Fanged Butterfly, Vol. 1: 

 Chapter 6

by Phil Hartman

DISCLAIMER: They're all Marvel's. 
It's all fiction. No money is being made
off of this. Etc.

NOTE: AU; language, some violence, angst,
and self- and external flagellation
(metaphorical, not literal). You've
been warned.

-----------------------------------------

He hadn't returned the calls.

He hadn't been to a board meeting; they 
could survive without him, and he knew 
they really would *prefer* if he didn't
come in to the office.

Better to buy the winged freak off,
instead of angering him with overt
bigotry or financial shenanigans.

And he had other reasons for not going
in the office. 

They had purple hair, and haunted him,
in the corners of his fishing lodge.

Upstate New York was close enough to go
to hide from those well-meaning bastards
who wanted to help him grieve. He was
quite capable of grieving without them.

The shadows were helping with that,
thank you very much. They were like
a great comforter around his shattered
heart - almost smothering, but he didn't
feel like the light right now.

He didn't feel like flying. Even his wings
felt wrong - too fluffy, and there was a 
sickly-sweet odor when he thought about
them too closely. 

Something with talons, maybe. He missed
his razor-wings; they were the one good
thing Apocalypse had given him. 

Death was so much more useful. Death
could protect those in need, guard those
who needed him. 

Death was a bastard, granted, but what 
difference was there between the bastard 
with razors for wings and the bastard 
who didn't have the balls to fight for 
the woman he loved? 

That was the difference between Death
and the Angel, he thought. The Angel was
a wuss - the eternal pretty-boy, fluttering
his eyes and playing Icarus. *That* metaphor
was apt; the Angel had flown too high and
gotten shot down.

Or pinned to sewer walls. Take your pick.

Death, on the other hand, would have
filleted Vargas and taken great pleasure
in auguring the next day's adventure from
the asshole's intestines. Death would've
kept his girlfriend around - treated her 
right.

Kept her alive.

It wasn't that Betsy had necessarily
said "no" to being a wife; she just didn't
want to settle down. There was a difference,
and truth be told, he could've learned to
let her fly, if she'd just promised to
come back to him between flights.

But he'd forgotten the falconer's first
rule: You don't own your bird. You
let her fly and trust her to come back.

(Bird - British woman. Drunk humor.
Very fitting.)

But trust wasn't quite his motif,
was it? Never - he'd watch the others'
backs, of course. THAT kind of trust
was one thing.

But he demanded the ability to trust
others in his relationships - the ones
that mattered, the ones where he
opened his heart. He'd trusted Candy.
He just hadn't let her in.

His inability to open up TO her had
gotten her killed. 

And now, history was playing itself
out again. Had played itself out.

Look at the card ... damnit. Too late
to make the funeral, even if he begged
Illyana to teleport him - and she'd
give one of her entirely-too-sarcastic
smirks even if she had. 

Then again, a devil to taunt the fallen
Angel would be very apropos. 

No, better to let the Jim Beam and the
shadows keep him wrapped up. The
shadows didn't judge. They were friendly,
the shadows were.

And he remembered the shadows - 
they could be vicious, couldn't they?
Even a prison; Betsy had made that
quite clear in Africa a year or so 
earlier, when they'd faced Farouk - 

- OK, she'd faced Farouk. He was out
playing public mutant benefactor, trying
to put the latest PR spin on Charles' dream,
hiding the fact that he was really better
in an office or doing soundbites than fighting.

Christ, he'd hauled a damned BAZOOKA
with him back in the old days to be taken
seriously. Even Bobby had been more damn
effective than a giant parakeet, and the
Icicle'd been a snot-nosed brat.

(He still was, but at least Bobby had
a pair - and a girlfriend. Sort of. Emma
was hard to gauge, whether she was just
toying with Bobby or actually having a
heart beat in her icebox of a chest and
letting herself care. Hard to tell.)

Not that the Angel was going to judge
the White Bitch-Goddess. He was, after
all, the Patron God of Elitist Assholes,
Lord of Pushing Others Away.

Couldn't damn well let someone in.

That was death, and not the friendly,
brave Death, y'know.

But the shadows were suffocating ...

... maybe a little sunlight ...?

Ah - OW -

since when was sunlight purple around noon ...?

