Twenty-Four Little Hours

Part Five

   Warren and I are sitting in the garden of the mansion, the afternoon sun warm against my back, and the peaceful sound of birdsong pattering against my ears. The sky is filled with soft, pale clouds that scud silently across its uniform blue, their fluffy surfaces uniformly white, although there is the faint suggestion that there perhaps might be a rainstorm later, given their size. My husband and I don't take much notice of that – at the moment, all we are interested in are more pressing human concerns that affect the two of us more than anybody else in the mansion.

   "So… you think we ought to start thinking of names for our new baby boy?" Warren asks, matter-of-factly. "Don't want the little fella to go nameless for the rest of his life, do we?"

   That sets my teeth on edge, just a little. I can smell what is coming, and it makes me uneasy despite myself. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up and prickling defensively, as if Warren's words are extended blades that might pierce my skin at any moment. Ridiculous, perhaps, but I've learned never to distrust my instincts – they've saved my life on more than one occasion (and frankly, after ignoring the instinct to run from Sabretooth, I've decided that perhaps my instincts know best). "And what precisely did you have in mind, Warren?" I ask him, softly.

   Scratching his ear and exhaling softly, Warren shifts in his seat and adjusts his posture, as if he is suddenly uncomfortable. "Well… I was kinda hoping to give him the name Warren somewhere," he says, shrugging. "It was my father's name, and my grandfather's before that – I just want the little guy to be one of the family, you know?" He smiles bashfully. "One of the good guys, anyway."

   "Wouldn't he be a member of the family anyway, Warren?" I say, my hands clutching at each other guiltily. I don't want to start an argument, but the way I feel about this, I don't really see any other course of action, and that pains me greatly. "Would he really have to have your name to fit in?"

   Slightly taken aback, Warren's excitement stalls, and he tilts his head in confusion. "I don't know what you mean, Betsy –" he begins, an almost visible fog of puzzlement settling around his mind. He can obviously feel my mounting anger and annoyance at what he's suggesting, but he doesn't know why I'm feeling like this. I owe it to him to explain that, at least.

   "I knew you'd do this, Warren," I say, perhaps a little too harshly, exasperation clearly evident in my voice. "I won't have our son become just another notch on your family's totem pole. I don't want him to be 'Junior' for the rest of his life – I want him to be his own person."

   Warren draws back from me defensively, holding his hands up in front of his body, as if he is expecting me to strike out at him at any moment. "I know that, Betsy, and I agree – I don't want our kid to be just a set of numbers either, but I want to preserve this tradition, in at least some way; it's the only thing worth a damn that I've got left of my mom and dad. Is it so bad to want to keep in touch with them this way?"

   Sighing, I fold my hands over my outstretched right knee and drop my head down for a moment or two, closing my eyes and feeling the pulsing ache that fills my skull echo hollowly against the inside of my eyelids. "No, Warren. I know what you're saying, and I appreciate your wanting to remember your parents that way, but all I really want is for my son to have a name that's unique, so that he knows he was special to us both, and not just to the Worthington family history."

   "Well, what did you have in mind?" Warren asks me, his tone tightening a little as he folds his arms across his muscular chest. He flexes his wings a little, to catch the afternoon sun, and a few loose feathers flutter down around him, settling silently on the grass around us. Warren regards one or two of them with a disdainful eye, and then turns his attention back towards me. "Maybe we can work something else out, huh?"

   I bite my lip, tasting a slight metallic tang on the tip of my tongue as my teeth accidentally cut through my skin. "I… I wanted… to give him the name Douglas," I say, slowly and deliberately – at which point, Warren's expression changes, darkening and taking on a pained look. In the deep blue pools of his eyes, I can see and feel a sense that he has been wronged, somehow, and that sensation is confirmed by his next words to me.

   "I see," he says, touching the bridge of his nose with two fingertips. "Why does Doug have preference over my father, Betsy? They're both dead, right? What makes Doug better than my dad?" He snorts in disgust and turns away from me, his teeth pressing hard together and the muscles of his jaw clenched so tightly that I can almost feel the tension in them myself.

