Chapter 6: When in Doubt, Run
The next day proved much more energetic, though less eventful, than the previous. Three former X-Men--Hank, Kitty, and Betsy--returned, and pretty much everyone wanted to talk to at least one of them. Early in the morning, Brian and Meggan showed up, thereby occupying Rachel and Kurt’s time as the Excalibur teammates caught up (that was, of course, after the visitors had a lengthy meeting with Charles). The Braddocks breathed a sigh of relief when they heard Betsy was up and about. Determined to help their friend as much as they could, Remy and Rogue volunteered to move Betsy’s things out of storage: giving the woman back her own private space would be a nice start reasoned Remy. As for Kitty, she hung out with Ororo as they talked about recent happenings and the older woman’s reoccurring friction with the Professor.
And Hank?
“Oh my stars and garters,” he mumbled.
Jean sat across from him soothing his enormous headache by using her powers. The migraine-like symptoms had been there since he woke, and like the aftermath of a bad drinking binge, he couldn’t remember how he got back to the mansion. He’d left months ago, right after...
“Betsy!” he gasped.
Sensing his impending breakdown, Jean staved off Hank’s recollections. She bottlenecked the memories, slowing their progress so they wouldn’t rattle him as much. Bits and pieces flowed into his consciousness, and while they didn’t lack for impact, at least he had an opportunity to ready himself.
The Beast gratefully sighed. “Thank you, Jean.”
“She’s ok now,” the redhead said, watching him muse over his thoughts. “Emma and Kitty got her back.”
“Where is she now?”
A telepathic search told her, “Settling down in her room.”
Pause, then, “Do you think she blames me for her death?”
Jean patted Hank’s furry hand. “I can’t answer for her, but my guess would be no.”
“She said she did though. She made me relive that day and showed me what I could’ve done.”
“She wasn’t herself, Hank.”
“What happened?”
Finally repairing most of the psychic trauma, Jean stood and straightened her clothes. “It’s Betsy’s story to tell. I think she’s just as afraid to talk to you as you are to her.”
“I’ll trust your impeccable judgment,” breathed Hank as he massaged his temples, “You’ve never been wrong about things like this.”
The redheaded smiled and offered her hand to him. “Come on, both of us need a late lunch.” Then, she added with a twinkle in her eye, “My treat.”
Slipping back into his lighthearted role was too easy, and as Charles had noted many times, one of his knee-jerk defense mechanisms. Hank placed a furry palm on his chest and swooned in his best Southern Belle imitation, “Why Ms. Grey! I’d be honored if you’d buy me a fine meal!”
They bantered all the way from the medlab to the dining room, which, in light of the recent guests, returning friends, and uncharacteristically idle X-Men, contained a buffet spread of everyone’s favorites. Well, that is, used to contain everyone’s favorites. Most of the team had already whirlwinded through, and what remained looked pitiful.
Sandwiches remained the one ray of hope.
Still in his effeminate voice, Hank gasped, “Leftovers! Deeeelicious! Ms. Grey, your frugal ways are exceeded only by your stunning beauty!”
Jean playfully smacked the back of his head for that one.
The good news about catching lunch after midday--privacy. Perfect time to broach tough subjects, break the ice, catch up on old times, and ease concerns, though not necessarily in that order.
Jean started easy. Between bites of greasy chips, she asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Remind me to stop waking up in odd places after a night on the town.”
“I’m serious, Hank. How are you?”
“As well as can be expected,” he laughed humorlessly. “Life as a retired X-Man isn’t as colorful as it once was. Been a straggler here and there, mostly cobbling side work for Stark Solutions. My good man Tony has been doing heavy lobbying to get me back into the Avengers despite my repeated declines. I swear, he has the most one-track mind I’ve honestly ever met. Can you say stubborn? Bejeezus! He’s an absolute nutcase when he puts his parietal lobe to it!”
No matter how interested in Tony Stark’s life Jean was--as evidenced by all those tabloids piled in her room--she wanted to know about the less neutral subjects, stuff like his plans, his state of mind, or hey, maybe even what Betsy did to him after he got captured. “Hank,” she interrupted, stopping him mid-ramble, “You’re babbling again.”
“Oh my stars and garters, I believe I am. My apologies, Jean. Where have my manners gone? On sabbatical perhaps?”
The redhead pushed her food away and fixed her eyes on the man in front of her. “We’re all here for you, Hank. If you need anything or have any problems, you can always come back to us. You know that, right?” When he didn’t reply, Jean just continued on. “Have you had a chance to think things over? The mansion hasn’t been the same without you. I... We miss you.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he whispered, “But returning has never been an option.”
“Be a teacher. Help us with research. Anything. We want you here.”
