Cut Right To The Quick
Part One
"Hi."
I look up from the book in my hands to see a familiar pair of faces at the door of the room that I have been staying in ever since Hank grudgingly allowed me to leave the infirmary about a week ago, one partially masked by a pair of ruby-red glasses, and the other framed – perfectly, some might say – by a mass of flame-red curls. I put my book down on my bedside table after fitting a paper bookmark into the place I had reached (although I'm not sure why I bother; I'd only been reading the same page over and over again for the last five minutes anyway...), and watch the two of them enter the room almost as one, their movements complementing each other to a degree that is hard to comprehend. I often find myself wishing that Warren and I had that kind of connection, but then I remember that we do -- it just expresses itself differently.
"Hello, Jean," I reply, listlessly. "To what do I owe this... honour?"
Jean smiles and moves towards my bed, taking my hand in her own. "We just wanted to come see how you were, Betsy. Isn't that right, Scott?" Scott nods almost imperceptibly -- a gesture that would be virtually impossible for a non-telepath to read, since without his eyes to show you his emotions, his movements are almost meaningless unless you can sense the motivations behind them. I sometimes wonder what he'd be like if he hadn't been found and swaddled so much by Professor Xavier and Jean, and then I wonder if perhaps I really want to know. There is so much I don't know about Scott and Jean, and sometimes I think that's not such a bad thing. After all, after you've heard the tenth nonsensical explanation of Scott's family tree (all pasts, presents, and alternate futures and/or realities included), it does push you away to at least some degree.
"That's right, Betsy," he says, almost on cue. "We were both really concerned for you after what Warren told us the other day – he's really worried too, you know. We all are."
I rub my eyes tiredly. "Thank you for the concern, Scott, but I'm all right. I really am. I just need to rest a little – Hank says that if I don't do anything drastic at this point, I should be able to walk without a limp in a few days."
Jean grips my hand a little tighter. "It must be a real relief to hear that, huh?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You have no idea."
Jean, seeing I'm not going to be any more forthcoming on that score, lets go of my hand and turns back towards Scott for a moment, taking the small package in his hands that had hitherto gone unmentioned, and presents it to me. It is wrapped in subdued paper and is likely to be some sort of book, but I can't sure. "Here," she says. "A little present to help the time pass a little faster." She hands it to me and I can see that it is delicately decorated with a red ribbon tied in a tiny bow. Finding a seam, I open it carefully, and inside the paper I find a small compilation of poems about nature, assembled by someone whose name I don't recognise (and for me that's quite an achievement, believe me, considering how numerous similarly-themed poetry anthologies are on my bookshelves).
"We searched for that for a week," Scott says, with a wider smile than before. "We knew we had to find you something that you hadn't already got, so we spent about three hours in New York every day, looking through the tiniest bookshops in the Village – you probably know the kind I'm talking about – and we eventually found you that. I hope you enjoy it."
"Thank you, Scott." I put the gift to one side, on top of the book I'd been trying to read before, and fold my hands in my lap. "Thank you, Jean."
"No problem, Betsy," Jean says quietly, her eyes looking troubled for a fraction of an instant, and her mind registering the merest amount of discomfort before she regains her composure. If I weren't a telepath and a former STRIKE agent, I might have missed it, but so synchronised are my telepathy and my training that I catch it almost before it even starts, and react accordingly.
"Why are you really here, Jean?" I ask, flatly. The direct approach is disconcerting for the subjectee, and usually at least somewhat productive for the subjecter, which is why I was one of STRIKE's best interrogators, back in the days when my life made at least a moderate amount of sense. My telepathy wasn't exactly a hindrance either, but it helps to have something other than mutant powers to fall back on when you want to find out pertinent information in as short a time as possible. "I appreciate the visit, I assure you, but you're not just here to give me another get well present and your good wishes, are you?"
"I'm... not sure what you mean," Jean says, clearly lying through her teeth (An unpractised liar is as easy to spot as a funeral pyre is at night. How? Watch their eyes. Their pupils dilate so much it's as if they're in pitch darkness. And besides that, they fidget more than usual, whether they know they're doing it or not. Only a person who's been lying their entire life could suppress these symptoms -- and a habitual liar Jean most definitely is not. Consequently, she's as easy for me to read as a children's picture book, even without my psionic powers). She wrings her hands awkwardly, like a child caught with her hand in the biscuit jar, and looks unhappily at the ceiling for a moment -- which really only confirms what I already knew
I narrow my eyes. Evidently this isn't going to be as smooth as I had wanted it to be. "Jean, my telepathy is still active. Please don't patronise me by pretending it isn't."
