![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-legion.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsAfter a rough morning Haller runs into Terry in the kitchen. The encounter goes fairly well until Terry inadvertently steps into exactly the wrong area.
Jim stared at the contents of the refrigerator, tired and frustrated. He kept trying to tell himself to be patient, that this was just a normal and necessary setback, but interviewing with that therapist had made him feel like he was about sixteen again. He'd been good. He'd made it through the entire appointment being nothing but calm and candid, and hadn't switched out once.
Then he'd paused before putting the key in the ignition and the driver's side window had exploded. Fortunately, the car hadn't been one of the school's nicer ones.
He couldn't remember most of the drive back; he'd zoned back in to find he was halfway through Westchester County with the radio set to a jazz station. He guessed that was progress. Jack had voluntarily gotten them most of the way home, and the jazz meant he was even making an effort to mellow. That was more than Jim could have asked for six years ago.
Now he stood in front of the open refrigerator, not particularly hungry and knowing he shouldn't waste the cold air, but aware he hadn't eaten anything since the night before. He vaguely wished there was some way to tell who'd done the cooking for what. Lorna was still under orders not to do anything too strenuous, and it would have been nice to have some warning before biting into anything vegan.
Terry skip-danced her way into the kitchen, her pale skin blushed a bit pink from all the time spent in the sun back home. She practically radiated joy and good-will to all the world and chirped a greeting when she saw Haller standing indecisively in front of the fridge. "Hi, Mr. Haller!" She'd tried, she really had, to call him David. It just felt wrong and she'd fully back-slid to the more formal address. "What are yeh looking for?"
Jim blinked, thrown by the girl's sudden entrance, then turned to smile over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, Terry. Sorry, my brain was off doing things without me again. Uh . . . I don't really know. Food, theoretically." He jogged the door back and forth absently. "I think I'm unequipped to face the challenge of fending for myself."
She grinned at him and ducked around him to peek into the fridge herself, "Oh! Kare made food!" A tupperware container with a bright pink lid was snatched off the shelf with great enthusiasm. "Is there any particular kind of food you're looking for? There's not any shortage of stuff. Sandwiches and stuff are easy."
"A sandwich will work, I think." Jim smiled and extracted a covered plate of what he seemed to remember as roast beef, a little of the incessant tension draining away. It was hard to be tense around Terry. He let the refrigerator door close and moved to join her at the kitchen counter to claim the appropriate flatware. "Did you have a good time in Ireland?"
Terry smiled and her cheeks went just a bit more red. "Uh, aye. We did. I went to see my mother. Seemed like the thing to do. It was a nice trip." She dumped the tofu pasta from the Tupperware onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. "I saw that there was a bit of a scuffle on the journals. Did Mr. Summers end up hitting Logan?"
"Not to my knowledge. And I haven't heard Cain complaining about any holes in the wall or anything, so at least no major property damage happened. Jamie's gone, so I think Cain would've been pretty vocal about the extra work." That had been slightly awkward. Jim had seen the exchange, but really hadn't known what to do with it. The arguing seemed to have stopped after Marie intervened, though. It was good that Scott and Logan had both been adult enough to see reason . . . though a little worrying that maturity had had to come from one of the youngest teammembers. Jim shook his head and drew a knife and fork from the drawer so he could carve off a suitable section of beef.
"I'm glad you had a good birthday," he continued, positioning the knife. "It's been . . . kind of a mess around here lately, especially for the team. It's good you got a nice vacation. How are you doing with that, anyway? The trainee thing, I mean."
Terry shrugged, "It's tough, harder than I thought it would be, to tell yeh the truth but I'm...well, having fun doesn't quite seem to work, does it? I am though. Even though it's hard and demanding. Like now. We hardly get back and Bobby's off on assignment already."
"He must be pretty busy between that and Elpis." Especially now. The last month had decimated the team; Bobby was one of the few X-Men still fit for action. Jim felt a pang of guilt at that, but he let it fall aside. Nothing you can do for the team now but get better. He shifted a slice of roastbeef onto his plate and recovered the rest. "At least you managed to get a few days with him to yourself. Fortunately I think the COs recognize the need for a break. Even if most people won't take one."
"It was so nice to have him there. Have him home with me and seeing where I grew up and such. Tis a grand thing, having someone who knows yeh so well, I think." Terry smiled, "I'd never want him to go but if he did, I think that we'd stay close. Like Mr Summers and Miss Braddock, they've had their ups and downs but she was there for him after and..." Terry stopped suddenly, then coughed and changed the subject as she recalled something else she'd overhead. "Uh, that is, there's uh, more to it all." Think first, speak later, Cassidy. Not the other way around.
Jim paused in the middle of removing the twist-tie from a bag of bread. It wasn't news to him that Scott and Betsy had been seeing one another. Scott had mentioned it himself weeks before she and Jim had ever met, and the telepath had long ago decided the relationship was none of his business. Still, somehow he couldn't stop the next words that came out of his mouth. "Um, after . . ?"
"Um, after he was kidnapped and stuff. She was around. I was on comms and, well, I overheard," she rubbed at her jaw just in front of her ear. Terry needed a change of topic and she needed it now. "That was a busy time. Lots of people coming and going."
"Oh." He'd known she'd provided a list of possible places Scott might have been held because he'd still had access to the team comm, but somehow he'd assumed . . . what? That she'd stopped her life after what had happened? Please. Don't be naive.
She'd been right there less than a week later, and he'd never even known.
"Okay," Jim said. "Well, hopefully things will calm down for a little while. I don't think it's actually possible to be any busier than July was, so maybe we'll get a break. Unless I just jinxed it." He extracted two pieces of bread and closed the bag, then maneuvered the roast beef onto one half. He took the plate in one hand and gave Terry a smile. "Hopefully the blatant tempting of fate'll go unnoticed. Either way, don't work yourself too hard, all right? And give Bobby a nudge if you see him going overboard. I think remembering to take care of yourself is a slightly neglected part of the training."
"Sure I'll keep an eye on him. It's in my best interests after all." This was definitely her cue for a quick exit, stage left. She gathered up her food and grabbed a water bottle. "I should go. I have some paperwork to finish for school. Starts soon and all. Um. I'll see yeh later, Mr. Haller."
"You too, Terry," Jim smiled.
He waited long enough for the girl to exit, then dumped the sandwich into the trash.
Back in his suite Scott is not having such a great day, either, and suddenly finds himself in a conversation he probably thought he'd never have at a time he's least equipped to have it.
The door to Scott's suite was open, just slightly. Ordinarily, he would have been more careful about that - the kitten tended to be very curious about the World Outside and he didn't particularly want her wandering the halls, at least not until she was a little bigger - but his phone had been ringing, and he hadn't quite paid attention to closing it properly in his rush to pick it up.