He’d imagined this exact conversation many times before. In dreams--daydreams or otherwise--he went through scenarios with each member of the X-Men and firmly stood by his absence from the team. However, as the Danger Room showed, simulation didn’t equate to reality. The steadfast demeanor, staunch defense, and stout, determined heart couldn’t even begin to counter Jean’s sad, soulful eyes.
His voice got raspy and he coughed to clear it. “I love all of you and would be overjoyed to be part of your lives again, but I don’t have the fortitude to be an X-Man anymore. Even if I was to be a mere teacher, I will still be embroiled in what I’ve tried so hard to avoid.”
“You can’t hide from adversity.”
“Yes I can!” he yelled, bringing his meaty fists down on the table. The brief, wild fury in his eyes subsided, and he muttered some choice words to chastise himself over the outburst. “Part of me dies every time one of you comes back wounded. Everyone else can go away and negotiate peace with themselves, but I have to treat you. Every gunshot, head trauma, and egregious mutant attack, I wonder to myself if I could’ve done more.”
“You’re a miracle worker, Hank,” lauded Jean, taking his furry hand in her own, “You’ve done the best job anyone could ask for, and none of us would be here without you.”
“Sometimes it’s not enough.” Defeat and weariness weigh down his large frame. “Seeing family clinging onto their lives is impossible. Were I an impartial, emotionless medic, I would return, but alas, I am not. I do my utmost to help every one of you, and when my utmost fails, the loss rips my heart asunder. You are not nameless faces and I can’t let you go. I’ve been by your bedsides during the worst of times, but I just can’t do it anymore. My only recourse is... well... retreat.”
Then he added with a snort, “Custard would be ashamed of me.”
The will to do good still shined. The ability to help still lingered. The knowledge to save lives still treaded about. The missing element was the gleam in his eyes, the want to play the unheralded mediator between mutants and human. Everyone knew Hank took Betsy’s death hard, but none suspected it was only the surface of the man’s misgivings.
Those who’d done as much as Jean and Hank had, those brave few deserved a right to be tired of the trials they’d gone through. Jean understood his sentiments and hoped that later down the road, he’d change his mind. Scott, Logan, Charles, Ororo, Rogue, pretty much everyone went through a burnout period, but return or no, Jean wanted to be there for Hank. They’d lost a few of their own through neglect, and she was determined not to let one of her oldest and dearest friends slip through the cracks.
Maybe a different approach would be more fruitful. Hank need closure and a dose of reassurance, so, “When you’re up to it, how about talking to Betsy?”
*****************
“Warren, I don’t want to talk about anything.”
Opened boxes littered the room. Clothes lay unhung, dust covered Japanese antiques, and furniture found themselves piled into a corner. At the end of the day, perhaps the place would recover a smidgen of its lost glory, but at the moment, it remained an unfinished thought. And instead of sorting this fine mess, Betsy sorted another fine mess, one of the social/romantic persuasion in the form of Mr. Worthington.
To be fair, their unscheduled meeting last night didn’t go bad. The Professor shocked them both into silence and they parted with an uneasy exchange of goodnights. Apparently through the course of the night, Warren thought over a few unresolved issues and decided now was the perfect time to work them out.
Smart man too--he cornered her after Remy and Rogue left to get more boxes from storage.
“Why did you do it, Betsy?” he asked while following her around, “Why did you go to Neal? What did I do wrong?”
According to Rogue (who yammered away about this and that in a thinly veiled attempt to keep the mood light), Warren had Paige Guthrie on his arm now. By all accounts, they were happy, devoted, and inseparable. So why, Betsy wondered, dwell over their past and failed relationship?
Maybe if she kept moving her things he’d go away... but then again, she wouldn’t be dealing with Warren.
She brushed off a stray hair and said in her most uninterested voice, “I left because you didn’t understand me and never made an effort to.”
“And Neal did?”
“No, he didn’t either, but at least he was something new.”
Warren threw his arms up. “So that’s why you left? Got tired and decided to go for greener grass?”
“Bloody hell, Warren, you get like this when your feathers are ruffled and you’re impossible to deal with.”
His back stiffened as his face became unreadable. “Get like this? What does ‘this’ mean?”
Oh God, not now, please oh please not now. Betsy hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s eventfulness and here her ex-lover was throwing a tantrum the size of Jubilee’s admirable CD collection. She had an immense wealth of bitterness stored in her because of Belasco, not to mention stray bits of Emma’s thoughts and feelings floating about like cork in a thousand dollar bottle of merlot. The rational side of her didn’t want to unleash this rage upon him, but she couldn’t say the same for every other side of her.
For all his etiquette and chivalry, Warren could be a supreme ass when he wanted to be one. If he were to find his manhood or station in life insulted, he’d call upon the devious cutthroat (which made him the businessman he was) in him to strike back. Betsy’s hasty, ill-advised flirtation with Neal qualified as insult enough, and while she thought they’d dealt with their issues already, Warren hadn’t.
