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FIC: All Foam, No Beer (PG) (5/6)

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  • Jennifer Matarese
    At first, Scott had been positive that Mick was sitting there alone. It certainly looked that way. It wasn t until a trio of high-pitched voices had loudly
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 3, 2000
      At first, Scott had been positive that Mick was sitting there alone. It certainly looked that way. It wasn't until a trio of high-pitched voices had loudly announced the name of the student who'd eaten Scott's copy of "The Stand" that he realized the girls were sitting on the stools just on the other side of the barrier separating the bar and the dining room.

      He ignored the frozen patrons and stalked past them, around the barrier. Well, now it wasn't hard to spot the girls, although if they hunched down on those stools, they might very well sink into the floor.

      Mick, however, was unfazed. That wasn't a shock.

      Scott made a sound not unlike Logan's best growl. Then Kitty yelped and really did sink through her stool.

      Scott eyed their attire, thankful they at least had gotten changed before leaving the house. What they'd thrown on, though ... well, it wasn't appropriate for ... well, almost anything, come to think of it.

      Note to self, Scott thought as he glared at Jubilee in her leather pants. If I ever have a daughter, she is never getting out of the house dressed in red leather. Never.

      He searched his voluminous vocabulary, amassed from several years of matriculating at a fine university, and managed to come up with one word that encompassed all that he was feeling at that precise moment.


      No, wait. That wasn't it. The word was "f***." Why hadn't he said it? Come on, Scott, let's try this again ...

      Kitty's eyes went wide as she stood up. "But Mr. Summers --"


      Damn it! It's one freaking word, Summers. You can do this, all right? You've cursed before. Remember when Logan stole your bike, racked up hundreds of miles worth of wear and tear on it, and brought it back in a manila envelope? You cursed then.

      Rogue stopped staring at Scott's face long enough to lean close to Jubilee and whisper, "Wow. Isn't this the part where he spews pea soup?"

      Jubilee made a disgusted face. "Okay, I can't get pea soup on these pants."


      Nice one, Summers.

      Mick stood behind the bar, shaking his head with a smile as he poured Scott a glass of beer. Against his better judgment, Scott took the seat Kitty had vacated.

      "Sit yourself down, Scotty. We need t' get smashed." Mick thought on it a second, glancing at the pair of empty glasses before him, then shrugged and passed Scott a glass. "Well, you do, in any event."

      "I don't drink."

      This time, Mick practically wrapped Scott's hand around the glass. "Scotty, yer gettin' a Guiness if I 'ave t'give y' an IV drip meself."

      Scott spotted a bottle of the stuff behind the bar and frowned. "I didn't know this came in bottles."

      "Does it matter? Personally, I'd recognize it anywhere. I t'ink someone was 'iding 'is own personal stash back t'ere." Mick glanced down at the bottle in his hand and shrugged. "Not anymore, o' course."

      Scott sighed and reluctantly took a drink from the glass. He'd be needing a little alcohol in his system once the Professor found out about this. Oh, man ... "The professor's going to kill you, you know that?"

      "Hey!" Mick snapped, "I did not take 'em wit' me. And besides, after tonight, t'ey shouldn't be drinkin' for quite some time."

      "Maybe. But you're here, and they're here, and beer's here."

      Mick cocked an eyebrow. "Very intelligent reasonin' t'ere, Scotty," Mick said with a shake of his head. "I t'ought y'worked at a school."

      Scott ignored that thought and pushed his glass to the side. "You're driving me nuts, Mick. You've got all the boys trying to one-up you in the prank department --"

      "And t'ey are doin' a fine job, t'ey are."

      "The girls follow you around like little puppy dogs --"

      "'Tain't me own fault. Blame me uncle Griff. It's 'is 'andsome face I in'erited."

      Scott looked ready to pop. "And for crying out loud, stop recruiting!"

      "I'm only watchin' the news," Mick said. "And y've got t'admit, the bloke with the wings --"


      "How 'bout the one wit' the tail and the blue skin?"

      "What did I say not one second ago?"

      "I t'ink the singer what's got the fancy light show might be somethin' --"

      "Shut up, Mick!"

      Properly chastised, Mick downed a good quarter of his glass before reaching into his coat. "Oh, before I forget again ..." He pulled out the faded, folded envelope he'd been staring at in the jail cell and handed it to Scott. "'Ere."

      "What's this?" Scott said, then examined it closer. An idea, a memory from way back, came into his head, and he said, "Oh. Is it what I think it is?"

      Mick nodded, a sly grin crossing his face.

      Scott frowned, balled up the envelope, and shot it into the nearest garbage can. "You're welcome."

      Mick nodded again, this time thankfully, right before sidling up closer to the bar and whispering, "I probably should mention t'at I made an adjustment."

      Uh-oh. That didn't sound so good. "What kind of adjustment?" Scott asked from between gritted teeth.

      "Well, y' know 'ow it was only a coach ticket y' bought me?"

      "Yes," Scott said, stretching it out like a man who knew that whatever Mick said next was going to cost him. (Probably an internal organ he wasn't using.) He never should have bought him that plane ticket from London to New York in the first place.

      "I got me a better seat."

      "Oh, really?"

      "Yup. In firs' class."

      "Oh, really?" The change between 'Oh, really's was subtle, distinct, and sounded much like the difference between a rabid pit bull (the first one) and a Chihuahua pup who'd just wet himself (that last one).

      Mick shrugged and took another chug of his Guinness. "Yup. Don't take much, does it? Jus' a few types on a keyboard ..." Just for clarification, he drummed the air with his fingertips, then smiled wickedly.

