[Paul, Betsy] Strangers not at all...

[x-vega.livejournal.com]

Paul is coming in from a long, happy flight. Betsy is getting drunk on gin. They cross paths and things get awkward.


It was a clear summer night, the full moon hung low on the horizon, and the Manor lights sparkled through the foliage of the surrounding trees. It was a festival of lights and Betsy found a spot to enjoy the scene in a clearing behind the tree line. Her back up against an old Willow. She took another drag from her cigarette and followed it with another swig from her bottle. And as her skin sizzled with life with each sip, she eagerly took another swallow.

Paul had been flying for hours. He'd reached the shoreline at dusk and had taken off away from the setting sun, pushing himself as hard as he could toward the rising dark. When he began to feel the strain, he'd turned around. He'd played with the waves all the way back, dipping down into them and back up before the crests could break over him. He'd gotten soaked but it had kept him cool. Now, riding on endorphins, he skimmed carelessly along unlit roads back to Xavier's in the dark.

He shot past a whorl of cigarette smoke drifting up from the trees, paused, and looked behind him to see who was lurking in the shadows.

With her cigarette, hanging loosely off her lips, Betsy closed her eyes. She shivered as a particular cool gust of wind swept past her. The amber glow of the cigarette went out. She guardedly tightened her hold on her bottle and opened her drunken eyes. Slowly, her gaze turned upward and she came face to face with Jean-Paul Beaubier. Her voice slurred, Betsy mouth worked carefully over each word. Her accent especially thick. "Bloody hell, Vega. Can't a woman enjoy a fag without being disturbed."

The pun was too much and Paul laughed. "Well, that depends, doesn't it?" He landed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Hiding out, are we?"

"Very funny," she said obviously irritated. Betsy dug into her pants, fished out her lighter and relit her cigarette. She smirked up at him. "That was the point of hiding behind the bush.

"Ah, yes, this is the house of damage control," Paul said, nodding. Damned irritating, that was. Give him a house full of people who minded their own business, thank you. He hadn't really grasped how chronic the condition was until recently. "I'll leave you then, Mademoiselle Braddock." He sketched a mocking but graceful little bow. "I'd simply thought I should check to make sure it wasn't some of the minors getting up to mischief."

Betsy shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. You'll never be normal, Elisabeth. She put out her cigarette in frustration. How odd that scraps of whispers carried by the wind made her nervous. Never. Betsy tried haphazardly to stand up, the bottle still in her hands. She used the tree trunk to brace herself, wobbling forward. "I see that you've been formally introduced to the major flaw of the school." Her lavender tresses fell into her face.

"Oh, it's hard to miss." Paul looked Betsy over. She was slim and well-dressed, if severely dishevelled, and in the shadows her hair was quite dark, turning silvered-lavender in the moonlight. He relented, knowing he was being sentimental, but she was drunk and there was no one else to see it. He offered her his arm without comment. "Are you sure that's the major flaw? I was certain there was something deeper hidden."

"And yet you're still here, I didn't think your delicate sensibilities or Daphine could handle such assault." His thoughts might as well be an open book as loudly as he broadcasted. And with as much alcohol she had in her, she could do little to prevent herself from over-hearing them. There was no reason to hide from him, he had already seen her. Betsy swiped her hair back and latched onto his forearm, trying to keep herself upright.

Her hand hung limply at her side and she took another hit off the bottle. Betsy was already thorougly tossed. What were just a few more swallows to ensure her inebriation? A silly smile lit her face. "Yes, yes. There is a most devious plot a-foot." She looked down and offered the bottle to him. "My, where are my manners? You should really try this stuff, it makes you all tingling!"

Paul accepted the bottle graciously. Gin, and a decent one at that. "Ah, gin. That's very Gatsby of you," he said, taking a drink. He kept hold of the bottle as Betsy was concentrating on her feet at the moment. "So, what's the plot? Or do I have to have a Tragic Event before I'm let in on the secret? I've given those up, I'll have you know, but I think I have enough in my resume to qualify."