He was wondering, five minutes later, if he should have rushed. It sounded very much as if Jean would have been just as happy to leave a message.
"... no, I'm... doing okay," Scott said, trying to keep the stiffness out of his voice. "Really. Even saw Jack Leary again. We're going to do this weekly thing..."
Across the room, the kitten jumped up onto the counter in the kitchenette and started examining the lunch dishes with apparent interest.
"It's fine," Scott said in response to what Jean was saying. "No, I know long-distance phone service is unpredictable out there." He tried very hard to smile. "That's why I suggested postcards."
The kitten eyed the salt shaker, then took a swipe at it. It fell over and she jumped, bolting down off the counter and under the table with a plaintive yowl.
"I know," Scott said, not really paying attention to her antics at this point. "I... miss you too." His jaw was trembling just slightly, as steady as he was managing to keep his voice. "Just tell me the scenery's nice? ... that's good."
The kitten jumped to one of the chairs and settled down, curling up into a little furry ball. Scott looked at her for a moment, then swallowed visibly, rubbing at the scars on the side of his face.
"I love you too.... yeah. Goodbye, Jean." There was an audible click on the other end of the phone, and before Scott quite knew what he was doing, he was flinging the phone at the opposite wall.
The kitten ran for the bedroom.
Jim hadn't meant to overhear, and really, he hadn't. Not the actual words. He'd only been passing by on his way back to his room, wanting nothing more than to cease to exist until the heavy, claustrophobic feeling in his head went away. To just . . . stop. The protective fog he'd numbed himself with had held him together almost to his room. Almost.
Then the distinctive crash and brnggg of a phone impacting the wall right next to the slightly ajar door of Scott's suite and the sudden spike of external emotion he couldn't help but sense this close, disjointed thoughts abruptly sharpened and tumbled into place of their own accord.
Scott upset phone with Jean upset Scott's upset upset Scott is upset?
The reaction was irrational, and visceral, and suddenly he was inside Scott's suite, far behind him the door striking the wall so hard it bounced.
"Poor Scotty," Jack snarled at the startled man sitting on the couch. "What's wrong, having another bad day? It's just a world full of shit waiting to happen to you, isn't it? If it isn't Jean leaving, you're spitting blood with guilt. If not that, it's kidnapping and torture. Now that's over and look, we're right back to Jean leaving you again! But then, that's about right. You just had that little vacation, and fuck knows you can't go five minutes without the world falling apart on you. Because Scott Summers is life's bitch."
The face of the enraged alter contorted as he hurled one of the suite's chairs onto its side. Five feet away, a lamp flung itself into the opposing wall. "Yeah, must be terrible being poor Scott, who's got a wife who loves him so fucking much she interrupts her own nervous breakdown to worry about him and gets everyone he's ever known galloping to his rescue, even my fucking girlfriend!"
It was a sign that he was getting better, less jumpy, when the man bursting into his room did not immediately get an optic blast to the face. Nevertheless, Scott was holding onto control by the skin of his teeth when the chair and the lamp went over.
When the TV exploded, Scott was on his feet in one smooth movement, his expression like iron, despite the fact that adrenalin was screaming through his system at what was almost certainly an unhealthy level, and the 'flight' instinct was in full force.
"You can settle down right the hell now, or I will throw you back out of here, Jack." Had to be. The aggression, the type of property damage. Not to mention the gray eyes. His heart hammering erratically in his chest, Scott straightened, hands fisting at his sides. "And if you don't think I know how to handle a pissed-off telekinetic you were not paying attention in training."
It was Cyclops, that voice. He hadn't thought that voice was still in there.
The threat wasn't what did it; Jack feared very little, and furious as Scott was, the other man was nowhere on that list. Instead, it was the tone that reached him. One that bypassed Jack completely, and cut straight through to David -- right back to the harmonics of his childhood, which said: You've done something wrong.
A moment of nauseating displacement, and suddenly it was just Jim and Scott in the room.
"Scott," the telepath choked, appalled. "I'm sorry. I, I'm sorry." Oh, God. Blood pounded in his ears. He was standing in the middle of someone else's private space, which he had not been invited into, with an overturned chair at his feet. How could you do that? He didn't do anything to you, he didn't, why did you do that? "I'm sorry," Jim repeated uselessly. "I'm sorry. I'm . . ." Bad, he knew. The thought caught and looped in a childish chant: bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad bad bad . . .
Scott's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he took a deep, only slightly shaky breath. Somehow the iron control stayed. Maybe because he knew it needed to. One of them had to be in control here.
Needed to. Scott stepped hard on the flat, bitter anger, and forced his expression to something calm, if not entirely welcoming.
"Jim," he said, hoping that using that name wouldn't re-trigger Jack. "Sit down. In the other chair."
Again the tone of voice penetrated. Slowly, Jim moved to the other chair and sat. The fact that he had a choice in the matter didn't even register. Right now he could barely remember the location of the door he'd come in by, so he did what he was told. Because it was easier. Because it wouldn't make Scott any angrier than he must already be. Because David always does what he's told, Cyndi sneered, her disgust palpable.
The change in Jim's body language was total. Scott swallowed past the tightness in his throat and sank back down on the couch. "I get the sense," he said, in a quieter tone, and it took so much to manage that, to manage the facsimile of Cyclops or Headmaster Summers playing Scott, that even those first four words left him feeling wrung out, "that you're not really angry at me. The... ironic thing, is that I know who you're angry at. I talked to her, when she ran away from your room that day."
"To . . ?" For a moment he really didn't understand what Scott was saying, and then Jack's words filtered back to him. 'Even my fucking girlfriend.' "To . . . to Betsy?" Jim whispered. Heat began to rise in his cheeks. He suddenly felt very small and very exposed, like a child caught in the act of doing something he knew was wrong. How did he know?
"Charles gave me a heads-up. I caught her before she could do something stupid like try to drive in the state she was in." Scott swallowed again, muscles along his jaw clenching before he went on in that same even voice. "She's a coward, Jim. She's a coward, and she's selfish, and I was absolutely disgusted with her."
"You don't--" A sudden stab of rage twisted Jim's mouth fuck you what do you know don't you fucking talk about her like that-- There was a sharp crack of glass as one of the pictures on the wall shattered like it'd been struck by a fist. Jim grabbed his head and bent double over his knees, breathing harsh and shallow.
It was too late to simply stop. There was too much pressure. If he didn't get this out for himself then Jack would do it for him, and if that happened now they'd be looking at more than just property damage. He had to calm down. He forced himself upright in the chair, hands curling on his knees.
