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xp_logsAfter his talk with Scott after Jean's return, Moira learns that Haller may be in need of some comforting of his own.
Moira came to a stop outside the suite, breathing heavily since she’d pretty much run all the way down. Pressing one hand against the door, she knocked and waited for a few seconds. When no voice greeted her she simply went for the direct approach and tried the handle.
Locked.
“Jim,” she called, since she was standing in the hallway and he guarded such things carefully, “’tis Moira. Can I come in?”
"No!" came the muffled reply from beyond the door. High, hysterical. Not Jim's voice. That single syllable was enough to tell her that Jim was long gone.
At the response, Moira leaned her head against the wood paneling. Keeping her voice low but still loud enough for him to hear her, she tried again. “Davey, I know things got verra rough an’ are probably pretty confusin’ right now. Tha’s why I need ta come in, ta make sure ye’re okay.”
Davey didn't reply. He wanted to let Moira in, but he didn't at the same time. He felt so wrong. Sick inside and he didn't know why. He'd woken up his room and just started crying for no reason. Big, wracking sobs so hard they pulled every muscle in his chest. He'd barely been able to see straight enough to grab Patch from the nightstand. Now he was curled up in the closet next to a box of Jim's old papers, and the only thing he wanted in the entire world was for everything and everyone in it to just leave him alone.
"Davey?" Digging into her pocket, she pulled out a set of Master keys she'd borrowed from Cain after Charles had told her what was going on. Normally she wouldn't invade someone's personal space and privacy but this was a special case. And David, well, Davey at this point, wasn't just a patient but family as well.
In less time than it took to blink she was inside and locking the door, slipping the key back into her pocket. Checking around, under the table and bed first, Moira finally found her way to the closet. "There ye are."
"Go away," Davey sobbed, shoving his face against the stuffed rabbit braced against his knees. Someone in him didn't want him to talk to Moira. Jim. Jim didn't want to and suddenly realizing that made him mad. Jim had made him feel bad and now Jim was trying to make him feel other things, too. I won't, Davey thought angrily, tightening his hands around the worn green velvet of Patch's body. I won't, I won't, I won't, and you can't make me!
"Mom," he blurted, jerking his tearstained face away from the stuffed animal to stare up at Moira, "mom, make him stop! He won't leave me alone!"
He had grown, Moira thought, dropping down onto her knees to make her way into the closet, realizing this wasn't as easy as it used to be. Reaching out to him she was careful not to bump Patch too much. It was odd and yet comforting that all of her children had been in possession of stuffed rabbits at one time or another.
"'Tis okay," she soothed, knowing Davey really wouldn't understand what was going on, not really. Even she had been given only the most important parts of what happened since there was patient confidentaility to consider. "I know it doesnae feel tha' way right now but it will be."
"David was bad." He didn't know how, because the others always kept things from him, but it was the only explanation for the awful twisting feeling inside. "David was so bad." Davey buried his head in his knees again. It wasn't fair, he he wasn't supposed to feel these things, he never felt bad except for when David felt bad first, why did Davey have to get hurt whenever Jim couldn't cope -- and everything was getting all tangled up, he didn't know if he meant Jim or David or who anymore, but he didn't care. Davey hated what he was doing, and he couldn't make it stop.
It's not FAIR!
"I dinnae think he was bein' bad on purposed," Moira responded, running her fingers lightly through his hair as she settled down. "I think he found himself in a position an' it got away from 'im. Sometimes things hit ye in spots tha' are sore, emotionally an' physically, an' it's 'ard ta stop yerself from reactin'. I know 'tis 'ard ta understand when ye werenae actually there."
"I'm never there." The statement was accusing, but at least he was moving away from tears now. Davey scrubbed at his eyes defiantly and uncurled a little. "No one tells me anything anymore. Not for a really long time. And then Jim does something stupid and everybody hurts, and I don't know why." He fixed red-rimmed blue eyes on the carpet next to Moira's feet and muttered, "I miss Jack."
Jack didn't let us get hurt.
Keeping up the soothing motions, tucking hair behind his ear, Moira let Davey come to her if he wanted to. She could sit in the closet as long as he needed her to. "I know ye do," she said softly. "An' I'm sure where Jack is, he misses ye as well. Davey, ye know tha' if ye ever 'ave questions about somethin' tha' 'appens when ye're nay there, ye can ask me about it. Or Charles. Sometimes we cannae tell ye everythin' tha' 'appened an' 'tis nay tha' ye wouldnae understand but because 'tis nay our story ta tell. Like wha' jus' 'appened. Somethin' 'appened wit' Jim but it also involved someone else so there are parts we cannae say without breakin' 'is trust."