----------------------------------------------

She fought back a gasp at the stench of 
death and putrescence in the fishing lodge 
as she emerged from shadow.

#My God. I should've come to him first - 
the Dawn is eating him alive?!# she thought, 
horrified as she walked over to the winged, 
slumped form sitting in the middle of the room.

"Oh, damnit. The shadows are looking 
like Betsy," Warren muttered - slurred 
speech, Betsy realized with a fresh spike 
of anger.

"You're drunk - WARREN!?" she snapped, 
the last word becoming a shriek as she 
pulled open the curtains.

He looked ... gaunt, like one of Death's 
victims from a painting of the Black Plague 
during the Middle Ages. His blue skin, once 
vital, was pale, and stretched against 
bones that showed through his bare chest.

The wings were what made her want to
run - hideous, shriveled things, almost 
featherless and shot through with tumors and
dripping black pus that could not be natural.

"'Behold, I am Death, Ravager of Worlds.' 
'Cept, the 'miracle' of my wings coming back
was bullshit, Betts. I think it's a failsafe 
of Nur's - he didn't want his 'highest 
horseman' to live on if he croaked, I guess,"
Warren chuckled, his voice becoming a hacking
cough on the last few words.

"Apocalypse has nothing to do with this. 
Warren, it's the Crimson Dawn - when Franklin
resurrected me, he accidentally removed it 
from my soul. I'm free, but the damn Dawn is 
taking its price from you," the Betsy-shadow 
said, her voice so gentle that it cut through
the whisky haze Warren was wrapped in.

~Open to me. It's time we dealt with this 
once and for all. We might be quits, love, 
but I won't live free at your cost - 
whatever happened between us, you 
don't deserve *this*,~ she sent, and 
Warren raised an eyebrow at that.

She'd been telekinetic before Vargas 
had killed her. 

~Betsy? You're NOT a shadow -~

Definitely not, Warren realized, not if the
shadows were starting to boil and act like
they wanted to drown the purple vision
holding a psi-blade.

She was still a warrior - not the TK ninja 
stereotype she'd embraced, and how
much of that wasted time was HIS fault? -
but on her terms. And she'd come back to
fight for him.

"Stop angsting! It's feeding the damned
things, and you're NOT a Summers!" the
Betsy-vision snapped over her shoulder,
and she started slashing at the shadows -

- but they were starting to form a
damned mouth, as big as a man -

"LEAVE HER ALONE!"

-------------------------------------

It would've been darkly comedic, Betsy
thought, if their souls weren't in immediate
danger and Warren didn't look like a famine
victim who'd been strangled.

He leapt over her in a sad, if touching,
effort to fly - to protect her - and landed,
wobbling, before her, smiling over his
shoulder in a sad echo of the way he'd
smiled at her when they woke up together.

Betsy could almost ignore the stench of his
rotting wings, at the sight of her white
knight trying to save *her.*

~Except that I never learned that the fairy
tales were more than a little fascist. The
princess almost never got to kick ass, and
the prince never let her do any of the work.
I watched Jean cut loose more often than I
remember - you'd think I'd learn by now,~
Warren thought over their psi-link.

~You're in no condition - I came to save
*you*!~ Betsy sent, fear trilling down her
spine - Warren was about to fall over, and
that shadow-mouth was getting closer -

~Together, Betts, please? I'm willing to
be an equal partner, not a househusband,~
Warren tried to joke.

He turned back to the shadow, then, and
shouted, "LEAVE US ALONE! We've paid
our dues - we gave time and again! Betsy
deserves to be free, especially!"

The shadows chuckled at that, and Betsy
shuddered inside for the first time since
her resurrection. The Crimson Dawn wasn't
mere Darkforce, regardless of what she'd
told Sage. 

It was the distilled essence of humanity's
fears and anger - the *idea* of what terrors
the night held. And since those terrors were
often formless, the Dawn was mutable to
a degree that would make Mystique either
impressed or fearful. Certainly, the Dawn
was no "mere" dark energy.

TRUE, LITTLE ONCE-UNDERCLOAK, a
vOICE - unbearably foul, infinitely
seductive, primally wrong, horribly
familiar - rippled in Betsy's soul.

