Disclaimer: All X-Men belong to Marvel Entertainment. This is a work of non- profit fanfiction, and is not an attempt to infringe on the copyright of Marvel, because let's face it, who WANTS a trillion dollar lawsuit on their hands when they're not even old enough to smoke yet, huh? And yes, I DID steal my chica's name from Carmen Sandiego's Think Quick Challenge, but I'm not making money off it, so you can't sue! Nyah, nyah!

Reviews will be worshipped. Flames are only degrading to the sender. This is one of my first fanfics, so go easy, all right? By the way, Chase ISN'T a Mary-Sue, kay? I don't do them. She MAY have a couple of my talents, but that's just because I don't know how to describe something I've never actually experienced, kay?

Following is a brief profile on my original character so that you won't get lost, kay?

Legal Name: Chase Brenna Devoneaux

Height: 5 foot 2 158cm

Weight: 103 lbs. 46.72kgs

Eye Color: Black sclera, blue iris

Hair Color: Black

Nationality: Irish American/French Canadian

Approximate Age: 18

Marital Status: Single

Group Associations: X-Groups

Relatives: Gary Devoneaux, father; Maria Devoneaux, mother; Liam Patrick Devoneaux (deceased), brother

Mentors: Psylocke, Cable

MUTANT DESIGNATE: Reservoir (formerly Rift)

Powers: Unknown. Is believed to have had the genetic code for psionisis of some form. Was possessed by the Phoenix some two years ago.

(Note: I'm not going to put this story out the traditional way. First, I'm going to post vignettes of thought, what she thinks of herself, what others think of her. She's kind of like a shrink, but she does things very personally. She doesn't believe in the distant, I'm-going-off-to-angst-on- my-roof or I'm-a-psycho-you-can't-touch-me thing. She's skittish around ferals, but she doesn't mind Sabretooth for some reason. I'll post a prequel later on, but I think putting out some angsty vignettes will round things out.

So when this first one starts, Chase is "treating" Archangel, and not having much luck. Colossus and Psylocke are dead, and she's been treating him for a few months, which is odd for her. She's treated Gambit, Pete Wisdom, and Sabretooth in the past, and they all got over their little problems. So she's really worried about Archangel. Sorry. I'll shut up now. Roll it!

Chase POV

Solitaire in the Dark

Hollow bones.

I have to smile when I hear him say those words. He has them, after all, along with a sixteen-foot wingspan. Funny. For an angel, he angsts an awful lot. But then again, that's the only reason I've ever meant anything to him. Because I shut up when he plays solitaire in the dark, because I don't say a word when he shuffles the plastic-laced linen cards and lays them down in perfect sets, because I don't make a sound when he rambles on about the ethics of cheating at a game in which you are the only player. That's all I mean to him. An inanimate figure with big hollow eyes and no words with which to contradict or mock or interrupt him.

Control.

I have that, too. He's always admired me for my control. Though he has more than nearly anyone else in the world, he somehow guesses that I have more than he does. Well, I do. My emotions are practically nonexistent. That's why I'm here. In the dark. Watching him play solitaire.

My throat aches to vibrate with sound, my lips to form words of consolation. But it is precisely that consolation that he will never accept.

Ah, well. C'est la vie.

I've never understood him, though I pretend to when I'm with everyone else. I think I've even fooled him into believing I know everything about him, what he's done, how his mind works, how his heart pumps blood which circulates around his body, keeping him alive. But I don't. I can only watch as he throws himself down a self-destructive path.

How can playing solitaire in the dark be self-destructive when you wear contact lenses that spray light on everything you see?

I'm not sure.

But I know he despises himself for letting her die. Who is she? You know. Psylocke. Betts. Kwannon. Lady Mandarin. Even Captain Britain at one time. She has so many identities that even her closest friends aren't quite sure who she was when Vargas speared his sword through her abdomen.

At least he didn't have to watch.

Her teammates had to. Hank. Rogue. Even Neal at the end, even though he won't admit it. Warren hates himself for not at least being there. He thinks if he were there, maybe he could have stopped her death in some way.

Bullshit.

He would have been just as incapacitated as Beast, or the near-invulnerable Southern Belle everyone seems to have their eye on these days.

I'm just not sure that I can fix him.

But why can't I? I've fixed some serious problem cases before. I weaned Sabretooth of his fascinated addiction to the psychological drug, "The Glow." I exorcised Gambit's inner demons, I even cured Pete Wisdom's fanatical alcoholism. I'm still working on that cigarette addiction. I don't know, the man sure loves his fags.

And Warren.

I still don't know how to deal with him. I shadow him every moment of every day. At night I sleep cradled in his light blue arms, cushioned on the silvery white feathers of his wings.and I still don't understand him at all. I don't know what to do to make him believe I care. I can't say anything. Otherwise the spell will be broken. The spell of quiet angst. If I say anything, I might make him scream, yell, throw things.

Lose control.

And control is the thing I've always been taught to encourage.

Maybe I should ask him to stop playing solitaire in the dark.

But his card-playing is a way to vent the anger within.

Or is it?

How should I know? I'm a sixteen-year-old shrink whose mutation is instilling self-control. Well, something like that, anyhow. If only She were still here, still with him. I think that's the only thing he wants. He's still in love with her ghost.

Shit. I wish I were Mastermind. Or even Mystique. Yeah. Mystique. That would be better. More realistic. He'd never believe it if he were suddenly whisked away into a place with no suffering, with the woman of his dreams, with the woman he loved and lost and never really held. It would be a lot more believable if she suddenly walked back into his life, maybe devoid of her original powers, but alive.

But I'm not a shapeshifter. I'm just talking myself in circles. I'm just angsting up a storm, the sort of thing Gambit used to do when he had time to kill and didn't want to do the Danger Room grind. He'd drag me up to the roof until his eyes got so heavy he couldn't keep them open anymore, and then we'd go back to bed, and he'd hold me for a little while, then push me away and roll to the other side of the bed.

Well, maybe he just didn't want to co operate with the clingy side of my therapy.

Neither did Wisdom.

But Warren never pushed me away, like even Kitty did when I was expunging her jealousy of her mentor from her heart. Warren just lays there, one hand in my hair and the other on my back, perfectly still but for the lift of his stomach while he's breathing. He breathes so quickly, as though his lungs are bored and haven't anything better to do.

He's always awake. He doesn't sleep until at least two-thirty. But then, I never sleep until at least three. So I have him beat. I have him under my constant vigilance. But maybe he doesn't need my constant vigilance. Maybe he needs to be alone for a while. Maybe he needs me to say I really do care, that my mutation doesn't expunge all my emotion. Maybe.

Maybe he doesn't need me at all