Log :: Pulling Back (backdated - July 14th)

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Haller visits Betsy in medlab.



He'd made the tea in the Medlab's breakroom using leaves from Betsy's own supply. In an effort to avoid undue associations with his father, he'd passed the earl grey and opted for darjeeling. He'd hoped the familiarity would melt some of the conversational chill.

It had not.

"Jean said some of Scott's sun lamps are still in storage," said Jim. "It'll reduce the number of potential shadows until things are more under control." He tried to smile. "With the bonus that you end up with a nice tan."

Head bowed, eyes averted, Betsy did not engage. Could not. She felt...she felt... Turning her head away from him, Betsy focused on the steeping tea on the counter, the steam. It's heat. It made her angry. No jealous. She was jealous of the heat coming bloody cuppa.

Jim watched her impassive face. When she first woke she'd been . . . perhaps not happy to see him, but relieved. They'd spent some time after her initial revival just sitting in silence with their minds enmeshed, reassuring one another with their presence. Eventually, however, more tests had needed to be run. Jim had been sent away to rest, and because things seemed normal again he'd agreed. Now that he finally knew what was going on they could start to deal with it.

Then she'd shown up in his bed.

Since then she'd withdrawn again, taking back the openness she'd shown him in that scant handful of hours. It wasn't unexpected. It still hurt.

Jim reached over to a bag he'd set by the bedside and pulled out a sleep mask: satin, good quality. "Sorry it's not especially stylish," he said as he presented it. "But I figured you could tough it out if it let you get some sleep."

She took the offered sleep mask and clenched it in her fist. After a beat, Betsy countered, softly. "It's not going to happen again." Throwing the mask to the ground, her temper flared. "So you can take your tea and these, these things and get them out of here. I don't want them. I don't need them!"

The counselor stared at the crumpled mask for a long moment. Then, slowly, he bent to pick it up.

"You can't wish this away, Betts," Jim said, eyes on the mask in his hands as he busied himself straightening the bend. "You can take precautions, and you can work with Jean to see why it's happening and how to control it. But ignoring it isn't going to make it go away." He set the mask back on her bedside table and lifted his two-colored eyes to her. "Trust me."

"I did it before." Betsy threw back. "I held it at bay for a year. I can do it again." She stared at the overheard lights, reminders of her inability to control her body and mind. "I don't need you all here, coddling me."

Jim bit back his automatic reply: that he knew exactly what holding things at bay did, and equally how explosive the results could be. He knew precisely how effective denial was as a coping mechanism because he still had the scars to prove it.

But the same experience warned him there was no way to say that without sounding condescending, and she was already on the offensive. He would get angry, she would get angrier, and one or both of them would say something they would regret at the worst possible time to say it. Maybe the best thing he could do was give her space.

He wished she would let him touch her mind again.

"Okay," he said softly. He rose from the chair, taking his own mug with him. "Okay. I'll let you get some rest. I'll check back . . . later. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"You're wrong," Betsy whispered, watching Haller's retreating back close the door behind him. "I know why this happened and it won't be right, none of it will be right, until I get him to fix this." Her eyes darkened, her jaw set. "Remind him that we're not his damn experiments. Until then, nothing matters. Nothing at all."