Jean and Haller: Night Terrors
Jul. 8th, 2023 11:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_phoenix posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsHaller gets pulled into Jean's dream and discovers a memory Jean wanted to keep hidden.
Trigger Warning: Memories of sexual assault, gore.
Complete darkness. The air was thick with sweat and sour breath, floor swaying beneath him. A packed subway car. He looked past the sea of heads and shoulders to the window. Lights flashed past, but not the sort that illuminated tunnels. Instead they throbbed like the lights of a club, tinted a lurid red.
The car lurched to the side, throwing him against the passengers next to him. The red light flashed again, revealing a tangled mass of naked bodies and blank faces.
A well-dressed man moved amidst the sea of people. He had dark hair, with a hint of stubble. Smoke poured from his lips and nose like he had a cigarette, but there was none to be found. When the people changed, he didn't. Near the door between two subway cars was a familiar head of long, curly red hair. The man came up from behind the red haired woman and put his hand to her throat, slamming her against the door. Jean.
"Hello little redbird," he breathed.
Jean's face fell slack with a mixture of horror and numbness as she grasped blindly for the door, then opened it. He telekinetically fell to the ground, banging his nose on a nearby bar as she slipped into the other car.
Jean. That was Jean, and he was Jim. And this was . . .
He followed her to the next car.
They were no longer on the subway. Instead he found himself in an octagonal room studded with art that bore the strong lines of Mesoamerican influence. The oppressive heat was here, too -- thicker, tinged with the stench of brimstone. The furniture had an organic quality, as if they were upholstered not in tanned leather but living skin.
There were people here, too. The passengers had been replaced by statuesque figures that were somehow both indistinct and magnetically attractive. They were arrayed around the couches as motionless as the stone art.
The red-tinged light had darkened to the hue of blood.
Jean stopped in her tracks, her breath quickening, faster, and faster.
"No. No, no, no..." she breathed as she looked around frantically.
Other faceless people, men and women, suddenly stood next to her, their eyes hazy, unfocused, except for one: Garrison.
The dark haired man from earlier seemed to walk out from behind Garrison's profile. Garrison's clothing and skin burned away to reveal only muscle and blood underneath, his body skinned and charred.
The dark haired man walked over to the fire table and raised his hand over it. The lights in the room began to dim, and a small stone mask, lost amidst the coals before now began to rise of its own accord.
“My father was a very traditional man, you know. A proud Sicilian. He taught me many things about men; how to control them, how to manipulate them, how to dominate them. But my mother… my mother taught me how to make them fear me.” The mask, now head high, started to slowly rotate in the air. “She was a bruja; a nearly pure blooded Azteca woman from a tiny enclave in Mexico. She came following a prophecy that she’d bear a great leader.” He smiled and winked at them. “You know how mothers are. But she taught me something very important. 'Hijo', she said, 'find a person’s truth. If you know that, you know the key to controlling them'.”
A red flare emanated from the mask as it fitted to his face, crawling over it like lines of electricity. There didn’t seem to be any damage caused, although Costa looked different following the flare; more imposing, more important.
“That’s why when such a delightfully perfect offer reaches me, I like to do my due diligence by discovering your truths and making sure that I’ll hold them.” He was walking amidst them, weaving in and out between Jean and the faceless people.
“Like you. A beautiful injured redbird.” He touched Jean’s bare hand for a moment.
"N--" Jean's voice cut off. She couldn't say no. She couldn't even say what she said before, under the influence. The world seemed to jump and skip, like a tape fast forwarding mixed with a strobe light. People came to her, to remove her clothing. She couldn't move, her body slack, not resisting.
The room darkened, lit only by a haze. The world skipped, as bodies writhed, and the smell of saliva and sour sex filled the air mixed with brimstone. The dark haired man moved throughout, sometimes watching, sometimes participating. The smoke grew thicker, and thicker, choking...A flicker in the room pierced the darkness as fiery cracks erupted from Jean's skin and she tried to pull her way out of the smoke and the writhing bodies.
"NO!"
A hand grabbed her by the wrist, then a second, a third, a fourth. Jim pulled with all his strength with the weight of all three of his alters behind him. He could feel the flesh on his palms burning against her skin, but he didn't let go. It burned away the other sensations he was receiving from her touch: the physical pain of deep aches and sharp tears, and worse, the churn of confusion, and helplessness, and <I>panic--</I>
And then she was free.