"Gin is good for the soul," Betsy said sweetly. Soul? Her face darkened. "This place is a magnet for devious plots, a cornicopia of danger. It's only a matter of time for another Tragic Event to come our way. It is the nature of this place." Betsy nestled herself closer to Jean-Paul for support. "I, for one, assumed that Charles had the Manor built on some Indian burial site. Though, if you were to say, that it sat on top of hellmouth, I wouldn't be too terribly surprised either."

"I've done hellmouths and aboriginal graveyards," Paul said, taking another drink of gin and offering Betsy a turn. "This just suffers from an excessive density of teenagers and those who still think like them. I've had worse."

The more she walked, the more alcohol that hit her brain at amazing speeds. Betsy crossed her eyes, trying to reach for the bottle. She took her free hand and covered her right eye. There, that's better. She stumbled trying to reach the bottle inches from her and giggled happily. More liquor went down her throat than in her mouth, but that sloppy grin made it all the more endearing. Betsy looked over at the thoughtful expression on Jean-Paul's face and raised her bottle in toast. "I second that."

"So, what brings you drinking, Mademoiselle Braddock?" Paul snagged the bottle before Betsy lost control of it entirely and joined her in the toast. "Gods know the place is reason enough, but you're a strong woman from what I hear."

"Mine, Vega." Betsy said, pouting. She reached out again for the bottle and missed it, as Jean-Paul pulled back his hand. Betsy shrugged. "Why am I getting tossed? Maybe I'm tired of listening. I want to stop hearing her. The whispering." She stopped abruptly, her hands going to her head. "God, why don't they shut up!"

She looked around lost, turning in circles. "You know, it's so beautiful out here. Quiet."

Paul caught her gently around the waist before she lost her balance entirely. "Yes, the grounds are spectacular," he said conversationally, pulling her close enough to keep her upright, yet keeping the bottle out of reach behind his back with the other hand. "I'm sorry about the voices. The noise must be terrible." He hated nattering. The idea of someone he couldn't act against nagging at him set his teeth on edge.

Betsy leaned back against the strong arms holding her up. "So warm," she mumbled. She didn't remember her hand going up to his face. Her fingers traced along his jawline, enjoying the feel of the light stubble on her skin. Betsy turned her head, nuzzling his neck. Her purple eyes looked into his deep azure ones. It was easy to lean forward, her lips tentatively brushing up against his. A quick inhale of breath and she deepened the kiss. Betsy was unaware, or too far gone to care if he went along.

If he hadn't been mellowed out from hours of hard flight, Paul would have been better prepared. As it was, the snuggle and nuzzle, which he was so accustomed to from his sister and had missed so much, turned into a kiss before he could say anything. He steeled himself not to jerk away but just gently disengaged his mouth from Betsy's and kept his tone mild. "I think it might be best if I took you somewhere warm," he said, hoping he sounded kind. Yes, somewhere warm. And well lit. And public. That was wise. She wouldn't do that again where there were people. As long as she didn't run off now. Running off would be hard to explain.

Betsy's right hand went slowly behind Jean-Paul's back. She positioned herself just right that when he pushed her back, she was able to grab the bottle. Betsy took a few stumbles backward and took another healthy swallow. She fell to the ground, a fit of giggles overtaking her. Her eyes alit, she smiled sheepishly at Jean-Paul. "Never come between a woman and her drink." Betsy couldn't help the deviousness in her voice. "Yes, drastic measures had to be taken. I'm sure you understand."

Paul let the bottle go, it was better than getting kissed again. "I do," he said dryly. Betsy was sprawled on the ground now, looking drunk and probably available, if you were looking for that sort of thing. "You can keep the bottle if you let me walk you home." She was a hazard out here, to herself and to any passing students of the male -- hell, the living -- persuasion.

"That sort of thing?" Betsy huffed. She stood up again, haphazardly wiping the dirt from her black jeans. "Come on, it wasn't that bad. We both know I wasn't the first to give you a drive-by snogging." Her expression sobered. "I wouldn't hurt them. Besides, I wouldn't let them find me like this. I'm sure there's a nice ditch somewhere I can hide. Less of an inconvienence that way."

