Disclaimer: Stan, it's so good to finally have a peaceful interlude to ourselves... no Evo characters running around, no worrying about who owns the present characters...

A/N: Here it is kids (and adults, and trained chimpanzees who have stumbled across this site hopefully by accident, 'cause wouldn't it be freaky if the little guys were actually intelligent to know and care what X-Men:Evolution is?), the long awaited backstory of Betsy Braddock and Wade Wilson, first mentioned in chapter ten of "Red and Black Harley," and pushed for by multiple reviewers.

Like, I said, there were several who wanted this, but since she was practically in tears over the fact that there was no physical face-to-face contact between Betsy and Wade in RBH, this one-shot is dedicated, in RBH style, to demonpixie1.

2 and 1/2 years before Remy LeBeau left Rogue with only a note the sent her off on a journey down the East Coast to prove her love and bring him back...

The city of Sheffield, England was quiet and peaceful on that fateful night. The constables were doing their rounds on the silent streets, enjoying the break. Everything in sight was in order.

That was because none of them were looking up.

Crouched among the gargoyles on top of the Catholic Church on West Main street, a lithe figure dressed entirely in black warily looked around before rising fluidly and creeping over to the edge of the roof. With barely a second's hesitation, it leaped, flying across the open space easily and landing on the neighboring roof. Instantly, it was off again, getting a running start and jumping to the next building, and the next, and the next.

It never noticed the figure keeping pace just two buildings behind it.

Wade Wilson, otherwise known as Deadpool, giggled quietly to himself as he stalked the unsuspecting ninja across the city. The sock-head had no idea he was being followed. He allowed himself another mild bout of hilarity before rechecking the multiple guns, blades, and homemade hand-grenades that decorated his person. His precious doorknobs were holstered at his hips, and his baby-booms were safely in the bazillion pockets placed conveniently along the shoulder harness he was wearing for his Uzi. Finally, he reached over his shoulders and drew his Lovelies, twin katanas that caught the moonlight and matched the twinkle in their master's eyes.

Deadpool eyed them lovingly as he tested the edges, then once satisfied that they were sharp and ready, he rather reluctantly sheathed them and returned to following the ninja.

Elizabeth Braddock, otherwise known as Betsy, back-flipped across the roof and landed feet first on the other side of the chasm. She shivered a little, despite the balmy night air. For some reason, she'd felt on edge the entire evening, feeling as though eyes were on her nearly ever since she stepped outside.

Okay, so stepped is a bit of a stretch. But swinging out of your bedroom window onto your roof was still going outside right?

Betsy rolled her shoulders around and sighed. Her parents would so not approve if they knew their daughter was sneaking around the city at night wearing a ninja suit. Never mind that they had been the ones to enroll her in self-defense classes, taught by Mr. Li, who had lived most of his life in Japan. If they had any idea that their unusually talented daughter was playing vigilante, they'd probably have simultaneous heart attacks.

The self-defense was a good idea, if only because Betsy was continuously being teased about her hair. Purple is not a natural color, despite what any of the Braddock's insisted, so eventually, they just gave up and let people think it was dyed. Unfortunately, before that, Betsy had gotten into a few scuffles over the issue. But once it became clear that the pretty little girl with the weird hair knew some freaky awesome karate, the harrassers backed off, and Betsy was left in peace.

Well, as much in peace as could be expected, what with being able to read minds and all.

The young telepath/ninja/up-and-coming-model exhaled dramatically and glanced over her left shoulder a bit suspiciously. Seriously, she was feeling eyes on her. What was even more disturbing was exactly where she could feel the eyes settling. Somewhere in the vicinity between her shoulder blades and her upper thighs.

Her eyes narrowed as she considered her options.

Option one: she could use her telepathy to search for the stalker's mind and figure out who he was and what he wanted. Simple, effective, but terribly boring.

Option two: she could simply turn around and ask him who he was and what he wanted. Right. And then maybe she could politely request that he refrain from killing her while she called the authorities.

Option three: she could use her secondary power, telekinesis, and try out that cool new technique she'd discovered in Mr. Li's class the other day.

Yeah... she was definitely going with option three.

