FIC: Unpredictable (RR #49): Logan, Betsy
- Title: Unpredictable
Author: jenn (jenn@...)
Series: RR #49
Timeline: Directly after Andy's "Catching Up".
Codes: Logan, Betsy
Summary: Betsy and Logan's ego chat. Other stuff happens.
Author Notes: Thanks to Beth, Shana, and Victoria. <g> My writing mood
Archiving: RRindex at Indulgence, Muse's Fool, WRFA, XMMFC
One bottle of whiskey later, Betsy was studying him as if he belonged under
a microscope somewhere. Not the most comfortable appraisal in the world
either, but she had a gift for making him feel like an idiot with a single
look. Had to be that upper-class English breeding--no American could put
centuries of disdain for the rustics into their gaze like that, with so
"Logan, there are a few questions I need to ask you." Idly, one long
finger circled the mouth of her glass.
"Shoot." He was drunk enough to agree. This should worry him. But
happily, he'd taken three quarters of the bottle in under five minutes.
Even his healing factor couldn't keep up with that. At least, for the next
few minutes. He hoped.
Please God. Let one thing go right. Let the alcohol stay.
"Are you insane?"
Logan jerked his head up, trying to focus his eyes on the delicate woman
across the table. Looked delicate. Very much so. Wasn't at all. He'd
seen her break a man over her knee when he pissed her off and then ask for
a martini, dry. Gin, not vodka. Always classy, that was Betsy, even when
she dressed like she belonged in a bad porno.
"Maybe. You knew that a damn long time ago, though." There. Nice and
calm. Buzz might wear off soon, though. He raised a hand, signaling for
another bottle of whiskey. Or three. Shit, how long 'til he went to get
Jeannie? Blearily, he checked out the clock above the jukebox. Forty
minutes. Two bottles could easily be metabolized in forty minutes. All
kinds of good there.
The waitress appeared at his elbow, and he reached for the bottle, meeting
rich, chocolate brown eyes that smiled a little as he continued to stare.
Short dark hair. Full lips. Almost. Not quite, but almost.
Forty minutes. One bottle. One brunette in the alley. That could work
"Here you go." Her soft hand brushed his as he took the bottle from her,
and he felt the scratch of her nails against his palm. No accident there,
the invitation naked in the dark eyes. His body shifted at the feel of it,
"Bugger off, child." Betsy's voice cut through Logan's observation that
the girl's shirt gave a nice view of her cleavage. Blinking, he tore his
gaze back to his companion, whose head was tilted slightly, lips tight.
"Trust me, honey, he's not interested unless you wear gloves."
The girl made a noise somewhere between a snort and a shocked gasp,
disappearing as thoroughly as Rogue always managed to do the second he took
his full attention off of her. He wondered if both women had teleportation
in their arsenals. The girl hadn't smelled mutant, but hey, he was very
"What the hell is *that* supposed to mean?"
"If you haven't figured it out, then I'm certainly not going to enlighten
you. Trust me, Logan, it won't help."
Logan blinked. Betsy said the damndest things.
"Won't help what?"
Oddly, she had a curiously tight smile on her face. He didn't know what to
make of that at all. Her hands closed on her glass again, before she
reached for the bottle and opened it with a deft twist of her fingers,
pouring herself a shot. For a second, the narrowed dark gaze rested on
him, before she began to pour the liquor into his glass as well. Well,
thank ya, darlin'.
"Never mind." Picking up her glass, she held it in both hands, studying
the liquid as if it had the answers to all of life's most pressing
questions. He almost asked to take a look at it himself. God knew, he
needed it. "Where's the redhead chippie?"
"At Warren's, like I said." Buzz was wearing off. He took the shot in a
single drink, then reached across the table and took the bottle as well.
Betsy's head tilted again, giving him that weird patient look, but she let
him take it without demur.
"So let me clarify. In our time apart, you have picked up and discarded
two separate women? I'm impressed with your taste, at least. The brunette
Logan frowned at her, or tried to, but the bottle was so close. Closer
than Rogue would ever be.
"No. Jeannie--Jeannie's just a friend." Logan blinked, trying to get a
visual. Tall, redhead, slim. Jeannie. Got it. He shook his head, giving
Betsy a snort, before taking another drink from the bottle. "Friend." And
Rogue? Hell no, no discarding done there. She'd discarded him. Or wanted
a substitute for her Boy Scout. Or shit, maybe she just wanted what most
women wanted, a quick fuck. Maybe he should have just done it. Kicked
Betsy out and pushed Rogue up against the door, work this damn weird
fascination the hell outta his system once and for all.