Just because Jean was free...did not mean she knew it. Because in this world everyone was a victim or an enemy. Had to be. What was the next agony?
"DON'T TOUCH ME!" she shrieked, her fist flying toward Jim's face. The cracks on her skin widened, flames and ashes billowing out. As the tears poured down her cheeks they turned to steam, her green eyes a brilliant orange-gold.
The naked bodies reached for her and she telekinetically sent them flying. One landed in the fire pit, bursting into flames. It felt like the scene from Carrie.
Two hands intercepted Jean's swing, stopping it inches from his face: Jack, always on the defensive. She burned under his touch, but now he was ready. He wreathed himself in the liquid light of his own power, neutralizing her flame where it licked against him, spilling over the glowing fissures in her flesh with a cool, familiar touch.
"Jean, it's me," Jim said, trying to keep his voice level while still loud enough to be heard. "It's Jim. It's okay. This is a dream. It's okay."
The cool touch was like a shock to the system and Jean let out a strangled gasp, sucking in a pained breath of air, the orange-gold in her eyes dying away back to green. She sank to the ground, trying to catch her breath.
It took her a moment to realize she was still naked, and a simple black dress appeared around her.
She didn't know what to say.
Jim knelt beside her, keeping his distance. His skin still crawled with the memory of groping hands and pressing bodies. "It's okay," he repeated. He let his own influence seep into their surroundings, diluting the sickly ruby light until it had the same quality as the mid-morning sun. Suddenly the room's shadows evaporated, leaving -- a room. Just an ordinary room, studded with empty couches and old art, stripped of all its dread.
He didn't notice the other effects until the floor beneath him crackled. He looked down to see the plus carpet beneath him had become the spongy pink lobe of a lung, shot through with a thin latticework of crystal.
Jean turned to see what he was looking at and quickly jumped to her feet, the ground crunching with the shifting of her weight near the edges of where he was standing.
"This is not me," she said quietly. "Wha--what is that?"
Jim pressed a hand to his forehead. The floor didn't change. "It's me," he muttered. "I'm still asleep. We must both be dreaming."
"About...lungs?" Jean said curiously. Something else caught her attention, however, and she glanced around.
"I still smell burning. But I don't see the smoke. It smells different. It--AGH!"
She suddenly disappeared from the dream.
Jim woke up. He was in his own bed, alone.
He didn't quite run to Jean's suite. The flash of alarm he'd gotten from her had been sharp, but nothing life-threatening. At the very least he could delay long enough to pull on a pair of pants. Still, by the time he got to her room on the east side of the attic he realized he should probably have moved just a little faster. There was water spreading from beneath her door. He knocked on it.
"Jean?" he called, concerned. He could smell smoke.
The door unlocked.
"In here," Jean said.
It was a relatively small apartment, more of a one bedroom studio with a tiny kitchenette, bathroom, a couple of closets, sitting area, and bedroom. The smell of smoke was still ever present, but water was everywhere. In the middle of the queen-sized bed was a person shaped silhouette made of blackened sheets, pillows, and blankets. The vague shape of wings burned the wall, the flowers on the nightstand, and a chair.
Jean, wearing a robe, rummaged through one of the closets. She pulled out a mop and bucket. The remains of her nightgown was draped over the kitchenette sink, mostly burned.
"Deja vu," Jim said, thinking of the times he'd been prone to similar issues. He shook his head. "Here, let me help. We can't get anything out of fabric or carpet without ruining it, but standing water . . ." He stretched out a hand and let Cyndi settle in. Drops of the pooled liquid began to rain upwards, swirling towards the sink like an inverted cloudburst. Tile, tabletops, counters -- it took some concentration, but after a few moments the worst of it had been removed.
Jean slowly put down the mop and sink, blinking curiously at the sight.
"...Thanks," she said. The windows opened up, including the skylight with a ladder leading up to the roof.
"I just bought those sheets," she muttered.
"You'll have other sheets," Jim said. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to begin, then gave up and simply asked the obvious question.
"Do you want to talk?"
Jean was silent for a few moments, then glanced over. "Don't tell anyone. Please," she said quietly, her eyes looking briefly fearful.
"Not a lot of people know."
Jim shook his head. "I'm sorry you didn't get to choose whether you wanted me to know, either. I'm not telling anyone you don't want me to." He paused again, studying her pale face. She looked washed-out, exhausted.
