Log: Betsy/Haller ~ Last Call

[x-psylocke.livejournal.com]

In the city, Betsy makes a not-so-random phone call to Westchester during her routine nightly romp.



Her tongue was fuzzy and stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Betsy blinked slowly and looked around from her seat at the bar. It was close to midnight on a Friday night and the place was filled. Several patrons were milling about; and several more were involved in sharing various conversations by Betsy's seat. They all seem to act very important, which meant that they were probably not so much.

Her right hand tightened around a cool surface and she looked down lazily at the half-filled tumbler of amber liquid. It swooshed while she swayed and the world felt warm for once.

A slight shift and Betsy felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as a warm hand found purchase at the base of her spine. "Pretty thing like you shouldn't be brooding," a silky rich voice cooed in her ear. Betsy half turned, finding a dark-haired man with hazel eyes and a tiger-like grin, leaning into her space. "Though if it's the only way to get your lips to look like that, I'm not so sure I mind it."

She didn't respond. Instead, Betsy found her left hand encircled around the man's wrist and felt bone squeeze against bone. She didn't recognize her voice, rough from lack of use. Her words were vaguely slurred but under her accent not overtly noticeable. "If you're partially attached to your arm, I suggest you move your hand before I give this one a good tug." The words just spilled from her mouth, it'd been a rough week, after all. She smiled darkly to herself as the pretty face looked frightened and then pulled back, giving her a wide berth. Betsy didn't even watch him disappear within the crowd. She simply finished her drink and tapped the rim for a refill.

A few hours later, the phone rang in Westchester.

Jim blinked away from the television, jerked back to reality by the discordant ringer of the suite's phone. Sleep hadn't been coming tonight, so he'd made an attempt to zone out to some old movie starring Timmy from the old Lassie shows, and had made him think that this was what Charlie in the Chocolate Factory would have been like if it were set in hell. His brain had simply stopped registering after the first 20 minutes. What what time is it oh phone.

Jim stumbled from the couch and made it to the receiver by the fourth ring.

"Hello?" he said, rubbing his eyes with his free hand before glancing at the clock on his microwave. It was late. Who's calling?

"Jim?" Betsy yelled over the noise in the background. The party had started as soon as the DJ arrived and the dance floor was jumping while she slowly went deaf. "It's, it's Betts." She waited a minute and decidedly rose from her seat. She staggered over to the side entrance. Outside, she slammed the door closed and leaned against the building. Forgetting about the phone in her hand, Betsy stared curiously at it before bringing it back to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hello?" Jim repeated back, wondering briefly if his pathology had progressed to auditory hallucinations. No. There was definitely a phone pressed against his ear, and his insanity had never needed props before -- then he played back the voice he'd heard through a blanket of throbbing bass. ". . . Betsy?" Oh my god oh my god . . .

Betsy giggled into her cell. "Well, of course it's me." Another fit of laughter ended promptly with a snort. "You should see these two blokes over here in this corner." She lowered her voice, conspiratory-like. "They're being rather frisky with one another." She gave them a longing look before speaking back into the phone then. All this time, her words getting slower and each word being overly pronounced. She was smashed and drunk-dialing was simply not a good thing. "It's odd. I didn't think I'd hear your voice again. Not for a while, at least. Do you miss me?"

"I . . ." His initial thoughts did not bear vocalizing. Oh, god, yes would be pathetic. Didn't I almost set you on fire? was equally unhelpful. Then the uneven cadence of her voice pegged. Jim frowned. "Have you been drinking?"

She smiled into the phone, answering in a sing-song voice. "May-be. But that's not the point. I asked you a question, Mr. Haller. And you, sir, are stalling." Betsy paused, biting her lip. "Though am not being fair, am I? I should probably say something similar in kind. To ease the awkwardness. Right." She took another look at the couple, sighing. "Hell, the last time I saw you..... Despite that, I shouldn't have It's just I've never been... I couldn't.... You reminded me so much of him. Couldn't stay but sorry I left. I'm sorry. Am a bad person." A soft sniffle, and then. "I don't think I'm making any sense which probably means I'm smashed. I'm going to hang up now."

"No, wait wait wait! It's okay, it's okay. Please don't hang up." Drunk. She was so drunk. You didn't share like that if you were sober. Jim grabbed his keys from the counter and looked around wildly for his shoes. Oh, this was a bad idea, but given the tone of the conversation and the fact she'd called him at all after a forcible ejection from his mind Jim was seriously concerned about the possibility of liver-failure. "Where are you?" he asked.

"Oh, why?" Betsy said, nonplussed. "'m close to the Institute but not close enough to be found. Though if I fell into the gutter again, I'm sure pet would find me soon enough." She leaned heavily against the wall, enjoying the feel of brick against her back. "This spot won't close well into the morning which means I have a good three hours before I should go home. I'll go back inside for a bit and as long as that bloke with the weird face doesn't come calling, everything should be grand." Betsy crossed her arms, watching as the couple she'd been oogling leave the alley in a tangle of limbs. "God. I miss the way you smell."

Jim wondered how six words could punch through his heart like a rock through a pane of glass. "Let me come get you. If you can ballpark it within a mile or so I can find you. Or the street. If you can name the street I can. Please." He might have to drive up and down it all night until he got within range, but he didn't care. At all. He knew the feel of her mind. Inside, and out.

In his haste his foot kicked a pile of paper, scattering the sheets across the floor. He didn't care. Where were his goddamn shoes? It was a mess, why was it such a fucking mess in here? Jim pressed a hand to his face and fought the insane urge to cry.

"I miss you, too," he whispered into the receiver.

The other side of the line was quiet. "Betsy?"

