes, and cautious optimism. That left Scott to deal with Emma, and Emma didn’t feel like being dealt with. Despite his best efforts to keep her still, Emma absconded from the medlab and was currently gliding up the stairs at an almost frantic rate. His orders to stop slid off of her; his quickening pace spurred her on; he was thisclose to using his optic blasts to slow her down.
“You don’t have the gall, Summers,” Emma called out.
He tightened his thoughts, refusing to allow her any access.
“Do that a few more minutes and that lump of coal might turn into a diamond.”
ARGH! The woman infuriated him! He’d lived around telepaths for most of his life and none of them were ever this... this... aggravating! She pranced around the school like she owned it. Her aura of superiority never failed to press itself against everyone. When she sat down, she had to have two spaces--one for her and one for her ego!
“Very original. While you’re at it, how about some tired ‘Your Momma’ jokes too?”
He’d survived the Phoenix Force’s fury.
He’d survived battling cosmic evil doers.
He’d survived Apocalypse’s possession.
And yet, here was Emma Frost making him wish he hadn’t survived one of those times.
“Trust me, darling, it’s a talent.”
They ended up inside Emma’s room, though not of the blonde’s own volition. Giving in to her devious thoughts, she slowed down enough for Scott to somewhat catch up, and by then, they were outside her room. She planned to slam the door in the man’s face, but a slight miscalculation--and Scott’s sturdy foot--prevented the door from closing all the way. While he crumbled to the bed, she went to the bathroom to clean up. In a rare show of generosity (or perhaps even guilt), she left that certain door open so they could clearly hear each other.
“You wanted to talk,” Emma said, wiping her face of blood, “Talk.”
The groans got shoved into the back of Scott’s throat. He sat up and said through clenched teeth, “You’re a hazard.”
Emma spared the man a glance before returning to her previous activity.
“You don’t listen to orders,” Scott continued, “Do you even think about others? You could have endangered us tonight, maybe even some students. We have no idea what happened to Psylocke and the threat she could pose. Xorn had her sedated for a reason! That aside, you have an attitude problem that’s starting to grate on me. Contrary to your belief, your callous comments do not contribute to any situation. What compounds all of that is your unwillingness to compromise--it’s always your way or no way. I hate how you stir up our ranks and I despise your past history. The only reason I tolerate you is because you get results, but now I wonder at what cost. You’re inconsiderate and arrogant with a blatant disregard for other people’s mental privacy. You make me sick.”
Putting her towel down, Emma fished around for her mouthwash, gurgled generously when she found it, and checked her teeth in the mirror. No imperfections, but never hurt to make sure. Then, she washed her hands. Slowly. Took care to use extra hand soap too.
To this, Scott noisily shuffled and coughed.
Even without her telepathy, Emma felt Scott’s burning fuse. Was difficult these days to garner a response from him, and as always, she loved a good challenge. Make him squirm, make him fidget, make him pay the price trespassing into her room, make him use that under worked mouth of his. After all, he’d said more right now than he had in the months following his rescue from Apocalypse, and that was comforting.
Emma froze in her tracks. Comforting? Since when did she care about Summer’s welfare? The self-righteous man would be hitchhiking a ride through the galaxy with his ruffian of a father if she had her way. He was Xavier’s lapdog and Xavier already held a place of mild contempt in Emma’s heart. Scott Summers was like... like... the loose bits of cork floating in her thousand dollar bottle of merlot.
Somehow, that distain got replaced with a measure of respect and a pinch of attraction.
Narrowing her eyes, Emma turned her powers on herself, and for the first time, surveyed the damage her battle with Betsy did. The expected gouges lingered, empty spaces where the other’s memories should have been. Some ideas still weren’t quite cleaned up, but nothing too overwhelming or particularly powerful remained. Why the sudden burst of strange emotion then?
“This isn’t like you,” said Scott, “No witty comeback? No scathing remark?”
Must be a residual well of emotions somewhere, Emma mused. The memories might be gone, but the feelings attached to them weren’t.
“Is it because everything I said is right?”
God, maybe she could figure this out. She really hoped she could. For a few minutes, everything seemed to be ok again, like she’d just woken up and had only started grading those final papers.
Scott sighed, his posture slumping. “About some of those things... maybe I got a little out of hand.”
A twang of pity hit Emma, the man’s gesture playing upon her sense of camaraderie she knew she didn’t possess for him. She squashed her reaction and resumed her mental probing. No doubt Betsy’s working relationship with Scott had left its imprint b-
“But you have to admit, you haven’t been exactly a team player, and it’s difficult to account for.”
“Can’t you just shut up?!”
Last thing she needed was his annoying, pushing, deadpanning voice needling her, and somewhere between ditching him and closing the door in his face, the simpleton took it to mean she wanted him to be here. Could he help? No, his presence did absolutely nothing. He couldn’t contribute and he sure as hell wasn’t making life easier. Jean or Charles would’ve been much preferred over Scott, but...
Wait. Now she was trusting Jean or Charles to romp around in her mind?
Emma let out a breath of frustration. At least she still didn’t trust Tessa.
Scott blinked in disbelief. “I can’t even begin to understand you.”
“So don’t,” Emma snapped, “The children were never in harm’s way and I’m fine. There, you have no reason to be here. Leave my room, go tell Charles, and get your doggy biscuit from him.”
“I’m concerned for you!”
“After you finished saying I make you sick? After you thought about blasting the stairs from under me? No thanks. I don’t want your kind of concern. You may have some kind of hold over the others in this institute, but your pissant ways won’t work with me.”
