Haller, Lorna -- Sunday Evening

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Waking from a dream doesn't mean the dream lets go.




The specialist who'd come in from Attilan had been very polite and understanding, but discussing the incident with him carried a special kind of mortification. In itself it was embarrassing enough, but there was something especially galling about having a powers-accident send the royal family of a foreign country that the school was trying like hell to stay on good terms with into a panic. Jim, face-down on his couch, reached out to grab a pillow, pulled it down onto his head, and seriously considered never getting up again.

Lorna rapped lightly on the door but didn't wait for an invitation to come in. It would have been the polite thing to do, certainly it would have been following her own advice to Crystal about leaving well enough alone. But then again, Lorna was admittedly something of a hypocrite. Besides, she was bringing gifts of food with her. "Hey," she said softly and went to sit on the floor next to the couch. She moved some sketches on the table and set down the plate of cookies.

He felt the movement beside him, but the pillow didn't move. His response was muffled. "Somebody gave me their mass comas."

"I think you gave them to us actually. Did you know that I was the prom queen? And not anorexic." Her hand crept over her shoulder and found his arm, fingers sliding over skin, over wrist and palm until she could clasp his hand. "What a strange life."

"Before I started teaching here I never coma'ed anyone but me, and I blame Betsy." Sarcasm was a safe fall-back. Jim's clutched hand loosened a little under Lorna's. "Did you actually offer the kids Xanax?"

Hearing the tone, Lorna's shifted slightly, defensive but tired, "It was only the once. And come on, it was totally a good move given that I was faced with a half-naked Shiro, an Alex look alike and a talking bird. Medication made a hell of a lot of sense at that point."

"I only heard about the talking seagull and the drugs, and for the sanity I've got left I beg you not to explain." There was a moment, though, when the hand she held squeezed briefly.

Without letting go, Jim pushed the pillow from his head with his other hand. His hair was still wild and pressed oddly from Friday's prolonged sleep; his face remained turned towards the back of the couch. "I'm sorry I ran," he said, looking up at her. "And then threw a parade at you."

She shrugged one shoulder, feeling the scar tissue pull familiarly across her back, "At least you didn't hit me. That was the other popular reaction. I brought you cookies."

"I'm not going to justify where my brain was going with the hitting, but at least you got good clothes. Amanda was pretty understanding about the German milkmaid thing, but I think if it ever gets back to everybody at Snow Valley I'm not counting on her mercy. And cookies are better coping mechanisms than drugs and smoking. In an alternate reality created by our subconsciouses I was healthier than you." Jim sighed and finally turned his head. One cheek was scored with bizarre lines from the couch. "You need so much therapy."

Lorna frowned and turned so she could actually look at him instead of staring at the plate of cookies--full fat with nuts. "Good clothes. Good house. Good hair and fiance and life. The anti-depressants were something of a lifestyle choice, I think. I know the smoking was though Brent kept telling me I needed to quit because it was becoming less acceptable." No powers, she didn't say. No scars. No dead telepaths in her head with memories of loving a madman. "Besides, I don't know how you even justify that hair you were sporting. Dear Lord, emo is never okay."

"That wasn't emo. That was forgetting to get a haircut. For, um, six months." Antidepressant comment aside, from the tone in her voice Jim had known her long enough to suspect 'good' meant 'Lorna-good,' which carried the implication: on the outside. What did that say, that her mind had founded its scenario on that?

Like David could talk.

Jim gave her hand another small squeeze before disengaging so he could pull himself up to sit properly. "At least your dream made an effort with your not-life. Mine was just, um. Suck." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "My subconscious doesn't buy I could be sane in any reality."

"But at least you didn't smoke. That's an improvement at least even if I did end up having to get my last cigarette from Random Guy on the street." She went back to looking at the cookies. Nothing to see here, all very innocent. "Hey, did you recognize him? I couldn't help thinking he looked really familiar."

"It was an abreaction." For a moment the telepath looked at Lorna not looking at him, speechless. Then his eyes, too, dropped to the plate. "That entire thing. Pulling people in with me, I mean. Before the museum Glorian hit a trigger and I mimicked something. Um. Charles says that happens sometimes. Like how Jean's TK would kind of repeat actions after Alkali Lake, for a while. It's just good my telepathy is messed up and could only spike with who I knew this time, or we'd have had to find a lot more people." Black hair moved under fingers that suddenly felt miles away. Distract. Displace. "Anyway. Stuff was replaying. People and places. Um, that guy, he . . ."

He tried to finish the sentence. Hard, but the words just wouldn't come. Couldn't come. Jim lowered his head. "He was atmosphere," Jim muttered. "That's all."

"He knew my name." It wasn't an accusation or even a question. If he told her that it was just atmosphere then that's what it was. Maybe it was faith in her friend or maybe just weariness. "I'll miss the blonde. Blonde goes with everything." Lorna sighed and climbed up onto the couch, stealing the space he'd vacated by sitting up.

"I think Glorian's just leaving. I'd say tell him, since that's a basic heart's desire even he can't screw up, but yeah. Behold my absolute void of faith in that." Thinking on it, there was actually a very high possibility he hated that man. Fortunately he wasn't the one who had to deal with him . . . and Charles was by far more frightening. Instead, Jim settled for normal protocol with Lorna. He responded to an uncomfortable comment by failing to acknowledge it entirely.

Leaning back on the couch, Jim pressed his hands to his face and the dull ache building behind it. "I'm so tired," he whispered.

Lorna shrugged her shoulder again and wrapped her arms around her waist, pulling into herself. She didn't want dreams of what she couldn't have. Too many of her dreams were nightmares already. "Yeah. I think we all are. Just when you think the universe is cutting you a break."

"Yeah. I know." Jim let his hands drop back to his knees. Mismatched eyes fell again to the plate of cookies that sat on the coffee table, untouched. "It was nice to dream."