"It's . . . it's okay." As mad as he was at Jim, Davey couldn't be angry with Moira. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't even anything new. He was used to not knowing. Some things he just couldn't. That was how David's system worked. After all this time even Davey knew it was useless to think anyone could change that now.
And yet . . . Davey bit his lip and leaned into Moira, taking a deep, shaky breath. "He wasn't ready," he said slowly, and he knew the words were coming from Jim even though he wasn't exactly sure what they meant. "He could do it but he wasn't ready. It was too close." He huddled into her, Patch hugged tight against his chest. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "We were just too close."
Pillowing her head on top of his, she relaxed a bit. Things were starting to calm down now, a sign that while it had reached the breaking point it hadn't fully gone over. "Sometimes 'tis 'ard ta see if th' emotional stuff is ready ta take wha' ye can actually do. Because ye are too close ta it."
But it's okay now. David had been bad, but it wasn't his fault. Moira said so. Even Jim could accept that, almost. Davey took a deep breath, the last of the hurt, ugly feeling in his chest untightening. He relaxed in her arms, tired and spent. We're not close anymore. I'm not close. I'm here and Mom's here and it's okay.
We're okay.
It was the catharsis he'd needed. The distance he'd needed. Calmed now, Davey sank away, leaving only Jim.
Curled up in someone's arms, sitting in a corner with coats over his head. Jim blinked, recoiling slightly.
"M . . . Moira?" he whispered, floundering a little against the receding tide of blankness as he struggled to take in their surroundings. Then, at a loss, "We're . . . in my closet."
And he was hugging Patch. The pang of shame over being found like this brought an answering twinge behind his eyes, but it was fleeting. There was still some holdover conflict there, even now, but David hadn't been ashamed in front of Moira. It was Moira. He drew a breath to steady himself and let it go.
Absurdly, he took comfort in the dissonance after the chaos of the DID. It meant they were still Jim.
"Aye, we're in yer closet," Moira said warmly, scooting back a bit to give him a bit more room as he attempted to unfold. She settled her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Feelin' better?"
"Yeah. It was . . . bad, huh." The drying tears and the hollow ache in his chest told him all he needed to know of what Davey had gone through. Jim wiped his face with one arm, trying to play back what he could. Pieces were missing from his memory, more the closer it got to the end of the conversation with Scott. He'd been blurring out badly. Jim could remember making his way down the stairs, then nothing.
"How'd you . . ." he looked up at Moira and swallowed hard, half-dreading the answer. "Did I -- call you, or did someone . . ?"
Another twinge, and he couldn't help thinking, somewhere far back in his mind: This is so stupid. How could he remember a footnote he had read over four years ago down to the last comma, but not whether he'd made it back to his room? I know. But that's just the way it is.
"Nay, Charles got a 'old o' me as soon as he could an' told me ta come find ye." Dangling the key in front of them, she smiled a little. "I officially broke inta yer room because th' door was locked."
Jim blinked, then covered his face with one hand. "Oh, god. Daddy had to call mommy on me. I'm sorry, Moira . . ."
But it was a relief -- both to know Charles was keeping an eye on him and that no one else had been witness to his hysterics. If someone had had to break into his room and talk him down, Jim was grateful that it had been Moira. She always did know how to get through.
That got her to snort a little, even though she knew he was only teasing. “Well, “daddy” probably felt a wee bit guilty,” Moira said, a bit gruffly before gentling her tone. “Ye know I dinnae mind comin’ ta ye if there’s somethin’ goin’ on, especially somethin’ as severe as whatever exactly ‘appened back there. ‘Tis wha’ I’m ‘ere for.”
"Thank you, anyway." Jim gave her a weak smile. "And it wasn't the professor's fault. I just . . . didn't have a decent grip on things, going in." I was compromised. He let out a deep breath and slid a hand around the back of his head, rubbing sweat-dampened hair. "Allen told me a few months ago that he was speaking at the ESTSS conference next week," he said, the words slow and measured. "He invited me. I, um . . . I wasn't going to go, because it's in London and we have things to do here, but after . . . all that's been going on, I'm thinking about maybe taking him up on it after all."