He had no claim over her. They’d both moved on.
Betsy reiterated her first statement. “I don’t want to talk about anything, Warren.”
“No you don’t,” he snarled, snaring her arm, “I want an explanation!”
His powerful grip should have hurt, but Betsy barely felt it. She looked down distastefully at his gesture and ordered, “Let go.”
His actions finally hit him, and he complied. “I’m sorry, Betsy,” he said, sounding appropriately remorseful, “I don’t know what came over me. I-”
“Don’t say another word,” she warned, “Just... get out. It’ll be best if we keep our distance from each other.”
“I wanted to-”
“I said not another word!”
Remy, full length mirror in tow, chose that moment to walk in. “Eh?” He raised a brow, “There something wrong here, chere?”
“Nothing. Warren was just about to leave. Isn’t that right?”
“Right,” the man nodded, accepting the exit, “I’ll see you around.”
The disapproving frown on the Cajun’s face said it all. “Y’ok, chere?”
“Never been better.”
Shrugging, Remy’s sunny demeanor returned as he gestured at his heavy burden. “Where you want dis?”
“Right there’s fine.”
They worked, hauling Betsy’s belongings from one place to the next. Essentials like bed and clothes got set up first while decorations lay in disarray. The aim: make the room livable by the end of the day, and judging by their progress, they’d probably make it if Rogue returned from wherever. On the bright side, without the woman’s chatter, the two slipped into a comfortable, peaceful pace.
As they went about their business, Remy smiled and softly said, “Death’s pretty interestin’.”
A crash of porcelain answered the comment. Betsy bent down to clean up the dropped items but showed no signs of acknowledging her companion’s observation. “Hand me the dustpan, please.”
“Lemme help you with that.”
They cleaned, and as they gathered shards of clay, Remy started back up the conversation. “The light... beautiful, wasn’t it?” he gently prodded.
“I wouldn’t know,” Betsy muttered, “Only light I saw came from hellfire.”
He repressed the pitying, sidelong glance he wanted to throw her way. Ok, touchy, dark, and painful subject approaching. In his eyes, Betsy had done more than enough to warrant the peace he himself felt during his out of body experience, and the revelation of an unpleasant afterlife threw the Cajun for a loop. Maybe a little news about vengeance was in order. In Remy’s experience, vengeance usually made people feel better.
Still nonchalant as ever, he said without looking at Betsy, “Roguey took care of Vargas.”
“Did she kill him?”
Not answering, he swept up the remnants of the mess and sighed.
And despite not hearing an answer, Betsy put two and two together. The X-Men, in the words of Summers and Xavier, weren’t about killing, and some people had problems with the creed--one of those was Remy. His silence only meant he didn’t want to voice his displeasure.
“Good,” she said unexpectedly and resumed her moving.
“Good what?”
“I’ll get a chance to kill him myself.”
That stirred some unfathomable, buried thoughts in him. Those red pupils got smaller, an indication of his concentration, combat readiness, and or seriousness. The levity made another disappearing act and his expression became grave. He dumped the broken porcelain in the trash and turned to face her.
“Over de years,” he began, “only you an’ Logan trusted me without question. Those things you saw when you went through my head an’ found out ‘bout what I did with Sinister, you never told another soul.” Stepping closer to her, he whispered, “You saved Rogue at de expense of your life. I owe you, chere, an’ Remy LeBeau always pays his debts.”
His comforting hand found its way onto her shoulder. “If you ever need anything...”
“I’ll ask,” she finished.
He smiled. “Glad to have you back, Betts.”
Their Kodak moment lasted only a few seconds, and they took advantage of it with an embrace. The man had offered his word, his support, and his skills to be used at her discretion. She might’ve been gone and he might’ve had questions about her state of mind, but the sign of implicit trust went a long way to ease her ever increasing stress. Made her feel like part of the team again. It felt natural but at the same time overwhelming.
Soon enough, and remarkably timed, Rogue’s voice approached. By the way she conversed, she had company.
“... I know, sugah, don’t worry your l’il blonde heads cuz your sister’s settlin’ in just fine!” She paused long enough to look into the room, put her hands on her hips, and squint her eyes at her significant other. “Remy, ah thought ah told you to help Betsy. How come nothin’s done?”
“Mercy, chere. Me an’ Betsy just catchin’ up.”
“Well, less jawin’ and more workin’ LeBeau! Her brother’s here and ah wanna make a good impression.”
“Yes ma’am,” he saluted, snapping to it double time and all that good military mumbo jumbo Bishop marched to.
