xp_logs | Quentin & Haller, Thursday morning

xp_erverse posting in

Haller comes by to check up on Quentin, who is having trouble processing his return to reality.

If Quentin's pet chinchilla Fuckwad could talk, then he would have asked why Quentin had been standing naked in front of the mirror for the last hour. Not posing and taking photos, just standing still, eyes roaming all over his reflection, examining every inch of exposed flesh, trying to identify any flaw, a sign that he was not fully human again. So far nothing, but that just meant he was not looking hard enough.

He ignored or did not hear the knock at the door at first. The second louder knock briefly woke him from his reverie, and he called out permission to enter before returning to his self-exam.

Jim opened the door, then paused. For an instant he wondered if Quentin had used the interval between knocks just to strip -- this was Quentin, so the thought was inevitable -- but from the young man's preoccupied expression the nudity seemed to be incidental. He relaxed, though he did make sure to angle his body to block the view from any passerby.

"Hey, Quentin. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Can I come in?"

Quentin forgot about his guest as soon as he had invited them in. It was not until he was looking over his shoulder to examine his backside that he noticed the other psi, and he turned to face him. "I'm fine, thank you" Quentin answered, though his tone was neutral, with no hint of his characteristic innuendo or sarcasm.

That was slightly unnerving. Jim let himself all the way in, closing the door behind him. "How are you feeling?" he asked, then gestured. "The new body, I mean."

"Hmm? Oh. It's fine, I guess." He looked at Haller and then down at himself and sighed. "Sorry. There's server lag." He gestured at his head and then padded into his bedroom to retrieve a pair of sweatpants. "Jean wants to do a full workup, make sure everything's built to code. Should check my brain, too. Make sure losing telepathy hasn't decimated my IQ."

"You were also sharing Jean's head for a while. Having one to yourself again is like suddenly climbing out of a pool." He noticed that Quentin's hair was pink. This wouldn't have been particularly noteworthy except Jim could see enough of him to know that it was not a dye-job. He refrained from comment.

Now half-dressed in deference to Haller's modesty, Quentin went to his kitchenette to pour himself a drink. "Want something?" he asked, levitating a few ice cubes from the freezer into a glass. At least he could still do that. "I don't know how to explain it. Everything feels bright and sharp. Last night, I buried myself in like six layers even though the thermostat was up because I was so cold. Then when I woke up, I was sweating."

The counselor nodded thoughtfully. "The body's essentially mint from box. It would make sense that it needs time to get your autonomic functions properly synced up. And I'm good, thanks." He watched Quentin move about the kitchenette, his movements betraying the sort of efficiency that indicated the body was operating on autopilot while the mind wandered. "And in the non-physical sense?" he ventured. "How are you doing there?"

"If you're asking if I see that cab driver's face who I killed every time I close my eyes, then no." It had been so easy to murder that man. The human body was so fragile, all it took was a little click to generate a fatal aneurysm. Quentin could have done that all day if he wanted, without breaking a sweat. He downed half his G&T before refilling his glass with more G than T. "But that might be because I don't actually remember what he looked like. He was just another expendable on my way to kill you."

"And everything after that?" Jim studied him with his mismatched eyes. If the lack of guilt-wracked sobs over the death of an innocent bystander bothered him, it didn't show. "What about dying?"

Quentin snickered. In the best of circumstances, telepathy could be an unwieldy tool. But with the Shadow King's appropriation and annihilation of his personal barriers, channeling his power inwards had been no more difficult than lifting the glass to his mouth to drink. "I remember. Very clearly. How can I forgot Jean's wailing? Sefton held her back, thank Christ. And I remember what we did to you. I couldn't see exactly what we showed you, but I know we got into your head and twisted something precious. And I know . . ." He paused for a second and then looked away, almost embarrassed by the secret truth that had been revealed to him. "I know who your father is."

That got a reaction -- or rather, a careful blankness where a reaction should have been. It lasted just slightly too long to be natural, and then the minute tightness in his shoulders relaxed.

"Well," Jim said, "I was in your mindscape, so I guess fair's fair. Yeah, the professor is my father. We don't really advertise it. I didn't find out until I was an adult."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Who'd believe me, anyway? Chuckles isn't a virgin? I always thought he was a closeted old queen, myself. Unless you're a test tube baby." Quentin almost looked disappointed that they weren't on the same team. Still, the thought of Xavier actually having a secret sexual history did bring back some of the old Quentin. "Why do you keep it quiet, though? It's not the worst conflict of interest happening here, I'm sure."

"Well, for a start, I'd been working here for a couple years before I found out. It was weird enough without having The Talk with my coworkers. But mostly I like to keep my private life private. I didn't really have that luxury before I came here. Maybe you can relate." Jim fished out a packet of cigarettes and waved it at Quentin. "You mind?"