As long as there's a shred of darkness
in my heart - a speck of fear - I'm
not truly free of you, am I? The bond
is there - it was how I was able to 
shadow-walk to Warren, Betsy "said"
on a level below telepathy.

VERY TRUE. WE WON'T RELEASE THE
ANGEL'S SOUL THAT EASILY, ONCE-QUEEN.
AS EVER, A PRICE MUST BE PAID ... BUT
WE ARE NOTHING IF NOT WILLING TO
BARGAIN, the vOICE chuckled.

Before Mephisto ever held out his 
clawed hand to the first Cro-Magnon
desperate to make a deal, this shadow
had been willing to trade a trinket of
power or a promise of aid to desperate
sentients. Betsy knew she was facing 
something far older and cunning than
any mere demon. 

#It's the antithesis of the light. And
if it can, it'll take us both - this is
the evil that was in the first Void,
the all-hungering Devourer ...# she
thought, fear almost overwhelming
her.

But that path led to defeat, she
reminded herself. It fed the Shadow,
and alone, she and Warren were lost.

~But together - what, you think I haven't
been listening? Give me a little credit, 
Betts,~ Warren thought, turning around to 
smile at her - a frightful thing, given how 
gaunt he looked.

But his eyes were sparkling, again - 
as they had when she'd worn a flattering
dress, when he'd closed a business deal,
when they'd outwitted or outfought a 
new foe.

When they'd held each other through
the night, and woken up together.

STOP THAT! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE
COWERING! the vOICE roared.

~That light ... simple happiness. It's
been so bloody long since I felt that,~
Betsy sent, letting herself get lost in
Warren's eyes. 

~You've never seen me in my first body,
have you? As the simple Lady Braddock,
STRIKE agent turned X-Man?~

~Frank Richards did a good job bringing
you back. But it's your soul I fell for,
Betsy - the rest is wrapping,~ Warren
thought, chapped and dehydrated lips
separating a bit as he leaned toward
her. 

~One last kiss, before that thing back
there gobbles us?~

~For old times' sake,~ Betsy agreed,
kissing him - and it felt *right,* despite
all the baggage.

And she could see - he was remorseful
for chasing her away, for trying to cage
her without letting her have the keys,
for playing the annoying sexist rich boy
when he should've been a man and let her
be a woman - a partner.

~And I didn't exactly stay around and fight,~
Betsy admitted, her tongue finding his - why
couldn't love just be *simple,* like this?

She plunged then - not a sweaty, 
embarrassing tangle of bodies in sheets,
but the electric merger of freely-shared
souls cutting past all the sad little barriers
and fears and lust and hangups.

A telepath, Betsy remembered from her
first wild days, could just take in the light
of another's soul and glory in it, sharing
their own illumination.

Here, she told the suddenly-quaking, 
melting, shattering Dark, as that light
exploded from her and Warren's astral
forms.

You want to devour something? Eat this.

The last clear sight Betsy had was
of a small, winged form, blazing white,
blasting out of the Darkness and flying into
Warren - 

- ~My missing soul-chunk?! And here I
thought I was the master deal-maker!~
Warren laughed, growing brighter as he held
on to Betsy.

And then he let her go - or at least let her
have the *option* - 

- and they were finally equals, as the light
crescendoed. 

And then things just exploded -

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

- and then Betsy felt a jagged barb pierce
her chest, and looked down - 

- and everything went painful as she
landed back in her body, and the shadows
were gone.

--------------------------------------

But the blood was everywhere, and her
breaths were coming in shorter and shorter
gasps, and she was hitting her knees.

And there was a great damned HOLE in her
chest - at least Vargas had made a simple
stab wound, he'd been almost polite when
he'd killed her the last time - 

"BETSY!? Oh God - the Dawn - it lashed
out - some kind of barbed tendril -" she
heard Warren cry -

- and he was *white* again, the blue
from Apocalypse's tampering gone,
and his frame was filling out as the light
shrank into it.

Warren was healing, and she was happy.

"If - KGHAC - I had to have a - KAFF -
brief return trip ... at least I went out
doing something useful," she tried to 
joke, letting him cradle her - no real 
point in harping about equality of the
sexes now, was there?

