Haller and Betsy; backdated to Thursday Night

[x-psylocke.livejournal.com]

What do most normals do after a day of healing the mutilated?



It was somewhat disturbing that Betsy's idea of "going for a drink" was, in fact, going back to her old office to raid her private stash. It was disturbing that she had a private stash. At the moment, however, Jim simply accepted the proferred drink and refrained from comment -- in part because, after the last week, he thought he could begin to understand the need.

"It's weird," Jim said aloud, glancing from the gin to its pourer, "every time I think I've seen the worst people can do to one another something new and appalling happens to prove me wrong. I wish life would stop topping itself."

Betsy snorted. Taking a seat on the edge of the desk, facing him. She set aside the bottle and instead of speaking, she simply raised her eyebrows incredulously at Haller and took a drink from her glass. "Karmic blackhole," Betsy said afterlong. "If you're thinking of having a simpler life, it'd be best if you weren't actually living at Ground Zero."

Jim smiled faintly as he raised his own glass. "Well, I can't say I wasn't warned. At great length. Anyway, I'm the one who chose trauma as a speciality." He gestured vaguely before taking a sip. Usually he stuck with beer, but right now taste wasn't his main concern. "How are you holding up?"

"As can be expected," she said. Betsy shifted on the desk, pulling herself further up on it, and shrugged her shoulders noncommitedly at him. It'd be a waste to ruin a perfect bottle of drink on talking about feelings. Instead she reached for her glass, bringing it to her lips, all while keeping her eyes firmly on Haller. "And you?"

So they wouldn't be talking about her, then. As if he could criticize deflection. Jim smiled faintly. "The same," he replied, taking a sip. It was bitter. "Charles and I will be seeing a few of the victims for a while longer. It wasn't an instant-fix. The psychological ramifications are going to take a while to recover from. We'll get there, though. You and Marius have been taking care of the hardest part."

She looked over her glass and raised an eyebrow at him. Not meaning to, Betsy finished the glass and spoke through the burn finding its way down her throat. "Only took about five days and ...." She stopped herself. Absolutely not talking about it. "I'm sure you will. Help them, I mean."


Jim laughed. "For the most part, they help themselves. Them being here at all proves that. I'm just there for the initial step forward. That's all." He eased back in his chair, continuing his drink with much more reserve than the woman across from him. "So was this your first . . . salvage mission, I guess? I'm sorry, in all the chaos I didn't think to ask. I figured you'd had some experience from how well you handled everything. Ex-staff, right?"

"Ex-staff. Funny, I've never heard it phrased quite that way. Sounds about right though. Even when I was here, I really wasn't." She idly crossed her legs and leaned back on her arms. "So, am I another tic on your psychological assesment sheet or is this conversation strictly off the record?"

"Um, off the record." The younger man gave her an apologetic smile, resting his forearms on the desktop to cup the glass between his hands. "Sorry, I have a tendency to substitute counseling-habits for interpersonal skills. I just wanted to get to know you, that's all. We've been working around each other all week and we've barely said two words to each other. It doesn't seem right."

"It's alright," Betsy said, raising her hand to pour herself another glass. "We all do what feels 'natural' to us. But you are right about one thing, I've been a bit preoccupied with what's been happening and I've forgotten my manners." She placed the bottle back to her side on the desk and extended her right hand to him. Giving him a kilowatt smile as she continued speaking, adding a playful twist to her features. "Lady Elisabeth Braddock of the House of Braddock. It's a pleasure to meet you....?"

"David Haller, of the Xavier's alumni masochistic enough to come back in the professional capacity." Jim accepted her hand and returned the smile warmly. He was unworried about making the introduction to a strange psi. One of the benefits of a grueling counseling schedule was that it left him settled in a certain place. Right now, Jim was less focused on the fact it wasn't the truth than he was secure in the knowledge it wasn't a lie. The state of mind bordered on addictive. "Funny, you're the second 'lady' I've known to work here. But then, I noticed the school favors women of quality."


"Oooh, a charmer." Betsy said with mock-earnest. She took Jim's hand and tipped her head to him before pulling it back and leaning graciously onto the desk. "So. Now that we're formally introduced, what next? There are no disasters to avert. No cases of skinned knees or unexplained psychotic episodes. I feel almost complacent in the silence."

