The rain patters on the car window, and Betsy wipes a tear off her face. So many beautiful days scarred with funerals, so many bright mornings broken. At least today's weather is moody.
The haloed sun almost breaks through the clouds and a ray of pure evening sunshine stabs the earth, but it is soon swallowed up by the roiling heavens. Droplets of water smack the windshield as she raises one elegant hand to push a strand of deep purple hair behind her ear. She needs a drink, badly. Not a lot, just something to dull the sharp ache of loss. She misses Kurt. She feels like she is already buried too.
The traffic in the city is awful, so she parks at her apartment and gets out to walk, ignoring the icy rain. She does not notice the familiar car as she goes by; her collar is turned up against the chilling gale.
The warm bar greets her; an old lover, warm and tantalizing and selflessly offering the delicious abandon of oblivion. Betsy takes a stool and slaps a bill down on the counter.
"Vodka, please," she calls to the bartender. "Belvedere." The bartender nods and pours the crystal liquid into a glass full of ice, pushing it over with a suggestive smile.
Betsy scowls and contemplates her drink, sipping slowly.
The bar door opens, temporarily letting in the rush of the city in the rain. The warm buzz of the bar continues uninterrupted and Betsy does not turn around as someone crosses the room and sits down beside her with a gentle sigh. She is flicked with rain as he removes his coat.
"Whiskey, whatever you have. Make it strong," he calls softly to the bartender, who looks annoyed. The man's voice is familiar and Betsy turns.
"Warren!" she exclaims. "Fancy seeing you here."
Surprise and delight quickly replace the tired, suspicious look on his face. "Betsy. I hope you didn't get soaked out there," he laughs, gesturing airily at the window that is still bombarded with rain drops. His relaxed smile makes the warm enveloping glow of the bar even brighter.
"Nah, I'm fine. How about you? Did you fly over?"
"Well, no," Warren admits. "I wanted to, but I don't think most of these drunks would appreciate some winged mutant ruining their happy hour." He smirks and gulps the glass the bartender brings over.
Betsy giggles. She had not thought the alcohol was working yet. "I suppose it's for the best; you would've been soaked to the bone."
"I guess." Warren is giving her a strange hard stare, almost predatory, and she brushes his thoughts lightly with her mind. She detects a hint of animal lust, but mostly just curiosity as to her welfare and a gentle friendly concern. He notices her watching him and clears his throat, gulping his whiskey down and calling to the bartender for another. He looks down.
"Hey, you've finished that. Let me buy you another." It is not a request but an order, delivered in a friendly manner but forceful all the same. She shakes her head.
"I can buy my own drinks, Warren."
"Oh, but I insist." He flashes her a cold handsome smile, the kind she has seen him give to countless women, and reaches for his wallet.
"No thanks, I'm fine. And I plan on sleeping alone tonight."
Warren looks shocked for a mere second, then laughs harshly, a sharp sound that tears the soft atmosphere of the bar. "Suit yourself," he shrugs and throws his head back to finish the second glass of whiskey, exposing his throat. He signals to the bartender for another.
Betsy looks at him quizzically, hurt, and after a long frozen moment he relents reluctantly, muttering, "I'm sorry, Bets, I don't know what's up with me tonight."
"I do."
He looks at her, one eyebrow raised skeptically, another half-empty glass frozen on its way to his mouth. God, he is beautiful.
"It's these dark days, Warren. It's the ugliness that surrounds us and corrupts us and the hell that grows in our minds." The hands still clutching her empty glass are shaking.
Warren snorts with savage agreement and downs another whiskey. He must be feeling it by now.
But his light blue eyes are deep and serious as they lock onto hers, still focused and piercing though the alcohol should be blurring his mind. The glow of the bar burns gently and he shifts closer.
"Is there hell growing in your mind too, Elizabeth?" She can almost taste the smoky whiskey on his breath as it brushes her cheek, but she does not mind. He is very close now. She wonders if his lips taste the same.
They do.
