Teddy Bear
"Guten tag, Frau Worthington," Kurt says cheerfully, as he pokes his pointy-eared head around the door of the med-lab. His yellow eyes glow slightly in the low light, and his fangs glint like daggers. If I didn't know him as well as I do, I'd be frightened of him right now, but his cheerful, mischievous nature has an infectious charm that's as unique as he is, and very hard to ignore. "How are you today?"
"I thought I asked you not to call me 'Frau Worthington', Kurt," I tell him. "It makes me feel like I've become my mother. I'm not an old woman yet, you know."
Kurt shrugs. "Well, Betsy, I can hardly call you a fraulein now, can I? You are married, and you have two children. In most cases, I would say that that qualifies you as being a grown-up, nein?" He chuckles. "In any case, you haven't answered my question – how are you feeling today?"
I stretch, and swing my legs down over the side of my bed, kicking my feet slightly, as if I am on the bank of a river and dipping my toes into the ebb and flow of cool, clear spring water. "Honestly? I'm bored down here, Kurt. I like all the attention, I really do, and I love learning all the new sensations of being a mother, but I'd much rather be upstairs with the rest of you. It's so dull down here."
"Cabin fever is a terrible thing," Kurt replies, nodding thoughtfully. "Would you like me to teleport you upstairs for a while? I could do it so that nobody but the two of us would ever know. It would be our little secret." He chuckles again, like a schoolboy contemplating setting off a stink-bomb, and taps the upper finger of his right hand against his small snub nose. "So would you like me to do that for you? It would be my pleasure, I assure you."
"No," I reply. "Thank you, Kurt, but no; it's safer if I don't. My body needs to recover from giving birth first, I think. Teleporting would probably do me more harm than good."
Kurt blinks, his eyes demonstrating the surprise that I can feel emanating from his mind. "Ach, then the Betsy Braddock I used to know is truly dead," he says ruefully. "She would have accepted an offer like that in a snap of her fingers!" To demonstrate, he clicks the big forefinger of his right hand against his thumb as best he can. The noise is muted, but the effect is the same, and I cannot help but agree with him. Before Tom, before Rebecca, I would have been first in line to do what Kurt is suggesting – get drunk, break some rules and go on a naughty early morning adventure that would probably get me in trouble later. In fact I think I would have pushed Kurt into doing it, not the other way around. Kurt, being the swashbuckler – the daredevil – that he is, would have agreed, of course, but I would have been the driving force, without question.
"Yes, she would have, wouldn't she, Kurt?" I say. "It's funny how things change, isn't it?"
"Indeed so. But then again, that is what makes life so exciting, nein? The knowledge that everything may change in an instant?" He twirls his tail around his fingers for a moment or two, and then lets it free again, so that it can move up behind his shoulder blades. Once there, it shifts lazily from side to side, as if it is bored by having to stay in one place indefinitely. "It certainly keeps me on my toes."
"I suppose it does." As if on cue, Tom begins to howl loudly, the smell of his nappy indicating that he needs to be changed, and quickly. So, knowing that he won't put up with any great delays, I point to the blanket, lotion, terrycloth nappies, wipes and baby powder on the bed next to me. "Pass me those, would you, Kurt?"
"You should let me do that for you, Betsy," Kurt says. "I do not think that I could forgive myself for making an infirm woman do what I myself can do for her."
"My, my… you're still so chivalrous. Whatever am I going to do with you?" I say, smiling. "Thank you, Kurt, but no thank you. Better to get to know every side of my son now, don't you think? Besides, I don't think he'd accept you doing that for him just yet. Mummy knows best, after all." Stepping off my bed and laying the blanket evenly across the top of the bed, I heft Tom as gently as I can, and place his tiny, wailing form on top of it. "Shh. Shh, there's a good boy," I say quietly, stroking his cheek with a delicate movement of my fingertips. "There, now; Mummy's here. We'll get that nasty dirty nappy off you soon enough, won't we?" Then, unpinning the nappy that Tom is currently wearing, I dump it into the clothes bin by my bed as quickly as I can, making sure to hold my breath. Once that is done, I give my son's behind a thorough clean with a few wipes and some baby lotion, before dusting it lightly with baby powder. Then I tie a fresh nappy around his waist, working around his disgruntled wriggling as best I can, and then fix it securely in place with a safety pin.