Quentin made a face but nodded anyway. "You're funding the enemy with those, you know," he said, repeating one of his favorite taunts to Gabriel when he smoked. Gabriel. Shit. This was the first he'd thought of him since his final words. How long could he avoid that unpleasant reunion, he wondered as he left the kitchenette and took a seat on one end of the L-shaped couch.

"How'd you know it wasn't really me in there?" he asked, swirling his glass. "Just the Shadow King pretending to be me."

Jim couldn't help but notice Quentin was driving the conversation away from himself. Perhaps that was what he needed right now.

In deference to Quentin's distaste, he took a seat beside a window and cracked it open before lighting up. "My specialty is assessment and repair," he replied as he thumbed his lighter. "Inner conflict isn't unusual, but it wasn't that. This was a mindscape trying to reject its host. Destroy it. I've seen that, or something close." Jim took a drag and exhaled out the window. "Besides, he was off. Like I said, the Shadow King is a lot better at exploiting what we're afraid we are than understanding the reality. Its interpretations of you were shallow. Base. It could only see what it saw in itself, and you strike me as a little more fuck-the-system than power-tripping revenge-killer."

"You gave up something to imprison it. Memories? Something incredibly personal. That kind of sacrifice . . . I'm sorry you had to do it." And Quentin was utterly sincere about that. Maybe Jean had rubbed off on him and he felt guilt for leaving it to others to manage things beyond his control. He could have died to save them, and instead they voluntarily gave up parts of themselves so he could live. How could he not honor that responsibility?

Jim gave him a one-shouldered shrug. "Don't worry about it. There was nothing else to be done. And they're not gone, exactly. It's more like a memory of a story someone else once told me." He gave Quentin a smile with one corner of his mouth to match the lopsided shrug. Crooked, but also sincere. "Besides, you were willing to give up a lot more to keep it from getting Jean."

Quentin groaned and sipped his drink. "When that thing was in my head, I saw everything it did to her, too. I wasn't gonna let it do that again. It wore me like a suit. But it was gonna use her to do so much worse. Can psychic parasite monsters be misogynists? 'Cuz the things it said to her were . . . abhorrent. Besides, you saw what it did to me. If I was gonna die anyway, I might as well make a big show of it."

"Going out in a blaze of glory doesn't mean it wasn't also a selfless thing." Jim paused. "I didn't pass on your last words to Gabriel, though. That's still in an awkward email draft somewhere. I think Wanda got to him first. Have you spoken to him yet?"

"Why would I have?" Quentin asked, feigning ignorance. Though he looked in Haller's general direction, his gaze went past the older man. "In terms of loose ends to tie up, that's not such a big one. If he wants, he'll come. He always does."

Jim studied him for a moment before turning to exhale another stream of smoke out the window.

"I'm not really good with people," he said, eyes fixed on the end of his cigarette. "It's always been easier to let others decide whether they want to associate with me on their own time. And if I'm being completely honest, it's nice to have proof people care enough to make the effort. I don't know how it is between you two-- maybe it works for you." He tapped a growing chunk of ash off from the butt over the end of the sill.

"But if all the time and space you gave the other person gets cut short, all that's left is what you never had a chance to say."

Now Quentin turned to Haller and studied him. Though the words left out the specifics, the meaning behind them — and more importantly, the significance to Haller himself — was clear. Quentin swirled his glass and finished the rest of the drink before shrugging and sighing. "Have you seen him since? Do you know if . . . did he say anything?"

"Not to me -- our paths don't cross much. But I do know his reaction to thinking you were dead was . . ." Jim thought back to some of the murmurs he'd heard. "Well, it's not a loose end I'm leave for much longer."

Quentin hid the small hint of a smile that played on his lips behind his glass. And then he promptly felt like a jackass for taking satisfaction in that. "I should probably call the Quires. Make sure they haven't liquidated my trust. Assuming they've even in the country. It's September so it's safari season."

"That may not be a bad idea. I'm not sure Jean ever pulled the trigger on notifying them." Jim didn't press him on Gabriel. He didn't know enough about them to get in the middle of that, although perhaps Quentin's questions had told him enough.

"She avoided an uncomfortable conversation. For her." Quentin held his hand to his head with thumb and pink extended like a phone. "'Oh, he's gone? Finally? Click.'" Quentin dropped the pantomime and wearily rubbed his eyes. "I think I'm going to take a nap. You're welcome to stay. Or join. Bed's a queen." He filled his glass one more time for a midday nightcap.

"And . . . thanks, Jim. David. Whoever you are right now. I . . . yeah, thanks."

Again there was that slightly-too-neutral, slightly-too-long pause as this processed. Then Jim stubbed out the cigarette on the metal of the sill and closed the window.

"David is fine," he remarked. "It's broadly true of all of us. And don't worry about it. I'll let you get some rest." He rose to leave, then hesitated.

"You did a good job in there," Jim said. "Whether it feels like it or not. "

"No, it doesn't."