And the light was back, forming a tunnel
again - somehow, Betsy doubted, Gateway 
was going to conveniently teleport her to 
Franklin twice.

"NO! Damnit, Betts, FIGHT this - SOMEONE!
For God's sake - GOMURR! You Goddamned
little troll, GET IN HERE! You couldn't keep
the Dawn on a leash, this is YOUR fault!"
Warren bellowed - and even his curls
were back, Betsy realized.

Then a wizened face with sparse white
hair, atop a green-robed body, stuck itself
in Betsy's field of view, and shook itself.

"Not my fault, Worthington," Gomurr
the Ancient sighed. Betsy could see the
Proctor's Crimson Dawn tattoo over his
left eye, and she smiled weakly as he
bowed to her.

"Or yours, Braddock. The Dawn isn't
always something I can control. This was 
between you and it - and congratulations
on busting free, both of you. Never seen that
happen before. You're free, both of you,"
Gomurr said.

"Thank God," Betsy whispered - that
tunnel of light was starting to get closer.

"BETSY! Damnit - there must be SOMETHING
you can do! Or me - I healed myself -" Warren
pleaded.

Betsy reached up to stroke his face - his 
fleshed-out face, and he did look good.

It'd be a nice thing, to finally die in the arms
of an angel - 

~What in the bloody HELL am I blithering - KAFF - 
about!? I've run around the bloody world twice -
HAK - since coming back, faced the Primeval
Shadow, and made up with my ex, and now
I'm going to die - AGKH - in a bloody FISHING
LODGE!?~ Betsy sent, suddenly angry at herself -
she was no damn damsel, they'd just proved that,
hadn't they!?

"You are NOT going to die!" Warren shouted - 
and then he grabbed a letter opener and slashed 
his wrist,which was rather defeatist, Betsy 
thought, hadn't they gone through a shiteload of 
trouble to get him back to health?

"Soul for soul. Blood for blood. If I've got
a healing factor - and I have to, to explain
how I pulled that Wolverine-esque stunt
a minute ago - maybe it's transferrable,"
Warren pleaded, bleeding into her wound.

"You silly man. If it didn't - HGK - work
for Logan, why would it - HAKG - oh. Well,
that's interesting," Betsy said, suddenly
feeling warmer ...

... and, well, more *solid* around her
midsection. And there wasn't nearly as
much bloody pain ...

... because, as Warren bled into her,
she was bleeding much less. In fact,
the great ugly hole in her midsection
was rapidly closing up.

And then, it was simply gone. And she tore
a piece of fringe from her costume, and 
wrapped it around his wrist, and he stopped 
bleeding.

"See? You're smart people - you found 
an elegant solution without relying on me. 
Really have to go, now, kids - have fun,"
Gomurr chuckled, stepping back into a
convenient shadow. 

And they were alone, in bloodstained
clothes, kneeling on bloodstained wood,
in the early afternoon sunlight.

"I didn't think to bring a change of 
clothes," Betsy began, not quite sure
*what* to say - she could sense Warren's
hesitation, and she was grateful that 
he wasn't trying to get her into bed or
fussing over her.

"And all I brought was some menswear.
Not that you look bad in a robe, but ..."
Warren said, standing with her and
trying to smile.

She kissed his cheek, then, and said,
"Space, then, until we figure out what
in the bloody hell this all means?"

"Space. And friends, again?" Warren
asked, kissing her hand.

"Definitely. Make sure you get that
wrist looked at," Betsy insisted, before
the astral plane rippled and Jean's 
telepathic projection appeared.

~We felt - Dear God, what happened 
to YOU TWO!? Did Sabretooth attack!?~ 
Jean psi-gasped.

"Nothing that dramatic, dear. Just 
saving souls and making up. You can tell
the gossip chain that Warren and I are just
friends again, and that no, there won't be 
any great and terrible screaming matches 
anymore," Betsy tried to joke.

~Good. If we can impose on your time,
I'll send Illyana to get you, Betsy - and you, 
War, `of course. Scott and Logan are finally 
back from tracking those Sentinels. And 
they've brought back a strange prisoner - 
she reminds me of *Charles,* for some 
reason,~ Jean sent as she seemed to glance
"off-camera."

