Scott and Paul (and Betsy), Saturday night

[x-cyclops.livejournal.com]

After Strange resolves the question of what happened to the kids, Scott wanders off to Harry's for a very uncharacteristic form of stress relief. Paul finds him there and the dangers of relaxation are discussed, as well as crosses, Jean, Betsy, overdeveloped senses of responsibility and the toll they take. Once a suitable level of drunkenness has been achieved, Paul takes him home, and the two of them run into Betsy on the way back into the house.



Too bad there was no one around with a camera, Scott thought a bit hazily, adjusting the bottle of Johnny Walker so that it sat nicely right beside the glass, and managing not to knock it over. His depth perception was beginning to desert him, traitorous thing. But if someone had a camera, he could ask them to take a picture, just to take back to the mansion and stick it up somewhere with the caption 'No, I am not a tightass'. That would be good. Photographic proof. And the kids could mock at their leisure. If the kids were there. Which they weren't. He grimaced and picked up his glass.

Paul cuddled Delphine and looked down the driveway. It had been an hour and then some since he'd seen a definitely dishevelled and unhappy Scott disappear into the garage and then leave in his favourite car, headed for Harry's at a less-than-responsible speed. The missing children were weighing very heavily on the control-dependant school director and team leader. Paul kissed Delphine on her perfect little nose and put her in her cat bed by the window. "Papa's going to go check on Uncle Scott," he told her as he put his sandals on and pocketted his keys. He checked himself in the mirror. All systems go. He put his sunglasses on his head to hold his hair back and headed for the roof. Harry's wasn't far and someone was going to have to drive Scott's car back and it wasn't going to be Scott if he'd been drinking all this time.

What the hell was he doing? Scott thought unhappily, regarding the bottle. This wasn't going to help. It wasn't going to help in any possible way, and what was worse, he was halfway to being drunk off his ass and what would happen if something else happened while he was like this? He rubbed at his bruised jaw, sighing heavily as he tried to convince himself to get up and go. Walk back to the house, sleep it off, hope to hell that the next crisis waited on him to recover from his little bout of self-indulgence...

Paul was walking towards the booth. Scott blinked at him, flushing. "Uh... hi," he said lamely.

"Is this seat taken?" Paul pointed at the bench across from Scott.

"Um... no," Scott said, painfully aware of the bottle sitting there, even though Paul wasn't looking at it. Great way to inspire confidence in a new team member, he thought miserably. Treat him to the spectacle of the team leader drowning his sorrows when he ought to be doing... well, something else. Something productive. He looked up suddenly, tensing. "Nothing's wrong at the mansion, is it?"

"Nothing that wasn't wrong when you left." Paul reached over, picked up the bottle, and refilled Scott's glass. "I'd have called if there were a problem there." His expression was his usual calm, cool, slightly aloof one, but then he smiled a little and it softened.

Scott couldn't figure out why Paul was refilling his glass. That didn't make sense - did it? "I should go back, anyway," he muttered, starting to push himself up out of the booth. Except then the bar sort of lurched around him and he sat back down. "Or maybe not," he said a bit unsteadily. "I don't think I do this enough. Can't hold my scotch. Or hell, much of anything these days..."

Paul's tone was flat and pragmatic. "They don't need you there right now, there's nothing you can do. And besides, it's a little too late to change your mind about getting drunk." He gave Scott a long look, weighing his words and plan of action. If Summers had been in bad shape before, he was a timebomb of angst and self-loathing now, and that wasn't good for the school or the team. "It's okay," he said, his voice suddenly quieter, almost soothing.

"No, it's not." But Scott picked up his glass anyway, gulping at it almost desperately. "It's really not," he went on hoarsely. "None of it. The kids are off trying to fend for themselves God knows where, I'm a selfish coward, and horses are trying to kill me."

Paul didn't bother trying to refute him, even if he disagreed. "Horses? That's a new one. What did you do, take away their oat allowance?" One of the waitstaff came by and Paul ordered a coffee. He wanted a latte, but couldn't be picky here.