Jean sighs. "I'm sorry, Betsy. We... should have been straight with you from the start. Scott and I... well, we'd like to talk to you about what you're going to do about Rebecca." Scott nods and moves forward to grasp the back of the second free chair in the room so that he can sit beside his wife. He scratches the bridge of his nose carefully, adjusting his glasses slightly so that they sit more comfortably on his nose, and takes a deep breath before speaking, as if to compose himself.
It doesn't matter anyway -- I don't give him the opportunity. Instead, I jab my forefinger at the two of them and snap "What is there to discuss? I don't want anything to do with that... thing... down in the med-lab. That's what I'm going to do about her. What were you expecting, Jean? That I'd just want to wake her up and play happy families with her as if nothing happened? God, you're so bloody naïve! Do you really think I would even want to talk to her after what she did to me?" I raise my right hand, and I feel it ball into a quaking fist for a moment. The impulse to punch Jean for her insensitivity (unintentional or otherwise) is almost too strong to resist, but I manage to control it -- for the moment, at least. "Tell you what, Jean," I say, flatly, regaining most of my composure. "You think that creature down there is still capable of redemption, then you take her. You're so eager for someone to be a mother to her, after all – why not yourself? I'm sure she'd appreciate all that perfect love and affection you two can give her. Isn't that why you came down here? To convince me to turn her over to the two of you? Fine. Then you take her -- nobody's stopping you, after all. Least of all me."
Jean rubs the corners of her eyes, and then folds her arms. "We're not here to do that, Betsy," she says, simply.
Scott nods in agreement. "None of us are expecting you to love Rebecca right now, but you're going to have to decide what you want to do about her sooner or later. Jean and I wanted to help you through your options right now, that's all."
"Oh, my, how gracious. The great and wonderful Cyclops and Phoenix have come down from their little ivory tower to help me with my pathetic little existence. Should I feel privileged, Scott? Should I feel blessed?" I shake my head slowly, a soft, bitter laugh emerging from my lips. "I don't know. Perhaps you could help me with that, too? You two seem to have all the answers, after all."
"We don't have all the answers, Betsy; we just want to help you –" Jean begins, her head tilted slightly to the side, and one hand at her forehead briefly. And that's when the fragile walls I had built for myself over the past week or so start to crumble, freeing the blood-red tide of emotion that I'd kept pent-up inside me for a while now. Perhaps I was just looking for an excuse to release it, I'm not sure.
"Oh, piss off, Jean! I'm sick to death of you people coming in here and walking on eggshells around me, just because you think I'm too fucking weak to stand up to what happened by myself! Can't any of you give me at least a little credit? I hate this! It's not enough that I have to try and sleep without pissing my sheets because of the nightmares – oh no. I also have to deal with you people all queuing up to say how sorry you are and give me a box of fucking chocolates, as if that'll make everything all right again. You think you're helping me, but you're not." I bite my lip to silence the sob that I can feel rising in my throat. "You're not."
"But we want to," Scott says quietly. "Look, Betsy, nobody here wants to see you suffering, but we can't help you if you keep pushing us away. Why won't you let us in?"
"Why? I'll tell you why, Mr Summers. I don't let you in," I reply, coldly, and with the barest minimum of emotion, "because you don't understand. None of you do. You never could, not unless it happened to you. Don't try and insult my intelligence by saying that you do."
"Neither of us are saying that," Scott says patiently, "but I want you to know that we do understand what you're feeling about Rebecca. Both of us have gone through the same thing -- I felt the same after I found out Nathan was my son. I couldn't make the connection between the sick little boy I'd had to send to the future, and the man who he'd become, and it frightened me. I was angry at what'd happened, and I wasn't sure of what to do, or who to turn to. I felt alone, Betsy, and I felt confused -- I even felt a little scared for a while. Jean felt the same way about Rachel." He looks briefly at his wife, who nods slowly and takes a deep breath before speaking again.
"That's... that's right," she whispers softly. "I didn't know what to make of Rachel when I first met her – except I knew that I felt angry towards her. I blamed her for the feeling that the universe had already made up its mind about what I was going to do, or become. I wouldn't talk to her, and I wouldn't go near her. I hated her, Betsy. I hated her and I didn't want anything to do with her. Why should I, when she was already as grown up as she was going to get – she didn't need me, right?" She laughs quietly, bitterly. "I ignored the fact that she was really just a kid, Betsy – that she didn't know anything else but war, and slavery. And I rejected her. Some great mother I turned out to be, right?" She sighs. "I don't want you to make the same mistake, that's all.