"You don't understand," Jim said again in a voice that was almost level. "She was in my . . . head. She saw in my head. It . . ." Pain lanced behind his eyes. Rage, and shame, and a thousand things in between, so confused he barely knew what he felt for whom. He whispered, "You don't understand."
"I don't care what she saw in your head." Scott's jaw clenched. His heartrate had jumped again at the breaking picture, and there was still a part of him that wanted to run, and another part that wanted to throw Jim out bodily. He didn't listen to either. "I think I understand a lot better than you think I do, Jim. Don't forget. I was in Jean's head, too."
"And your years of secondhand telepathic experience qualify you to make that assessment, huh?" Jim cringed, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his balance. Please, please stop being so ugly, he pleaded. Please. I feel sick.
"That wasn't fair," the younger man said quietly. "I, I'm sorry. But you don't understand. You don't know what it's supposed to look like. If it seemed together and then one day you went inside and it was -- broken, and . . . it wasn't her fault!" Jim slammed his fists against his knees. His eyes were burning. Hands rose to press against his face, and he didn't know whether he was trying to hold back tears or shame. "I let her think everything was okay. I let her believe. She tried to help me and the others attacked her. Cyndi almost set her on fire. How was she supposed to stay after that, when I didn't?"
"She was supposed to stay," Scott said, his voice low and tight and his jaw even tighter than it had been a moment ago, "because you needed her. And if you care about someone, you're supposed to deal with the ugliness, and the pain, and the things you didn't expect. You deserve that, Jim. The circumstances don't matter - you don't deserve it because you broke yourself saving thousands of lives, you deserve it because you're a human being, and one who's spent a hell of a lot of time being strong for everyone else." Scott swallowed. "You deserve to have someone be strong for you."
"But she doesn't deserve that. To have to do that. It wasn't like that. That kind of relationship. We just . . ."
Scott didn't understand. It was only supposed to have been fun. Distraction. Someone to be with. Something . . . normal. Around Betsy, Jim had almost felt like he was.
And then everything that had made their relationship what it was had gone away. All either of them had wanted was something simple, and having even that wrecked was so miserably unfair it almost hurt to breathe. And if she'd stayed -- what? His mind was toxic. The idea of pushing Betsy against that was sickening. The dark voice in the back of his mind whispered that she wouldn't be his lover again even if she somehow came back to him. She'd be his . . . nurse. The thought made Jim's stomach churn.
No. He couldn't do that to her. He'd been someone's burden before. He hadn't had a choice then. Now he did. He wasn't going to trap anyone like that. Never again.
"We were just keeping each other company," Jim finished, his voice almost inaudible. "That's all."
"Oh, well, that's great. Remind me not to wonder why people find me so fucking insufferable at times with all of my self-denying crap." Part of Scott was flabbergasted at the words coming out of his mouth. Apparently not enough to stop himself from continuing, however. "It's thin, isn't it? You can open your mouth and say that you understand, that she's better off away from you, that she's happier - and it doesn't mean a damned thing, does it? Because you're still angry. You still broke into my room to shout at me and do a number on my furniture because you heard something that reminded you just how angry you are."
Jack was furious at the tone. Cyndi didn't like the other man's assumption that he knew anything about them. Jim refused to let either out, because he knew what Scott had said was true.
He was jealous. Of Scott. Of the man who'd been kidnapped and tortured. Of the man whose wife had just left him a second time.
Because Betsy came back to help him, and not me.
Slowly, Jim lowered his hands to his knees. He took a deep breath, grounding himself in the heat of his palms through his jeans, the weight of his feet on the floor. The breath in his lungs, the chair at his back. The immutable reality of this place at this time. Calm.
"It's different," the younger man said, and now his voice was low, subdued. "When you see it from the inside. I'm sorry. I didn't really understand when you and Jean . . . I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'd never had anything . . . like that." And Jack responded, in that unpitying tone that had been all Jim had heard from him for years, And you don't have it now.
Amazing you had her fooled as long as you did. That was a neat trick. Guess it's hard to tell how many you're spreading for when the only time your partner lets you in his head is the middle of a fuck, huh?
"It's different," Jim repeated.
"What do you want, Jim?" He was tired. He was so impossibly tired, all of a sudden, even though his heart was still pounding erratically in his chest, and for a moment he wondered just how the hell Jim himself or Charles or Jack Leary or Doctor Barnett or any of them managed it. Probably the same way you manage to be Cyclops or Headmaster Summers when you'd rather be anywhere else. "That's not a rhetorical question. Do you want her to come back of her own accord - to want to come back? I hate to tell you that's not liable to happen. It's not a Betsy thing to do, unless something happens to make her regret moving on." Like Jean coming back. "And before you glare at me for saying that, it's less a criticism than an acknowledgement that she's just like that. You think you're broken, and you are, but so is she."
"She is like she is." The knee-jerk anger didn't make it past the surface this time; the only sign of it was the brief twitch of muscle at Jim's jaw. The telepath stared at the patch of carpet just beyond his left shoe, hands working slowly on his knees. "She won't come back. I know. I hurt her too badly. And she's been hurt enough." In what way, Jim didn't say. Scott knew. He'd been there through it. He had been the one to realize, in the end. For a long time Jim had noticed the symptoms, but never known the source -- not until the damage to Marie-Ange's mind had forced the point. Jim hadn't known if it was a wound that could be healed, but he'd been arrogant enough to think he could try.
"We just wanted someone that we could . . . not be broken with," Jim said at last. "I thought we could do it. It didn't work. I want to . . . I wish I could tell her I'm sorry." His hands drew together, twisting. "And I wish there was a way to do it that would mean anything. That's all."
Poor, poor Betsy. Can't handle her significant other being broken. Well, you and she always did have an unhealthy amount in common, Scott. Scott straightened where he sat, wishing Jim would stop staring at the floor. This felt a little like calling an errant student into the office, and he hated the feeling, he hated it.
"I could say something along the lines of 'what the hell do you think you have to apologize for', but I suspect the answer's going to be because you are like you are." And he was going to throw a little furniture of his own around if he had to listen to that.
"I didn't warn her." Jim lifted his brown eyes to Scott's. "The first time I used my telepathy with a patient I sent her into a coma. A little girl had seven months of nightmares because I was too stupid to realize I should mask. That's what it's like for people who see inside when we're not in control. I knew that, and Betsy had to find out by stumbling right into the middle of it. You want to live in the delusion that sweet little David Haller couldn't possibly have been weak and selfish enough to fuck things up all by himself, fine, but stop judging her when you don't have clue one what she was running from."
Nothing rattled, nothing broke -- because Jack wasn't the one whose voice had been steadily rising. Jim forced himself back.