When I am done, Kurt blinks in surprise and puts one hand across his mouth thoughtfully. "Liebchen, I feel as if I have been away from you for years. From what I have heard it usually takes months for people to learn how to change a diaper in twice the time you just did. What's your secret?"
"Practice," I tell him simply, while I cradle Tom gently, to try and lull him back into a calm and tranquil state. He seems far too grumpy to humour me until he finds a position that he likes, and then he settles down a bit. "Lots of practice. Sam was quite happy to tutor me, after all, and it only takes a few tries to get it right. It's easy, once you know how. Of course, when you have a baby instead of a doll, it's a bit harder, but still… you should ask Sam to give you some insight, if and when you decide you want to fill the mansion with little demons. He's a good teacher."
"Danke," Kurt replies, "but I will pass, I think; I do not think the right woman has come along yet. I plan on searching high and low for her before I commit to anything like children." He laughs, and gives me the dashing grin of a charming rogue – perhaps a musketeer, or Errol Flynn's Robin Hood. "There are far too many beautiful, charming women in this world for me to choose just one at this point in my life, I think. When I have found the one that I want to finish my time on this earth with, then and only then will I bring life into this world. Otherwise I would be being irresponsible, would I not?"
"I suppose you would be, at that." I sit back down into bed, Tom cradled close to my chest. The sound of his breathing has slowed, and he is gurgling softly now that he is comfortable again. He nestles his head closer to my bosom, and his body stops moving beyond the most necessary of drowsy movements. I can feel his thoughts beginning to drift back into the blurry stupor that he had been in before, and that makes me feel a lot better. For a moment, I turn my head away from Kurt to look at Tom, and to tuck his blankets a little closer to his body. His chest rises and falls against my body, leading to a swell of proud maternal feelings – feelings that once again surprise me with their presence, despite all I've been through to get to this point.
"Exactly, and that is something I do not wish God to see me become," Kurt replies, folding his arms across his lithe, wiry body. "He would be disappointed in me, I think. After all, who would wish to see this fuzzy elf fall from grace?" At that point, he spreads his hands in a questioning sort of way, doing his best to look as angelic as he possibly can. It has an immediate effect on me, as he probably planned.
"Oh, certainly not me, Kurt," I exclaim, playing along with his little ploy. "I think I'd be crushed beyond belief if I were to find that Kurt Wagner, my childhood hero, had been corrupted by the pleasures of the flesh, don't you?"
Kurt raises an indigo eyebrow curiously. "Betsy, you are older than I am. How could I have been your childhood hero when I was not even born then?"
"I have precognitive abilities, remember? I knew all about you before you were even a twinkle in your mother's eye. In fact, if you ask me nicely, I can probably tell you what your first daughter's name will be." I put my fingers to my temples, as if I am concentrating on recalling some future detail of Kurt's life, and grin wickedly at Kurt's mock-discomfort.
"Ach… too much information, Betsy," Kurt says, miming the action of blocking his ears with his fingers. "I think I will find that out for myself, if you don't mind. No offence, of course." Then, he steps forward a pace or two, and looks down at Tom, his eyes widening in fascination. Tentatively, he reaches out with the fingers of his right hand and touches Tom's blankets – perhaps as if he is afraid that he will get residual traces of the smell of sulphur on my son's clothes. "May I?" he asks, his curiosity evidently getting the better of him.
To reassure him, I say "It's all right, Kurt; he's getting used to visitors – as much as a newborn baby can get used to visitors, anyway. Would you like to hold him?"
"If you are willing, I would love to," Kurt replies, picking Tom up gently and then sitting down on the bed next to me, giving Tom as much consideration as he can in the process. "Ach, Betsy, I feel as if I am going to break him if I sneeze."
