Release, Part Four

by Tangerine

"Don't even open your mouth, Hank," Warren warned him, raising a hand. "I shouldn't have gone upstairs, I shouldn't have gone outside, I shouldn't have spoken to Jean the way I did, and I shouldn't have tore the IVs out of my arm."

"I was simply going to say close the back of your gown." Hank smiled, retrieving bandages from the cabinet. "Though our fiery telepath did inform me of your escapade. She is quite concerned for your well-being, my finely feathered friend."

"She's concerned for everybody's well-being," Betsy muttered bitterly, massaging her cramped neck. "I don't think she realises it, but most of us can take care of ourselves just fine with zero help from her."

"My point exactly," Warren replied, sitting back down on the bed as Hank began wrapping the wound left by the IVs in his arm. Betsy raised a purple eyebrow at the injury, recalling that Warren had claimed he healed quickly, and was about to mention it when Warren shook his head ever so slightly, missed by Hank but caught by Betsy. "So, am I going to live, Hank?"

Hank nodded slowly, quickly checking his temperature. "Everything appears to be back to normal, but I am asking you to take it easy. You almost died last night from a concussion when you shouldn't have."

Warren gave no response to that, fearing now for the worse but saying nothing. There was something strange going on in his body, something he didn't understand, and until he could figure out what exactly that was on his own, he would say nothing about it.

"Betsy has agreed to monitor you for the next few days as a precaution. If you feel ill of any sort, tell her." Hank sharply emphasised the last two words, glaring at Warren to reinforce his point. Warren nodded briefly, turning to leave. Hank grabbed him by the arm. "Warren, my friend, I have known you for a very long time, and I know you like to keep things to yourself, but I am asking you as a friend to tell me when something is wrong."

Warren stared at him, meeting the blue-furred X-Man's eyes. "I'll try, Hank."

Hank let go of his arm, realising that was the best response he was going to get, and went back to his work, praying silently to himself that Warren wasn't digging his own grave. Hank had run all the standard tests and all had come back negative, but despite his belief in the trustworthiness of science, he couldn't help but think there was something more... apocalyptic going on.

* * *

"Will you be staying for lunch, my friends?" Ororo asked, stirring a big pot of chowder, occasionally adding sweet smelling spices with delicate movements. "This is more than enough here for the both of you."

Betsy looked to Warren, who was staring into his own world and seemed neither to care or hear Ororo's question. "Yes, thank you."

Bobby wandered into the kitchen, looking as though he had just woke up. His hair was mess, and he was clad in old jeans and a wrinkled shirt. "What's that smell?"

"Clam chowder, Robert," Ororo replied, slicing bread as a companion to the food.

"Mmm," Bobby moaned weakly, sitting down beside Warren. Warren turned his head slowly to look at him, aware suddenly of his presence when he had been oblivious to everybody else's. "You aren't going to puke again, are you?"

Warren blinked in surprise at the sudden question before answering slowly, "no, I don't think so."

Betsy chuckled softly, seeing the look of confusion of her lover's face. "Bobby had a rather fun experience last night."

"Fun?" Bobby huffed under his breath. "Disgusting comes to mind. That's what it was, a gross version of a slip and slide, only the floor and Warren's vomit replaced the usually fun yellow carpet and water." Bobby stared darkly at Warren, attempting to look menacing but failing miserably. "Don't worry, buddy, I forgive you for it."

Warren looked at him with amusement. "I don't need your forgiveness, Bobby. As I understand it, you did it all by yourself. I can't forgive you for being a meathead, not when it comes so naturally to you."

"Funny guy," Bobby muttered, ignoring Betsy's stifled laugh. "Nice nose, by the way, Warren, purple suits you."

"Touched a nerve, have I?" Warren retorted. "Resorting to personal attacks, that's pitiful Bobby, and at least my nose doesn't normally look like this."

"That's because I didn't have a nose job when I was nineteen," Bobby replied with a grin, and everybody in the kitchen stopped what they were doing, turning to stare at Warren.

"You promised you wouldn't say anything about that," Warren hissed, turning a light shade of purple. It had been done in a moment of a insane vanity, and though he did not regret the move, he hadn't wished it to be public knowledge.

Betsy grinned in disbelief. "You had your nose done, and you never told me? We could have shared stories, Warren. I had mine done when I was a model. A nice nose it was, I only regret I don't have it any longer."

Bobby slapped his forehead. "God, they deserve each other. I wonder what else about them is fake." Warren and Betsy both gave him dirty looks. "Hey, I didn't mean to suggest anything, no, not me."

"What are we talking about?" Jean asked, entering the kitchen with Scott close behind, both allotting daunting looks to Warren.

"Betsy and Warren's nose jobs."