"Warren..." He gives her a lopsided grin, so different from his usual soft sad smile but still extraordinarily attractive. She wants to punch him. She wants him to pull her into his chest and kiss her violently, the way they used to as they clung to each other's warmth in the dark.
He does, and she kisses him back eagerly, so much that for a moment she tastes blood before pushing him off.
"You're drunk, Warren," she frowns. "Let's not get carried away." She gulps her vodka; she does not remember getting it refilled.
"Not drunk yet," he replies indifferently, calling for another glass.
Half an hour later he is. Having downed enough whiskey to make wolverine black out, he seems almost hysterical. He looks blurry and crazed, or maybe that is the vodka finally affecting her.
"But he's still here, and I want to fucking waste everyone in this goddamn bar and I am-"
She tones out his furious desperate words, and wonders. Is she really considering this? It did not work the first time...
But he really loves her. She has seen his mind, and through the haze of drink and depression there is an all-consuming desire for her love, tempered with a tender adoration of her personality. He wants her so much it almost scares her.
But then Warren suddenly stands up and starts shouting, pure hatred twisting his perfect features.
"-the crucible! The weak will be culled from the earth and I will usher in the glorious-"
Betsy instantly enters his mind to calm him, and simultaneously yanks him back down on the stool, casting apologetic glances at the other patrons of the bar, who turn back around to nurse their own vices.
His face is more relaxed now but a sneer twists his mouth and his eyes look somehow inhuman... demonic. What looks like a deep blue bruise floats on one sharp cheekbone, but it is flowing and spreading... what...?
Archangel! She grabs his shoulders and forces him to look into her eyes, though he snarls and tries to shake her off.
"You're Warren- you're Warren Worthington the Third! You have to fight it, Angel, you have to keep control! Focus on me, love, remember who you are!"
He gasps for breath and his blue
eyes come back into focus, an agony playing in them. His shudders subside slowly and he droops, breathing hard. "Sorry, Bets," he murmurs tersely. "It's difficult." A tear of rage drips onto the counter as he gulps another whiskey carelessly.
"No, that's quite enough for you." She pulls his glass firmly away and finishes it herself in one swallow. She has made up her mind. "Come on Warren, let's go to your apartment. You can fly us."
He frowns. "I'm drunk, and it's still pouring outside."
"There's no law against drunk flying." She allows a little evil smile to twist her mouth. The bartender looks sulky as they leave together.
Twenty minutes later they arrive, freezing cold and soaked with the tears of the heavens. Shivering, Betsy wrings out her hair. Warren sits down with a sigh of relief, ignoring the water dripping onto his couch.
She can tell he is still very intoxicated, but he looks alert. Removing her damp coat, she places it carefully on a hook and returns to the living room. As she passes a mirror she notices how her wet dress clings tightly to her, following every contour of her stomach and breasts. She does not mind.
Warren's eyes look haunted. Betsy peers into his mind and feels the uncertainty there, the longing and the doubt. She knows if she were any other woman he would be taking control right now, pressing himself onto her, forcing her into delicious abandonment, but he refrains. He honestly cares about her feelings.
And that is what makes it okay.
"Warren, you're going to catch cold. We have to get you out of these wet clothes," she murmurs in his ear. His hand grabs her arm and holds her there, concernedly gazing into her dark violet eyes and seeking confirmation. She leans over even closer and brushes his lips with hers, not even really a kiss, but a promise.
It's okay, Angel.
Elizabeth... are you sure...
She pulls on his tie and begins to unbutton his shirt, planting tender kisses all over his face as he tries to pull her face to his.
She feels a wave of divine happiness wash over her, and does not know if it is his or hers, but it does not matter. Behind the surface of elation she senses his pain and angst, but it just makes him more desirable. She knows her infatuation is childish, but this man waited for her, gave her so many chances to turn back. He would never do anything she did not want.
Warren's hands find the zipper of her dress, and soon neither of them has to worry about catching cold. And true to his nature, Warren soon takes charge. But Betsy does mind; it is nice to give responsibility over for a while. Tonight he is there to make her feel real again, and tomorrow morning the sun might come out.