   "Nothing, Warren," I tell him calmly, nevertheless feeling my grip on the situation slipping away from me with every word that leaves my lips. "Neither of them are better than the other – I'm not saying that our son can't have your name; not at all. I just don't want him to feel like he's just the next thing off a production line."

   "Why that name, then?" Warren asks, quite reasonably, as he kneads at his temples with his fingertips. I can feel a renewed headache building at the front of his skull, and I'm not entirely sure whether it originated in his head or in mine; both of us seem stressed enough to hurt each other involuntarily, after all. Seemingly aware of this fact as well, Warren takes a deep breath before he asks again "Why Doug?"

   "Because Doug is… was… my best friend. To give my son his name would be to honour him in my own little way – just like naming our boy 'Warren' would be honouring your father." Warren's headache adds to my own now, causing me to pause for breath and close my eyes momentarily. "I think I should make myself a little clearer, Warren; I don't… I don't just want our son to be 'Douglas Worthington'. I just want that name on his birth certificate somewhere."

   "So at the moment we have a son with two hand-me-down names, and no original one for himself, right?" Warren says rhetorically, his words still sounding a little sharp. "Any ideas how we're going to fix that? Or are we just going to give this kid those two names and be done with it?"

   "I hope not," I sigh, running my hands through my hair in exasperation. "I told Brian and Meggan that I liked the names David, Mark and Robert, and I also thought Peter is a nice name. What about you?"

   "I don't know…" Warren exclaims, doubtfully. "I kinda like Max, myself." That suggestion brings an involuntary grimace to my face, which Warren notices all-too-well. He raises his eyebrows, and pushes himself off the bench we are sitting on with one hand. "I think we both need some more time to think this over properly, don't you?" he says, his voice seeming small, sad. "Making faces and screaming at each other isn't the best way to get this worked out." He gestures over to the edge of the grounds with one blue-fingered hand, and continues "I'm going to go for a walk. I'll see you later, Betsy."

   And with that, he stalks off, frustration and irritation cocooning him as he walks away.

   To be fair to him, though, we are both as on-edge as each other, and I'm just as frustrated and annoyed as he is – although I'm more annoyed with myself for being so pig-headed and tactless (which is quite a feat for a telepath, seeing as we're supposed to know other people's minds as intimately as we know our own – or at least that's the theory, anyway), than with him for wanting to give our son the Worthington family name.

   Sighing, I push myself arduously to my feet and begin walking as quickly as I can back to the mansion, feeling my baby kick despondently inside me, and feeling the sunshine's warmth against my bare arms. A slight breeze starts up for a moment or two, and the hairs on the back of my neck automatically stand up in response, like soldiers on parade. Raising my eyes to the sky, I smile weakly at its pale blue canvas, and then resume my trek towards the back door of the mansion.

*

   The mansion is quiet, its old oak passageways deserted and home to little more than the dust motes floating in the lancing beams of sunlight flowing in through the evenly-spaced windows. Most of the other X-Men are either outside playing baseball or visiting Harry's Hideaway (a pleasure for all of us at the worst of times), and there are only a few of us left at home, not including Warren and myself. However, the person that I wanted to talk to is still here, which gives me cause for celebration, however muted. Raising my hand to the door of the room that I've stopped outside, I call softly "Rebecca? It's Mum. Can I come in?"

   There follows a moment or two of muffled commotion behind the door's oak-panelled surface (as Rebecca and Sam – who I'd sensed was inside her room with her from halfway down the hall – try to contain their shock and fluster at hearing the sound of my voice), before Rebecca says "Sure – come on in, Mum."

   "Are you sure you're decent?" I ask her in a slightly more cheerful tone, feeling my spirits rise almost automatically now that I'm closer to my daughter. There follows a moment or two of silence – during which I can feel Rebecca's embarrassment flowing through the door as if it isn't even there – before Rebecca speaks again.

