Moira and Jim

[x-mactaggart.livejournal.com]

Jim comes down to beat his head against Moira's desk for his slip with Nathan. Moira manages to calm him down a little and they find that it's not so hard to slip back into normal routine with friends you haven't seen in a while.



"Do you think he'll notice if I go back on the crazy?" Jim asked from behind his hands, as if the pressure was going to do anything for the tension in his head. "I don't know how you even slip that into the conversation. 'Excuse me, I was crazier than usual, don't call me that'?"

Moira glanced up from her desk and blinked. She'd been expecting him to eventually make his way back down here but not quite like this. "Jim? I'd ask if everythin' was alright but...ach, sit down." Pushing herself out of her desk, she moved some of the folders off of the couch. "Wha's 'appened?"

"Um. Nathan." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. This is Moira, not Charles. Use your words, Haller. "Your husband. I sort of got my Crazy all over him last night. And then asked him to call me Jim." He'd known he was in trouble when it had started slipping into the "From" line of Nathan's emails. He was kicking himself already.

"Oh." Sitting down next to him, she rubbed his back gently. "Remember ta breathe," she said softly, feeling the tension in his muscles. Less than a handful of people called him that and for a good reason. "Trust me when I say tha' he'll understand bouts o' 'I wasnae thinkin' clearly when I said this'."

"Yeah, it's just . . ." Jim winced, gesturing vaguely, "confusing in here right now. And -- it feels . . ." He was definitely not going to admit what he was thinking. "It's just confusing," he finished lamely.

"Nathan generally confuses people," she teased gently and then turned serious again. "Ye dinnae 'ave ta tell him anythin', ye know, or explain it."

"I know, I just . . . don't want to complicate things." Jim started to reach for his pocket, then stopped himself. Don't smoke in the lab, Haller. He sighed and resettled his hand on his lap. "And I'm glad to hear Nathan confuses other people. I'm not a good measuring stick for that kind of thing."

"Sweetie, there's nothin' ye can do tha'll complicate thin's. Ye'll explain when ye want ta explain an', sometimes, th' words come before ye think yer ready." Moira smiled. "But ye realize later ye were more ready than ye thought."

"To be honest, I don't think there's anything I can do that won't," Jim snorted, but he smiled a little when he said it. "I don't know . . . Charles keeps telling me I should let people call me that. I don't know why I asked Nathan. I guess after everything I'd already told him it didn't feel so -- hard." He gave her a lopsided smile. "He's very patient. Rachel must give him a lot of practice."

"Nathan can be verra patient when he wants ta be. Around 'ere, tha's most o' th' time." There was a laugh. "Ye may nay remember when he was around when ye were on Muir but 'e an' I would fight like cats an' dogs. An' Charles is probably right but, again, ye'll know when th' time is right."

Jim rubbed the back of his head uneasily. "I'd just rather not think about it right now. I should probably wait until I'm adjusted to purposely set out to make my brain explode." He shook his head and laughed. "And I think I remember seeing him once or twice, when I came back . . . and also you in a bad mood. But I don't know if that was unique to him or not." He frowned. "When was he there? He was at Muir twice, wasn't he?"

Moira noticed the topic shift but didn't pursue it, not with Jim. Over the years she had learned that he took a different kind of approach. "Many times, actually. We've known each other...och, about 8 or 9 years now? An' he'd appear off an' on for a few month's 'ere an' there."

Jim laughed again. "Like me, then? No wonder we get along." He scuffled at his hair with both hands, trying to distract himself from the headache. Talking to Moira helped. With her, at least, he didn't have to think so hard about everything. Safe. "He's -- he seems like a nice guy. Except I think I kind of terrified him." Jim gave her a weak smile. "He was afraid he was going to be punished for breaking me. Good to see the years of training paid off."

Perhaps her lips twitched just a little bit at that. "I think he's afraid I'll yell at 'im," she said, with a cheeky grin. "Nothin' ye did wron', jus' th' simple fact that I terrify me 'usband silly. Nay, Nathan knows wha' 'tis like ta 'ave yer buttons pushed at the right time, th' right way, so there's nay any worry there."