      Scott groaned inwardly. Oh, great. So he'd frozen a roomful of people simply to change an airline ticket? Well, he certainly couldn't say he was surprised about that.

      He was, however, a little surprised by what Mick had to say next. "Oh, 'ey, did I mention t'at me aunt Peridot died in July?" he stated before ducking out from behind the bar.

      "Oh. Sorry." Then, as Mick passed by, it hit Scott exactly what Mick was getting at. "Hey, couldn't she fly?"

      Mick spun to face Scott. "Like a flippin' bird," he stated with a deep bow, right before making a run for it.

      Which probably took all of the fun out of seeing Scott turn every shade of red this side of a Crayola box.


      He was going to kill Mick.

      No. Come to think of it, the alcohol would probably do the job first.

      Or maybe the crash landing.

      Jeannie had been nice enough to take the girls home for him, but Mick had disappeared the second he'd left the building. Scott had tried to catch up to the jerk only to spot him flying towards the mansion. Personally, Scott had expected to find Mick in a burning hole in the Professor's Mercedes when he got home, snoring like a world champion and reeking of Guinness. That that was exactly what he'd found pissed him off to no end.

      Hmm ... maybe Jeannie was rubbing off on him.

      Scott let Mick's lanky form fall with a thump into his bed and politely ignored the fact that the boys in their beds were peeking over at the unconscious Englishman sleeping not five feet away. On any other night, Scott might have told them to go back to sleep, but he was distracted by the sound of a very familiar walk coming up the back steps.

      Okay, now Scott was afraid. Deathly afraid, actually. How was he supposed to explain a one-way first class ticket from London? And the matter of paying for it, which Scott was sure was going to happen sooner or later ...

      Well, there was Jean's engagement ring, but every mental image he had of the conversation started badly --

      Say, Jeannie, you weren't going to use that ring, were you?

      -- and ended worse.


      Then again, Scott didn't really need that extra kidney ... not yet, anyways ...

      "Scott, you in there?"

      Scott winced as Jean's voice echoed down the hallway. He thought briefly about his options, all of which ended with "Boom!" This, not suprisingly, was a bad sign.

      So, calmly, and with as much dignity as he could muster, Scott turned towards the front door and made a mad dash for his car. He might not be able to escape Jeannie for too long, but at least he could hide out for a little while. And when morning came, he could do something mean to Mick for getting him into this mess ...


      Once upon a time, there was a brain cell.

      This brain cell was a good brain cell. He thought important thoughts, like "Breathe!" and "Clean underwear!" and "Call your mother!" And he lived in Mick Walton's head.

      And there was once a bad brain cell. He thought not-so-important thoughts, like "Beer!" and "Football!" and "Short-sheet Logan's bed!" And he, also, lived in Mick Walton's head.

      But he was a right nasty little bugger, and the good brain cell being, in his honest opinion, a self-righteous git, the bad brain cell killed him. Quite a lot, actually.

      In any event, the good brain cell was gone now, and while the bad brain cell had taken over the breathing, he absolutely refused to work on the clean underwear situation or even discuss getting his mum on the phone. And what was left over was one bad brain cell, playing very loud Metallica while scraping his nails across Mick's mental blackboard over and over and over again.

      This was the fairy tale Mick usually told to describe a massive, mind-boggling hangover of near-epic proportions.

      However, he would not be telling this fairy tale this particular day, due to his cottonmouth. No, seriously. His poor, defenseless pillow ...

      The girls opened the door to Mick's room slowly, noticing his wince as it squealed its annoyance at being used at all.

      Mick lie on his bed, the sheets tangled around his waist and his face shoved comfortably into the depths of the pillow. Rogue frowned. With the exception of Logan, Mick was the only person Rogue had ever met who spent so much time either unconscious, naked from the waist up, or both.

      Kitty quietly cleared her throat. Mick made a noise somewhere between that of a dying elephant and a fog horn.

      "Um, Mick? You okay?"

      "Mmph mmph mmph mmph!"

      Fortunately for everyone else, Kitty spoke Pillow. She also spoke Mouthful of Peanut Butter Sandwich, The Dentist Gave Me Novocaine, and Peter Accidentally Hit Me in the Mouth, which she'd only had the chance to use twice.

      "But it's one in the afternoon!"

      "Mmph mmph mmph mmph."

      "Aw, come on, Mick. I'm sure Logan will not do that to you, especially since Mr. Summers told him no more disemboweling in the house ..."

      "Mmmph mmph mmph."

      Kitty went bright red and glanced at the other two girls. "I don't think it's legal to do that with a trout in this part of the country."

      "Mmmph mmph!"

      "All right, all right, we're leaving." She shrugged to the others and shooed them out the door, then slowly and quietly shut it, hoping that they wouldn't disturb Mick.

      A second later, Mr. Summers's Jeep sounded off from the driveway. A second after that, a frustrated groan rose from behind Mick's door.

      "Awright, that bloody tops it! I'm goin' to stick t'at Nancy-boy's car horn so far up 'is arse, 'e'll beep when 'e sneezes!"


      Outside in the driveway, Scott, who was leaning on his car horn for all it was worth, looked up at the sound of the commotion coming from the boys's dorm and smiled.

      Troll Princess
      Grand Poobah of Mischief and Sheepish Lord of Chaos
      Go with God, my car's full.
      Buffy Summers: What are you doing here, Spike?  Five words or less!
      Spike: [counting on fingers] Out... for... a... walk... bitch.
      -- "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"
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