Jean and Haller: Cold Water

[x-jeangrey.livejournal.com]

On the 8th anniversary of her death, Jean reflects about it by the lake and runs into Haller...who does something without thinking in an attempt to make her feel better. It doesn't go well.



Jean hadn't really known how much time had passed from when she first arrived, but the sun had moved from the place where it had been before high in the sky, lighting the trees from behind.

She sat on the dock, staring silently at the water as the waves lapped at her bare toes. It'd taken a long time to be able to do this, but even still, she felt her skin prickle every time she slipped her feet into the water.

It was the murky, never ending bottom that reminded her the most, coupled with the smell of rotting plants and dirt. The distance of years had given her the strength to be able to come here, to not run away.

Sometimes she imagined looking at the calendar and that the day had skipped over itself, 14 turning into 16, and no one noticed. It seemed almost a cheat that this year felt harder than the last one. Scott had called her early that morning and they'd talked for hours. He offered to come down. She told him to stay there. She could handle it.

And now the water was lapping at her feet, and creeping up her feet, and legs, arms, face, pressing on her chest, swallowing her up like a hungry wolf....

She opened her eyes, sucking in a breath.

A familiar psi-print brushed her mind, bringing with it a gust of cigarette smoke. An instant later, the dock creaked with footsteps.

"Hey," said Jim, bringing himself level to the woman at the end of the dock. The telepath had a lit cigarette in one hand and an empty soda can in the other. "How're you doing?"

Jean glanced over a moment before her eyes fluttered and she looked back down, pulling her feet from the water and her knees to her chest.

"Fine," she said quickly, on default. A moment passed and her shoulders dipped lower as she rested her chin on her knees.

"It's harder than it usually is. I was better at it."

"Better at what?" The younger man dropped down into seat beside her, legs crossed on the dock. Her body language was tight, contained. He didn't need to ask her what was wrong; he knew what day it was, though he remembered it for different reasons. It was the day he and everyone else at Muir Island had been struck by a massive psionic attack, inflicted by his own father.

Jean stared out over the water. It seemed so peaceful. She told herself it was. Most of the time she remembered that.

"Coping," she said softly.

"Not turning into a quivering ball of...this."

Jim gave her an odd look as he tapped cigarette ash into the empty can.

"Why're you surprised it's hitting you harder this year?" he said, though the tone was devoid of accusation. "I mean . . . you just ran into a walking reminder of Alkalai Lake two months ago. That's a pretty huge trigger to stomp."

Jean closed her eyes. "And I thought I was stronger than that. I thought I'd overcome it."

But she came back, and made them bleed, and reminded her that life was fragile, and finite and fleeting.

Jim frowned. "Wait, how could you overcome something you couldn't possibly expect?" The telepath balanced the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and interlocked his fingers. "Recovery is built on coming to terms with circumstances as they are. Everything about that day was buried at the bottom of the lake. It's like the experience was . . . entombed. It happened, it was done. All you had left to deal with was what came after." He unlocked his fingers and spread his hands. "But Deathstrike coming back -- it's like finding a loose thread near the very beginning of a sweater. The entire process is disrupted."

Jean let out another breath, resting her head against her knees.

"I don't like it when you make sense," she said, the faintest hint of humor creeping into her voice.

"Yeah, but it only happens with other people. Once I have to do some self-assessment it'll go away again." He leaned to the side for a moment, just long enough to make contact with her shoulder with his, and then leaned away again. Jim took a drag on the cigarette and smiled. "Seriously, how dare you be a human being and have cope-failure once in a while. What kind of example is that to set for the students? We're supposed to be training them to bottle their emotions until they explode and self-flagellate whenever they fail to process with unspeakable trauma with total stoicism. Think of the children."

Jean lifted her head, glancing over at him, silent a moment before a full on smile appeared.

"I guess I'm very bad indeed."

"Terrible," Jim agreed, dropping the cigarette into the can. The smile was welcome. He was glad to help, but it still felt like he was somehow missing the mark . . . or, in the case of what he was about to do, potentially aiming in the opposite direction of the target. Jim placed his hand on Jean's back.

"Which is why you must be punished," he said.

Then he pushed her off the dock.

Jean stared at him with confusion just before her face twisted into horror as she landed in the water. A moment passed, then another, then another when a blur of red shot out of the lake, a deluge of water pouring over him as the blur flew past him and landed with a heavy thud on the shore.

