RATING: Swearing. Hints at other things. PG13? DISCLAIMER: Marvel owns them, but I just got an etch-a-sketch off my sister, so really who is luckier? FEEDBACK: Ooh yes. Please.
Inevitability
by Mercedes
Warren's been brushing his teeth for five minutes now. They're pretty much as clean as they're going to get.
So he's actually going to do this then.
It's hot in the small bathroom ensuite to the hotel room. So hot it seems like a good idea to turn on the extractor fan and run some cold water in the sink to rinse his face with. The fan whirrs to life loudly and makes a horrid clacking noise before it settles down. Bloody thing. Extractor fans in four star hotels shouldn't make noises like strangled cats. Hell, for the price of this suite, they should be pumping in air directly from some Swiss mountaintop or something.
Warren grins at that, contemplating ringing room service and requesting that European air be pumped in. Only the best for him and his fuckpuppet for the night. Presumably for the night anyway. Maybe he won't spend the night. Maybe he'll finish and leave straight away. Wink at him over breakfast and never mention it again.
Which is fine with Warren.
Betsy's going to kill him. That's actually pretty encouraging. She's going to kill him whatever happens now. Living with a telepath gives a whole new meaning to the term "thought crime". He could leave now but the second he gets home she'll know that he wanted to and that in itself will be enough. He's going to suffer as much as if he's done it. He may as well do it.
The extractor fan was a bad idea. Fresh air. Sobriety. Not good.
Skin feels hot as ever, but it's anger rather than heat. He fucking *hates* this guy. With good reason. Even putting history aside, he's never liked him. His whole poseur thing. The hair. That stupid fucking trenchcoat. The way he speaks to women – and, he realises now, men – in that smug, self-assured manner that indicates he believes it's not a matter of if they give in but when. The fact that, more often than not, he's right.
He certainly was tonight.
Warren looks in the mirror again, at that angry, childish sneer on his face. He hates that sneer. Hates it so much he sneers a little more at it. He hates himself when he's like this.
Coward. Stupid fucking coward.
His attention moves to the reflection of his wings. He wonders how he'll react to them. Some girls he's been with just ignored them. Didn't want to touch or be touched by them. Which is like making love without using your arms. And not because they're handcuffed to the bedpost by a bored girlfriend who thinks this might "spice things up a little".
Other girls, he's been convinced, were only with him because of the wings. Maybe the novelty factor, something to tell their friends about.
Knock on the door. Warren concentrates, tries to cool down. Wipes the sneer away. Opens it.
"Thought you'd fallen in."
Shrugs. Doesn't meet his eyes. Looks down at that stupid trenchcoat. The receptionist must have thought he was Warren's crack dealer.
He doesn't have to do this. He could still go. Patch things up with Betts.
He finally looks up into those inhuman eyes. "I really fucking hate you."
Gets him a shrug. "Comin' to bed?"
Warren exhales, switches off the fan. "Take that coat off."
And he does.
END