Have you ever just wondered why you bothered to write a certain story? That's how I feel about this one. *sigh* Oh, well. Was it worth sending to the list? It isn't finished yet -- details at the end. Disclaimer: Marvel owns almost everything in this story. I leave it to you to figure out what they don't :) Act As If by Northlight I don't trust him. I can't quite place it, but something about that man makes my very skin crawl. Since I locked away my telepathy to hold the Shadow King at bay, I've had to learn to view the world through new eyes. No longer do I have the certainty of my abilities to back up the impressions that I form of people. I am forced to find the truth from lies with only my own observations and gut feelings. Emotions are a guessing game rather than something that I feel from others with certainty. In short, it's been something of a... learning experience. I've adapted to this new form of living. I think I've gotten rather good at it. But at the moment, all I'd like is the ability to confirm the nagging doubt I'm feeling about our host. He's well dressed, polite, smiling, and doesn't look like he could run up a flight of stairs without becoming breathless. And yet, he seems dangerous to me. He turns slightly to snag a glass of wine from a passing waiter, and his eyes catch mine. For a moment, I could swear that I see something almost predatory in those watery blue eyes. And then, that fleeting emotion is gone and he's smiling at me. He excuses himself from the group of he was immersed in and begins to drift in my direction. I hope that he's heading somewhere other than me, but I've made my way through enough of these parties to recognize that he's signaled me out. I cast a quick glance towards Warren, steady and secure at my side. He's seen him, too. But unlike me, Warren's look is more of irritation than unease. Warren's words earlier this evening ring in my ears as the man approaches us. 'He's a horribly boring, condensing, idiot,' Warren had proclaimed as he struggled to straighten his sky blue tie. His words hadn't left me eager to met the man, and I was no more eager to do so. But now, my lack of eagerness stemmed more from my nagging distrust than from any of the man's irritable character traits. "Warren!" he cries out, finally arriving next to us. He clamps a pudgy hand down on Warren's shoulder, eliciting a barely disguised scowl from him. "Alan," Warren replies, less than enthused by our host's arrival. "And whose your pretty little friend?" Alan inquires, his eyes locking on mine. I must admit, I am no stranger to having men's gazes locked on me. But this look sends my internal warnings flaring. I may no longer be a telepath, but I do trust the instincts that I've gained through my many battles. Though a quick peek in this man's mind would be useful at the moment... "Elisabeth Braddock," Warren answers, his arm wrapping around my waist. It's a possessive move that would once have irritated me. But at the moment, I don't mind. I need to know that he's nearby, to assure myself that he is fine. Alan surveys me with pursed lips. "Braddock?" the name rings a bell in him, and he launches into a long winded and highly one sided discussion of business matters. I can certainly see where Warren formed such a negative impression of the man. He stays glued to us through the remainder of the evening, setting me on edge. I sway between the urge to cringe from his presence and the desire to knock his head into a wall. He catches me glaring at him as he makes a particularly insulting comment, and as if amused by my reaction, grins at me. The urge to slap the little weasel is gaining. And finally, the guests begin to trickle out. I've rarely been so glad to leave a stuffy party as I am this one. But even as we escape, my suspicion is not abated. I could swear that I feel his eyes burning into the back of my head as we leave. *** The drive home is filled with Warren's comments on the guests we met that evening. Usually, his observations would elicit a smile from me, but at the moment, my mind is still locked on the pale, fleshy man we eagerly left behind. Warren notices my preoccupation, but chooses not to bring it up until we are home. As I slip out of my ridiculously expensive dress, Warren gives into his concerned curiosity. "Betsy? You okay?" he asks, flopping down on our bed with a tired grunt. A terribly boring party tends to take more out a person than most people ever realize. "Alan Blackwell," I say. I am not about to naw over this matter alone forever when I have Warren to discuss it with. "Something about him seemed wrong to me." I wait for Warren's answer, which is a while in coming. He's considering my reaction to the man carefully, which pleases me. He still respects my instincts despite the lack of my telepathy to back them up. And to think, I'd almost lost him mere months ago. I shake off those thoughts and refocus on the disturbing matter at hand. Warren has finally thrashed out his response in his mind. "He's always been a little bit strange," he muses. "But I think you're right. There was something... calculating about him." I settle my dress on a hanger and place it back into the closet before moving to the bed and collapsing next to Warren. "I don't trust him." He sighs softly. "Tomorrow, we'll see what we can find out about him." That will do for now. I nod against Warren's shoulder, and close my eyes. *** End note: I had this idea (as usually happens with stories... :) and I needed the rest of the story to go with it. So, this is my attempt to build up a story for my (probably not worth writing) idea. Unfortunately, my buildup has left me with no idea of how to get to the reason I wrote the damned thing :( I can't do suspense, and I can't do buildup. I'm too impatient. I need to jump to the part that I know what to do with... So what to do? I'll probably just leave this one hanging as is, unless I (miraculously) figure out how to get from this point to the next... (ha! like that'll happen!) I should really stop doing this...