Jim stared at the panting woman on the shore for a few painful heartbeats. One part of him thought, Oh, right. Not everyone was Lorna. The other part thought, Uh oh.

"Um," Jim said, completely chagrined, "I, uh . . . I'll just . . . you know what, fuck it, I'll do it myself." Without further ado, the counselor threw himself off the dock.

About two minutes later, Jim rejoined Jean on the shore. He peeled off his shoes and gave her an apologetic wince as he tipped one over, producing a torrent of water. "I'm so sorry. Lorna and I sort of had a relationship based on mutual-dunking, and my judgment went totally AWOL."

Jean stared at him darkly, her makeup running down her face, red curls heavy, wet, and matted.

"Y'think?" she said.

She stormed past him, shoes making squishy noises as she started her way back toward the school. God Damnit.

Well, at least she wasn't sulking anymore. In reality she'd probably take mad over that. It was something easier to take when it consumed.

"Hey. Hey!" Jim took off after her, shoes in one hand. Congratulations, Jim, for reminding us why we don't treat adults and suck at making friends. You're lucky she didn't set you on fire.

"Jean, I really am sorry," he said as he paced her, face burning with embarrassment. "That was unbelievably stupid. I thought -- I wanted to help you blow off some steam. It's easier to drink our sorrows away, but it's not healthy if that's all we do. Making yourself forget doesn't make anything go away. It just means it hits you harder later."

He reached out to touch her arm, then caught himself in case that made her angrier. Especially considering what he'd just done. "I'm just . . . worried about you," Jim said, making sure to keep a respectful distance between them. "I wanted to make you laugh. Lately you've just seemed . . ." He bit off the word, but couldn't stop the thought: Sad.

Jean's pace slowed before she turned to face him.

"What do you want me to say, Jim? I came back because I thought...it was better, but instead I get..teenage girls who discover their mutant power is to kill people, human trafficking, and being the leader of not one but two missions where my teammates nearly got killed. Most of my friends? They're gone. The ones that are still here are worried I'm going to break..like you. I only see my husband once a month because he has to babysit a group of adults who don't know how to take direction and bicker more than they can live with each other. I don't know what to do...tell me what to do? Just when I think its getting better it gets worse again. I tried..I'm trying to be happy. If you have a miracle cure all, please tell me," she said.

Jim shook his head sharply. "We all break. If nothing breaks you, ever, you're either not human or you're not doing anything that makes you human. It's not wrong to be tired. It's not wrong to be weak. Even if you break, what matters is whether you stay broken, or choose repair." He met her green eyes with his two-colored ones and added, more softly, "Most of my friends are gone, too. Please don't tear yourself up for having perfectly justifiable feelings."

Jean's eyes took on a distant look as they began to well up with tears.

"I can't stop doing it," she said softly, her voice cracking. She covered her face with her hands.

"I don't know how."

This time Jim didn't hesitate, he put an arm around the Jean's shoulders and drew her into a hug. He said nothing, just rubbed her back with one hand. Some moments passed, marked only by the slow warming of their sodden clothing as it absorbed the heat of the others' body.

Jean buried her face against his shoulder. "I just...want hope back," she whispered. The image of the roar of a crowd flashed across her mind, fists barreling into faces, drawing blood.

Jim stiffened at the unexpected image, passed to him by physical contact and emotional stress. A riot, full of the stink of sweat and fear . . . and then, gone. Jim forced himself to memory aside for later and relaxed.

"It's okay," he murmured, pressing his cheek to her scalp. He raised a hand to stroke Jean's wet hair. "It'll pass. Just ride it out. It'll pass."

Minutes passed, and Jean cried until she was certain she had no tears left and the only water around her was on her clothing and hair. What was left was a hollow numbness that she was grateful for. Finally she pulled away, stepping back as she reached up to run her fingers through her hair.

"Thanks, I think...I think I'm going to sleep now," she said, hearing the words that came out of her mouth as faraway, her eyes tired.

"Sleep is a good plan," Jim replied, for lack of a more productive contribution. He was concerned about the flash he'd caught from her, not sure of its significance, but now was not the time to ask. There was no way he was going to risk another close encounter between his tonsils and his foot. Instead, he simply nodded his head towards the mansion. "I'll walk you back."