"And I'm going to need another one after that fiasco in the Danger Room," Warren muttered, under his breath but loud enough for Scott to hear.

"I turned my back on you for one second, Warren, it's not my fault you couldn't handle yourself in there," Scott said, strangely calm in his attack. "That was a program the kids use over in Massachusetts. You should have been able to do that on your own."

"You put a security lock on it, Scott. If it was so damn easy, why the hell couldn't I stop it myself?"

Scott neared Warren, who stood in a stance that suggested the fight might turn physical. "Because I know you, and I know how you can be. You have flat out refused the last six training sessions I demanded of you. I wanted to see what you could do, and you proved your high and mighty worthiness."

Warren's ice blue eyes snapped open in anger, and he charged at Scott, grabbing him by the red shirt. "Listen, I've put up with your crap for the better part of seven years, but I won't ever allow you to ever make light of what I went through with him, Scott, or use it as an insult as you're doing right now. Do you hear me, Slim? If I ever hear you say that again, I won't be responsible."

"You never are responsible, Warren," Scott snapped, ripping Warren's pale blue hands away from his shirt. "That's your problem. I gave you the easiest program I thought you could manage, you failed pathetically, and you try to blame it on me. Perhaps, you should accept the fact it may have been your fault, not mine."

"I accept the fact you said you'd cover me, and you didn't. I'm sorry I'm not Archangel the Harbinger of Death anymore, Scott. I have to work at being overly violent again, and I'm glad of it. These wings, I'm still getting used to them, and for that reason alone, you should have been watching me, but now I can no longer kill if I slip up. I don't think you realise just how out of control I was with the metal wings. I could have killed you with a thought, truth be known, I came deadly close to it on more than one occasion, but I didn't."

"You're teetering dangerously close to the edge here, Warren," Scott said calmly, straightening his shirt with unsteady hands.

Warren stared darkly at him, taking short, deep breathes through clenched teeth. Opening his mouth in what would be a string of curses and harsh words, instead became a scream as he fell to his knees, clutching at his head. But beyond the pain, there was blood, warm and thick running from his nose, and he focussed on it, ignoring anything else around him.

*You are mine, you always were mine, and you will always be mine. Your life is nothing if not mine. Pretend what you want, my Angel of Death, but do not dare deny the truth. You are forever mine.*

Warren could see no source to the voice, other than feel that it was indeed in his mind, but he knew where it came from. He wasn't stupid, and he' recognise that voice anywhere. Grabbing close his legs to his body, he curled up into the fetal position, trying to protect himself from the mental onslaught. The words kept repeating, over and over again, never ending.

*Betts.* It was weak cry, the most he could muster as his mind felt as though it was about to explode under the immense pressure. *Help me.*

*Warren? Use me, luv, use my strength, I'm here for you, just let me in.*

There were hands on him, touching the sides of his head, pulling him back, pushing him forward, tearing him apart. He did not react very well to telepathy, hadn't since Apocalypse, but he tried to let her in, tried not to fight it too much, but it was hard for him to allow someone into who he was. He had let Apocalypse, and Warren had been destroyed by the experience.

And he was back in the kitchen, lying on his side, still tight in a curl and shaking as sweat raced down his face, chilling him to the bone. Betsy lay over him, protecting his body with hers like he knew she'd always do. He welcomed her warmth, forgetting where they were and pretending they were back home, safe and making love under a starry night. That's when he felt safest, when she became him, and he became her. He yearned for her love now.

"Are they okay?" Bobby asked, daring not to near the couple as neither moved a muscle.

"Jean, do you have any idea what just went on here?" Scott asked loudly, stepping closer to his red-headed wife.

"Mental attack on Warren, and though the source is unknown, it was extremely powerful." Jean narrowed her green eyes, brushing her hair away from her face. "Personally? I'm surprised Betsy was able to do anything. It was out of her psychic level, but she did it. I wouldn't have been able to help him. Warren's mind, he has so many shields protecting him, I can barely read anything from him on a good day. He let them down for her."

Scott nodded, looking down upon them. He nudged Warren with his foot, and a blue hand shot out, clasping around his ankle. "Do not touch me, Scott."

Scott frowned, resisting the urge to step on his arm, and instead merely stepped away so Warren could no longer hold on. "As I said before, Warren, dangerously close you are to the edge, and when you finally fall over, there's going to be nobody there to catch you."

Betsy lifted her head, moving past the pounding sensation, and instead glaring at the man she had once thought she loved. Now, he was more of an anal jerk than a dashing knight. "That's where you're wrong, Cyclops, because if Warren ever does fall, I'll be there for him. I promise you that much."

The lovers moved to stand, each holding onto the other for support, for strength, and walking slowly but steadily, they began to walk, neither knowing where they'd end up, but both knowing wherever it was it had to better than where they were.

[next part]

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