Through her angry tirade, Emma’s eyes drifted all over Scott. His shirtless body grabbed her attention like a car accident--appalling, but too intriguing to not look. That hair, those glasses...
“OUT,” growled Emma, pushing the man off her bed and in the general direction of away. With a forceful slam, she closed the door to her room, finally minus one Scott Summers. Taking a deep breath, she looked at her quivering hands. She wanted to scrub them till they bled a la Lady Macbeth, but a small part of her couldn’t forget the skin-on-skin contact.
Her cell phone, which sat on her nightstand, rang.
Stilling herself, Emma glanced at the number, grimaced, and answered. “Emma Frost.”
“Ms. Frost, this is Dr. Isa Hayes. I uhh... have your results. Henry McCoy is-”
“Isa?”
“Yes ma’am?”
“You’re fired.”
Oh, she’d been itching to say that ever since the Trump it fashionable.
*****************
Betsy wanted to smile: finally, home. Everything about the mansion filled her with nostalgia and comfort. From the fawning teammates to the Professor’s office, little had changed, and the near stasis comforted her. It made her feel relevant to the world and not some used up has-been passed by while she was gone. The familiarity dulled the terrible times in Belasco’s clutches. Physical stimuli reassured her existence.
Speaking of the Professor’s office, Betsy ran her hand along the mini-bar counter. The wood shined, polished to a reflective shimmer. Deep red dominated the walls, floor, and furniture--velvet curtains, crimson rugs, cherry wood tables, red leather chairs, Persian rugs. Antique lamps gave the room a soothing glow while the more than incredible bookshelves spoke volumes of the owner’s intelligence.
Now, the well stocked bar, on the other hand, sounded like a man’s strangled cry for help.
That gave Betsy a moment’s pause. A sliver of annoyance crept in with the last thought, and images of Charles drinking like a sailor amused her. For most of her life, she respected the man too much to think like that. Yes, he made some incredibly foolish decisions, but by and large, Charles Xavier was a good man who did more for her than many.
“You seem distracted, Elisabeth.”
Shaking her head, Betsy replied, “It’s nothing.”
He sat behind his immaculate desk, the lights surrounding him such a way that made him look devious. Shadows crowded his face while his hands clasped together like a criminal mastermind about to strike a deal. He leaned forward, just enough to seem intimidating and not enough to seem threatening. Even his voice took on a twist of false over-concern.
Then she sensed the telepathic touch. It wasn’t invasive or forceful and it surely wasn’t unexpected. The Professor liked to keep a minor link with all the X-Men in case he needed to summon them or vice versa--in fact, his caution saved her life more than a few times. She accepted it during her tenure here, and now that she was back, she shouldn’t have been so surprised he’d reached out again. The Professor was trying to show acceptance, that nothing had changed and he was here for her.
But she didn’t drop her mental shields. She raised them higher, strengthened them with the Shadow King’s stolen power. Unless he used all his considerable talents, he wouldn’t be able to break through, which oddly relieved her.
Not acknowledging her rejection of his link, Charles shifted in his chair and tried to jumpstart their conversation. “Jean tells me you and Emma might have destroyed Amahl Farouk.”
A safe, calculated statement. He went to a positive, stayed away from being patronizing, distanced himself from misunderstandings by saying Jean told him, and allowed Betsy to expose herself. What a manipulative old man...
Clenching her fists, Betsy willed away the cold, analytical distrust plaguing her.
“We did,” she confirmed. “Emma trapped him and we absorbed his energy.”
His features softened. “Fascinating. How did Emma trap him?”
“He was in her mind when she turned into diamond.”
“And how do you fit in to the picture?”
“I was trapped in there too. We had to merge our minds to overcome Emma’s genetic flaw.”
Charles sucked in a tight breath as he leaned back. “That would explain why Jean sensed aspects of her consciousness in you when Magik brought you back.”
Instead of elaborating, Betsy offered a dismissive, “Yeah, that would, wouldn’t it?”
“Do you understand the complications which go along with this kind of joining?” Charles pressed. “The scattered psyche, the personality changes, the identity crisis--these are things Scott is going through as we speak. I’m sure he could help you with the unwelcome side effects of psychic integration.”
Not long ago, Betsy would’ve been enamored with the prospect and sought out Scott. The attraction she had for him still flickered, and with her deadened emotions following the Crimson Dawn and the Shadow King’s possession, she would’ve loved to rekindle that flame. Jean be damned, she needed to feel--hate, lust, anger, anything.
But the Shadow King was gone. This body... this nature defying, demonic body she inhabited now was never exposed to the Crimson Dawn. The hurt lingered, but Betsy felt alive. Those months before her death were terrible, like she walked through existence with a dampener on her soul. She desperately tried to remove the numbness--that was why her comfortable relationship with Warren failed--and couldn’t. Her resurrection made her whole again and she didn’t need Scott any more.
She didn’t need his pity. She didn’t need Charles’ either.
“I can take care of myself,” Betsy bristled, “I have more than enough experience after going through this with Kwannon.”
“Well then, if you’re up to it, could you assist Scott?”
That sneaky baldy! He set her up for that! Refusing would make her seem like a selfish mongrel and accepting... well, that could lead to an endless road of manipulation and invasion of her privacy. What a bastard! What a travesty!
Again Betsy knocked the rogue thoughts away. “I’d be glad to,” she smiled through the yawn that came out of nowhere.
Charles returned the smile. “Sorry for keeping you up. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through. I’ll have someone show you to a guest room right away. Tomorrow we can continue sorting everything out with your brother and sister-in-law, whom I believe will shed much light into the situation.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
Then Warren walked in.
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- To be continued...
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