“’Tis been a while, ‘asnae it?” Moira asked, pushing away some of the clothes that had fallen on them since they had gotten into the closet. “An’, ye know, I think tha’ may be a good idea. Ye’ve been pushin’ yerself awfully ‘ard since ye got here, between Wanda an’ this incident, so a vacation might be th’ best thin’ for ye. Ye could also catch up with Allen, I know he’s always wonderin’ ‘ow ye’re doin’. As for things ta do ‘ere, pay it nay never mind. Th’ mansion willnae burn down ta th’ ground—it ‘asnae yet.”
The young man laughed. "Don't say that. With my track-record my subconscious might take it as a challenge." Jim repositioned Patch on his lap to straightened a pair of shoes that had been knocked askew. "But -- yeah. I'm starting to realize the job may not stop, but I should. Every once in a while, at least. I'm just not psychologically equipped to handle powering my way through a personal crisis by working myself to death. It's too dangerous. Besides," he added with a wry smile, "Scott's set the bar pretty high."
Moira made a slight strangled noise at that and covered up a smile. "Well, ye've seen how high my bar is set," she said as mildly as she could. "I've been known ta take a vacation or two now an' again. An' dinnae beat yerself up about needin' ta take a vacation. I'm nay psychologically equipped ta 'andle everythin' all at once. Tha's wha' vacation days were invented for. Burnin' yerself out--nay puns intended--is nay exactly somethin' ye want ta aim for."
Jim smiled at her. "No. It's not." He took another deep breath and levered himself off his floor, stuffed rabbit still dangling from one hand. "Okay. I . . . I'll ask Charles. I'm not sure, but I think waking up in a closet curled in a fetal ball may be nature's way of telling me I need a personal day. Or three."
Groaning as he helped her off the floor, Moira rubbed her back. "I'm older than I was th' last time we 'ad ta do this," she groused good naturedly, remembering the many hiding spots Davey had found at Muir. "I dinnae think Charles will argue. In fact, push yer luck a wee bit, ye might be able ta get 'im ta foot th' bill."
Jim flushed a little at the thought of hitting Charles Xavier with Guilt. "Um, no, that's okay. It's not as if he doesn't pay me well for the nervous breakdowns, at least." He carefully replaced Patch on his nightstand before turning to give the doctor another wan smile. "I -- thanks, Moira. For . . . everything."
He knew he didn't need to tell her that, but he didn't care. Ten years now, and it was still worth saying.
The words matter.
Moira came to a stop outside the suite, breathing heavily since she’d pretty much run all the way down. Pressing one hand against the door, she knocked and waited for a few seconds. When no voice greeted her she simply went for the direct approach and tried the handle.
Locked.
“Jim,” she called, since she was standing in the hallway and he guarded such things carefully, “’tis Moira. Can I come in?”
"No!" came the muffled reply from beyond the door. High, hysterical. Not Jim's voice. That single syllable was enough to tell her that Jim was long gone.
At the response, Moira leaned her head against the wood paneling. Keeping her voice low but still loud enough for him to hear her, she tried again. “Davey, I know things got verra rough an’ are probably pretty confusin’ right now. Tha’s why I need ta come in, ta make sure ye’re okay.”
Davey didn't reply. He wanted to let Moira in, but he didn't at the same time. He felt so wrong. Sick inside and he didn't know why. He'd woken up his room and just started crying for no reason. Big, wracking sobs so hard they pulled every muscle in his chest. He'd barely been able to see straight enough to grab Patch from the nightstand. Now he was curled up in the closet next to a box of Jim's old papers, and the only thing he wanted in the entire world was for everything and everyone in it to just leave him alone.
"Davey?" Digging into her pocket, she pulled out a set of Master keys she'd borrowed from Cain after Charles had told her what was going on. Normally she wouldn't invade someone's personal space and privacy but this was a special case. And David, well, Davey at this point, wasn't just a patient but family as well.
In less time than it took to blink she was inside and locking the door, slipping the key back into her pocket. Checking around, under the table and bed first, Moira finally found her way to the closet. "There ye are."
"Go away," Davey sobbed, shoving his face against the stuffed rabbit braced against his knees. Someone in him didn't want him to talk to Moira. Jim. Jim didn't want to and suddenly realizing that made him mad. Jim had made him feel bad and now Jim was trying to make him feel other things, too. I won't, Davey thought angrily, tightening his hands around the worn green velvet of Patch's body. I won't, I won't, I won't, and you can't make me!
"Mom," he blurted, jerking his tearstained face away from the stuffed animal to stare up at Moira, "mom, make him stop! He won't leave me alone!"