Betsy flung out her hand and immediately envisioned a blade, growing, lengthening, stretching until it was as long as her arm. She pushed with her mind... and then it was there, a pulsing, sharp, deadly, purple katana, hilt nestled comfortably in her palm, and ready for business.

Behind her, she heard a muffled curse.

Wade felt his brown eyes widen behind his mask as the ninja's hand suddenly started glowing. When the glow became a flash of light and turned into a katana blade held at a ready angle, he tried to bite back an epithet but couldn't quite manage it. That was one cool sword.

Instantly he felt guilty, and he reached over his shoulder to stroke his own Lovelies with apologetic fingertips.

"Sorry, babies," he crooned. "Daddy loves you, you know that."

Dropping his arm, Deadpool glared at the ninja, who for some dumb, sock-headed reason was just standing there, not moving not even looking back to see him. What was he waiting for? A written invitation? No way was Wade going to make the first move. Like, sure, any other night he'd have killed the guy already, but once you've stalked someone across half a city, it kinda feels rude to just slit their throat or shoot them in the head, bada-bing-bada-boom, he's dead, next please.

Scowling at the back of the ninja's head, Wade willed him to turn around. He wasn't sure how much more of this waiting thing he could take. It wasn't exactly a strong suit of his.

Betsy waited, almost breathless, and completely terrified. She'd never actually faced danger before, not even since she'd taken upon herself the guardianship of her city. The worst thing she'd ever fought was a drunk in an alley who couldn't keep his hands to himself, and dealing with that took just one well-placed knee and a little memory-tampering to make him think he'd spent the evening watching a ballet recital. She had no idea if she would actually be able to hold her own in a true fight.

Guess there was no time like the present to find out.

Flipping over and around, Betsy landed facing her opponent, katana at the ready, feet planted in a firm guarded stance.

The man before her applauded softly. "Nice," he observed in a conversational tone. "Bit shaky on the foot placement, but if you just move one tiiiiiny inch to the left, you'll be perfect."

She didn't move. "Why are you following me?"

He looked her in the eye-well, looked in her direction. What with the dark, and the fact that he was very carefully staying out of the miniscule amount of light the rooftop lamps provided, he could have very well been checking her out again.

Wade was very diligently checking the ninja's visible body parts for extra weapons when he noticed something he hadn't been expecting, but couldn't say he wasn't pleased to discover. Certain parts of the black suit fit verrry snuggly to parts of the ninja. Parts Wade was pretty sure most male ninjas weren't supposed to have. He grinned. He'd been wondering why it was hard to keep his eyes off of this sock-head's rear, 'cause he was pretty sure he didn't swing that way, and thus, the whole situation could have been really awkward. Wait, was the she-ninja saying something?

"Why. Are you. Following. Me."

Betsy was getting impatient. Seriously, how rude was this guy? He stalked her over half the city, had spent the last few minutes measuring her bust size, and now refused to even answer when she asked him a reasonable question? The sheer nerve of the man!

"Listen," she said as sternly as she could manage. "If you don't show yourself right now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to get a mite rough."

The shadow was still for a moment, then, out of the darkness came a high-pitched laugh, somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle. She started when he suddenly moved forward.

"Come on, now, luv," he said, flawlessly copying her British accent. "You 'ave ta give a man more incentive than that!"

For a moment, all Betsy could do was stare at him. Dressed head to toe in what looked to be a red and black bodysuit, his head covered by a mask criss-crossed with fearsome scar-thingys, her assailant would have been a rather disturbing sight in daylight. At night, on a lonely rooftop, he was downright horrifying.

"Who-" she gasped. "Who are you?"

He straightened up immediately. "Oh, how rude of me. Name's Wade. Wade Wilson, also referred to as Deadpool, and known to respond to The Merc with the Mouth. How d' y' do?"

She just stared at him. She couldn't be sure, what with the mask and all, but it looked just the tiniest bit like he was grinning at her.

Abruptly, the feeling passed, and she suddenly felt a chill hit the air two feet from her head. "Now then," he growled. "What are ya waitin' for now? We've been introduced. You have a sword. I have-" now she knew he was grinning, "Two swords, three pistols, seventeen hand-grenades, and a lighter. I'm ready for a tumble, so let's get on with it, yeah?"