"Those nightmares -- do they happen a lot?" he asked.
Jean folded her arms. "Sometimes. I thought they were getting better until...a guy tried to grab my ass on the subway. He mysteriously ate the railing after somehow tripping over his own feet. And then fighting the zombies...and well..." She spread her arms open wide.
"Time to invest in flame retardant everything, I guess."
"Been there," Jim said with a wry smile. It slipped quickly; the expression didn't want to stay on his lips. "It's easy for things to pile up, though. Have you been talking to anyone about it?"
Taking a step back unconsciously, Jean hugged herself. "It's fine," she said, not quite meeting his eyes anymore.
"I'll sleep in the Box for a while."
"It's not about the fire or the dreams. All of this -- it builds up. You don't need to bottle it up until it explodes. I know." Jim tried to catch her eyes. "Keeping everything inside . . . it hurts."
Jean found herself laughing. "Does it? I hadn't noticed," she said, wiping a tear away.
"It's not...that easy."
"Why?"
"You saw it. How do I tell people about that? Or I do...and then they have that awkward, sympathetic look in their eyes...like the one you have now. Like I'm fragile. Fragile like glass or...like a bomb. The only doctors that even know about what we do are...both men. Would they understand?" she said, more tears slipping down her cheek.
"Would they know what it feels like? To be violated...Waiting for it to be over. But it goes on, and on. For over an hour. " She swallowed, her voice whispering.
"And it isn't even the first time that something crawled into my mind and made me think I liked it."
She finally met his eyes, tilting her head. "What do you think the chart code is for mental manipulation? Or being raped by a demon?"
Glancing away, she scratched at her arm. "I know they're supposed to be professionals and others...have been through the same thing...but it's not the same for me. I can't..." She shook her head.
"I had to take a pregnancy test. Then another, and another. For weeks. Just to make sure."
She bit her lip. "I...how do you tell people about that?"
For a moment Jim said nothing, simply letting the weight of her words settle into the silence of the room.
"You don't tell people," he said at last. "You tell one person. Someone you trust, so you're not carrying it alone. It's a start, anyway."
"I . . . didn't come back from Muir because of Shatterstar," he admitted. "Not just that, anyway. I lost a patient. His mutation had similarities to fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, that disorder where damaged muscle regrows as bone. But with Sajjad it wasn't bone, it was crystal. Pieces of his body would harden and break off. That's what I brought into your dream. I watched him die for two days. I kept him comfortable. But seeing his own body tear him apart like that was -- it was so --" He broke off, the rest of it sticking in his throat. He took a deep breath and started again.
"It's part of the job, and I should've been able to handle it. But I've been missing appointments I don't remember making, or losing entire interactions with people, and sometimes I wake up and realize there's chunks of time where there's just nothing there. I'll start a conversation and then one of the others will just take over and I can't . . ." He pressed his hands to his eyes and took another shuddering breath. "Sooraya and Moira suspect. They're trying to help. But I'm afraid that if I tell anyone how bad it really is they'll tell me I'm too sick to work, and that they'll -- they'll be right. And then I'll have to admit that I'm not stable enough to do the only thing I know how to do."
Composing himself, Jim swallowed and gave her a weak smile. "So yeah. I don't know how you tell anyone about all that, either. But I can . . . I can tell one person."
Jean glanced down. "Guess we're both full of secrets tonight," she said quietly, tightly gripping the back of one of her kitchen chairs.
She shook her head, letting out a breath. "Losing a patient is part of the job but it doesn't mean you're a robot. Being able to 'handle' something like that...is bullshit. You're allowed to grieve, and to feel."
"And so are you," Jim countered. He leaned against the tabletop, staring at the grain of the wood. "A horrible thing happened to you. You're allowed to feel fragile about that sometimes. If you spend all your time trying to convince everyone you're strong and steady you end up with nothing left for yourself. Ask me how I know."
Jean tilted her head. "Do you want me to answer that with how you just told me you're actively responding to your trauma? We're both messed up and not coping well in our own unique and colorful ways."
She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. "I just...this is the only way I know how," she said, then after a moment opened one eye.
"Except without the horrible nightmares and setting my bed on fire. That's...rare."
"Yeah. Same here. If I knew a healthy way to deal with this you'd be the first one I'd tell." The counselor snorted. "Maybe that's what happened. I don't usually dream-surf, and as far as I know you don't usually pull people in, but we're both so fucked up right now it created some kind of psychic resonance. Somehow that's both impressive and depressing."