He had grown, Moira thought, dropping down onto her knees to make her way into the closet, realizing this wasn't as easy as it used to be. Reaching out to him she was careful not to bump Patch too much. It was odd and yet comforting that all of her children had been in possession of stuffed rabbits at one time or another.
"'Tis okay," she soothed, knowing Davey really wouldn't understand what was going on, not really. Even she had been given only the most important parts of what happened since there was patient confidentaility to consider. "I know it doesnae feel tha' way right now but it will be."
"David was bad." He didn't know how, because the others always kept things from him, but it was the only explanation for the awful twisting feeling inside. "David was so bad." Davey buried his head in his knees again. It wasn't fair, he he wasn't supposed to feel these things, he never felt bad except for when David felt bad first, why did Davey have to get hurt whenever Jim couldn't cope -- and everything was getting all tangled up, he didn't know if he meant Jim or David or who anymore, but he didn't care. Davey hated what he was doing, and he couldn't make it stop.
It's not FAIR!
"I dinnae think he was bein' bad on purposed," Moira responded, running her fingers lightly through his hair as she settled down. "I think he found himself in a position an' it got away from 'im. Sometimes things hit ye in spots tha' are sore, emotionally an' physically, an' it's 'ard ta stop yerself from reactin'. I know 'tis 'ard ta understand when ye werenae actually there."
"I'm never there." The statement was accusing, but at least he was moving away from tears now. Davey scrubbed at his eyes defiantly and uncurled a little. "No one tells me anything anymore. Not for a really long time. And then Jim does something stupid and everybody hurts, and I don't know why." He fixed red-rimmed blue eyes on the carpet next to Moira's feet and muttered, "I miss Jack."
Jack didn't let us get hurt.
Keeping up the soothing motions, tucking hair behind his ear, Moira let Davey come to her if he wanted to. She could sit in the closet as long as he needed her to. "I know ye do," she said softly. "An' I'm sure where Jack is, he misses ye as well. Davey, ye know tha' if ye ever 'ave questions about somethin' tha' 'appens when ye're nay there, ye can ask me about it. Or Charles. Sometimes we cannae tell ye everythin' tha' 'appened an' 'tis nay tha' ye wouldnae understand but because 'tis nay our story ta tell. Like wha' jus' 'appened. Somethin' 'appened wit' Jim but it also involved someone else so there are parts we cannae say without breakin' 'is trust."
"It's . . . it's okay." As mad as he was at Jim, Davey couldn't be angry with Moira. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't even anything new. He was used to not knowing. Some things he just couldn't. That was how David's system worked. After all this time even Davey knew it was useless to think anyone could change that now.
And yet . . . Davey bit his lip and leaned into Moira, taking a deep, shaky breath. "He wasn't ready," he said slowly, and he knew the words were coming from Jim even though he wasn't exactly sure what they meant. "He could do it but he wasn't ready. It was too close." He huddled into her, Patch hugged tight against his chest. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "We were just too close."
Pillowing her head on top of his, she relaxed a bit. Things were starting to calm down now, a sign that while it had reached the breaking point it hadn't fully gone over. "Sometimes 'tis 'ard ta see if th' emotional stuff is ready ta take wha' ye can actually do. Because ye are too close ta it."
But it's okay now. David had been bad, but it wasn't his fault. Moira said so. Even Jim could accept that, almost. Davey took a deep breath, the last of the hurt, ugly feeling in his chest untightening. He relaxed in her arms, tired and spent. We're not close anymore. I'm not close. I'm here and Mom's here and it's okay.
We're okay.
It was the catharsis he'd needed. The distance he'd needed. Calmed now, Davey sank away, leaving only Jim.
Curled up in someone's arms, sitting in a corner with coats over his head. Jim blinked, recoiling slightly.
"M . . . Moira?" he whispered, floundering a little against the receding tide of blankness as he struggled to take in their surroundings. Then, at a loss, "We're . . . in my closet."
And he was hugging Patch. The pang of shame over being found like this brought an answering twinge behind his eyes, but it was fleeting. There was still some holdover conflict there, even now, but David hadn't been ashamed in front of Moira. It was Moira. He drew a breath to steady himself and let it go.
Absurdly, he took comfort in the dissonance after the chaos of the DID. It meant they were still Jim.
"Aye, we're in yer closet," Moira said warmly, scooting back a bit to give him a bit more room as he attempted to unfold. She settled her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Feelin' better?"