"Yes, yes," Betsy replied hastily. "I'm on, I'm on...." She looked around for a street sign. "Yes, on the Lower East Side. On Mulberry Street. Mulberry and Mott." The telepath pushed back, feeling her black dress catch in the brick wall. She found the sign above the entrance. "And this lovely spot is called the...eh...Radio. What sort of wanky name is that? Anyway, I'll be inside. Tipping back, as you Yanks say, and if you want to join me. Well, the more the merrier." She looked down at herself, smug for a moment. "And I look fabulous in this dress. Black. Slit up to forever. I'd rather have someone I know appreciate it rather than some random fellow try and feel me up when I'm too sauced to realize it. Oh wow, my head is swimming. All right, Haller.....David." She paused, trying to pull the right name out. My, this was embarrassing, she thought. Oh, yes! "Jim. I'll see you and your friends when you get here. If you get here. No harm done. Cheers, darling."

And with that, there was the familiar click of a phone being hung up. Betsy tucked her cell back into her purse, steadied herself, controlling her dizziness enough to yank on the steel door, and re-entered the club.

---

"There we go," Jim said with relief as he finally found the appropriate key. Betsy's initial choice had definitely not been the right one. Nor the second. Jim had given up and confiscated the ring once he'd seen her attempts at coordination. He hoped the scratches on the varnish wouldn't be too obvious in the daylight. The drive had been too long, and Jack had been laughing at the irony of a telepath needing MapQuest directions to find someone all the way.

"Okay," Jim said, pushing the door open as he gently ushered the lolling woman over the threshold, "let's get you into bed."

With her arms wrapped around his neck for support, Betsy buried her head into the crook of his neck. She inhaled loudly and sighed, breathing hotly against the spot just below his ear. "You say the sweetest things," Betsy muttered into his skin, taking a swipe of it with her mouth. "And it still tastes the same."

Betsy felt a moment of disorientation as she felt herself falling, almost panicking until she realized she was being put to bed. She didn't remember Haller showing up at the club or the drive back to the Institute. Only that she felt his reassuring hand on her throughout most of it. So now that she found herself in bed, his steadying presence no where around her, Betsy felt disoriented and tried to get up. "Wait," she called out, sounding weak. "Jim? Don't go."

Jim hesitated with his hand on the doorframe. The tone of her voice was almost physically painful. "I'm just going to get you some water," he said. He'd heard somewhere that was what you did for people who'd had too much to drink. Right. Because alcohol dehydrated the body, and you needed plenty of water to flush out the toxins. That was what he thought he remembered.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere tonight."

"O-kay," she responded, her voice sounding uneasy even to her ears. Betsy watched him leave and then let her head fall back onto her pillow, purple tresses falling around her head like a halo. There was plenty of alcohol in her system to support the warm glow, tingling her skin. But this time, it felt better. "Okay," she repeated to herself.

At that Jim smiled a little. "I'll be right back."

He managed to keep the strangled whimper inside his own head, and held out until he'd actually made it to the kitchenette at that. Oh god, I do not have the emotional development for this. Jim leaned against the refrigerator for a moment, head pillowed against his forearm as he kept himself at arms'-length from a panic attack. Deep, even breaths.

Okay. Get a glass out of cupboard. Fill the glass with water. Get some aspirin for the hangover. Then back. Back to the room, back to Betsy, back to the bed they'd shared.

Calm.

She heard the door open but kept her eyes closed. Betsy only turned her head when the sound of something being placed on the table forced her eyes open. The sight of aspirin and water. She made a slight whining sound at the back of her throat before turning away. "No," she muttered into the soft folds of her pillow.

"It's okay. It's just for your head. I bet it's going to be killing you tomorrow." Setting the glass and pills on the bedside table, Jim worked his fingers under her shoulders and rolled her over. She clearly wasn't happy about it, but she wasn't really engaged enough to fight him. Her dress was rumpled, her hair was a mess, and she smelled like smoke and alcohol. She was so beautiful it made his chest hurt.

"C'mon, Betts," Jim said with a lopsided smile, holding out the pills to her. "They'll help with the hangover. And this relationship would go to a weird new level if I started using the airplane noises on you."

"You're enjoying yourself way too much," Betsy griped while still cushioned against his chest. She sat up slowly and took the offered pills and chugged the water in a few gulps. She handed back the empty glass and fell back into his hold. Cherishing the heat he gave off, Betsy dug herself deeper into the small cocoon his body provided, despite the awkward position, and was perfectly content to stay that way. One hand managing to find its way under his shirt and placed firmly on the expanse of his stomach, tracing idle circles against his skin. The motion managed to lull her, slowly her eyes felt heavy and her body relaxed against him. While everything in the way she held her body, screamed, I missed you. Betsy passed out without saying another word.

Even tightly wrapped as his shields were, Jim was just sensitive enough to feel consciousness slip, her mind against his like a closing eye. Her hand was still under his shirt.

He was used to being of at least two minds over everything, but right now he honestly didn't know what reaction he wanted more: laughter or tears.

Her body against his, hands on his skin. Jim closed his eyes and matched his breathing. Stilling the conflicting reactions, losing sense of self in the rise and fall of her chest against his. His arms tightened around her briefly, restrained for fear of waking her, then loosed. Moving as slowly as he could, Jim eased the unconscious woman off him and down onto bed. The effort was met with a small, snuffling noise of protest; Betsy's hands grasped weakly, as if seeking something to hold on to, but she didn't wake.

Kissing her like this wouldn't have been right, but he couldn't help himself from doing something. Instead Jim lowered his face to the smoke-soaked hair, cheek brushing against hers.

I missed you, too.