"Please," Jim said, more calmly now, "just leave Betsy alone. Please. I'm a . . . I'm angry at her, but if I'd told her the truth this never would have happened. Maybe she was wrong, but so was I. Don't be mad at her because she's in the position I put her in. Please."
Scott got up. His heart was still pounding in his ears. He really wished it would be a little less loud. He went over to the chair first, righting it, then moved across the room to the lamp.
"Leave Betsy alone," he said, his back to Jim as he picked up the pieces. "Right, because I was going to drive into New York and berate her over this, because that's just the kind of person I am. And fine - you want me to stop being deluded and tell you you're a fuck-up, Jim? You're a fuck-up. Join the club."
He didn't give Jim a chance to respond to that before he went on, his back still to the other man as he meticulously picked up each piece of the lamp base. "You think you're unique in that? In making bad choices because you just wanted to hold on to something, wanted to be happy? Guess what? We all do that. I could sit here and go on for the next six hours about all the wrong choices I've made in my relationship with Jean - and let's not even get started on the one with Betsy. We're human and we're fallible, and we either deal with that or we make ourselves miserable permanently."
"I know." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose again, concentrating on the press of skin against bone. "I know what it's like to screw up because I was selfish. Bad. I didn't ever want to hurt anyone like that again, so I just didn't do anything. Just work. This was the first place I've ever been that I felt like maybe I could have something I . . . that I wanted." I should have known better. I lost that right, too. The answering smile that made it to his face was as weak as it was forced. "Maybe it's a good thing. Normal people screw up, so doing something unbelievably hurtful means I'm getting closer to being one. I guess."
"Events." He was abruptly out of lamp pieces to pick up. It hadn't really shattered, just broken. "Conspire against us," Scott went on, getting up and going over to the kitchenette to throw the remains of the lamp in the garbage. Picture next. Although he needed the dustpan for the glass pieces. "It's hard enough to make any of this work under normal conditions," he said neutrally, finding it and the broom in the closet, then going over to where the glass shards had fallen to the floor. "Next to impossible when you're living in a context like ours. The question is not why so many relationships around here are rocky, it's why any of them work in the first place."
The picture was of him and Jean. Scott stared at it flatly for a long moment, not appreciating the irony, and then took it off the wall, going over and dropping it in the garbage too before he returned to look after the broken glass.
"I used to wonder. I didn't think I'd ever have to find out." Belatedly, it occurred to him what the other man was doing. The rug was covered with glass. "I -- Scott, I'm sorry," Jim said, rising quickly. "Let -- let me help." He had to lay his hand across the back of the chair for support. Too much switching too fast, and his last meal had been a long time ago. He felt lightheaded.
"Sit back down before you fall over," Scott said, still impassively but more quietly. He hadn't missed the wobble. "I can take care of everything but the TV easily enough."
As he bent down to sweep up the glass, he spotted a little face peeking around the bedroom door. The kitten was regarding him suspiciously, her pupils huge, and Scott swallowed, reminding himself to do... something, to make this up to her. Poor thing.
Jim wanted to insist, but Scott had the only broom. It was unlikely he was going to surrender it just to assuage Jim's guilt. "I'm okay," he said instead, making no move to sit. "Cain's going to kill me. Jamie's gone. He's got no one to delegate the property damage to." Jim paused for a moment, watching the older man collect glass from the join of the carpet with the wall. He swallowed and said, "Scott, I . . . thanks. For talking. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made it your problem, we just . . ." Scott's eyes were still on the floor. "I couldn't keep it back."
"Sometimes we can't. And you listened to me once, when I think you would rather not have." It was easier to look on it as a reciprocal thing. It quieted the part of him that still wanted to snap and throw Jim out of his room. Reciprocity. Obligation. Doing something because it needed to be done and was the right thing to do, the decent thing to do.
He didn't understand why the thought made him want to break down and cry, suddenly, but he suppressed the impulse and finished sweeping up the glass. "You shouldn't keep these things bottled up." His voice was noticeably more hoarse. Do not call me on it. Don't you dare. Scott rose and took the dustpan full of glass over to the garbage can. "Usually winds up coming out in ways you don't anticipate and would rather it didn't." He was still avoiding Jim's eyes. "And I think you've got enough that you're feeling like crap over, from the sounds of it. Can I recommend the heavy bag, for venting? Therapeutic violence without the property damage. I've found it helpful."
"That might be good." Jack would probably knock it into a wall, but better that than someone's skull. Jim knew enough to recognize when he was being dismissed, but he couldn't help but ask. "You -- you've got someone to talk to about what happened too, right? Someone outside? Just when you want to."
"I'll show you how to use it properly, if you want. You have to-" Scott raised a hand, then let it fall. "Don't want to screw up your hands," he said a bit numbly. "There's a point at which the venting becomes masochism."
Avoiding the question. Avoiding a lot of things. Scott took a deep breath and looked up at Jim. "I don't have answers for you," he said, his voice tight. "I don't think there are any. But I can tell you that you do make it through this... and for God's sake, please tell me that you know what I mean when I say 'this'." He wasn't about to counsel Jim on dealing with alternate personalities and the like. Emotional loss, though... that and loneliness, Scott could speak to from experience.
"It gets better." Because it had, for him. More than once. "You stop feeling like the world is out to rob you of what little joy you've managed to grasp." Like someone had just poured acid over your soul. "You're halfway there, you know. Recognizing that we're human and we fuck things up..." His chest felt uncomfortably tight, and his heart was pounding in his ears again. "Eventually you even get to a point where you can remember the good, too. It helps. A little. Time helps more." He dropped the glass into the garbage.
"I . . . I remember the good," Jim said. That was his to remember, at least.
The telepath took one last deep breath and pulled his hand away from the chair. "I'll try to remember about the masochism. I don't have a good track-record with that. Maybe I'll ask you to show me later. Just -- later." He knew the other man wanted to be alone. So did he. Still, Jim paused as his hand found the doorknob. "Thank you, Scott. Really."
Scott hesitated, then nodded. "You're welcome," he said, managing not to quite mumble it. He heard the click of the door as it closed - properly, thank goodness - and let the air in his lungs out on a shaky sigh.
"Mrow?"
The kitten was now sitting in the middle of the living room, peering up at him. Scott put the broom and dustpan away first. "Come here," he muttered finally, going over and scooping up the kitten. She purred and snuggled down into the crook of his arm. "I promise that doesn't really happen all that often. At least not the breaking things."
Tired. He was so damned tired. Giving the smashed television one dull glance, Scott walked into the bedroom and laid down, letting the kitten squirm out of his grasp and settle herself on the other pillow. He laid back and stared up at the ceiling, letting his mind go comfortably blank.