"And you have so many of those," Betsy observed, watching him from beneath
half-closed lids. "You're not leaving Westchester, are you?"
Logan almost dropped the bottle.
"Yes, Logan, you packed, which I'm sure in your mind you think confirms
this leaving nonsense." Leaning back, the dark eyes regarded him with
amusement and something else entirely, something he couldn't define. "Yes,
the bag is currently located in my car, and yes, I'm sure you have every
intention of finding this Jean and then all three of us disappearing into
the sunset or moonset or whatever you Americans have such a weakness for in
your less interesting Westerns. But let me make a prediction, shall I?"
Her nails tapped lightly on the table. "Before you are sober, you will
come to the conclusion that your masculinity is threatened by the very idea
that a woman could make you do anything, especially leave." Logan blinked,
opening his mouth to speak, and a sharp toe hit his knee with enough force
to bruise. Smiling at his growl, she continued. "You will find it
offensive that your macho posturing has yet to get you whatever it is you
want out of her, and you will arrive at Jean's and possibly try to convince
her to go with me alone. Failing that, there is a strong possibility you
will rent her a hotel room nearby. Failing that, I have an odd suspicion
you'll go searching for this Scott chap and throw her at him, thereby
relieving you of your worry for her and freeing up--Rogue, is it?--for
future interaction." Her smile was slow. Bitch. There was a reason he
didn't like to share personal information with her.
"Nothin' doin', Bets," he growled. Still though--did he have so little
pride as to let a woman--oh CRAP. Taking another drink of the bottle,
Logan began to brood. "Can't read me, you know that."
"I don't have to be a telepath to know what's on your mind, Logan. Extreme
and sometimes annoying familiarity is the key to a good prediction. And
darling, you are very predictable."
He growled at her as she took a sip of her shot, giving him a smile that
made him wonder, with sudden unease, exactly what was on her mind.
"Well, I suppose a vacation is in order," Betsy said softly, and Logan
jerked his gaze to her face, watching as she leaned into the table on both
"We're close to New York," Betsy mused. "Perhaps you'd introduce me to
Professor Xavier? He studied in Britain, you know, and is somewhat
acquainted with my father."
Logan blinked. She hadn't just said that.
"You know Xavier?" Was he the only damn mutant on earth who *hadn't* known
about Baldie's operation here? Shit. This just took the damn cake. Time
for another drink. Definitely.
"Not very well, not since I was a small child, long before I manifested."
She tapped her head lightly and leaned back in her chair again. "In any
case, it should be interesting."
He must have missed something here.
"This entire little situation you all have managed to bungle. The sheer
entertainment factor should make it all worth it."
It hit him with all the force of a ton of bricks and wiped out the
remainder of his buzz. SHIT.
Her smile was slow, like a cat beside an empty bowl of cream. Logan threw
back the rest of the bottle. God knew, he needed it.
"Oh yes. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
"Oh my." That was a purr if he ever heard one.
Logan blinked blearily, because Betsy had suddenly straightened. The
damndest expression tripped across her face. He'd seen it before, and half
turned to watch a tall blonde male come into the bar. Definitely not his
sort of place, Logan thought automatically. Designer cut on the suit, the
slightest moue of distaste twitching his lips, glancing around as if he
expected to be attacked at any moment.
He stank of far too much money.
"And there is another excellent reason to stay in New York for a bit."
Logan shrugged a little, turning back around to pick up the bottle. The
face was familiar. A little. Frowning, Logan studied his bottle, letting
the face sit in his memory until--
"Warren." He was on his feet. Warren Worthington, the guy that wandered
out with Jean and had put that look on her face. His responsibility.
Growling softly, he thought about what the pretty blond would look like
plastered across the bar.
Oh, that was a nice picture, almost enough to wipe away the vision of Rogue
in the water, long hair wet against her face and shoulders, laughing, all
dark cream skin and dark chocolate eyes. The silky feel of wet, cold skin,
and how she'd felt in his arms.
No, no, no. NO.
"Warren?" Betsy echoed, and reached across the table, grabbing his hand.
"Logan--Warren." The full lips parted, eyes widening. Her scent was
saturated in shock. "Bloody hell, Logan, your Jean is involved with
Betsy's hand tightened annoyingly, and he almost shook her off, but a quick
jerk brought him back down into the seat. Shit, sometimes he forgot how
strong she was. When he met her eyes, they were tense.
"This isn't a fight club, Logan."
He smiled slowly.
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