~She calls herself `Cassandra.'~

----------------------------------------------
tbc ...
----------------------------------------------  


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 Fanged Butterfly, Vol. 1: 

 Chapter 6

by Phil Hartman

DISCLAIMER: They're all Marvel's. 
It's all fiction. No money is being made
off of this. Etc.

NOTE: AU; language, some violence, angst,
and self- and external flagellation
(metaphorical, not literal). You've
been warned.

-----------------------------------------

He hadn't returned the calls.

He hadn't been to a board meeting; they 
could survive without him, and he knew 
they really would *prefer* if he didn't
come in to the office.

Better to buy the winged freak off,
instead of angering him with overt
bigotry or financial shenanigans.

And he had other reasons for not going
in the office. 

They had purple hair, and haunted him,
in the corners of his fishing lodge.

Upstate New York was close enough to go
to hide from those well-meaning bastards
who wanted to help him grieve. He was
quite capable of grieving without them.

The shadows were helping with that,
thank you very much. They were like
a great comforter around his shattered
heart - almost smothering, but he didn't
feel like the light right now.

He didn't feel like flying. Even his wings
felt wrong - too fluffy, and there was a 
sickly-sweet odor when he thought about
them too closely. 

Something with talons, maybe. He missed
his razor-wings; they were the one good
thing Apocalypse had given him. 

Death was so much more useful. Death
could protect those in need, guard those
who needed him. 

Death was a bastard, granted, but what 
difference was there between the bastard 
with razors for wings and the bastard 
who didn't have the balls to fight for 
the woman he loved? 

That was the difference between Death
and the Angel, he thought. The Angel was
a wuss - the eternal pretty-boy, fluttering
his eyes and playing Icarus. *That* metaphor
was apt; the Angel had flown too high and
gotten shot down.

Or pinned to sewer walls. Take your pick.

Death, on the other hand, would have
filleted Vargas and taken great pleasure
in auguring the next day's adventure from
the asshole's intestines. Death would've
kept his girlfriend around - treated her 
right.

Kept her alive.

It wasn't that Betsy had necessarily
said "no" to being a wife; she just didn't
want to settle down. There was a difference,
and truth be told, he could've learned to
let her fly, if she'd just promised to
come back to him between flights.

But he'd forgotten the falconer's first
rule: You don't own your bird. You
let her fly and trust her to come back.

(Bird - British woman. Drunk humor.
Very fitting.)

But trust wasn't quite his motif,
was it? Never - he'd watch the others'
backs, of course. THAT kind of trust
was one thing.

But he demanded the ability to trust
others in his relationships - the ones
that mattered, the ones where he
opened his heart. He'd trusted Candy.
He just hadn't let her in.

His inability to open up TO her had
gotten her killed. 

And now, history was playing itself
out again. Had played itself out.

Look at the card ... damnit. Too late
to make the funeral, even if he begged
Illyana to teleport him - and she'd
give one of her entirely-too-sarcastic
smirks even if she had. 

Then again, a devil to taunt the fallen
Angel would be very apropos. 

No, better to let the Jim Beam and the
shadows keep him wrapped up. The
shadows didn't judge. They were friendly,
the shadows were.

And he remembered the shadows - 
they could be vicious, couldn't they?
Even a prison; Betsy had made that
quite clear in Africa a year or so 
earlier, when they'd faced Farouk - 

- OK, she'd faced Farouk. He was out
playing public mutant benefactor, trying
to put the latest PR spin on Charles' dream,
hiding the fact that he was really better
in an office or doing soundbites than fighting.

Christ, he'd hauled a damned BAZOOKA
with him back in the old days to be taken
seriously. Even Bobby had been more damn
effective than a giant parakeet, and the
Icicle'd been a snot-nosed brat.

(He still was, but at least Bobby had
a pair - and a girlfriend. Sort of. Emma
was hard to gauge, whether she was just
toying with Bobby or actually having a
heart beat in her icebox of a chest and
letting herself care. Hard to tell.)

Not that the Angel was going to judge
the White Bitch-Goddess. He was, after
all, the Patron God of Elitist Assholes,
Lord of Pushing Others Away.

Couldn't damn well let someone in.

That was death, and not the friendly,
brave Death, y'know.

But the shadows were suffocating ...

... maybe a little sunlight ...?