"You're doing fine," I say, nevertheless moving Kurt's left hand slightly so that he is supporting Tom's back and bottom a little more firmly. "He'll let you know if he's uncomfortable, I'm sure; babies are apparently very good at that."
Kurt nods appreciatively and then settles into his seat, Tom snoozing lazily in his arms. He watches my son with an almost childlike fascination, and carefully tucks him into the crook of one arm, resting the lower portion of Tom's body on his lap, before offering my son one of his fingers. He grins with delight as my son's tiny hand closes around it, and then he carefully hands Tom back to me and sits back down in his place again. "Mein Gott," he remarks matter-of-factly, "he is a rather handsome boy already, is he not? Blue is the colour to be around here, it seems." He laughs, shrugging innocently. "Not that I am biased, of course."
"Of course," I deadpan back at him. "You're an entirely neutral party, with no outside influences at all." Kurt snaps his fingers at that, looking triumphant.
"Exactly!" he says again, ripples of silent laughter flowing off his mind as he does so. "I am a neutral observer, and I have neutrally observed that blue men and women get the best lot in life." He winks. "Just take your husband, for instance – look who he married. I should think that he thanks God every day for such a lucky occurrence."
"I think I'm beginning to see what all those women saw in you, Kurt Wagner," I declare dryly. "You don't ever stop being a charmer, do you?"
Kurt looks at me as if I have just had a veil lifted from my eyes, and then backflips into the air to hang from the ceiling like a spider, clinging to the pristine white panelling by the tips of his fingers and toes. "Betsy, some things a man simply cannot help. Women seem to like the fact that I can do these things I do, and the fact that I do not let my appearance bother me. Who am I to disagree with such an opinion, and why should I not treat women well for having that opinion? I consider it fair payback."
Just then, Hank enters the lab, clad in his customary white lab-coat and with a pair of spectacles perched delicately on the bridge of his nose. He has a clipboard in one big paw, and he is ticking various things off a list that is fixed to it, muttering to himself about needing to make his secret stash of Twinkies more secret, and about how he needs to update his research on viral mutation. Then he looks up and sees Kurt hanging from the ceiling by my bed. "Hmm," he intones thoughtfully, putting a hand to his furry chin. "Something seems to have sprouted from the ceiling overnight. Since I know I did not put it there, I must surmise that my patient did so herself, against doctor's orders. What have you been getting up to while I'm not looking, Mrs Worthington?"
Before I can answer, Kurt somersaults to the floor and says "Guten tag, Herr McCoy. I trust you are well?"
Hank blinks, and pushes his spectacles up his nose in surprise. "My goodness, it talks! You really must show me how you managed to put together this creature, Betsy – I already feel dwarfed by your talent for creating artificial intelligence." Then his face splits into a broad smile. "Good morning, Kurt," he declares, before laying his clipboard on my bedside table and taking out a thermometer, which he then puts in my mouth for a moment or so. "I trust you have seen the junior Worthington by now?"
"Ja, Hank, indeed I have," Kurt replies, gesturing towards the cot that my son lies in. "I was just telling Betsy how he will have a better quality of life because he is blue, like you and I. Would you not agree that that was the case?"
"Oh, absolutely," Hank laughs. "You had better get ready for the time when he becomes a teenager, and realises that girls aren't actually infested with evil cooties, Betsy – he'll be beating them off with a stick, I assure you. I know I had to when I was an Avenger, after all… celebrity seems to make one even more irresistible than one is usually, strangely."
I fold my arms. "Don't do that, Henry. I don't need to have people keep telling me what a tragic existence I'm going to have as a parent when my son reaches his teens – I'm already going through that with Rebecca, so I don't need the reminder, thank-you-very-much." I swing my legs back up onto my bed and flip my sheets back across them, to try and keep them warm against the chill of the med-lab's ventilation system.
"You know, I always thought Rebecca was a very agreeable young woman," Hank says, his clawed right hand placed thoughtfully on his chin. "Once she was acclimatised here, and didn't want to kill us all, I mean. Before that, however, I would have agreed with you unhesitatingly." He smiles suddenly. "Although I think my decision to think highly of her now might also have something to do with the fact that her first crush was on yours truly, the ever-loving blue-eyed Beast. She's obviously a lady of impeccable taste." He rubs the claws of his right hand against his lapel, and then draws a line in the air with them, as if he is ticking off a score sheet. "What was that you were saying about blue people being irresistible, Kurt?"