"Tried to go for a ride Wednesday morning before it all happened. That relaxation thing. Fell off and lost my glasses." He raised a slightly unsteady hand, to reassure himself that the back-up pair was still securely on his head. "Or other way around, really. She tried to wrap me around a tree twice. I don't think she liked me."

"What did I tell you about relaxing without supervision?" Paul shook his head. "And you're ascribing human judgements to a horse. She probably saw a particularly exciting twig on the path and reacted accordingly."

The glass was getting less full again, Scott realized, staring into it glumly. "I think it was an object lesson," he said. "Been fumbling around in the dark for a while now."

Paul got comfortable, kicking his sandals off under the table and slouching down so that he could put his feet up on the other bench, a little way from where Scott was sitting. The fact that Scott would have to trip over him to get out was purely incidental. He sipped at his coffee and looked at Scott over the rim of the cup, waiting to see if he would continue.

Scott didn't notice Paul shifting around. "I keep telling myself I've been doing the best with the information I've had," he said, not noticing the slight slurring of his own words, either. "Didn't know the kids would vanish. Didn't know everything that happened with Betsy..."

Paul nodded. "Congratulations. You're mortal." He raised his cup to Scott in a mock toast. "I don't know you well enough to know if you're doing your best but you strike me as someone who would." He shrugged, continuing on in a neutral tone. "And I can't see Xavier letting you keep your position if you weren't the right person for the job."

Scott tossed back the rest of the scotch in his glass, almost defiantly. "This is idiotic," he muttered, staring down into the empty glass. "No answers. I knew that. But I'm still here, and that bottle's still - " He paused, blinking at it. "Half-empty. Whoa."

Paul stifled a smile. "Losing track? That's a good sign, if being really drunk is what you're after." Scott was amusingly owlish, looking at the bottle curiously as though wondering to where the scotch might have escaped.

Scott sighed and refilled his glass, pleased when he managed not to spill. "I don't know what I want," he said wearily. "Oh, the big things, yeah. The team, the Professor's dream... but not the little things. The stuff you do when you're not trying to make the world a better place." He waved aimlessly. "You know, the rest of life? I think I forgot to work all that into the plan."

"It's not too late to start," Paul said, looking remarkably relaxed and contented for someone sitting about watching someone else get drunk.

"I don't think I can have both," Scott said almost desolately. "I tried once and it didn't work. She died."

"What do you mean, it didn't work?"

"I thought..." He stopped, taking another gulp of his Scotch. Fortification. "We both believed so much in what we were doing. It was all... it was a whole life, does that make any sense? The big things, the little things. Not that it wasn't hard as hell at times, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything." He tossed back the rest of what was in the glass. "Then... well, then I didn't push hard enough, I guess." His voice was sounding more upset than weary now, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "I tell myself I trusted her to deal with it, but I don't know, Paul... whether I gave her space because I trusted her, or because I was scared and couldn't figure out what to do. And she died. She left the plane, and she didn't let me..." He stopped, swallowing past a lump in his throat and reaching out for the bottle again. "Now I find out I did the same thing with Betsy, and I don't think I can pretend it's about trust anymore. It's about me, failing them."

"I don't know enough to say if you failed them," Paul said, reaching the bottle before Scott could and pouring him another glass. Scott's hands were unsteady and Paul didn't want him to spill; mostly because it seemed like any little mistake, no matter how insignificant, could be the last straw. "Maybe you did. And maybe they failed you by closing you out. Maybe you failed each other. But that's got nothing to do with here and now, or with tomorrow, or with whether or not you'll ever have a life that includes actually living again."

"Maybe I ought to focus on the things I'm good at," Scott said, a touch of anger in the words. Not directed at Paul, of course, but at himself, and maybe at a couple of other people who weren't here to hear it. "Priorities and all. There's so much to do. Be Captain Fuckwad to the hilt and pick up after homicidal teenagers and things from other dimensions with strange senses of humor..."

"Oh, fuck that," Paul said bluntly. "I'm going to buy you a cross at this rate. If that's what makes you happy, do it. But, frankly, I think you'll be shit at it and you'll just drop the ball again, and worse every time."