Ah - OW -

since when was sunlight purple around noon ...?

----------------------------------------------

She fought back a gasp at the stench of 
death and putrescence in the fishing lodge 
as she emerged from shadow.

#My God. I should've come to him first - 
the Dawn is eating him alive?!# she thought, 
horrified as she walked over to the winged, 
slumped form sitting in the middle of the room.

"Oh, damnit. The shadows are looking 
like Betsy," Warren muttered - slurred 
speech, Betsy realized with a fresh spike 
of anger.

"You're drunk - WARREN!?" she snapped, 
the last word becoming a shriek as she 
pulled open the curtains.

He looked ... gaunt, like one of Death's 
victims from a painting of the Black Plague 
during the Middle Ages. His blue skin, once 
vital, was pale, and stretched against 
bones that showed through his bare chest.

The wings were what made her want to
run - hideous, shriveled things, almost 
featherless and shot through with tumors and
dripping black pus that could not be natural.

"'Behold, I am Death, Ravager of Worlds.' 
'Cept, the 'miracle' of my wings coming back
was bullshit, Betts. I think it's a failsafe 
of Nur's - he didn't want his 'highest 
horseman' to live on if he croaked, I guess,"
Warren chuckled, his voice becoming a hacking
cough on the last few words.

"Apocalypse has nothing to do with this. 
Warren, it's the Crimson Dawn - when Franklin
resurrected me, he accidentally removed it 
from my soul. I'm free, but the damn Dawn is 
taking its price from you," the Betsy-shadow 
said, her voice so gentle that it cut through
the whisky haze Warren was wrapped in.

~Open to me. It's time we dealt with this 
once and for all. We might be quits, love, 
but I won't live free at your cost - 
whatever happened between us, you 
don't deserve *this*,~ she sent, and 
Warren raised an eyebrow at that.

She'd been telekinetic before Vargas 
had killed her. 

~Betsy? You're NOT a shadow -~

Definitely not, Warren realized, not if the
shadows were starting to boil and act like
they wanted to drown the purple vision
holding a psi-blade.

She was still a warrior - not the TK ninja 
stereotype she'd embraced, and how
much of that wasted time was HIS fault? -
but on her terms. And she'd come back to
fight for him.

"Stop angsting! It's feeding the damned
things, and you're NOT a Summers!" the
Betsy-vision snapped over her shoulder,
and she started slashing at the shadows -

- but they were starting to form a
damned mouth, as big as a man -

"LEAVE HER ALONE!"

-------------------------------------

It would've been darkly comedic, Betsy
thought, if their souls weren't in immediate
danger and Warren didn't look like a famine
victim who'd been strangled.

He leapt over her in a sad, if touching,
effort to fly - to protect her - and landed,
wobbling, before her, smiling over his
shoulder in a sad echo of the way he'd
smiled at her when they woke up together.

Betsy could almost ignore the stench of his
rotting wings, at the sight of her white
knight trying to save *her.*

~Except that I never learned that the fairy
tales were more than a little fascist. The
princess almost never got to kick ass, and
the prince never let her do any of the work.
I watched Jean cut loose more often than I
remember - you'd think I'd learn by now,~
Warren thought over their psi-link.

~You're in no condition - I came to save
*you*!~ Betsy sent, fear trilling down her
spine - Warren was about to fall over, and
that shadow-mouth was getting closer -

~Together, Betts, please? I'm willing to
be an equal partner, not a househusband,~
Warren tried to joke.

He turned back to the shadow, then, and
shouted, "LEAVE US ALONE! We've paid
our dues - we gave time and again! Betsy
deserves to be free, especially!"

The shadows chuckled at that, and Betsy
shuddered inside for the first time since
her resurrection. The Crimson Dawn wasn't
mere Darkforce, regardless of what she'd
told Sage. 

It was the distilled essence of humanity's
fears and anger - the *idea* of what terrors
the night held. And since those terrors were
often formless, the Dawn was mutable to
a degree that would make Mystique either
impressed or fearful. Certainly, the Dawn
was no "mere" dark energy.

TRUE, LITTLE ONCE-UNDERCLOAK, a
vOICE - unbearably foul, infinitely
seductive, primally wrong, horribly
familiar - rippled in Betsy's soul.