"Thank you for the concern, Jean," I reply, my voice calmer, but still edged with bitter resentment, "but you still haven't the faintest idea of how I feel. Let me ask you this -- did Rachel beat the living hell out of you when you first saw her? Did you see her after being tied up and beaten for the best part of a week?" Turning towards Scott, I point at him in an accusatory fashion. "And was Nathan just an 'experiment' that Sinister grew to pass the time? A side-show freak created because that evil bastard was bored? No. I don't think you do understand. Not really. Rebecca is genetically my child, but she's not my daughter. I don't want anything to do with her. Logan can stab her through the heart, for all I care. It'd be a mercy killing for both of us."
"You don't mean that, Betsy," Scott says quietly, clearly quite disturbed by what I've just said – and why shouldn't he be? It is, after all, his own offspring that I'm proposing be slaughtered like a deaf and blind heifer. "That's not the Betsy Braddock I know."
"See what I'm talking about, Scott?" I snap, suddenly. "You don't know me at all! You're not a bloody telepath – and none of those are very good at telling me who I am, either. I'm not sure I even know myself, anymore. So I wouldn't go making wild statements like that unless you're prepared to back them up, all right, Scott?" I sigh, quietly, rubbing my face with my hands. "I just... I just want to talk to someone who understands. Is that such a big thing to ask?"
"No, Betsy," Jean says quietly. "If you tell us what you want us to know, we'll try to understand." She reaches for my hand again, but I move it away before she can get a firm grip. She folds her hand back into her lap silently, and waits for me to speak again. When I do, I don't mince my words. The direct approach is all these two have ever understood, after all...
"All right, Jean," I begin, "how about you try to understand what it feels like to be totally and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but pray that you'll be allowed to take another breath while your privates are being violated by someone you hate? How about you try to understand what it feels like to be beaten with a crowbar just because Arclight had a headache? How about you try to understand what it feels like to want to die every morning, because you're in such overwhelming agony that living for another minute seems too painful?" I spread my hands. "And how about you try to understand that Rebecca reminds me of everything that happened there every single time I look at her; and not only that, she shows me the worst part of myself -- the part of me I'd almost forgotten since I got my real body back. The part of me that reminds me of Kwannon, and what Spiral did to her, and to me. The part of me that I still hate to acknowledge." I pause, feeling the tears beading at the edges of my eyes, and spilling down my cheeks in two cold streams. "That's why I can't stand to be anywhere near her, Jean. She makes me feel ashamed, she makes me feel cheap, and she makes me feel disgusted with myself. And I have had enough of that to last me the rest of my life, thanks to far, far too many people. I'm tired of it, Jean – I'm tired of it and I want it to stop. Until you can understand that, Jean, I suggest you get out and leave me in peace."
"I'm not going to leave, Betsy," Scott says firmly. "That's my daughter down there in the med-lab -"
"Only when it suits you," I snap, acidly. "As soon as you don't want her any more, you'll forget about her." I smile thinly, humourlessly. "But then, that's the way your family works, isn't it? If you don't want your little boys, you throw them out of an aeroplane -"
Scott slaps me across the left side of my face, hard. The sound reverberates through my room, and the stinging pain in my cheek brings Scott's rage into stark relief. "Don't you ever," Scott says quietly, his voice frighteningly calm, although his face is twisted with anguish, "ever mention my parents like that again. My mother did that to save Alex and me. And I never saw her again, Betsy. I never got to say goodbye. I lost the people who raised me and I never got the chance to say goodbye. How the hell do you think that makes me feel? Good?"
"On the contrary, Scott, I'd imagine it makes you feel utterly wretched," I say, rubbing my stinging cheek with the fingertips of my left hand.
"So then why –" Scott's question is entirely predictable, and I'm well prepared for it.
