xp_logs | LOG: (Backdated) [Scott, Haller] Follow-Ups

Scott comes to pay Haller a visit. Though still sorting through the aftershocks, Haller manages to register at least 90% of the conversation.

In the dark, all the voices hissing and crying and screaming, all the faces moving under his own. Writhing inside him, their hands claw for freedom and he can feel the skin that holds them beginning to split--

The quiet knock on the door jerked his pencil off the side of his sketchpad.

Jim blinked, staring dumbly at the paper in his hands. Except for the spastic trail of graphite it was empty. He hadn't even gotten as far as a thumbnail before he'd blanked out. So much for that coping mechanism.

Sighing, Jim folded the sketchbook closed and settled back on the couch. He pinched the bridge of his nose and said, "It's okay. Come in."

The door opened halfway, and Scott poked his head in. "Feel absolutely free to tell me to get lost," he said, not making any move to come in. "I mostly just wanted to make sure you were... well, still you. Sort of like how I keep humming 80s music on the link to make sure Jean shrieks instead of sings along."

"We're doing . . . okay. It's been a while since I had to assimilate memories after the fact. But he took good care of us when we were gone. Jack, I mean." It was only a slight deflection. Jim motioned vaguely at a chair piled with texts, many of them bookmarked with notepads, pens, and other books. "Um, you can move that stuff if you want. He couldn't take us to class and I'm probably not pulling off this week either, so I've been trying to catch up. I wish I'd been able to make it at least one semester back before going crazy again."

Scott came in, shifting the books off the chair and sitting down. "Lots of disruption," he said somewhat absently. "I don't think we've seen the end of it, either, as much as we're all trying to bounce back..."

"Yeah, I know. Here's another round of tertiary trauma for the kids, yay . . ." Jim swirled a finger erratically. "The professor says I should let Leonard handle it for now, which I'm okay with. At least for the week. Still, guess it's better than another kidnapping." He let his hand thump onto the couch cushions and turned his head to face Scott. "How's Jean? Other than the 80s songs."

"A bit frayed still, I think. Although I think she may have weathered it the best of all of you." Scott shrugged slightly, hands clasped in front of him as he leaned forward. "Strange, strange week... I'm just glad that you're all coherent and in your right minds again."

"Me too." Jim sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "God, poor Betts. At least most people were in the shelter when Nate killed the lawn. She commandeered an entire classroom to display her crazy. This is probably killing her. And not just because people saw her blonde." He dropped his hands and made a conciliatory gesture towards Scott. "And okay, Jean's got her beat with the crazy-fashion, but the 80s were all she had to go on. Psychic breakdown must be different for women. A makeover wasn't even on our radar."

"Now, the question of how Charles handled it is an interesting one... which I don't think we'll ever get an answer to," Scott said somewhat wryly. "He's got that 'handling it, handling it ALL' thing going, you probably noticed. And I'm not up to faking another nervous breakdown to crack his composure."

Jim was silent for a moment. "He's been . . . quiet," he said at last. He remembered standing over Charles' bedside, watching the man lying there. Small, almost withered, and absolutely defenseless.

But that had only been his physical body. Inside, he now knew it had been far worse. He didn't feel right telling Scott the detail Charles had let slip, as if in afterthought -- that he'd been blindsided when he'd thrown his mind completely open, seeking the people he'd brought into Cain's mind. Reaching out . . . and completely exposed. A good-faith mistake that the psis who'd looked to him for guidance had borne with him.

Or at least that's how he probably saw it, anyway. Professor -- Dad -- is that what you were trapped with in there?

"Moira won't let him get away with it," Jim said aloud. "She's got Nate too, but I think she can put in double-duty to make sure the professor stops short of bone in the self-flagellation."

"Moira is kind of a marvel at times." And they'd been doing a really good job of talking about everyone else but Jim. Which was typically Jim-ish. "Do you need anything?" Scott asked more briskly. "I assume Lorna's got the food angle covered..."

"Yeah. I made the mistake of invoking her and now I've got . . ." Jim waved a hand towards his counter, which had a small colony of neatly foil-wrapped plates housing less perishable foods. He turned back to Scott and shrugged. "I'm okay. I'm still kind of -- I'm okay."

"I don't think you're supposed to precisely bounce back from something like this. Not in the teflon way - that would be almost more disturbing," Scott said. "But I'm glad you're doing better." He offered Jim a lopsided smile. "No offense to Jack or the job he did of coping."

"None taken. He wasn't meant to do what I do. That's why I made him." Jim glanced down, eyes focused on something past his knees. He murmured, half to himself, "He did a good job."

"He did," Scott said simply. "I think he probably did the best of any of you - the collective you who got your brains whammied, I mean. He was certainly the only one who was really... lucid." Scott sighed, rubbing at his jaw. "Although it got harder for him as the week went on, too, I think."

"It was the other stuff going on up here. We made a wall to . . . but I guess walling isn't completely effective when everyone in here's just different parts of the same person, so." Jim shuffled his feet against the rug and sighed. "Oh well. It worked okay under the circumstances, I guess. Jack twitchy and irritable is better than knocking walls down and setting random things on fire, so I'm calling it a win. I'm just tired."

"I should let you rest," Scott said, but was slow to get up. "When you're feeling up to socializing, let me know," he said more lightly. "I think you owe me a game of pool. And it might not be a bad thing to get out and relax a little."

The younger man gave him a wan smile. "Yeah, I know. I'll reemerge eventually. May be a little while, but I'm getting there."

"The other Jack likes to tell me that forward motion, not speed, is what counts. I like to tell him he's being trite," Scott said, but then smiled. "Let me know if you need anything," he said, turning to the door. "Consider it a standing offer."

"I will. Thank you."

Jim watched as the other man let himself out. Exhausted as he was, he did appreciate the concern. It was just . . . hard.

Leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, the telepath let his eyes close.

In the dark, all the voices hissing and crying and screaming, all the faces moving under his own. Writhing inside him, their hands claw for freedom and he can feel the skin that holds them beginning to split--

Then light blinding him, raining brick and mortar black with the poison they'd enclosed. Fingers wrapped tight around that bag of skin that pulsed and bulged with barely-contained identities on the brink of total dissolution, and pulled -- and trying to hold him the darkness sucked at his body, but then fire was crawling, burning everything but him, and the shadows gave way--

And then it was just him, shaking on a pile of rubble, naked and gasping but free, with three pairs of feet standing around him. And the tallest, the one who'd broken through, the one who'd pulled him out, knelt beside him.

Jack said, "Welcome back."

Hard. But he was getting there.