Shooting pool

[x-cyclops.livejournal.com]

Set before this log, Scott tries to get Sarah to talk to Betsy, and runs into difficulties. He plays pool, pisses her off, and tosses an uncalled-for line as she stomps off.


The "thwack-crack thump" sound caused barely a stir in the noise of the mansion, as Scott easily sank ball after ball into the pool table's pockets. He was shooting the balls in order, banking and ricocheting as necessary.

He was pretty damned good at it, too. There was no one in the room with him, the "adult" and "teacher" thing warning off many of the kids. And likely, his beating the pants off (though not literally) of anyone who played against him.

Looking up from sinking the 9 ball, he noticed Sarah's approach and nodded before turning most of his attention back to the table.

"Hey," he greeted her, then said, "Ten ball, corner pocket," continuing his own game.

Sarah stuffed her hands in the pockets of her sweatpants, the faint sound of bone scratching against the wall as she leaned back against the doorframe. She watched Scott sink the 10 ball, nodding in approval... impressed maybe? "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Eleven, banked off the rail, side pocket," He pointed with the cue to the rail and the side he called. It was a bit tricky, but nothing too impressive. "Yeah," he said, aiming the shot. "You willing to tell me how you feel about Betsy right now?"

/Thwack/ The ball banked, and sunk into the pocket. He rechalked the stick, examining the table, shooting a quick glance at Sarah from behind the safety of his glasses.

Shrugging, Sarah shifted, but didn't move from the doorframe. "Besides figuring that it's probably better if I'm not around her for awhile? I'm glad she's back. Or... glad we think she's back." She's not sure what to believe anymore, that much is obvious. "I just don't want to make things harder for her than they already are."

"She's back," he said, moving around the table, ending up closer to her. "It's definitely Betsy Braddock in control. I say this because she's been hiding." He aimed, then called the shot before he made it. The 12 ball ended up in the requisite pocket once more, and he moved around the table again. "She blames herself for everything. For not fighting hard enough. For what happened to everyone when it wasn't her in control. Thirteen in the corner, banked here and here," he gestured with the cue, then shot the white ball into the striped 13. "Do you blame her?" He reached for the chalk. "It won't be a problem with her if you do, though I don't know that any blame you might have would get past her own."

"Not really blame. More like... I can't look at her without smelling my own blood all over the hallway." Slowly, she took her hands out of her pockets, crossing her arms across her chest. "Kwannon tried to kill me twice. At least, once for certain, once I'm not so clear on the details. I don't know how many other times it happened. I can't be sure I wouldn't blame Betsy if I ever got the chance."

"Betsy might know." Scott leaned on the stick, watching Sarah. "She was conscious of a lot of what went on, I think. Some sort of torture from Kwannon. You could ask her. Give her the chance to apologize. It may not do much for either of you, but it's a start." He went back to the table, eyeing the last two stripes on the table. "Fourteen in that corner, fifteen there."

He lined up the shot, and fired. The first ball sank, but the second was just a little off, and ricocheted off the edge and went wild, careening off the rail. He swore softly under his breath, and began to fish out balls to rerack.

"Ms. Braddock needs people to talk to her. Even if they are angry with her. Or not sure how they feel. Otherwise she'll keep hiding." Scott set up the table again, and looked at Sarah. "You play?"

Sarah shook her head. "Nah. Darts and poker are more my thing. Didn't have a pool table in the tunnels." She pulled a bone from her shoulder, picking idly at the sharp end with her fingernails. "But I don't think she wants to talk to me," she insisted. "Before I left, I really wanted to hurt somebody for what had happened. Anybody. Somebody involved needed to hurt. And I considered Betsy. I really did. Fuck her innocence, she was there, and was as good a target as any. She still is." She looks up at Scott, eyes deadly serious. "You and I both know she doesn't need me anywhere near her right now."

"She doesn't /want/ to talk to anyone. She wants to hide and let everyone forget she existed, so she doesn't have to deal with what happened.

"But I called her on that. It got her to leave the medlab." He lined up the break, and took the shot, balls colliding and shooting every which way. "You don't want to go near her? That's fine. But I /do/ think you two need to talk. If not in person, then send her an email. Avoidance never solves the problem, it just delays the explosion." Scott started calling his shots again, sinking ball after ball as he talked to Sarah. "You were friends once. Or something like it. I'll tell you what I told Betsy. Don't let Kwannon win."

"Yeah, I can just see that e-mail," she replied flatly, "Dear Betsy. Gee, I'm glad you're back, but don't come near me because I cannot be held responsible for any number of horrible things I may do." She leaned her had back against the wall, eyes closed for a moment as she exhaled. "I can't help her."

"Can she help you?" Scott realized this was likely one of the Sarah Walls, and /he/ wasn't going to be able to get around it, over it, or blast it down. He'd have to call in bigger guns, if she rejected his attempts once more.

"Help me with what?" she snapped, arms crossed tighter in front of her. "I've gotten quite enough help from Betsy, thanks very much." She gave him a dark look, obviously not amused by the new direction this conversation was starting to veer in. She dug in her pockets for her cigarettes and her lighter, pretty sure she was going to need them in about thirty seconds, if not sooner.

"Get past the anger you feel toward her." He didn't add /idiot/. There wasn't even a hint of it in his voice. Just a calm, quiet whisper, void of sarcasm or irony. "But I know you like to keep anger close," he continued, louder. "Keep it then." Scott moved around the table, purposely placing his back toward where she stood, lining up a complex shot.

Oh yes. She needed a cigarette. Or something to hit. Preferably both. "Well thank you Mister Summers," each word dripping with sarcasm. She's not in the mood to deal with teachers who think they've got her all figured out. "For allowing me to keep my anger. It must be so distressing for you." By the time Scott finished his shot, Sarah was halfway down the hall, lighting up a cigarette.

"Not at all, Sarah. I know it used to keep you warm at night," he called after her, the balls cracking against each other and the rails as he kept playing pool.