Jim stared at the contents of the refrigerator, tired and frustrated. He kept trying to tell himself to be patient, that this was just a normal and necessary setback, but interviewing with that therapist had made him feel like he was about sixteen again. He'd been good. He'd made it through the entire appointment being nothing but calm and candid, and hadn't switched out once.
Then he'd paused before putting the key in the ignition and the driver's side window had exploded. Fortunately, the car hadn't been one of the school's nicer ones.
He couldn't remember most of the drive back; he'd zoned back in to find he was halfway through Westchester County with the radio set to a jazz station. He guessed that was progress. Jack had voluntarily gotten them most of the way home, and the jazz meant he was even making an effort to mellow. That was more than Jim could have asked for six years ago.
Now he stood in front of the open refrigerator, not particularly hungry and knowing he shouldn't waste the cold air, but aware he hadn't eaten anything since the night before. He vaguely wished there was some way to tell who'd done the cooking for what. Lorna was still under orders not to do anything too strenuous, and it would have been nice to have some warning before biting into anything vegan.
Terry skip-danced her way into the kitchen, her pale skin blushed a bit pink from all the time spent in the sun back home. She practically radiated joy and good-will to all the world and chirped a greeting when she saw Haller standing indecisively in front of the fridge. "Hi, Mr. Haller!" She'd tried, she really had, to call him David. It just felt wrong and she'd fully back-slid to the more formal address. "What are yeh looking for?"
Jim blinked, thrown by the girl's sudden entrance, then turned to smile over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, Terry. Sorry, my brain was off doing things without me again. Uh . . . I don't really know. Food, theoretically." He jogged the door back and forth absently. "I think I'm unequipped to face the challenge of fending for myself."
She grinned at him and ducked around him to peek into the fridge herself, "Oh! Kare made food!" A tupperware container with a bright pink lid was snatched off the shelf with great enthusiasm. "Is there any particular kind of food you're looking for? There's not any shortage of stuff. Sandwiches and stuff are easy."
"A sandwich will work, I think." Jim smiled and extracted a covered plate of what he seemed to remember as roast beef, a little of the incessant tension draining away. It was hard to be tense around Terry. He let the refrigerator door close and moved to join her at the kitchen counter to claim the appropriate flatware. "Did you have a good time in Ireland?"
Terry smiled and her cheeks went just a bit more red. "Uh, aye. We did. I went to see my mother. Seemed like the thing to do. It was a nice trip." She dumped the tofu pasta from the Tupperware onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. "I saw that there was a bit of a scuffle on the journals. Did Mr. Summers end up hitting Logan?"
"Not to my knowledge. And I haven't heard Cain complaining about any holes in the wall or anything, so at least no major property damage happened. Jamie's gone, so I think Cain would've been pretty vocal about the extra work." That had been slightly awkward. Jim had seen the exchange, but really hadn't known what to do with it. The arguing seemed to have stopped after Marie intervened, though. It was good that Scott and Logan had both been adult enough to see reason . . . though a little worrying that maturity had had to come from one of the youngest teammembers. Jim shook his head and drew a knife and fork from the drawer so he could carve off a suitable section of beef.
"I'm glad you had a good birthday," he continued, positioning the knife. "It's been . . . kind of a mess around here lately, especially for the team. It's good you got a nice vacation. How are you doing with that, anyway? The trainee thing, I mean."
Terry shrugged, "It's tough, harder than I thought it would be, to tell yeh the truth but I'm...well, having fun doesn't quite seem to work, does it? I am though. Even though it's hard and demanding. Like now. We hardly get back and Bobby's off on assignment already."
"He must be pretty busy between that and Elpis." Especially now. The last month had decimated the team; Bobby was one of the few X-Men still fit for action. Jim felt a pang of guilt at that, but he let it fall aside. Nothing you can do for the team now but get better. He shifted a slice of roastbeef onto his plate and recovered the rest. "At least you managed to get a few days with him to yourself. Fortunately I think the COs recognize the need for a break. Even if most people won't take one."
"It was so nice to have him there. Have him home with me and seeing where I grew up and such. Tis a grand thing, having someone who knows yeh so well, I think." Terry smiled, "I'd never want him to go but if he did, I think that we'd stay close. Like Mr Summers and Miss Braddock, they've had their ups and downs but she was there for him after and..." Terry stopped suddenly, then coughed and changed the subject as she recalled something else she'd overhead. "Uh, that is, there's uh, more to it all." Think first, speak later, Cassidy. Not the other way around.
Jim paused in the middle of removing the twist-tie from a bag of bread. It wasn't news to him that Scott and Betsy had been seeing one another. Scott had mentioned it himself weeks before she and Jim had ever met, and the telepath had long ago decided the relationship was none of his business. Still, somehow he couldn't stop the next words that came out of his mouth. "Um, after . . ?"
"Um, after he was kidnapped and stuff. She was around. I was on comms and, well, I overheard," she rubbed at her jaw just in front of her ear. Terry needed a change of topic and she needed it now. "That was a busy time. Lots of people coming and going."
"Oh." He'd known she'd provided a list of possible places Scott might have been held because he'd still had access to the team comm, but somehow he'd assumed . . . what? That she'd stopped her life after what had happened? Please. Don't be naive.
She'd been right there less than a week later, and he'd never even known.
"Okay," Jim said. "Well, hopefully things will calm down for a little while. I don't think it's actually possible to be any busier than July was, so maybe we'll get a break. Unless I just jinxed it." He extracted two pieces of bread and closed the bag, then maneuvered the roast beef onto one half. He took the plate in one hand and gave Terry a smile. "Hopefully the blatant tempting of fate'll go unnoticed. Either way, don't work yourself too hard, all right? And give Bobby a nudge if you see him going overboard. I think remembering to take care of yourself is a slightly neglected part of the training."
"Sure I'll keep an eye on him. It's in my best interests after all." This was definitely her cue for a quick exit, stage left. She gathered up her food and grabbed a water bottle. "I should go. I have some paperwork to finish for school. Starts soon and all. Um. I'll see yeh later, Mr. Haller."
"You too, Terry," Jim smiled.
He waited long enough for the girl to exit, then dumped the sandwich into the trash.
Back in his suite Scott is not having such a great day, either, and suddenly finds himself in a conversation he probably thought he'd never have at a time he's least equipped to have it.
The door to Scott's suite was open, just slightly. Ordinarily, he would have been more careful about that - the kitten tended to be very curious about the World Outside and he didn't particularly want her wandering the halls, at least not until she was a little bigger - but his phone had been ringing, and he hadn't quite paid attention to closing it properly in his rush to pick it up.