"Not the first, but one of the prettiest," Paul said, flashing her a crooked smile. "Let's skip the ditch, I've never left a woman in one yet, tempting though it may be. Even I've got my latent sense of honour. Pity you went and woke the damn thing up. The least you can do is placate it by letting me see you to your room."

"Fine," she said morosely. She couldn't fault him for his logic. "Be it from me to take away a man's need to protect a damsel in distress from being ravaged by pubescent teens." Or vice-versa. Betsy linked her arm in his once again and allowed him to take her back home.

Paul gently escorted Betsy back toward the school and when they reached the verge of the neatly shorn lawn, he looked up and saw the flight deck dark and unoccupied. "How about we take that door in," he suggested, pointing. It would save them the trip through the halls.

Betsy placed her lithe form against his for support, she was getting tired. She mumbled something into his shoulder that sounded like, "got to be careful. He's downstairs," she whispered. "The tea bandit."

She was really far gone. Paul lifted her effortlessly into the air and by the time they were at the platform, he was carrying her. "Is this careful enough?"

He keyed in the doorcode instead of trying to fish out his key and let them in. She weighed almost nothing, just like Rora. Sometimes, in the good times, she'd fall asleep on the couch and he'd carry her to bed and she would wind her arms around his neck like a child and whisper pleas to come to his bed instead, because she didn't want to be in the dark. He gave in, always. Paul blinked and schooled his expression as he carried Betsy down to the third floor.

"Yes, very good." She instinctively wrapped her hands around his neck and laid her head over his chest. She closed her eyes, the low hum of his breathing and heartbeat making it hard to keep them open. The gin bottle laid forgotten in her lap, Betsy sighed. "Tea bandit still downstairs, making bad toast." She mumbled, incoherently. "'M sorry, Jonny. 'M sorry I scar'd of dark. She alway come in dark. Alway come."

She was breaking his heart, breaking his head. This wasn't supposed to happen. Aurora was thousands of miles away, in Alberta, in Banff, with Walter, being happy. He paused at Betsy's door, wondering how to get it open. Blessedly, it wasn't locked and he stepped into the darkened interior with the slight woman still held close to his chest.

"You're fine," he said, trying not to be too brusque. "You're just fine. I'll leave the light on." The room smelled lonely. He knew the scent well. He laid Betsy down on her neatly made bed and took the bottle from her, feeling as though he'd crossed some line of intimacy...or had it crossed for him, without his permission. It was a feeling as familiar as the hollowness of the room, just as empty and detestable. He drew the blanket at the foot of the bed up over Betsy's slender form. "Just go to sleep."

Betsy grasped the duvet tight around her, her face young and vulnerable. Betsy's eyebrows furrowed with worry, as Jean-Paul pulled back from her. Though something held her back from reaching out to him, she felt the loss of all the same. Betsy let out a low whine. Don't go. Don't go.

Merde. Paul bit his lip, hard. Now he needed a drink. The gin didn't have a cap, it was going to go stale anyway. He grabbed it and took a long drink. "I'll wait until you fall asleep," he growled. He flung himself down in a chair across the room, watching her from under his lashes.

Her face visibly relaxed, Betsy sunk deeper into her pillows, content. "Night-night, Jonny."

"Sleep tight," he replied, taking another drink. When she was finally deeply asleep, Paul got up and threw out the now empty bottle of gin. He left the bathroom light on and closed the door to her room behind him, quietly. When he got back to his room, he showered, hot water on full and cold shut off.

Later, Delphine mewed and butted her head under his hand when he sat staring at the wall, looking north and west, and his fingers were limp and cold. Finally, she gave up and curled in his lap, trying to warm him a little, and fell asleep there. She woke up to find her fur damp with spots of salt water, but his expression hadn't changed. She sighed, he got this way, and flipped her tail over her nose. When the sun came up, he would be himself again, he always was.