Jean made a face. "Not exactly the way I'd liked for us to have found out," she mumbled, awkwardly folding her arms again.
"I should still probably sleep in the Box for a bit just to be safe."
"Maybe. At least until your suite dries out." Jim rubbed the back of his head. "Or you could use the extra bedroom in mine tonight. I don't think either of us are likely to have another episode tonight, and I can do sprinkler system in a pinch. I'll just grab some extra sheets and fill the tub. If you still feel like you need to use the Box tomorrow you can set it up after you've had some breakfast." He gave her another lopsided smile. "I don't know if I feel like going back to sleep tonight anyway."
"Are you sure? I'm...afraid to sleep but I don't want to pull you in again if I accidentally do," Jean said. She sighed. "I wish there was an easier way to calm down."
He arched an eyebrow at her. "You want me to hit Quentin up for some edibles?" he asked, only half-joking. "I can't say that's our normal dynamic, but he'd probably trust that Cyndi's not a cop."
Jean paused. "Man it's been like 20 years since I've had any," she said thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Why not?"
She sighed. "Hopefully this is not a slippery slope to debauchery and villainy."
Lifting up an arm, she sniffed herself. "Ugh I should probably take a shower first. I smell like a fire."
Jim pulled out his cell and pulled up Quentin's contact info, remembering at the last minute that allowing Cyndi to text any variation of 'u up?' was only going to be funny for the first day or so. "Go ahead. I'll see if Quentin's around and go find some fans. Plausible deniability for you, a way to shed some excess energy for me."
"Sounds like a plan. Hopefully my closet was not a casualty of the inside rainstorm," Jean said. She glanced over.
"Thanks. I--sorry you had to see that."
The other telepath shook his head. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault. I'm just sorry you've had to carry it for so long." His teeth flashed in a brief, self-deprecating smile. "Anyway, tit for tat. Now you know I'm a mess, too. Maybe it's not the worst thing it's out there now, at least between the two of us."
Jean let out a breath. "Yeah, maybe," she admitted. Not the way she wanted anyone to find out, but it happened. And it didn't feel so awful to talk about it.
"I'll um...be out in a few minutes."
"Don't worry about it. I'll be back by the time you're done."
Trigger Warning: Memories of sexual assault, gore.
Complete darkness. The air was thick with sweat and sour breath, floor swaying beneath him. A packed subway car. He looked past the sea of heads and shoulders to the window. Lights flashed past, but not the sort that illuminated tunnels. Instead they throbbed like the lights of a club, tinted a lurid red.
The car lurched to the side, throwing him against the passengers next to him. The red light flashed again, revealing a tangled mass of naked bodies and blank faces.
A well-dressed man moved amidst the sea of people. He had dark hair, with a hint of stubble. Smoke poured from his lips and nose like he had a cigarette, but there was none to be found. When the people changed, he didn't. Near the door between two subway cars was a familiar head of long, curly red hair. The man came up from behind the red haired woman and put his hand to her throat, slamming her against the door. Jean.
"Hello little redbird," he breathed.
Jean's face fell slack with a mixture of horror and numbness as she grasped blindly for the door, then opened it. He telekinetically fell to the ground, banging his nose on a nearby bar as she slipped into the other car.
Jean. That was Jean, and he was Jim. And this was . . .
He followed her to the next car.
They were no longer on the subway. Instead he found himself in an octagonal room studded with art that bore the strong lines of Mesoamerican influence. The oppressive heat was here, too -- thicker, tinged with the stench of brimstone. The furniture had an organic quality, as if they were upholstered not in tanned leather but living skin.
There were people here, too. The passengers had been replaced by statuesque figures that were somehow both indistinct and magnetically attractive. They were arrayed around the couches as motionless as the stone art.
The red-tinged light had darkened to the hue of blood.
Jean stopped in her tracks, her breath quickening, faster, and faster.
"No. No, no, no..." she breathed as she looked around frantically.
Other faceless people, men and women, suddenly stood next to her, their eyes hazy, unfocused, except for one: Garrison.
The dark haired man from earlier seemed to walk out from behind Garrison's profile. Garrison's clothing and skin burned away to reveal only muscle and blood underneath, his body skinned and charred.
The dark haired man walked over to the fire table and raised his hand over it. The lights in the room began to dim, and a small stone mask, lost amidst the coals before now began to rise of its own accord.