"Don't sell yourself short, Moira. You terrify everyone silly." Jim gave in and extracted the cigarettes, though he limited himself to fidgeting with the pack. "And . . . yeah. I could tell. He didn't push." Jim thought back again to what he'd seen of Nathan's mind, shaking his head. "I guess he knows what it's like. Maybe that's why I asked." He considered the implications of this and winced. "Someone who can match me in trauma. Oh, god, that poor man . . ."

"Nathan's got good an' bad days, jus' like everyone else." The look she gave him was clear on her meaning. "Ye've been doin' well, lad, tha's a good sign. An' now, if ye need somethin', ye've got bot' Charles an' I under one roof for once. Tha'll make things a wee bit easier."



"One-stop shopping for all my sanity needs?" Jim held the pack in both hands and ran his thumbs over the battered wrapping, smiling ruefully. "And I know. That I've been doing well, I mean. I just forgot how hard it could be. Somehow." He stared down at his hands, studying the old scars. He could say this or look at Moira, but not both at once. "I thought it would be easier if we kept things simple. I still want to try. But when he -- when Nathan called me Jim I just . . . it was such a relief . . ." Plastic wrapping crinkled under his tightening hands. This was as far as he could go.

"Buy one, get th' other 'alf off," she replied. "Give it a few days, Jim, see if ye get used ta it. Openin' up, slowly, one person at a time is actually a good thin' or so we've been sayin' for a while. 'Tis 'ard ta let go after so much 'oldin' it in but I think 'tis for th' best." Reaching over, she laid a hand on his and squeezed gently. "If yer uncomfortable wit' it, tell him ta go back ta wha' yer more comfortable wit'."


Jim took a deep breath and tried to find that place Charles had taught him to. He needed to step back from this, to not keep trying to break the problem down into its individual components. To simply stop thinking, and just let himself react how he was going to react.

Moira's hand was still on his. Jim breathed deep and squeezed back.

"It's not wrong," he murmured, echoing an assurance so often repeated he could almost believe it was true, "to want to be called who you are."

"Nay, 'tis nay wron', like we've been sayin'." She leaned closer for a second. "It'll be alright in th' end, ye know this, aye?"


Jim smiled weakly. What was running through his mind was when has it ever been all right? -- but he knew that was the fatalism talking, and Moira didn't deserve sarcasm. So what he said was: "I'll . . . try."

He had always been one of hers, Moira thought, though most would joke that he was one of many that came to this mansion from her past. But she'd known him for so long, knew things for so long, that she recognized the look. Now was not the time to press.

"Tha's all I've ever asked o' ye."


Jim touched his forehead to the hand that clasped his, silent acknowledgement of the gratitude he felt. Then he lifted his head to look at her, and his smile was soft and wry again. "Thanks, 'Mom.'"

Moira's laugh rang through the office as she slipped her hand out of his only to put it around his neck and pull him closer. "Yer welcome, 'son'," she teased, giving him a brief hug before a quick noogie suddenly happened. "Nay so much fun wit' th' 'air short."


Jim groaned as she released him, rescuffling at his hair. "Please don't start. I'm not growing it out. Because I'm not growing it vertical."

"Oh, but it was funny," she protested, trying to keep a straight face and ignoring the fact that she was the one who insisted he get a hair cut the first time. That had been quite the task.


Jim covered his face with a hand. "That really wasn't something I needed right after the coma. 'Good morning, you seem to have missed the last three years, and incidentally your mutant power appears to include an all-encompassing cowlick.' That was an entirely new level of trauma."

There was a slight twitch of her lips, but only slight. "It ate three o' me brushes back ta back, remember tha'? An' still, ye were in a tizzy when I suggested we cut it."


"I was clearly not in my right mind. It was the scissors. You will recall I also had a thing about that wire magazine rack. And, you know," he raised a hand and set one finger in slow rotation next to his temple, "crazy."

"I finally bribe ye wit' candy ye really werenae supposed ta 'ave at tha' point an' by usin' an electric razor." Tilting her head, she smiled at him. "Ah, but we love ye jus' th' same."


Jim cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Yeah, well," he said, rubbing the back of his head, "you're just happy I don't set things on fire anymore."

"Oh, well, there is tha'. Though I've grown used ta destruction in my life." It was comforting to know that despite the time that had passed, they were still comfortable together. "So," Moira said, beaming, "do ye want some coffee?"

And than she could pick on him something fierce.