He was wondering, five minutes later, if he should have rushed. It sounded very much as if Jean would have been just as happy to leave a message.
"... no, I'm... doing okay," Scott said, trying to keep the stiffness out of his voice. "Really. Even saw Jack Leary again. We're going to do this weekly thing..."
Across the room, the kitten jumped up onto the counter in the kitchenette and started examining the lunch dishes with apparent interest.
"It's fine," Scott said in response to what Jean was saying. "No, I know long-distance phone service is unpredictable out there." He tried very hard to smile. "That's why I suggested postcards."
The kitten eyed the salt shaker, then took a swipe at it. It fell over and she jumped, bolting down off the counter and under the table with a plaintive yowl.
"I know," Scott said, not really paying attention to her antics at this point. "I... miss you too." His jaw was trembling just slightly, as steady as he was managing to keep his voice. "Just tell me the scenery's nice? ... that's good."
The kitten jumped to one of the chairs and settled down, curling up into a little furry ball. Scott looked at her for a moment, then swallowed visibly, rubbing at the scars on the side of his face.
"I love you too.... yeah. Goodbye, Jean." There was an audible click on the other end of the phone, and before Scott quite knew what he was doing, he was flinging the phone at the opposite wall.
The kitten ran for the bedroom.
Jim hadn't meant to overhear, and really, he hadn't. Not the actual words. He'd only been passing by on his way back to his room, wanting nothing more than to cease to exist until the heavy, claustrophobic feeling in his head went away. To just . . . stop. The protective fog he'd numbed himself with had held him together almost to his room. Almost.
Then the distinctive crash and brnggg of a phone impacting the wall right next to the slightly ajar door of Scott's suite and the sudden spike of external emotion he couldn't help but sense this close, disjointed thoughts abruptly sharpened and tumbled into place of their own accord.
Scott upset phone with Jean upset Scott's upset upset Scott is upset?
The reaction was irrational, and visceral, and suddenly he was inside Scott's suite, far behind him the door striking the wall so hard it bounced.
"Poor Scotty," Jack snarled at the startled man sitting on the couch. "What's wrong, having another bad day? It's just a world full of shit waiting to happen to you, isn't it? If it isn't Jean leaving, you're spitting blood with guilt. If not that, it's kidnapping and torture. Now that's over and look, we're right back to Jean leaving you again! But then, that's about right. You just had that little vacation, and fuck knows you can't go five minutes without the world falling apart on you. Because Scott Summers is life's bitch."
The face of the enraged alter contorted as he hurled one of the suite's chairs onto its side. Five feet away, a lamp flung itself into the opposing wall. "Yeah, must be terrible being poor Scott, who's got a wife who loves him so fucking much she interrupts her own nervous breakdown to worry about him and gets everyone he's ever known galloping to his rescue, even my fucking girlfriend!"
It was a sign that he was getting better, less jumpy, when the man bursting into his room did not immediately get an optic blast to the face. Nevertheless, Scott was holding onto control by the skin of his teeth when the chair and the lamp went over.
When the TV exploded, Scott was on his feet in one smooth movement, his expression like iron, despite the fact that adrenalin was screaming through his system at what was almost certainly an unhealthy level, and the 'flight' instinct was in full force.
"You can settle down right the hell now, or I will throw you back out of here, Jack." Had to be. The aggression, the type of property damage. Not to mention the gray eyes. His heart hammering erratically in his chest, Scott straightened, hands fisting at his sides. "And if you don't think I know how to handle a pissed-off telekinetic you were not paying attention in training."
It was Cyclops, that voice. He hadn't thought that voice was still in there.
The threat wasn't what did it; Jack feared very little, and furious as Scott was, the other man was nowhere on that list. Instead, it was the tone that reached him. One that bypassed Jack completely, and cut straight through to David -- right back to the harmonics of his childhood, which said: You've done something wrong.
A moment of nauseating displacement, and suddenly it was just Jim and Scott in the room.
"Scott," the telepath choked, appalled. "I'm sorry. I, I'm sorry." Oh, God. Blood pounded in his ears. He was standing in the middle of someone else's private space, which he had not been invited into, with an overturned chair at his feet. How could you do that? He didn't do anything to you, he didn't, why did you do that? "I'm sorry," Jim repeated uselessly. "I'm sorry. I'm . . ." Bad, he knew. The thought caught and looped in a childish chant: bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad bad bad . . .
Scott's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he took a deep, only slightly shaky breath. Somehow the iron control stayed. Maybe because he knew it needed to. One of them had to be in control here.
Needed to. Scott stepped hard on the flat, bitter anger, and forced his expression to something calm, if not entirely welcoming.
"Jim," he said, hoping that using that name wouldn't re-trigger Jack. "Sit down. In the other chair."
Again the tone of voice penetrated. Slowly, Jim moved to the other chair and sat. The fact that he had a choice in the matter didn't even register. Right now he could barely remember the location of the door he'd come in by, so he did what he was told. Because it was easier. Because it wouldn't make Scott any angrier than he must already be. Because David always does what he's told, Cyndi sneered, her disgust palpable.
The change in Jim's body language was total. Scott swallowed past the tightness in his throat and sank back down on the couch. "I get the sense," he said, in a quieter tone, and it took so much to manage that, to manage the facsimile of Cyclops or Headmaster Summers playing Scott, that even those first four words left him feeling wrung out, "that you're not really angry at me. The... ironic thing, is that I know who you're angry at. I talked to her, when she ran away from your room that day."
"To . . ?" For a moment he really didn't understand what Scott was saying, and then Jack's words filtered back to him. 'Even my fucking girlfriend.' "To . . . to Betsy?" Jim whispered. Heat began to rise in his cheeks. He suddenly felt very small and very exposed, like a child caught in the act of doing something he knew was wrong. How did he know?
"Charles gave me a heads-up. I caught her before she could do something stupid like try to drive in the state she was in." Scott swallowed again, muscles along his jaw clenching before he went on in that same even voice. "She's a coward, Jim. She's a coward, and she's selfish, and I was absolutely disgusted with her."
"You don't--" A sudden stab of rage twisted Jim's mouth fuck you what do you know don't you fucking talk about her like that-- There was a sharp crack of glass as one of the pictures on the wall shattered like it'd been struck by a fist. Jim grabbed his head and bent double over his knees, breathing harsh and shallow.
It was too late to simply stop. There was too much pressure. If he didn't get this out for himself then Jack would do it for him, and if that happened now they'd be looking at more than just property damage. He had to calm down. He forced himself upright in the chair, hands curling on his knees.