“My father was a very traditional man, you know. A proud Sicilian. He taught me many things about men; how to control them, how to manipulate them, how to dominate them. But my mother… my mother taught me how to make them fear me.” The mask, now head high, started to slowly rotate in the air. “She was a bruja; a nearly pure blooded Azteca woman from a tiny enclave in Mexico. She came following a prophecy that she’d bear a great leader.” He smiled and winked at them. “You know how mothers are. But she taught me something very important. 'Hijo', she said, 'find a person’s truth. If you know that, you know the key to controlling them'.”
A red flare emanated from the mask as it fitted to his face, crawling over it like lines of electricity. There didn’t seem to be any damage caused, although Costa looked different following the flare; more imposing, more important.
“That’s why when such a delightfully perfect offer reaches me, I like to do my due diligence by discovering your truths and making sure that I’ll hold them.” He was walking amidst them, weaving in and out between Jean and the faceless people.
“Like you. A beautiful injured redbird.” He touched Jean’s bare hand for a moment.
"N--" Jean's voice cut off. She couldn't say no. She couldn't even say what she said before, under the influence. The world seemed to jump and skip, like a tape fast forwarding mixed with a strobe light. People came to her, to remove her clothing. She couldn't move, her body slack, not resisting.
The room darkened, lit only by a haze. The world skipped, as bodies writhed, and the smell of saliva and sour sex filled the air mixed with brimstone. The dark haired man moved throughout, sometimes watching, sometimes participating. The smoke grew thicker, and thicker, choking...A flicker in the room pierced the darkness as fiery cracks erupted from Jean's skin and she tried to pull her way out of the smoke and the writhing bodies.
"NO!"
A hand grabbed her by the wrist, then a second, a third, a fourth. Jim pulled with all his strength with the weight of all three of his alters behind him. He could feel the flesh on his palms burning against her skin, but he didn't let go. It burned away the other sensations he was receiving from her touch: the physical pain of deep aches and sharp tears, and worse, the churn of confusion, and helplessness, and <I>panic--</I>
And then she was free.
Just because Jean was free...did not mean she knew it. Because in this world everyone was a victim or an enemy. Had to be. What was the next agony?
"DON'T TOUCH ME!" she shrieked, her fist flying toward Jim's face. The cracks on her skin widened, flames and ashes billowing out. As the tears poured down her cheeks they turned to steam, her green eyes a brilliant orange-gold.
The naked bodies reached for her and she telekinetically sent them flying. One landed in the fire pit, bursting into flames. It felt like the scene from Carrie.
Two hands intercepted Jean's swing, stopping it inches from his face: Jack, always on the defensive. She burned under his touch, but now he was ready. He wreathed himself in the liquid light of his own power, neutralizing her flame where it licked against him, spilling over the glowing fissures in her flesh with a cool, familiar touch.
"Jean, it's me," Jim said, trying to keep his voice level while still loud enough to be heard. "It's Jim. It's okay. This is a dream. It's okay."
The cool touch was like a shock to the system and Jean let out a strangled gasp, sucking in a pained breath of air, the orange-gold in her eyes dying away back to green. She sank to the ground, trying to catch her breath.
It took her a moment to realize she was still naked, and a simple black dress appeared around her.
She didn't know what to say.
Jim knelt beside her, keeping his distance. His skin still crawled with the memory of groping hands and pressing bodies. "It's okay," he repeated. He let his own influence seep into their surroundings, diluting the sickly ruby light until it had the same quality as the mid-morning sun. Suddenly the room's shadows evaporated, leaving -- a room. Just an ordinary room, studded with empty couches and old art, stripped of all its dread.
He didn't notice the other effects until the floor beneath him crackled. He looked down to see the plus carpet beneath him had become the spongy pink lobe of a lung, shot through with a thin latticework of crystal.
Jean turned to see what he was looking at and quickly jumped to her feet, the ground crunching with the shifting of her weight near the edges of where he was standing.
"This is not me," she said quietly. "Wha--what is that?"
Jim pressed a hand to his forehead. The floor didn't change. "It's me," he muttered. "I'm still asleep. We must both be dreaming."
"About...lungs?" Jean said curiously. Something else caught her attention, however, and she glanced around.
"I still smell burning. But I don't see the smoke. It smells different. It--AGH!"
She suddenly disappeared from the dream.