"Why do you think?" I glare at him. "What else could I do to make you feel as bad as I do? You and Jean are perfect; you're always so happy, you never have anything bad happen to you – or if you do, it always gets put right by something miraculous. Do you think Jean would even be with you today, if you weren't who you are? If Warren had been in the same situation,
I'd be dead, and I would have stayed dead, because I'm not Jean. The Phoenix Force would have passed me over – would have let me die – and nobody would have given a damn. Nobody. And it's not just her, Scott -- if Warren had been you, he would have been saved from Apocalypse. We'd be perfect too, if we were you. But we're not, so we've had to suffer being changed and altered and rebuilt until we don't who the hell we are any more. Do you know how much that galls me, Scott Summers? Do you have the slightest idea how much I hate your perfect life sometimes? Do you know how much I envy you? No, I don't suppose you do, do you, since you're always whining about how awful your lot in life is. Well, I'll tell you something, Mr Summers – Warren and I would cut off our right hands to have what you and Jean have, so don't you dare tell me you've been dealt a bad hand in life. If Jean were me, she'd have been saved from living her life in someone else's body. If Warren were you, he'd still be himself. The Professor would have fallen over himself to protect his favourite students – but where Warren and me are concerned, he couldn't care less."
"That's not true, Betsy," Jean interjects. "The Professor cares for all of us –"
"So you say," I whisper, clutching at my sheets suddenly, as if I am afraid of what Jean might say.
"Charles cares for all of us, Betsy," Jean continues, unfazed. "He would have tried to help you, if he had a surefire way to reverse what the Hand had done to you -- if he could have done anything, he would have. Don't you think he's stayed awake nights because of what you and Warren have been through because of him?"
"I know he has." My gaze returns to Scott, who has kept silent while Jean and I spar like duelling swordsmen, and he clears his throat quietly, raising himself up in his chair in order to speak again. "So why hasn't he ever done anything about it?"
"It's not just about you, or about Warren," Scott says slowly. "He would have done something for Rahne if he'd had the chance, but he didn't. Rahne never complained. Never threw herself at every man in the mansion because she couldn't stand to look at herself in the mirror every morning." I feel my breath catch in my throat, and Scott nods, as if his words have been vindicated by my actions. "Yes, Betsy, I know why you've done what you've done – it's not hard to guess the motives of someone who's been through what you've been through; you're not the only one who can guess why people act the way they do, you know. You wanted to prove to yourself that you were still able to make men want you -- and you proved that, again and again. What good did it do you, really? I'll tell you how much, Betsy -- none. None at all. All it really did was alienate you, make Jean hate you and make me feel awkward and embarrassed for finding you attractive. Was that what you wanted? Truly?" He pauses for a moment and folds his muscular arms across his chest. "I'd bet the Betsy Braddock Alex knew wouldn't have done that. He's told me about a woman who loved poetry and art and literature, who loved to dance and sing for no reason at all, and who loved a fifteen year old boy who had a crush on her with all her heart—"
"Shut up! Don't you mention Doug! Don't you dare mention Doug like that! You don't have the right –"
"I don't have the right?" Scott snaps suddenly. "I don't have the right to do what, Betsy? To remind you of what you are?"
"No," I whisper. "To remind me of what I've lost. Don't you think I do that every day anyway?" I blink back some tears and look down at my hands as they wring themselves out. "Get out."
Jean opens her mouth to try and salvage the situation. Ever the peacemaker, Jean? I send to her, sardonically. How very admirable of you.
"Get," I say slowly, my gaze boring into Scott's soulless glasses, "out."
Scott nods silently, aware that he's overstepped the mark for now, and Jean glances at me one last time, her eyes filled with regret and sadness.
"I'm sorry, Betsy," she whispers.
"I am, too," I say.
"We'll be back soon, all right?" she says softly, adjusting her blouse awkwardly and putting a hand to her forehead briefly, moving a small braid of flame-red hair out of her eyes.
"Do hurry back," I sneer. "This was such fun, after all... we really must do it again some other time, mustn't we?"
"That wasn't funny, Betsy," Scott says curtly. "We still need to talk about Rebecca. She won't go away, Betsy, as much as you wish she would. We need to know what you're going to do about her before we move her. Think about it, all right?"
"Fine. If it'll make you leave... I'll think about it, Scott. Satisfied?"
Scott is about to reply when Jean puts her hand on his arm and shakes her head silently. I can tell they are exchanging heated telepathic messages, and although the discussion lasts only a few seconds, it has a profound affect on Scott. He shakes his head and then takes a deep breath before turning towards me again. "For what it's worth, Betsy... I'm sorry I did
this to you." Then they leave, and my room is quiet again.
The sobbing breaks the silence, though.
I'm not sure if I'm grateful for that or not...