Scott's hand clenched around the glass, and for a moment, he had all he could do to not throw it, or shout at Paul, or do something equally stupid. But the rage began to fade almost as quickly as it had come, and he stared down at the table, half-shocked, half-ashamed. "I don't know why I'm so angry," he said a bit unevenly. "Seems kind of... petulant, to be angry about some of these things. Pointless."

"Must be nice to be better than the rest of us." Paul poured scotch into his recently emptied coffee cup. "Because, personally, I think I'd be pretty pissed off if the most important person in my life died and I was left saddled with a school full of arrogant little pissants subject to demonic interventions, magical spells gone awry, and the occasional military invasion. Especially if I was expected to keep a smile on my face the whole time and shoulder a good chunk of the blame. And then there's the running a paramilitary organization populated by misfits and outcasts... but that's just me. And I'm pretty flawed like that; sense of self-preservation and pride and all. At the very least, I'd get drunk and yell at someone once in a while."

"Yeah, that'd help," Scott said with a sigh, raising his glass again. "It's ironic, you know. Was telling Shinobi a few days ago that he needs to talk to Charles before he writes us all off as leaving Sarah to kill herself in the basement. But it's been... well, a while since I really talked to Charles myself. And I was so angry at him, too, after Betsy told me..." He stopped, grimacing, and rubbed again at his sore jaw. "I don't want to let him down," he finally said, heavily. "I don't want to let any of them down. But I'll be damned if I don't want, right this minute, to go lock myself in my room or something equally juvenile and not come out until it just all... goes away."

"Who says it's wrong just because it's juvenile?" Paul asked archly. Paul was given to bouts of childishness at times and was more than happy to defend them. "You know what? Stop trying to be so damn perfect, Scott. Stop being so mature, or what you think is mature, every single minute. Who the hell says it's wrong to want it, or even to do it for a little while? Get drunk, fall down, go to bed, don't get up until one because of a hangover. Wallow for a bit. Get laid. Do something stupid. The world won't end, and if it does, it's its own fault for not cutting you some slack. Drink your damn scotch already."

"But--" Scott stopped, blinking at Paul, and then realized he was holding his glass in mid-air. He took a deep breath, then a more judicious swallow of scotch. "I have to at least try," he said. "If I don't look after them, who will? I'm supposed to be the one who keeps it all together for Charles..."

"And you're doing really well at that right now," Paul noted blandly. "Did I say to abandon them in the street with a sign that says 'Free to a good home?' No. I said just one night. Once in a while. An hour a day. Something here and there. Screw Charles." I cannot believe I just said that about Charles Xavier. "He's Charles Xavier, for Christ's sake. If he cannot do without you for twenty-four hours, then we are all in more trouble than you can get us out of. I cannot believe that he hasn't stuffed your sorry, saintly ass into the back room of some bathhouse with orders for them not to let you out until they have to carry you out."

Scott felt himself turn absolutely crimson, but his shoulders started to shake with silent laughter and he put his glass down before he dropped it. "Oh... lord. Please don't give him any ideas, please..." The infamous story about the Professor's threat to make Logan believe he was a six year-old girl came back to mind and Scott just laughed harder. "Oh... now I really have to work on pulling myself back together," he wheezed. "Don't want to give him the excuse to get all creative..."

"Then do it yourself," Paul said, laughing a little himself. "Take responsibility for yourself, or I promise I will take my suggestions to the Man Upstairs. Because, believe me when I say this, you need to put your burden down, as they say. You can pick it up when the sun rises, but you need to learn to put it down." He poured himself a bit more scotch and added a splash to Scott's glass.

Scott managed finally to stop laughing and picked up his glass again, tossing the rest of it back. "I'm going to be rather incredibly hungover in the morning," he said, enunciating carefully. "It's really a shame, you know? No video camera. Can't show the kids when.. if they get back. Look, he gets drunk, just like a real person..." Paul was refilling his glass for him again. Paul was very thoughtful, Scott decided, picking it back up again. "You know, I really like them?" he said almost wistfully.