As long as there's a shred of darkness
in my heart - a speck of fear - I'm
not truly free of you, am I? The bond
is there - it was how I was able to 
shadow-walk to Warren, Betsy "said"
on a level below telepathy.

VERY TRUE. WE WON'T RELEASE THE
ANGEL'S SOUL THAT EASILY, ONCE-QUEEN.
AS EVER, A PRICE MUST BE PAID ... BUT
WE ARE NOTHING IF NOT WILLING TO
BARGAIN, the vOICE chuckled.

Before Mephisto ever held out his 
clawed hand to the first Cro-Magnon
desperate to make a deal, this shadow
had been willing to trade a trinket of
power or a promise of aid to desperate
sentients. Betsy knew she was facing 
something far older and cunning than
any mere demon. 

#It's the antithesis of the light. And
if it can, it'll take us both - this is
the evil that was in the first Void,
the all-hungering Devourer ...# she
thought, fear almost overwhelming
her.

But that path led to defeat, she
reminded herself. It fed the Shadow,
and alone, she and Warren were lost.

~But together - what, you think I haven't
been listening? Give me a little credit, 
Betts,~ Warren thought, turning around to 
smile at her - a frightful thing, given how 
gaunt he looked.

But his eyes were sparkling, again - 
as they had when she'd worn a flattering
dress, when he'd closed a business deal,
when they'd outwitted or outfought a 
new foe.

When they'd held each other through
the night, and woken up together.

STOP THAT! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE
COWERING! the vOICE roared.

~That light ... simple happiness. It's
been so bloody long since I felt that,~
Betsy sent, letting herself get lost in
Warren's eyes. 

~You've never seen me in my first body,
have you? As the simple Lady Braddock,
STRIKE agent turned X-Man?~

~Frank Richards did a good job bringing
you back. But it's your soul I fell for,
Betsy - the rest is wrapping,~ Warren
thought, chapped and dehydrated lips
separating a bit as he leaned toward
her. 

~One last kiss, before that thing back
there gobbles us?~

~For old times' sake,~ Betsy agreed,
kissing him - and it felt *right,* despite
all the baggage.

And she could see - he was remorseful
for chasing her away, for trying to cage
her without letting her have the keys,
for playing the annoying sexist rich boy
when he should've been a man and let her
be a woman - a partner.

~And I didn't exactly stay around and fight,~
Betsy admitted, her tongue finding his - why
couldn't love just be *simple,* like this?

She plunged then - not a sweaty, 
embarrassing tangle of bodies in sheets,
but the electric merger of freely-shared
souls cutting past all the sad little barriers
and fears and lust and hangups.

A telepath, Betsy remembered from her
first wild days, could just take in the light
of another's soul and glory in it, sharing
their own illumination.

Here, she told the suddenly-quaking, 
melting, shattering Dark, as that light
exploded from her and Warren's astral
forms.

You want to devour something? Eat this.

The last clear sight Betsy had was
of a small, winged form, blazing white,
blasting out of the Darkness and flying into
Warren - 

- ~My missing soul-chunk?! And here I
thought I was the master deal-maker!~
Warren laughed, growing brighter as he held
on to Betsy.

And then he let her go - or at least let her
have the *option* - 

- and they were finally equals, as the light
crescendoed. 

And then things just exploded -

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

- and then Betsy felt a jagged barb pierce
her chest, and looked down - 

- and everything went painful as she
landed back in her body, and the shadows
were gone.

--------------------------------------

But the blood was everywhere, and her
breaths were coming in shorter and shorter
gasps, and she was hitting her knees.

And there was a great damned HOLE in her
chest - at least Vargas had made a simple
stab wound, he'd been almost polite when
he'd killed her the last time - 

"BETSY!? Oh God - the Dawn - it lashed
out - some kind of barbed tendril -" she
heard Warren cry -

- and he was *white* again, the blue
from Apocalypse's tampering gone,
and his frame was filling out as the light
shrank into it.

Warren was healing, and she was happy.

"If - KGHAC - I had to have a - KAFF -
brief return trip ... at least I went out
doing something useful," she tried to 
joke, letting him cradle her - no real 
point in harping about equality of the
sexes now, was there?