Betsy caught the twinkle in their eyes, a sign they’d been up to something. Telepathically, Betsy said to Rogue, *You had him talk to me.*
Odd. There was… something in the back of her head when she sent her message to Rogue, like a buzzing or a presence or… just something. Betsy hid the unexpected revelation well and made a decision to keep the telepathic conversation short.
Meanwhile, Rogue, who still stood at the door blocking the entrance to her unrevealed--though hardly mysterious--companions, playfully winked. Her thoughts, however, held a more somber tone. *Ah hope you don’t mind. There’s lotta stuff ya probably don’t wanna talk about, but Remy and me, we wanted to thank you.*
*You’re welcome, Rogue.*
*Sugah, what are friends for?*
“So,” the brunette said aloud, “Here’s the girl o’ the hour. I’ll leave ya’ll ‘lone ta do family stuff. Come on, Remy.” Grabbing him by the arm, she pulled him out of the room, “Let’s get outta here.”
“But Roguey! I ain’t done yet!”
“Hush, ya hear?”
Their subsequent mummers and giggles faded down the hall and in stepped Brian and Meggan Braddock.
“Aren’t they just lovely?” Meggan beamed, pecking her husband on the cheek.
To the interesting couple, Brian coughed into his hand to stifle any witty (and most possibly inappropriate) comments he had. Few appreciated his British humor. “Awesome, luv,” he settled on, then smiled at his twin sister, “Making yourself at home?”
“You have a flair for the obvious, Brian.”
He brushed off the jab with his natural aplomb. “My new mantle is, after all, Captain Obvious.” Cocking his head, he added, “I thought you were going to come back with us after you woke up.”
“I might,” Betsy allowed, “but since I’m here already, figured I should settle back in.”
Meggan’s unflappable smile immediately brightened. “If you are a bit tired after all this moving, would you come and have an early dinner with us? We are very happy about your return! I have so much to tell you!”
“Luv, Betsy’s probably a mite-”
“Nonsense!” she giggled. “We can have so much fun! How about Chinese? Greek? Oh oh, Italian!”
Lift heavy things or eat--hardly a choice at all. “I’ll get my coat.”
*****************
Late afternoon.
Lorna took a hit.
No, she wasn’t addicted. Addicts craved their drug of choice and stopped at nothing to get their next high. Lorna was... fond of her drug. She enjoyed the heady rush of excitement and the spike of power bleeding through her veins, but she didn’t need it. She could kick the habit at any time.
Haha, kick the Kick. Funny.
Whatever Kick gave her, it was superior to what her supposedly loving fiancée gave her. Alex Summers muddled through their wedding plans like a zombie, only less lively and more stoically. What do you think of this cake? Fine. How about my gown? Does it make me look fat? Kind of. How many people should be invite? Enough. Are you an asshole? Yes.
Why, a girl could get the idea he didn’t want her hand in holy matrimony.
But Kick made it all better. The arguments with Alex, the horrible nightmares she had about Genosha, and Magneto, her father, her brave, caring father who saved her from the sentinel slaughter and swore to be the presence he wasn’t in her childhood, the same father who left but now returned.
“Help me, my daughter.”
Of course, Papa.
“Together, we are invincible.”
Yes, Papa.
“You have to use your abilities.”
Yes, Papa.
“ALL of your abilities. Like right now. You have to cloud their minds and inject chaos into their hearts.”
I know, Papa.
“The world will tremble before our feet.”
Why, Papa?
“Because the world hurt us. They took me away from you. They took you away...”
The world has to pay, Papa. You know I love you , Papa. Papa? Are you there? Papa?
Papa? Papa?!
Flicker of light and the high left her.
That was the thing about inhaling Kick--didn’t last long. Needle wasn’t an option because she was out. Lorna found herself lying on her bed, none worse for the wear. A gentle knock on her door made her twenty pounds too heavy head roll at the unwanted noise.
“Lorna?” came Jubilee’s voice from the outside. “Ya got a package, girl. Leavin’ it on your doorstep if you’re in there. If you’re not, I guess I’m just talking to myself.”
The pounding footsteps disappeared, thank God. Peeling herself from the bed, Lorna shuffled as fast as she could to retrieve the parcel and duck back into her sanctuary.
Yes, finally!
The sender? The Kensington Informatics Company of Kentucky, or the aptly abbreviated K.I.C.K. Hey hey, her new shipment of Kick. Had Lorna been in a right state of mind, she would’ve noticed some strange things. Like for example, what company ever got a package from Kentucky to New York overnight when the shipping cost was clearly calculated for standard shipping? Oh, what about the fact she never sent out for shipments of Kick, and somehow, they managed to get to her whenever she needed it? How did the sender know to package only needles this time?
Whatever.
Lorna took a hit.
*******************
- To be continued...
Deviant Hearts Archive | Back to main index