   "Yes, Mum, I'm decent." I can picture her rolling her eyes as she says the words, anxious not to look more humiliated than she thinks she has been already. Taking a deep breath, I close my hand on the rounded handle of the door, twist it a half-turn and step inside Rebecca's room. Once I'm past the threshold I can see that she and Sam have purposefully moved themselves onto Rebecca's futon, which has been hurriedly arranged into a seat, a blanket and a flexible mattress providing soft cover for the green-painted wooden frame. The chair in the opposite corner of the room has had an extra cushion hastily thrown onto it, and Rebecca helps me to sit down (quite unnecessarily, really, but it's nice to know that she's willing to do it now, and not just when it'll be absolutely essential – or at least, when I let everyone think it's absolutely essential), letting me find the most comfortable sitting posture at my own leisure. It takes a little while, but between my son and me, we manage to arrange ourselves so that both of us are able to rest a touch more easily. When I have settled myself, Rebecca notices the vaguely haunted look that apparently is still flitting across my face, and her expression changes to match, her pretty features contorting beneath her twin curtains of pale blonde hair. "Are… you okay, Mum?" she asks, hesitantly, even as she links her mind with mine in order to fully appreciate our conversation.

   Wrapping my fingers around the swell of my belly, I sigh miserably. "No, sweetheart, I'm not okay. Your father and I are having a… disagreement… about what your little brother's name is going to be."

   Rebecca raises her eyebrows in comprehension, and looks down at her linked hands for a moment or two. "Oh. I see." She has made no secret of her misgivings with the idea of having a new baby in the mansion (she has repeatedly insisted that Warren and I move away from the mansion, to Warren's Rocky Mountain aerie – partly for altruistic reasons, and partly, I think, because she feels that her uniqueness is being usurped by this new arrival. Typical first-child worries, according to Hank), but I think she wants to be as accommodating as she can right at this moment. Rebecca exhales quietly, before saying "Why did you come here, then? Shouldn't you be talking to him?"

   I sigh, rubbing at my forehead and once again bemoaning my decision to steer clear of painkillers as much as possible. "Oh, your father and I decided between us that we weren't going to get anywhere by having a shouting match. We needed time to cool off, so… I thought I would come and talk to you. You're always a calming influence, after all." I flash my daughter a small smile, which she returns with a slight amount of trepidation.

   "Do you want me to leave, Mrs Worthington, ma'am?" Sam says abruptly. "I don't want to be a third wheel – if you want to speak to your daughter alone, then I'll leave right now." And then, as if to reinforce that statement, he gets up from the futon and takes a couple of resolute steps towards the door.

   "You can stay if you like, Sam," I tell him quietly, touching one of his strong hands with my fingertips. "I think having a neutral party here might actually be a good thing."

   "Well, okay, ma'am." Sam looks deeply unconvinced, but he returns to his seat anyway. "If you think it'll do you some good, then I'll sit tight." He takes the opportunity to put his arm around Rebecca's shoulder, and then murmurs a question of whether or not Rebecca is okay with the arrangement into my daughter's ear. If I weren't so on edge, I'd be simultaneously pleased and flattered at how respectful Sam is, both to myself and to Rebecca.

   When the two of them have settled again, Rebecca asks "So why are you and Dad arguing about the baby's name?"

   Sighing again, I rub my temples with my fingertips. "This is going to sound silly, but –"

   "Try me," Rebecca says, a little curtly. "After living in this house for as long as I have, nothing sounds silly any more." She laughs, a sheepish look crossing her beautiful face. "I mean, God… just look at what you, Dad and I have had to deal with. After that, I don't think anything could be any worse."

   That makes me smile. "I suppose it couldn't, could it?"

   "See?" Rebecca laughs. "Bet you Uncle Scott and Aunt Jean would say the exact same thing, right?" When I nod, my daughter grins and continues "So come on. Spill it, Mum." She reaches forwards and links hands with me, her soft touch inherently reassuring, somehow. "I won't tell, I promise." She winks, the low light in the room gleaming off the spotless enamel of her teeth.

  Despite her assumed cheerful manner, her eyes are filled with concern – she knows I can tell she's worried, which is why she's trying to look unflustered. Rebecca has her faults, like anybody, but her positive qualities more than make up for that.

   And right now, that's more help than anything she could say.

   Taking a deep breath, I tell her "Your father and I both want to give your little brother a name that's special to us individually – Warren wants to give him the name Warren, like his father and grandfather before him, and I want to give him the name Doug, like… an old friend."

   Rebecca's eyes suddenly roll up into her head, and she mumbles to herself in incomprehensible tones. I can sense reams of information passing through her mind at incalculable speed, rolling over the surface of her optic nerve like a computer read-out, until she finds what she wants – almost like a librarian rifling through drawers full of filing records.