"You don't understand," Jim said again in a voice that was almost level. "She was in my . . . head. She saw in my head. It . . ." Pain lanced behind his eyes. Rage, and shame, and a thousand things in between, so confused he barely knew what he felt for whom. He whispered, "You don't understand."
"I don't care what she saw in your head." Scott's jaw clenched. His heartrate had jumped again at the breaking picture, and there was still a part of him that wanted to run, and another part that wanted to throw Jim out bodily. He didn't listen to either. "I think I understand a lot better than you think I do, Jim. Don't forget. I was in Jean's head, too."
"And your years of secondhand telepathic experience qualify you to make that assessment, huh?" Jim cringed, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his balance. Please, please stop being so ugly, he pleaded. Please. I feel sick.
"That wasn't fair," the younger man said quietly. "I, I'm sorry. But you don't understand. You don't know what it's supposed to look like. If it seemed together and then one day you went inside and it was -- broken, and . . . it wasn't her fault!" Jim slammed his fists against his knees. His eyes were burning. Hands rose to press against his face, and he didn't know whether he was trying to hold back tears or shame. "I let her think everything was okay. I let her believe. She tried to help me and the others attacked her. Cyndi almost set her on fire. How was she supposed to stay after that, when I didn't?"
"She was supposed to stay," Scott said, his voice low and tight and his jaw even tighter than it had been a moment ago, "because you needed her. And if you care about someone, you're supposed to deal with the ugliness, and the pain, and the things you didn't expect. You deserve that, Jim. The circumstances don't matter - you don't deserve it because you broke yourself saving thousands of lives, you deserve it because you're a human being, and one who's spent a hell of a lot of time being strong for everyone else." Scott swallowed. "You deserve to have someone be strong for you."
"But she doesn't deserve that. To have to do that. It wasn't like that. That kind of relationship. We just . . ."
Scott didn't understand. It was only supposed to have been fun. Distraction. Someone to be with. Something . . . normal. Around Betsy, Jim had almost felt like he was.
And then everything that had made their relationship what it was had gone away. All either of them had wanted was something simple, and having even that wrecked was so miserably unfair it almost hurt to breathe. And if she'd stayed -- what? His mind was toxic. The idea of pushing Betsy against that was sickening. The dark voice in the back of his mind whispered that she wouldn't be his lover again even if she somehow came back to him. She'd be his . . . nurse. The thought made Jim's stomach churn.
No. He couldn't do that to her. He'd been someone's burden before. He hadn't had a choice then. Now he did. He wasn't going to trap anyone like that. Never again.
"We were just keeping each other company," Jim finished, his voice almost inaudible. "That's all."
"Oh, well, that's great. Remind me not to wonder why people find me so fucking insufferable at times with all of my self-denying crap." Part of Scott was flabbergasted at the words coming out of his mouth. Apparently not enough to stop himself from continuing, however. "It's thin, isn't it? You can open your mouth and say that you understand, that she's better off away from you, that she's happier - and it doesn't mean a damned thing, does it? Because you're still angry. You still broke into my room to shout at me and do a number on my furniture because you heard something that reminded you just how angry you are."
Jack was furious at the tone. Cyndi didn't like the other man's assumption that he knew anything about them. Jim refused to let either out, because he knew what Scott had said was true.
He was jealous. Of Scott. Of the man who'd been kidnapped and tortured. Of the man whose wife had just left him a second time.
Because Betsy came back to help him, and not me.
Slowly, Jim lowered his hands to his knees. He took a deep breath, grounding himself in the heat of his palms through his jeans, the weight of his feet on the floor. The breath in his lungs, the chair at his back. The immutable reality of this place at this time. Calm.
"It's different," the younger man said, and now his voice was low, subdued. "When you see it from the inside. I'm sorry. I didn't really understand when you and Jean . . . I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'd never had anything . . . like that." And Jack responded, in that unpitying tone that had been all Jim had heard from him for years, And you don't have it now.
Amazing you had her fooled as long as you did. That was a neat trick. Guess it's hard to tell how many you're spreading for when the only time your partner lets you in his head is the middle of a fuck, huh?
"It's different," Jim repeated.
"What do you want, Jim?" He was tired. He was so impossibly tired, all of a sudden, even though his heart was still pounding erratically in his chest, and for a moment he wondered just how the hell Jim himself or Charles or Jack Leary or Doctor Barnett or any of them managed it. Probably the same way you manage to be Cyclops or Headmaster Summers when you'd rather be anywhere else. "That's not a rhetorical question. Do you want her to come back of her own accord - to want to come back? I hate to tell you that's not liable to happen. It's not a Betsy thing to do, unless something happens to make her regret moving on." Like Jean coming back. "And before you glare at me for saying that, it's less a criticism than an acknowledgement that she's just like that. You think you're broken, and you are, but so is she."
"She is like she is." The knee-jerk anger didn't make it past the surface this time; the only sign of it was the brief twitch of muscle at Jim's jaw. The telepath stared at the patch of carpet just beyond his left shoe, hands working slowly on his knees. "She won't come back. I know. I hurt her too badly. And she's been hurt enough." In what way, Jim didn't say. Scott knew. He'd been there through it. He had been the one to realize, in the end. For a long time Jim had noticed the symptoms, but never known the source -- not until the damage to Marie-Ange's mind had forced the point. Jim hadn't known if it was a wound that could be healed, but he'd been arrogant enough to think he could try.
"We just wanted someone that we could . . . not be broken with," Jim said at last. "I thought we could do it. It didn't work. I want to . . . I wish I could tell her I'm sorry." His hands drew together, twisting. "And I wish there was a way to do it that would mean anything. That's all."
Poor, poor Betsy. Can't handle her significant other being broken. Well, you and she always did have an unhealthy amount in common, Scott. Scott straightened where he sat, wishing Jim would stop staring at the floor. This felt a little like calling an errant student into the office, and he hated the feeling, he hated it.
"I could say something along the lines of 'what the hell do you think you have to apologize for', but I suspect the answer's going to be because you are like you are." And he was going to throw a little furniture of his own around if he had to listen to that.
"I didn't warn her." Jim lifted his brown eyes to Scott's. "The first time I used my telepathy with a patient I sent her into a coma. A little girl had seven months of nightmares because I was too stupid to realize I should mask. That's what it's like for people who see inside when we're not in control. I knew that, and Betsy had to find out by stumbling right into the middle of it. You want to live in the delusion that sweet little David Haller couldn't possibly have been weak and selfish enough to fuck things up all by himself, fine, but stop judging her when you don't have clue one what she was running from."
Nothing rattled, nothing broke -- because Jack wasn't the one whose voice had been steadily rising. Jim forced himself back.