Jim woke up. He was in his own bed, alone.
He didn't quite run to Jean's suite. The flash of alarm he'd gotten from her had been sharp, but nothing life-threatening. At the very least he could delay long enough to pull on a pair of pants. Still, by the time he got to her room on the east side of the attic he realized he should probably have moved just a little faster. There was water spreading from beneath her door. He knocked on it.
"Jean?" he called, concerned. He could smell smoke.
The door unlocked.
"In here," Jean said.
It was a relatively small apartment, more of a one bedroom studio with a tiny kitchenette, bathroom, a couple of closets, sitting area, and bedroom. The smell of smoke was still ever present, but water was everywhere. In the middle of the queen-sized bed was a person shaped silhouette made of blackened sheets, pillows, and blankets. The vague shape of wings burned the wall, the flowers on the nightstand, and a chair.
Jean, wearing a robe, rummaged through one of the closets. She pulled out a mop and bucket. The remains of her nightgown was draped over the kitchenette sink, mostly burned.
"Deja vu," Jim said, thinking of the times he'd been prone to similar issues. He shook his head. "Here, let me help. We can't get anything out of fabric or carpet without ruining it, but standing water . . ." He stretched out a hand and let Cyndi settle in. Drops of the pooled liquid began to rain upwards, swirling towards the sink like an inverted cloudburst. Tile, tabletops, counters -- it took some concentration, but after a few moments the worst of it had been removed.
Jean slowly put down the mop and sink, blinking curiously at the sight.
"...Thanks," she said. The windows opened up, including the skylight with a ladder leading up to the roof.
"I just bought those sheets," she muttered.
"You'll have other sheets," Jim said. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to begin, then gave up and simply asked the obvious question.
"Do you want to talk?"
Jean was silent for a few moments, then glanced over. "Don't tell anyone. Please," she said quietly, her eyes looking briefly fearful.
"Not a lot of people know."
Jim shook his head. "I'm sorry you didn't get to choose whether you wanted me to know, either. I'm not telling anyone you don't want me to." He paused again, studying her pale face. She looked washed-out, exhausted.
"Those nightmares -- do they happen a lot?" he asked.
Jean folded her arms. "Sometimes. I thought they were getting better until...a guy tried to grab my ass on the subway. He mysteriously ate the railing after somehow tripping over his own feet. And then fighting the zombies...and well..." She spread her arms open wide.
"Time to invest in flame retardant everything, I guess."
"Been there," Jim said with a wry smile. It slipped quickly; the expression didn't want to stay on his lips. "It's easy for things to pile up, though. Have you been talking to anyone about it?"
Taking a step back unconsciously, Jean hugged herself. "It's fine," she said, not quite meeting his eyes anymore.
"I'll sleep in the Box for a while."
"It's not about the fire or the dreams. All of this -- it builds up. You don't need to bottle it up until it explodes. I know." Jim tried to catch her eyes. "Keeping everything inside . . . it hurts."
Jean found herself laughing. "Does it? I hadn't noticed," she said, wiping a tear away.
"It's not...that easy."
"Why?"
"You saw it. How do I tell people about that? Or I do...and then they have that awkward, sympathetic look in their eyes...like the one you have now. Like I'm fragile. Fragile like glass or...like a bomb. The only doctors that even know about what we do are...both men. Would they understand?" she said, more tears slipping down her cheek.
"Would they know what it feels like? To be violated...Waiting for it to be over. But it goes on, and on. For over an hour. " She swallowed, her voice whispering.
"And it isn't even the first time that something crawled into my mind and made me think I liked it."
She finally met his eyes, tilting her head. "What do you think the chart code is for mental manipulation? Or being raped by a demon?"
Glancing away, she scratched at her arm. "I know they're supposed to be professionals and others...have been through the same thing...but it's not the same for me. I can't..." She shook her head.
"I had to take a pregnancy test. Then another, and another. For weeks. Just to make sure."
She bit her lip. "I...how do you tell people about that?"
For a moment Jim said nothing, simply letting the weight of her words settle into the silence of the room.
"You don't tell people," he said at last. "You tell one person. Someone you trust, so you're not carrying it alone. It's a start, anyway."