She was still staring at him. Wade shifted back and forth on his booted feet. The silence stretched on uncomfortably.

They looked at each other. She was trying to comprehend just what was going on here, and he was trying to comprehend how she was going this long without talking.

He broke first.

"Look," he said suddenly, stepping closer and earning a surprised squeak from Betsy. "I can't take much more of this, you know, standing around and waiting thing." All traces of England were gone from his accent, he was American, through and through. He was looking at her-well, so she assumed- with what would have been an earnest expression on his face. You know, were it not for the terrifying mask of serial killing terror.

Betsy swallowed hard. "Take off your mask."

He stopped short. "What?"

"The mask." She gestured with the katana. "Take it off."

She could have sworn that the unidentifiable features held a grimace of horror. "Why?"

She scowled. "'Cause I wanna see your face, that's why!"

That was the wrong thing to say. Abruptly, his voice became a purr-albeit a slightly disturbing and strangely high-pitched purr. "Well, why didn't ya say so then, honey?" He reached for his mask.

"Don't call me honey."

Seemingly ignoring her, Wade Wilkins/Deadpond/Mouthful of Merc or whatever his name was giggled again. "Honey. Honey bunny. Honeybees. Honey pie. Honey, honey, honey. Pooh Bear likes honey." Finally, he got his mask off, and mentally reminded the author to make a mental note to make him make a mental note about getting one that was a looser, less constricting fit.

Betsy studied him. Huge eyes shone brightly out of the dark sockets underneath shaggy brown hair that looked like it could benefit from a comb. Or maybe just a pair of scissors. Clean-shaven, no surprise there; she supposed a beard would itch under that mask. She couldn't tell how old he was; his face was timeless, implying that the things he'd seen and done had aged him, but his own personality had kept that from doing much damage to his immaturity. A well-defined jaw, full lips, the promise of dimples when he smiled.

All in all, it was a much more pleasant face that Betsy had originally imagined for her attacker, and yet one that she saw fit him perfectly. She'd have been disappointed and surprised if he'd had any other, actually.

The ninja-lady was staring at him again.

Wade didn't really like being stared at. Well, unless it was some hot chick who was doing the staring. But since he couldn't exactly tell what this sock-head actually looked like-although the ninja suit left little to imagination-he wasn't particularly happy with the scrutiny.

"Okay, ninja. Mask is off. Your turn."

She hesitated. Wade understood. Many people found themselves nervous in the presence of Wade and all his awesomeness for the first time. He waved a hand magnanimously. "Never mind. I understand that you're feeling a little self-conscious now. I mean, after seeing this," he gestured to himself, "who wouldn't be?"

She glared at him. "I am not intimidated by you, Mr. Mouthy-Stream, or whoever you are."

He looked vaguely perplexed at what that was supposed to mean exactly, but was quickly distracted by her whipping her own ski-mask over her head.

And then he was just distracted by her.

Tall, lithe, fit into a ninja suit like it had been sewn onto her, with flawless skin and almond-shaped eyes, she was a vision in skintight stretch-clothes. Wade could hardly believe his eyes. And on top of all that amazing gorgeousness, her hair, her hair, her hair!

Purple was now officially Wade's favorite color.

He was staring at her. Uncomfortable, she snapped, "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

To her surprise, he gave her a wistful smile. "Wish I could, honey, but I forgot my camera. And now," he sighed dramatically and reached over his shoulders with both hands. "Now, I have to kill you."

He drew his Lovelies.

Betsy gaped at him. Had he just... was he seriously... GAH!

She ducked the katana swing at her head. Apparently he was.

"Hey, wait just a minute-Yah!" She dodged the next swipe. Deadpool grinned at her manically. "Sorry, gorgeous, no time-outs." He lunged for her and she decided she'd better start putting some of those skills she'd been developing to use before she ended up as decoration for the rooftops.

Shaking out her purple hair behind her, she flipped her own psychic katana and slashed at the now-unmasked man who was trying to kill her. He side-stepped easily.

"Not bad, not bad," he praised. "But not quite awesome either."

Okay, that did it. There was only so much a girl could put up with anyway.