"Please," Jim said, more calmly now, "just leave Betsy alone. Please. I'm a . . . I'm angry at her, but if I'd told her the truth this never would have happened. Maybe she was wrong, but so was I. Don't be mad at her because she's in the position I put her in. Please."
Scott got up. His heart was still pounding in his ears. He really wished it would be a little less loud. He went over to the chair first, righting it, then moved across the room to the lamp.
"Leave Betsy alone," he said, his back to Jim as he picked up the pieces. "Right, because I was going to drive into New York and berate her over this, because that's just the kind of person I am. And fine - you want me to stop being deluded and tell you you're a fuck-up, Jim? You're a fuck-up. Join the club."
He didn't give Jim a chance to respond to that before he went on, his back still to the other man as he meticulously picked up each piece of the lamp base. "You think you're unique in that? In making bad choices because you just wanted to hold on to something, wanted to be happy? Guess what? We all do that. I could sit here and go on for the next six hours about all the wrong choices I've made in my relationship with Jean - and let's not even get started on the one with Betsy. We're human and we're fallible, and we either deal with that or we make ourselves miserable permanently."
"I know." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose again, concentrating on the press of skin against bone. "I know what it's like to screw up because I was selfish. Bad. I didn't ever want to hurt anyone like that again, so I just didn't do anything. Just work. This was the first place I've ever been that I felt like maybe I could have something I . . . that I wanted." I should have known better. I lost that right, too. The answering smile that made it to his face was as weak as it was forced. "Maybe it's a good thing. Normal people screw up, so doing something unbelievably hurtful means I'm getting closer to being one. I guess."
"Events." He was abruptly out of lamp pieces to pick up. It hadn't really shattered, just broken. "Conspire against us," Scott went on, getting up and going over to the kitchenette to throw the remains of the lamp in the garbage. Picture next. Although he needed the dustpan for the glass pieces. "It's hard enough to make any of this work under normal conditions," he said neutrally, finding it and the broom in the closet, then going over to where the glass shards had fallen to the floor. "Next to impossible when you're living in a context like ours. The question is not why so many relationships around here are rocky, it's why any of them work in the first place."
The picture was of him and Jean. Scott stared at it flatly for a long moment, not appreciating the irony, and then took it off the wall, going over and dropping it in the garbage too before he returned to look after the broken glass.
"I used to wonder. I didn't think I'd ever have to find out." Belatedly, it occurred to him what the other man was doing. The rug was covered with glass. "I -- Scott, I'm sorry," Jim said, rising quickly. "Let -- let me help." He had to lay his hand across the back of the chair for support. Too much switching too fast, and his last meal had been a long time ago. He felt lightheaded.
"Sit back down before you fall over," Scott said, still impassively but more quietly. He hadn't missed the wobble. "I can take care of everything but the TV easily enough."
As he bent down to sweep up the glass, he spotted a little face peeking around the bedroom door. The kitten was regarding him suspiciously, her pupils huge, and Scott swallowed, reminding himself to do... something, to make this up to her. Poor thing.
Jim wanted to insist, but Scott had the only broom. It was unlikely he was going to surrender it just to assuage Jim's guilt. "I'm okay," he said instead, making no move to sit. "Cain's going to kill me. Jamie's gone. He's got no one to delegate the property damage to." Jim paused for a moment, watching the older man collect glass from the join of the carpet with the wall. He swallowed and said, "Scott, I . . . thanks. For talking. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made it your problem, we just . . ." Scott's eyes were still on the floor. "I couldn't keep it back."
"Sometimes we can't. And you listened to me once, when I think you would rather not have." It was easier to look on it as a reciprocal thing. It quieted the part of him that still wanted to snap and throw Jim out of his room. Reciprocity. Obligation. Doing something because it needed to be done and was the right thing to do, the decent thing to do.
He didn't understand why the thought made him want to break down and cry, suddenly, but he suppressed the impulse and finished sweeping up the glass. "You shouldn't keep these things bottled up." His voice was noticeably more hoarse. Do not call me on it. Don't you dare. Scott rose and took the dustpan full of glass over to the garbage can. "Usually winds up coming out in ways you don't anticipate and would rather it didn't." He was still avoiding Jim's eyes. "And I think you've got enough that you're feeling like crap over, from the sounds of it. Can I recommend the heavy bag, for venting? Therapeutic violence without the property damage. I've found it helpful."
"That might be good." Jack would probably knock it into a wall, but better that than someone's skull. Jim knew enough to recognize when he was being dismissed, but he couldn't help but ask. "You -- you've got someone to talk to about what happened too, right? Someone outside? Just when you want to."
"I'll show you how to use it properly, if you want. You have to-" Scott raised a hand, then let it fall. "Don't want to screw up your hands," he said a bit numbly. "There's a point at which the venting becomes masochism."
Avoiding the question. Avoiding a lot of things. Scott took a deep breath and looked up at Jim. "I don't have answers for you," he said, his voice tight. "I don't think there are any. But I can tell you that you do make it through this... and for God's sake, please tell me that you know what I mean when I say 'this'." He wasn't about to counsel Jim on dealing with alternate personalities and the like. Emotional loss, though... that and loneliness, Scott could speak to from experience.
"It gets better." Because it had, for him. More than once. "You stop feeling like the world is out to rob you of what little joy you've managed to grasp." Like someone had just poured acid over your soul. "You're halfway there, you know. Recognizing that we're human and we fuck things up..." His chest felt uncomfortably tight, and his heart was pounding in his ears again. "Eventually you even get to a point where you can remember the good, too. It helps. A little. Time helps more." He dropped the glass into the garbage.
"I . . . I remember the good," Jim said. That was his to remember, at least.
The telepath took one last deep breath and pulled his hand away from the chair. "I'll try to remember about the masochism. I don't have a good track-record with that. Maybe I'll ask you to show me later. Just -- later." He knew the other man wanted to be alone. So did he. Still, Jim paused as his hand found the doorknob. "Thank you, Scott. Really."
Scott hesitated, then nodded. "You're welcome," he said, managing not to quite mumble it. He heard the click of the door as it closed - properly, thank goodness - and let the air in his lungs out on a shaky sigh.
"Mrow?"
The kitten was now sitting in the middle of the living room, peering up at him. Scott put the broom and dustpan away first. "Come here," he muttered finally, going over and scooping up the kitten. She purred and snuggled down into the crook of his arm. "I promise that doesn't really happen all that often. At least not the breaking things."
Tired. He was so damned tired. Giving the smashed television one dull glance, Scott walked into the bedroom and laid down, letting the kitten squirm out of his grasp and settle herself on the other pillow. He laid back and stared up at the ceiling, letting his mind go comfortably blank.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}