LOG: [Angelo, Haller] Smoker's porch

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Angelo had a sleepless night. Once again, he meets the school counselor on the porch.




He hadn't smoked quite this solidly, or for this long, in some time. He hadn't quite managed to give up yet, but he'd been doing better about the chainsmoking... until now, and the conversation with Nathan, which had led him back out to the smoker's porch and the old comforts.

Jim paused as he opened the screen door, fishing in his pocket for his cigarettes with the other hand. At first he didn't notice the other figure sharing the porch, but when he did he smiled.

"Hey, Ange," Jim said, letting the door thump closed behind him. "I didn't see you out here."

Angelo glanced up in the act of lighting yet another cigarette, and offered a smile in return. "Hey, Haller. How're you?"

"A little freaked out about chaperoning prom tomorrow night. Lorna has declared I'm going to dance. Which was . . . kind of news to me." He glanced up from his lighter to regard Angelo's face. It seemed a little greyer than usual, if that were possible. He pocketed the lighter and took a seat on the bench, eyebrows raised. "Is everything okay? You look tired."

Angelo shrugged slightly, focusing on his cigarette. "Didn't sleep so well. It happens, once in a while, still."

That wasn't the body-language of someone just experiencing a simple bout of insomnia. Jim took a drag. "Any reason in particular why, this time?"

There was a moment's consideration about whether he should say anything, given that Haller had carried the memory in the first place, then he shrugged again. "Yeah. Found Nathan out on the dock last night... he wasn't doin' so well. Better now, though, I think."

Ah. Jim could guess what that was about. He'd gotten a brief email from Nathan last night informing him that he'd finally accessed the memory. From the tone of it it had sounded like Nathan himself was still trying to figure out how to feel about that.

"Yeah. He said last night was . . . difficult. He'll bounce back, though. He's been through worse. He just needs some time to get a grip on things." Jim nodded at Angelo, cigarette cupped in his hand. "What about you? It can be rough trying to talk someone through something like that. I do it for a living and I still have a hard time some days." Especially if it's someone close.

"He said he wanted to finish what Gideon started on his memories", Angelo said flatly. "If he could. Just wipe Saul out of them completely. He's not gonna", he added hastily.

Jim's face went carefully blank at the mention of self-induced psychic surgery. Nathan . . . I wonder, if I hit him hard enough will the memory of that brilliant idea fall out of his head? Moira will murder me, but it might be worth it.

"That's good," Jim said aloud. "That he's not, I mean." The telepath took a deep breath and raised the cigarette again. "Wiping things out is no way to cope. Even if they're things you'd rather not remember. It doesn't work like that. It's not supposed to."

"'s what I told him. Right after I threatened to call the Professor if he ever said anythin' about doin' that again."

"Good. That was exactly the right reaction." And he's lucky you didn't, because Charles would have very politely strangled him to death. How long had the professor worked with David to put him in access of all memory of the trauma? Jim could only shake his head. "You don't just erase shit because you don't like it," he muttered.

Angelo shrugged. "I don't think he was ever serious about actually tryin' to do it. But he said it." His voice was flat, but with an undercurrent of... something.

The slight flicker registered, and Jim forced himself to set his exasperation aside. The tiredness, the taut body language, the tone of his voice -- something about this event had clearly upset Angelo. Jim hesitated over his cigarette for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry. Maybe this is the therapist talking, but -- did something happen? With you, I mean. I'm sort of getting the sense something about last night . . . bothered you. Even aside from Nathan's questionable judgement."

"It's ancient history", Angelo said wearily after a moment, drawing on his cigarette, which was almost dead, and reaching for the packet without thinking about it. "I hardly... remember." And that, of course, was most of the problem.

"Is it something you don't want to?" Jim asked quietly. He furrowed his brow, studying the young man's face. "Or something you can't?"

"Some of both", he admitted reluctantly. "I was just a kid. You lose memories, even without anybody screwin' around with them."

"Yeah. You do." Jim remembered how painful the loss of those early years had been before integration and the arrival of true telepathic recall. The memories were mixed now, sometimes confused and overlapping in places, but he had them again. As much as was possible to retain. Whatever else integration had done to him, that alone had almost made it worthwhile.

"Is it any one thing in particular?" he asked, pursuing the line of questioning. "Something last night reminded you of, maybe?"

"...yeah", came the answer after a long reflective moment, looking out over the grounds. "My dad."

"Oh." Suddenly the parallel was a little too clear.

Jim was silent for a long moment, watching the end of his cigarette burn. Then, with slowly, he raised his dark eyes back to Angelo's.

"How old were you when you lost him?"

Angelo blinked, then smiled ruefully at his own apparent transparency. "Five. And the clearest memory I've got of him is watchin' him die."

"I was four. For a long time the only memory I had was him sitting up with me because I was sick, and then, a couple of days later, watching Ummee find out he was dead." Jim closed his eyes and took a deep drag. "Some days I thought that if he had to die maybe it was better I never got the chance to know him, because then it couldn't hurt as much. Most days, though, I wished I had anyway."

"Yeah. An' I wish I could remember more about him. Before." He lit a fresh cigarette, mostly to keep his hands occupied and out of habit.

"It's not fair. That some people get so much time, and others get so little. But that's what life is, right? It sucks, and then you die." Jim paused for a moment, then said slowly, "But if you want . . . I could help you remember what you did have."

Angelo looked at him sharply, hopeful. "...you can do that?"

The older man nodded. "Yeah. I had to learn early on how to dig up and replay memories the mind is trying to bury. Now I do it with patients. It's one of the steps in processing PTSD. Just because I normally don't do it with happy memories doesn't mean I can't."

"That... that'd be really great." To actually remember his father, and not just that last hour or two, with any clarity... he didn't even have the words.

"We can set up a time this weekend. Probably an evening. It may take a little while, and you should give yourself some time afterwards to process it." Jim gave the younger man a lopsided smile. "If you can, think about what you can remember of him before we meet. The good memories. It'll give me a clearer place to start from. It's not going to be everything, because it was a time when the mind is still transitioning from recording everything as sensory and emotional impressions -- but there's a lot more there than it seems like from the outside."

Angelo nodded. "Anythin' you can do will be better than what I've got. I'll do it."

The telepath nodded. "It's still in there. Just let me know when you want to do it and I'll clear a time." Stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray, Jim unfolded his long legs from the bench and rose. He paused before turning to go, just long enough to give the boy's shoulder a brief squeeze. "Later, Ange. Try to get some sleep."