Dropping the connection for the katana, Betsy let the purple blade fade away and focused all of her telekinetic power on holding Wade in one place. He tried to step towards her, only to jerk to a stop after only moving inches. His mouth dropped open. She braced herself for the onslaught.

But instead of the angry, ranting tirade she was expecting, Wade Wilson stuck his lower lip out and honest-to-goodness pouted.

"Not fair," he whined. "I only have one mutant power if you don't count my awesomeness. Which, weirdly enough, most people don't. I mean, you'd think the writers could add some sort of little anecdote where I'm awesome and someone goes 'Yeah, that's just his other power' and then it could be legit, you know?"

He looked at her expectantly and Betsy blinked. "Uh, no. Not exactly... that's not the point! The point is I win, you can't move, and now you're gonna stop following me. Got it?" She stood within arm's reach of him and pointed her blade menacingly.

He stared at her, blinking slowly. Then, "Nope." He started struggling against her hold.

Exasperated, she took a step closer to him and scowled. "Hello! Telekinesis, genius. You. Can't. Move!"

He smirked at her, sheathing the katanas. "Wanna bet?"

And just like that, he was moving, right into her personal space, and smelling like aftershave and sweat, and something vaguely metallic-probably a result of wearing like, six pounds of metal weaponry on his person at all times. His arms slid around her, trapping her own by her sides, and pressing her close to his body. She felt her eyes widen, and she just knew her mouth was falling open in a way that was so not appropriate for the situation, but she couldn't help herself.

He was grinning again, that open, boyish grin that made him look so young. He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "I win."

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't a passionate kiss. It was barely even a lip-lock, really. He just touched his lips to hers, like he was tasting, just seeing if he liked it. In fact, the only reason it could even count as a real kiss was all on her. She kissed him back. Later, she'd tell herself it was reflex; when someone kisses you, you kiss back. She couldn't help it.

Quite frankly, she couldn't convince herself that she wanted to.

He drew back slowly, childlike excitement and wonder in his huge brown eyes. "You kissed me," he whispered.

She sputtered unattractively. "You kissed me first!" She pointed out indignantly.

He thought about that for a second. "Oh. Yeah, I guess I did." He grinned again, unrepentant. "And aren't you glad I did?"

"Why you-"

He kissed her again, effectively cutting off her outburst with the teensiest pressure and then it was gone. "Now, now, love," he said, eyes twinkling with a light that made her breath catch a little. "Mustn't get obnoxious." His fake accent was back.

She snorted. "You're one to talk."

He looked pleased. "Thanks very much, gorgeous."

Across the city, a church clock struck two. Wade's head came up, and for one hysterical second, Betsy was reminded of nothing so much as Cinderella, having to go home before the end of the ball, and oh, what she was missing out on! And then she was released from the iron arms that held her and she stumbled back, blinking quickly to make up for the last five minutes of staring fixatedly at him. He was pulling on his red and black mask. She watched in silence, only breaking the sudden solitude when he had finished.

"So, that's it then?"

He glanced at her. "Yeah," he said. "That's it."

She looked a little hurt, but she didn't say anything else.

Wade Wilson, a.k.a. Deadpool, otherwise referred to as the Merc with the Mouth, swung over the side of the building onto the fire escape and disappeared into the city.

Elizabeth Braddock, a.k.a. Psylocke, referred to as Betsy by everyone except her grandmother, shivered a little and decided to call it a night. She went home.

Three days later, she found a katana on her window sill, freshly sharpened, with a brand-new-blade feel to it that said it was awaiting its proper owner.

The purple letters etched into the blade confirmed just who that owner was.

To my other Lovely.

There was a note wrapped around the handle.

Come out and play.

She grinned. Sheathed the-absolutely gorgeous-katana across her back. Climbed out the window.

And began the chase all over again.

A/N: This took a really long time to write, and I apologize for that. It was supposed to be finished and posted a lot sooner than this. :/

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed the beginning of Wetsy. ;) Keep the love, kids.

What does dat even mean?

Indy, can' ya jus' let that love flow for a bit?

What does DAT mean?

*sigh* Nevamoind...

'Sokay, Ash. I know.