She was enjoying the exchange, a bit too much. But a diversion from what she'd taken part in wasn't a bad thing and well, it was only a matter of days before she returned to London and met up with the others. With that particular thought, she wasn't surprised her hand already on the glass. "You know," she said after taking a sip. "I'd almost be insulted that you weren't drinking but somehow, I don't it's something you indulge often."

Off his expression, she continued. "It's the way you're holding the glass. Strained. Unfamiliar."

Half his mouth turned upwards in a smile. "Found me out. No, I don't. It's because of my telepathy. If my grip slips I have a sort of blackout. A little's fine, but overindulgence comes with more problems than it's worth. You learn to monitor yourself." He contemplated the gin in his hand thoughtfully. "As for what we do . . . you know, I don't know? I'm not really the unwinding-type. I just thought I'd try it tonight. See what all the fuss was about."


Betsy nodded her head curtly, assimiliating the information but didn't push it any further. "I've never been the sort to use my time wisely. Something I've rather been notorious for within these walls," she looked up at the ceiling, grinning to herself. Memories surfacing that made that grin grow wider, Betsy exhaled. "Quite notorious. Some would say I've been a bad influence but that's all poppy-cock. But I've sort of grown up a bit, more responsible, as it were."

"Bad influence?" Jim said, smiling over his gin. "I guess I can consider myself warned, then. Good thing I've never been easy to lead astray. I'm told that's an important survival trait with this bunch. We live and learn."

After all that had happened the past week it was nice to interact with someone clearly enjoying herself, and nicer still that it was Betsy. Of all those involved in the situation with Masque, the British telepath was by far the most remote. And not just to him, it seemed. In spite of the dry humor and occasional flash of playfulness, it had struck him that Betsy seemed to operate from a place of reserve. All interaction was self-contained, controlled. Distant.

None of that meant Jim had been unaware of the stress she must be under by working so closely with the victims -- or of what her assistance that first night had spared himself and Nathan. It was good to see her smile.

"Well," Betsy said, shrugging down at him and rising from her place on the desk. "I truly hate to cut this short, but I have a flight to get ready for. There's nothing like spending a Friday at Kennedy to make you feel all warm inside."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "You're leaving already? Oh, right . . . I forgot this was just a visit for you. Early flight?"

"Too early," Betsy said sourly. She led him toward the door and opened it for him. "Thank you for the conversation and company. It was much appreciated."

"You, too," Jim smiled as he moved to join her, leaving the half-finished glass on her desk. "Thank you for the drink. Unfamiliar as it was. I hope you have a good flight."

He saw Betsy open her mouth to form a reply, but he never found out what it was. As she stepped back, hand on the knob, the heel of her left stiletto snapped under her. In a confused instant of frantic reflex Jim flung out his arms to catch her and she ended up against his chest, awkwardly supported by his arms around her waist and under one of her own.

Betsy's chest hitched. This was somewhat awkward. When she thought herself stable enough to move, Betsy tried relieving the strain on her ankle but nearly fell over again. "How embarrassing," she said in between breaths, her hand pushing hair reflexively away from her face, yet still managing to grip his forearms. Looking up hesitantly at him, she laughed good-naturedly. "I assure you I don't fall for every man who walks through my door. Or out of it for that matter..."

"I, um. I'm . . . honored." Which was . . . lame. But then, Jim wasn't used to having his arms wrapped around an attractive woman. This close, the distance between them suddenly seemed even more acute. The guardedness, the reflexive humor, the carefully cultivated openness that really wasn't -- it was almost too painful.

He knew it. Knew it from inside out and outside in, and after these past few weeks it was suddenly too much. Jim looked down into the ache of her amethyst eyes, the rich, playful laugh that didn't ring true, and brought his face down to kiss her.

There was a tenderness to his touch that left her swimming and it wasn't until she felt the back of her knees hit the desk that she pulled back, breathing deeply, head resting inside the groove of his neck. This is such a bad idea, she thought for the brieftest of seconds. But then one calculated nibble on her neck and she fell back in, not remembering what exactly she was thinking but it couldn't have been that important, right?