"All right, all right… I get the point, you two." Getting up from my bed, I point a thumb casually towards the door of the med-lab. "Do you two want me to get you both a medal for over-stating your point? I'm sure I could find one somewhere, you know… and you'd thoroughly deserve it, the pair of you."
Hank shakes his head. "No thank you, Betsy… I don't think it would go with the lab coat. And besides that, I'm sure Trish found one for me years ago anyway. She always says I have torturous trouble trying to truncate my sentences and reduce the level of awesome alliteration that accentuates my always attention-grabbing utterances."
Kurt somersaults down from the ceiling, and takes a moment or two to regain his centre of gravity before he says "Hank, I have no idea where Trish got that idea from. She must be crazy, ja?"
"That's what I thought too, but apparently I'm the one at fault," Hank sighs. "Do you have any idea what she's talking about, Betsy?"
"None at all, Hank," I tell him, trying desperately to stifle the grin I can feel twitching at the corners of my mouth. "It's a complete mystery to me."
"Excellent. A majority verdict is always a good sign." After a moment or two, Hank points to his clipboard. "Anyway… the reason I came down here, Betsy, was as the bearer of some felicitous news: I believe that you and your son are strong enough to leave the med-lab and brave the outside world – I've asked Warren to bring you some fresh clothes, and your son a fresh babygro. He'll be along shortly to help you both upstairs."
Delight and relief in equal measure flower in my mind, and I immediately push myself to my feet and begin gathering up the piles of baby products and personal effects that surround my bed, piling them on top of my rumpled and creased sheets as quickly as I can. Before I can get too far, however, Hank stops me by laying one of his big paws on my forearm and turning me back towards him so that were are eye to eye.
"All the same," he continues quietly, "I think it would be best if I were to keep an eye on the two of you for the next week or so, just in case. I don't want either of you falling ill, all right? Both of your bodies have been through an emotional and physical wringer, and there might still be after effects that we simply haven't seen yet. Thus, I want to be absolutely sure that I'm making the right decision before I let you leave; Warren would never forgive me if something happened to you, after all..."
*
Warren brings me a white blouse, a pair of jeans and some flat-soled training shoes, and helps me pack all of Tom's things into a carry-all. He even shows me a Donald Duck blanket that he bought for Tom while I was recuperating. "What do you think?" he asks me hopefully.
"I think it's lovely, and very thoughtful," I tell him. "Thank you very much, sweetheart." I kiss him gently, to show my gratitude, and then wrap Tom up in it carefully, putting his soft blue blanket into the carry-all on top of the pile of fresh nappies. "I suppose you've been handing out cigars all this time, then?"
"Me? Absolutely not," Warren laughs. "I let Logan do that. I have been trying to fend off everybody else in the mansion, though – if it weren't for that rota system, it would've been wall-to-wall down here." He lays Tom down on the bed next to me and uses the respite to help me squeeze some unruly pieces of luggage into the carry-all. When they are all safely stowed inside, he returns to tending to his son, making sure that Tom is adequately prepared for a move upstairs (which will probably be very daunting for him, after all). "People have been begging me to let them have extra visits. I mean, absolutely begging me. It's insane…"
"I don't doubt it," I muse. "Something about babies seems to do that to even perfectly rational human beings."
"We should let them try and handle Rebecca for a week or two," Warren suggests. "That'd put them right off kids altogether, I bet."
"Shush, Warren." I tap him on the nose reproachfully. "They're probably going to be our only hope of staying sane over the next few years. Giving them Rebecca for a week would be the quickest way to make them run a mile."
"I guess you're right. Maybe we should let them deal with the smaller one who can't talk back first," Warren says, doing his best to look downcast, before his face brightens. "So, anyway… when do we get started on the next one?"
I've never hit anybody so hard in my life…