"Most of them are likeable kids," Paul agreed. "I don't like kids and even I like some of them. Still, all they have to do is be their normal, charming selves and they'll be back in no time." He shook his head, thinking of some of the blow-ups and squabbles he'd already witnessed. "I can't think of anyone who'd want to keep them for long. Either that or they'll stop arguing long enough to get home."

The scotch was definitely starting to go down a little easier. "Don't think everyone else knows quite what to do with themselves, with so many of the kids gone," Scott said, resting his head in one hand. The room looked different, tilted like that. "I swear, I got caught in a stampede for the Danger Room this morning..."

"Everyone's stressed. Even me, and I'm the self-absorbed one." Paul's smile was a little crooked. "The peace and quiet won't last. They'll be back. Charles, Pete, Strange, someone will track them down."

"I'm going to be so hungover in the morning." Wait, had he already said that? He blinked intently at the bottle, trying to figure out how much was left. "First thing I thought of was Alex," he heard himself say. "When it happened..."

Paul nodded and picked up the bottle, about a quarter of it was left, maybe a little less. He poured himself a little more and then held it over Scott's glass, looking questioning. "He's your brother. It makes sense."

Scott nodded, then wished he hadn't as his head spun. But he was picking up the glass as soon as Paul had filled it again, even so. "Misplaced him once," he said seriously. "Don't want to do it again. He came back, and they don't usually do that, you know."

"Yes, I know." Paul glanced around the bar, looking somewhere other than Scott's eyes for the moment. It was quiet, almost hollow, in here; dim and cool. "I'm glad he's still here." He met Scott's slightly unfocussed gaze again.

"I don't get..." Scott stopped, tossing back half the glass. More fortification, definitely necessary. "I don't get why it's easier to bury yourself in work. Doesn't make sense, does it? Should be easier to let go and get drunk off your ass."

"It's never easier to do nothing," Paul said, shrugging. "If it were, don't you think I'd do it?"

He tossed back the rest of the glass. His head was definitely starting to swim, and he tried to rest it on his hand again, only to miss and nearly wind up faceplanting on the table. "I miss it," he said tiredly. "They go away and don't come back, and then everything's falling apart..."

"Nothing falls apart." Paul spoke quietly, as though he didn't want to be overheard. "It just changes. /We/ fall apart. But you'll be back together by this time tomorrow." Scott was definitely very, very drunk. Paul poured the last of the scotch into his cup and drained it. Alcohol didn't hit him very hard and it wasn't like he'd had much anyway. He'd be fine to drive the short distance back to the school.

"'But why is the scotch gone?'" Scott said, remembering that pirate movie, and laughed. "I know pop culture. Really. Not actually fifty, whatever the general consensh-consensus says."

Paul stared at Scott a moment and then laughed. "Okay, you're cut off," he said, amused. "And you're not even thirty yet, junior. Practically still a baby. I can't believe they didn't card you in here." He stood up and stretched languidly, pulling off his sunglasses to shake out his hair. He tugged his snug tshirt down toward the waistband of his jeans from where it had ridden up when he stretched. "Let's get you home before things really go to your head."

Scott got up and nearly pitched forward onto the floor before Paul reached out to steady him. "Whoa. Stay put, room." He laughed again, tiredly. "I think this must be really funny. Is it?"

Paul slid an arm around Scott's waist, steadying him. "Depends on who you ask," he said, smiling. "It's a little amusing, yes, but mostly because you're so bloody surprised that you're actually this drunk."

"More represh-repressed they are, the harder they fall." Scott fell silent as Paul led him out of Harry's. The cool night air didn't really do much to clear his head. "Watch out for trees," he said suddenly. "I walked into a tree on the way back the night of Jean's graduation. She thought it was very funny. Never let me live it down..."

"No trees, I promise." Paul steered Scott towards his car. The little Mazda was down at the end of the parking lot, safely away from other cars. "Now. I think I'm driving. Keys?"