"Yeah. It was . . . bad, huh." The drying tears and the hollow ache in his chest told him all he needed to know of what Davey had gone through. Jim wiped his face with one arm, trying to play back what he could. Pieces were missing from his memory, more the closer it got to the end of the conversation with Scott. He'd been blurring out badly. Jim could remember making his way down the stairs, then nothing.
"How'd you . . ." he looked up at Moira and swallowed hard, half-dreading the answer. "Did I -- call you, or did someone . . ?"
Another twinge, and he couldn't help thinking, somewhere far back in his mind: This is so stupid. How could he remember a footnote he had read over four years ago down to the last comma, but not whether he'd made it back to his room? I know. But that's just the way it is.
"Nay, Charles got a 'old o' me as soon as he could an' told me ta come find ye." Dangling the key in front of them, she smiled a little. "I officially broke inta yer room because th' door was locked."
Jim blinked, then covered his face with one hand. "Oh, god. Daddy had to call mommy on me. I'm sorry, Moira . . ."
But it was a relief -- both to know Charles was keeping an eye on him and that no one else had been witness to his hysterics. If someone had had to break into his room and talk him down, Jim was grateful that it had been Moira. She always did know how to get through.
That got her to snort a little, even though she knew he was only teasing. “Well, “daddy” probably felt a wee bit guilty,” Moira said, a bit gruffly before gentling her tone. “Ye know I dinnae mind comin’ ta ye if there’s somethin’ goin’ on, especially somethin’ as severe as whatever exactly ‘appened back there. ‘Tis wha’ I’m ‘ere for.”
"Thank you, anyway." Jim gave her a weak smile. "And it wasn't the professor's fault. I just . . . didn't have a decent grip on things, going in." I was compromised. He let out a deep breath and slid a hand around the back of his head, rubbing sweat-dampened hair. "Allen told me a few months ago that he was speaking at the ESTSS conference next week," he said, the words slow and measured. "He invited me. I, um . . . I wasn't going to go, because it's in London and we have things to do here, but after . . . all that's been going on, I'm thinking about maybe taking him up on it after all."
“’Tis been a while, ‘asnae it?” Moira asked, pushing away some of the clothes that had fallen on them since they had gotten into the closet. “An’, ye know, I think tha’ may be a good idea. Ye’ve been pushin’ yerself awfully ‘ard since ye got here, between Wanda an’ this incident, so a vacation might be th’ best thin’ for ye. Ye could also catch up with Allen, I know he’s always wonderin’ ‘ow ye’re doin’. As for things ta do ‘ere, pay it nay never mind. Th’ mansion willnae burn down ta th’ ground—it ‘asnae yet.”
The young man laughed. "Don't say that. With my track-record my subconscious might take it as a challenge." Jim repositioned Patch on his lap to straightened a pair of shoes that had been knocked askew. "But -- yeah. I'm starting to realize the job may not stop, but I should. Every once in a while, at least. I'm just not psychologically equipped to handle powering my way through a personal crisis by working myself to death. It's too dangerous. Besides," he added with a wry smile, "Scott's set the bar pretty high."
Moira made a slight strangled noise at that and covered up a smile. "Well, ye've seen how high my bar is set," she said as mildly as she could. "I've been known ta take a vacation or two now an' again. An' dinnae beat yerself up about needin' ta take a vacation. I'm nay psychologically equipped ta 'andle everythin' all at once. Tha's wha' vacation days were invented for. Burnin' yerself out--nay puns intended--is nay exactly somethin' ye want ta aim for."
Jim smiled at her. "No. It's not." He took another deep breath and levered himself off his floor, stuffed rabbit still dangling from one hand. "Okay. I . . . I'll ask Charles. I'm not sure, but I think waking up in a closet curled in a fetal ball may be nature's way of telling me I need a personal day. Or three."
Groaning as he helped her off the floor, Moira rubbed her back. "I'm older than I was th' last time we 'ad ta do this," she groused good naturedly, remembering the many hiding spots Davey had found at Muir. "I dinnae think Charles will argue. In fact, push yer luck a wee bit, ye might be able ta get 'im ta foot th' bill."
Jim flushed a little at the thought of hitting Charles Xavier with Guilt. "Um, no, that's okay. It's not as if he doesn't pay me well for the nervous breakdowns, at least." He carefully replaced Patch on his nightstand before turning to give the doctor another wan smile. "I -- thanks, Moira. For . . . everything."
He knew he didn't need to tell her that, but he didn't care. Ten years now, and it was still worth saying.
The words matter.
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