   "Are you talking about Doug… Ramsey?" she asks hesitantly. I nod without saying a word, and Rebecca immediately pulls her mouth into a thin, regretful line. "I thought so," she says in a soft voice. "Sometimes I hate having all this information in my head."

   "I remember Doug," Sam says quietly, sadness without measure washing across the surface of his mind. "He was a good kid – I think he'd be honoured to have your son named after him, ma'am. He loved you a lot."

   "You could tell?" I ask, surprised that Doug would have opened up about something like that to anybody – given that I had to find out that he was in love with me through his thoughts, and then only when he was trying to stop me from killing him (mind control seems to attract me like a moth to a flame, apparently), it strikes me as unlikely that he would have told anyone else. "I mean, he told you about his feelings for me?"

   Sam smiles modestly, and chuckles. "Ma'am, it was obvious from the moment you guys met that he had a thing for you. The shaking hands, the red face, the stutter… oh, he had it bad for you, ma'am. Didn't have to be no fancy mind-reader to see that." He laughs again, and strokes his cleanly-shaven chin once, a reflective expression crossing his handsome, tanned face at the thought of his old friend. "Kid was hopeless with women; I guess girl-talk was the one language he couldn't figure out – and that was probably why they loved him so much." He lowers his eyes and touches their inner corners with the tips of a finger and thumb. "I miss him, you know."

   "I know." I reach across the divide between us to take a hold of his hand, and he grips my fingers tightly, as if we can share our mutual pain through that contact. "I know." I give him a small smile, and squeeze his fingers gently. There is a moment or two of silence, before Rebecca scratches at the nape of her neck and exhales gently.

   "So," she says (a little uncertainly, as if she is afraid to break the moment of quiet), "you want some alternative names." She grins suddenly, as an amusing thought strikes her. "If I suggested the name 'Nathan', would one of you shoot me?"

   "Without hesitation," I reply, laughing despite myself. "And I'd borrow one of your brother's guns to do it, too."

   "Good," Rebecca says resolutely. "I'd hate to have another brother with that name." She chuckles to herself quietly, shaking her head. "I quite like the name 'Thomas', actually." She taps the book on her bedside table – a half-finished copy of Huckleberry Finn – and adds "Blame Hank for this. I think he was trying to tear me away from re-runs of Buffy The Vampire Slayer."

   "As well he should," I tell her, wagging my finger. "You'll make your eyes go square if you sit in front of that screen for much longer."

   "I remember my momma tellin' me that TV was bad for my eyes when I was a little kid," Sam laughs. "Good to see you're pickin' up on the finer points of bein' a momma already, ma'am. Make sure you make her eat her vegetables, though – last time I took her out for dinner, she didn't eat anything green. She likes her meat too much, I reckon."

   Rebecca shoots Sam an evil look. "I asked you not to tell Mum about that," she says indignantly, folding her arms and glaring at him. "You promised."

   "No, I said I'd take that under advisement," Sam counters, trying his best to look as innocent as possible, even though it's obvious that he is guilty as sin. "I thought about it, and I think it's better for your health if you eat your greens – they're good for ya. Momma always made me eat every last lima bean, after all, even though I hated 'em."

   "Thanks for nothing, Sam," Rebecca replies acidly, before she gives me a scalding glare, her scarlet eyes shining and one finger pointed towards me like warning arrow. "Don't think this means I'm going to eat any of your spinach quiche, Mum."

   "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart," I tell her, with an angelic innocence. "I only make that when I'm in the mood to torture people."

   "So I've heard," Rebecca says, one eyebrow delicately arched. "Hank told me some horror stories about it once when he was giving me my monthly check-up." She laughs. "I think it put me off green vegetables for life."

   "You know, that really did sound like a challenge," I tease her. "Better be on your toes for the next month or so."

   "Just try it," Rebecca says in mock-defiance, making a face at me. "I dare you."

   "Oh, now that was a challenge – don't you think so, Sam?" I say, glancing at him and pointing a slightly crooked finger at my daughter. Sam laughs and shakes his head, holding his hands up as if to physically push the question away.