"Keys. Um." Scott tried to think. Pocket? But which one? He tried the one in his jeans, then the other one in his jeans. Coat? "Hope I didn't lock them in or something," he muttered. "Why don't they jingle? Keys aren't supposed to be this hard to find..."

It had been a while since Paul had hotwired a car and he was pretty sure Scott wouldn't want him breaking in, but he might like leaving the car here less. Great. Paul didn't want to take a trip back to pick up the car. "Back pockets?" he suggested, checking Scott's jacket pockets again.

Right! That back pocket. "Keys!" Scott said somewhat triumphantly, fishing them out and presenting them to Paul, or trying. They did jingle when they hit the ground. Better late than never?

"Good boy." Paul patted Scott's shoulder and sighed. He gave Scott a little bump with his hip to get him to lean on the car and thanked his unusual eyesight when he spotted the keys. He bent and scooped the keys up so he could open the passenger side door.

"I would have walked back," Scott said earnestly as Paul got him settled in the car and then came around to the driver's side and got in himself. "Trees or no trees. Hell, what's one more tree this week... they're all evil."

"Evil trees, I'll remember that. I think that it's better if we drive back." Paul rolled the windows down with his thumb on the button before starting the car. "I figured you didn't want to leave your car here. We can go for a walk on the grounds if you want one. Less trees."

"Not really crazy about the idea of walking," Scott said tiredly, slumping back against the seat as Paul pulled out of the parking lot. "Liking the whole hiding until it all goes away idea... maybe in one of the guest rooms. Just so that they don't come looking for me..."

"I think you need some supervision," Paul said neutrally. "Your room is definitely not the best idea, in case someone comes looking for you, you're right."

Scott closed his eyes. "Too many telepaths in the house. I'm going to hear about this come morning..."

"Blame me," Paul said, reaching over and giving Scott's knee a pat. "I'm a terrible influence. They can complain to me all they like. I'll try and pretend that I care."

"Then again, Betsy's not got any room to talk, and I hear Nathan tried to drink his way through Harry's supply of tequila with Cain a while ago... so just the Professor." Scott sighed again. "Don't think I can take the 'I'm very disappointed in you, Scott' look."

"I'll put a stick in his spokes if he pulls that shit," Paul snapped, before he remembered exactly who he was talking about.

"Probably won't," Scott murmured, his head sagging sideways. "Just makes it worse... doesn't need to tell me when I let him down."

Paul's knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel tighter. "You are /not/ letting him down. You're being human. And instead of falling apart in a crisis, you're doing it nice and quietly, where it's not inconveniencing anyone, when there's nothing to be done anyway." Dysfunctional family, they'd warned him. They were right. "Disappointing, my ass."

The movement of the car was almost lulling, but the wind in his face from the open window reminded him of...falling? Something.. "Head's very noisy tonight," Scott muttered. "Jean used to say that... her head was very noisy."

"It happens to all of us," Paul said quietly, watching Scott for a moment and then turning his attention back to the road. "I suppose it's worse when the noise is from outside your head."

"She was so scared of what was happening to her... tried so hard to hide it." Scott sighed heavily, grimacing. "Betsy's different, but the same, too..."

"There's nothing you can do past a certain point." Paul blinked and focussed as he approached the gates. "Sometimes, no matter how much you love someone, they have to struggle alone. And it's not your fault if they won't share it with you."

And sometimes they try and you run in the other direction, Scott almost said, but didn't. He was too tired even to keep flagellating himself at the moment. He just wanted to curl up in a handy corner and shut the world out, just for a little while. The next thing he knew, the car was stopped and Paul was opening the passenger's door. "There already?" he asked a bit groggily. "Maybe I'll just stay here. The house is too empty..."

"Yeah, we're here. Come on." Paul reached in to help Scott out. "You won't be left alone. You can't sleep in the car, the kids will see you, or someone will."

"The kids," Scott muttered, swaying a little and leaning heavily on Paul. "I don't... I thought..." He stopped, blinking as he saw the person standing in the garage door.

Betsy's chest heaved. She had sprinted from her room to the garage in a matter of moments. She wasn't sure why she had come here, but the complusion was there. And so she stood, watching in disbelief, as Paul helped him out the car.