"I . . . didn't come back from Muir because of Shatterstar," he admitted. "Not just that, anyway. I lost a patient. His mutation had similarities to fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, that disorder where damaged muscle regrows as bone. But with Sajjad it wasn't bone, it was crystal. Pieces of his body would harden and break off. That's what I brought into your dream. I watched him die for two days. I kept him comfortable. But seeing his own body tear him apart like that was -- it was so --" He broke off, the rest of it sticking in his throat. He took a deep breath and started again.
"It's part of the job, and I should've been able to handle it. But I've been missing appointments I don't remember making, or losing entire interactions with people, and sometimes I wake up and realize there's chunks of time where there's just nothing there. I'll start a conversation and then one of the others will just take over and I can't . . ." He pressed his hands to his eyes and took another shuddering breath. "Sooraya and Moira suspect. They're trying to help. But I'm afraid that if I tell anyone how bad it really is they'll tell me I'm too sick to work, and that they'll -- they'll be right. And then I'll have to admit that I'm not stable enough to do the only thing I know how to do."
Composing himself, Jim swallowed and gave her a weak smile. "So yeah. I don't know how you tell anyone about all that, either. But I can . . . I can tell one person."
Jean glanced down. "Guess we're both full of secrets tonight," she said quietly, tightly gripping the back of one of her kitchen chairs.
She shook her head, letting out a breath. "Losing a patient is part of the job but it doesn't mean you're a robot. Being able to 'handle' something like that...is bullshit. You're allowed to grieve, and to feel."
"And so are you," Jim countered. He leaned against the tabletop, staring at the grain of the wood. "A horrible thing happened to you. You're allowed to feel fragile about that sometimes. If you spend all your time trying to convince everyone you're strong and steady you end up with nothing left for yourself. Ask me how I know."
Jean tilted her head. "Do you want me to answer that with how you just told me you're actively responding to your trauma? We're both messed up and not coping well in our own unique and colorful ways."
She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. "I just...this is the only way I know how," she said, then after a moment opened one eye.
"Except without the horrible nightmares and setting my bed on fire. That's...rare."
"Yeah. Same here. If I knew a healthy way to deal with this you'd be the first one I'd tell." The counselor snorted. "Maybe that's what happened. I don't usually dream-surf, and as far as I know you don't usually pull people in, but we're both so fucked up right now it created some kind of psychic resonance. Somehow that's both impressive and depressing."
Jean made a face. "Not exactly the way I'd liked for us to have found out," she mumbled, awkwardly folding her arms again.
"I should still probably sleep in the Box for a bit just to be safe."
"Maybe. At least until your suite dries out." Jim rubbed the back of his head. "Or you could use the extra bedroom in mine tonight. I don't think either of us are likely to have another episode tonight, and I can do sprinkler system in a pinch. I'll just grab some extra sheets and fill the tub. If you still feel like you need to use the Box tomorrow you can set it up after you've had some breakfast." He gave her another lopsided smile. "I don't know if I feel like going back to sleep tonight anyway."
"Are you sure? I'm...afraid to sleep but I don't want to pull you in again if I accidentally do," Jean said. She sighed. "I wish there was an easier way to calm down."
He arched an eyebrow at her. "You want me to hit Quentin up for some edibles?" he asked, only half-joking. "I can't say that's our normal dynamic, but he'd probably trust that Cyndi's not a cop."
Jean paused. "Man it's been like 20 years since I've had any," she said thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Why not?"
She sighed. "Hopefully this is not a slippery slope to debauchery and villainy."
Lifting up an arm, she sniffed herself. "Ugh I should probably take a shower first. I smell like a fire."
Jim pulled out his cell and pulled up Quentin's contact info, remembering at the last minute that allowing Cyndi to text any variation of 'u up?' was only going to be funny for the first day or so. "Go ahead. I'll see if Quentin's around and go find some fans. Plausible deniability for you, a way to shed some excess energy for me."
"Sounds like a plan. Hopefully my closet was not a casualty of the inside rainstorm," Jean said. She glanced over.
"Thanks. I--sorry you had to see that."
The other telepath shook his head. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault. I'm just sorry you've had to carry it for so long." His teeth flashed in a brief, self-deprecating smile. "Anyway, tit for tat. Now you know I'm a mess, too. Maybe it's not the worst thing it's out there now, at least between the two of us."
Jean let out a breath. "Yeah, maybe," she admitted. Not the way she wanted anyone to find out, but it happened. And it didn't feel so awful to talk about it.
"I'll um...be out in a few minutes."
"Don't worry about it. I'll be back by the time you're done."