And the light was back, forming a tunnel
again - somehow, Betsy doubted, Gateway 
was going to conveniently teleport her to 
Franklin twice.

"NO! Damnit, Betts, FIGHT this - SOMEONE!
For God's sake - GOMURR! You Goddamned
little troll, GET IN HERE! You couldn't keep
the Dawn on a leash, this is YOUR fault!"
Warren bellowed - and even his curls
were back, Betsy realized.

Then a wizened face with sparse white
hair, atop a green-robed body, stuck itself
in Betsy's field of view, and shook itself.

"Not my fault, Worthington," Gomurr
the Ancient sighed. Betsy could see the
Proctor's Crimson Dawn tattoo over his
left eye, and she smiled weakly as he
bowed to her.

"Or yours, Braddock. The Dawn isn't
always something I can control. This was 
between you and it - and congratulations
on busting free, both of you. Never seen that
happen before. You're free, both of you,"
Gomurr said.

"Thank God," Betsy whispered - that
tunnel of light was starting to get closer.

"BETSY! Damnit - there must be SOMETHING
you can do! Or me - I healed myself -" Warren
pleaded.

Betsy reached up to stroke his face - his 
fleshed-out face, and he did look good.

It'd be a nice thing, to finally die in the arms
of an angel - 

~What in the bloody HELL am I blithering - KAFF - 
about!? I've run around the bloody world twice -
HAK - since coming back, faced the Primeval
Shadow, and made up with my ex, and now
I'm going to die - AGKH - in a bloody FISHING
LODGE!?~ Betsy sent, suddenly angry at herself -
she was no damn damsel, they'd just proved that,
hadn't they!?

"You are NOT going to die!" Warren shouted - 
and then he grabbed a letter opener and slashed 
his wrist,which was rather defeatist, Betsy 
thought, hadn't they gone through a shiteload of 
trouble to get him back to health?

"Soul for soul. Blood for blood. If I've got
a healing factor - and I have to, to explain
how I pulled that Wolverine-esque stunt
a minute ago - maybe it's transferrable,"
Warren pleaded, bleeding into her wound.

"You silly man. If it didn't - HGK - work
for Logan, why would it - HAKG - oh. Well,
that's interesting," Betsy said, suddenly
feeling warmer ...

... and, well, more *solid* around her
midsection. And there wasn't nearly as
much bloody pain ...

... because, as Warren bled into her,
she was bleeding much less. In fact,
the great ugly hole in her midsection
was rapidly closing up.

And then, it was simply gone. And she tore
a piece of fringe from her costume, and 
wrapped it around his wrist, and he stopped 
bleeding.

"See? You're smart people - you found 
an elegant solution without relying on me. 
Really have to go, now, kids - have fun,"
Gomurr chuckled, stepping back into a
convenient shadow. 

And they were alone, in bloodstained
clothes, kneeling on bloodstained wood,
in the early afternoon sunlight.

"I didn't think to bring a change of 
clothes," Betsy began, not quite sure
*what* to say - she could sense Warren's
hesitation, and she was grateful that 
he wasn't trying to get her into bed or
fussing over her.

"And all I brought was some menswear.
Not that you look bad in a robe, but ..."
Warren said, standing with her and
trying to smile.

She kissed his cheek, then, and said,
"Space, then, until we figure out what
in the bloody hell this all means?"

"Space. And friends, again?" Warren
asked, kissing her hand.

"Definitely. Make sure you get that
wrist looked at," Betsy insisted, before
the astral plane rippled and Jean's 
telepathic projection appeared.

~We felt - Dear God, what happened 
to YOU TWO!? Did Sabretooth attack!?~ 
Jean psi-gasped.

"Nothing that dramatic, dear. Just 
saving souls and making up. You can tell
the gossip chain that Warren and I are just
friends again, and that no, there won't be 
any great and terrible screaming matches 
anymore," Betsy tried to joke.

~Good. If we can impose on your time,
I'll send Illyana to get you, Betsy - and you, 
War, `of course. Scott and Logan are finally 
back from tracking those Sentinels. And 
they've brought back a strange prisoner - 
she reminds me of *Charles,* for some 
reason,~ Jean sent as she seemed to glance
"off-camera."

~She calls herself `Cassandra.'~

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tbc ...
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