Paul heard the door swing shut and turned to see Betsy standing in the door to the main house. He kept a firm grip on Scott, not wanting him to take off across the garage and land on his face in the attempt.

Scott swallowed, lost in her eyes in an instant as she stared at him. "Betsy..." he said lamely. "I.. I think I'm a little drunk."

"He'll be fine," Paul said quietly. He raised an eyebrow at Betsy, knowing she remembered her own encounter with him, possibly all of it by now.

"Right." Betsy felt her cool facade crack, slightly at that silly expression. She looked down and forced back her smile. Composed, Betsy looked up and caught Paul's knowing gaze. She remembered. "I can see that. " And she understood.

"Drunk and really, really stupid," Scott said as Paul steered him in the direction of the door. "Have I told you lately that I'm stupid? No, wait... I haven't, because I was too busy being a coward..."

The look Paul cast Scott was vastly irritated. "I'm shopping for that cross tomorrow. Really," he muttered.

"Don't bother, Paul. Scott's merely suffering from an X-Man failsafe that dates back a generation. 'If all else fails, blame thyself.'" Betsy moved back from the door, holding it open for the two men. She watched wearily as they passed through. " You've never been a coward, Scott." Her words resonating in the small hallway.

"I didn't keep my word," Scott said miserably. "I told you I would, then I didn't, and now I don't know what to do..."

She remained silent. Instead, she stared at the backs of these two men, as they made their way to the adjoining staircase. Her head bowed, Betsy sighed. "I...," she hesitated. "I understand why. You don't need to do anything."

Paul paused, letting Scott have a moment longer to continue the conversation. Scott leaned heavily against him; Paul was all but carrying him now. Whatever was going on here, it needed working out, but now was not the time. Could these people let nothing go? He wasn't angry with them, just frustrated for them.

"I want to," Scott muttered. "Want to do what I should have done... I never wanted to hurt you, Betsy..."

Betsy stopped at the base of the steps, moving defly around Paul and Scott. She looked at them, her shining eyes in the dull light. "I know," she said softly. Betsy shared a look at Paul. Take care of him. She then turned to the adjoining hallway and returned the way that she came.

Paul signed, resigned. She had to say it, damnit. It wasn't like he wouldn't have done it on his own, but being told grated on him. "Looks like you're stuck with me for the night," he said lightly to Scott.

Scott watched Betsy go, what little energy he had draining away. "You don't have to," he said dully. "Just... help me up to my room? Please? Don't think I can manage the stairs..."

"I don't," Paul lied. "But I'm going to anyway. It's not like I have anything better to do." He took off easily, carrying them both up to the third floor.

It struck Scott when they got up there that they weren't heading in the direction of his suite. He couldn't muster even a token protest, though. All he could see was Betsy's face, the look in her eyes...

"Deal with it later," Paul said flatly, opening the door to his room. Delphine mewed sleepily from her little bed as they came in. Everything was dark. "And by that I mean, get over it. Whatever you did before, you can't change now. She's not angry with you, she's not disappointed in you, she knows you're human."

"Later," Scott muttered, seeing the cat's eyes reflecting the light from the hall. "In the morning?"

"In the morning, in the evening, maybe you could wait until the latest mass crisis has passed, but then again, maybe it's best dealt with sooner." Paul closed the door behind them. He could see perfectly well in the moonlight filtering through the window. "So you screwed up, Scott. How big doesn't really matter at this point because right now, I swear if I gave you your grade three spelling tests, you'd be asking for a horsehair shirt. Even if they were straight As. What matters is that she's still here and she still cares about you."

"Left it too long already," Scott murmured, barely registering most of what Paul was saying to him. "In the morning... hangover or no hangover."

"The hangover's a given right now." Paul sat Scott down on the edge of the bed. "I'll get you some water and vitamins and advil and we'll call it a night. You're a lousy drunk, Summers," he said, and ruffled Scott's hair lightly. "I think it'll be the bath house for you at this rate."