   "Oh no – I ain't gettin' involved with this," he says, a wry smile laced across his face. "You guys can kick each other t' bits on your own time, but I ain't gonna be a part of it – no way, no how. I might be a dumb Kentucky farm boy, but I ain't that stupid."

   "Good idea, Sam," Rebecca remarks, folding her arms and reclining against the back of the futon. "Never take sides in a fight between Braddock women."

   "I wouldn't say this is a fight, exactly, Rebecca," I say. "We haven't caused nearly the amount of gratuitous property damage that the X-Men usually do, after all." Then, after putting my hands on the arms of my chair, I push myself to my feet and lean across to kiss my daughter on the cheek. "Anyway, my darling, I think I should leave you two alone now – I've imposed enough. You need your own space, after all."

   Rebecca shakes her head vigorously (even a little anxiously, which makes me curious), gesturing for me to sit back down again. "Come on, Mum, we don't mind you staying – do we, Sam? Stay. Please." She stands and takes my hand, leading me back to the chair that I had been sitting in. "I like talking to you. Both of us do – don't we, Sam?"

   Sam nods. "Sure. Ain't never anything but an experience when you two are around, I'll say that for nothin'."

   "Even if it means talking about eating your greens?" I say, casually, a small smile touching the corners of my lips. "Why do you really want me to stay, Rebecca?"

   Before Rebecca can answer, there comes a knock at the door to her room, and Rebecca almost jumps up from her seat to answer it. She opens the door to reveal Warren – who I'd sensed coming this way, but had assumed would pass this room by if I was in here. Apparently I was wrong. He returns Rebecca's affectionate hug and then stands with his arms folded. "Betsy," he says quietly, nodding towards me but keeping his distance a little, letting me know that he still feels a little angry about what happened earlier.

   Feeling that I have to say something – anything – in return, I manage to reply "I… I have a new name for our son, if you'd like to hear it."

   Warren raises his eyebrows, but keeps his arms crossed across his chest like a security fence. "So do I, as a matter of fact. Come on, then – hit me with it."

   Looking at Rebecca for a second, to thank her silently, I say "Thomas." Warren's expression changes instantly to one of almost pure, distilled surprise, his blue eyes widening almost as far as they can go. He scratches the nape of his neck and exhales audibly.

   "Me too," he says, stunned. "Talk about your weird coincidences, huh?"

   Right now, Rebecca is struggling to hold back a smile, and she fails to keep it concealed from me (I might not be the world's best mother, but I do know Rebecca implicitly). Nodding towards our daughter, I say "Somehow – don't ask me how – I don't think it was that big a coincidence. When did you decide that Thomas was the name you wanted to use?"

   Warren shrugs, and then points out of the window, in the direction of the small copse of trees that is positioned on the edge of Lake Breakstone. "About five minutes ago, I guess. I was over there by the lake, just skimming some stones, when that name kind of… pushed its way right to the front of my head, like it was the only one that really mattered. Why?" He pauses, and then nods towards Rebecca – who is rapidly turning a very pretty shade of crimson. "You think somebody might have been planting suggestions in my mind?"

   "I don't know, Warren," I say, before I extend one hand casually towards Rebecca like a divining rod. "Why don't we ask her? Was it you who did that, by any chance, Rebecca?" Rebecca simply shrugs, her livid red face giving her sheepish smile an extra quality of guilt. Taking that as all the answer I need, I glance back towards Warren, and say "I think we've been had, don't you?"

   "Hook, line and sinker," Warren agrees, winking at Rebecca. "Pretty good hustle, kid. Why'd you do it?"

   "I don't know… I suppose I didn't want you two to fight over something so important," Rebecca says, her voice regaining a little of its previous strength. "That, and… I really like the name. So would you consider it? I'd like it if you did."

   Looking over at Warren, I say "I don't know, Warren – should we think about it?"

   Warren shrugs, after rolling the name around in his head, as if he is tasting a fine wine. "Why not? It's a good name. I like it." He chuckles, and then crushes Rebecca to him in an affectionate bear hug. "Might even make up for being tricked by my own kid."

   I smile, delighted. "So we're all agreed, then? Now all we have to decide is which order we're going to put those other names on his birth certificate…"