Haller and Jess

[xp_alias]

Haller checks in on the patient, who is perhaps a tiny bit combative, and comes up with a solution for something.

" - and who the fuck do you think you are?"

"So," Jim said as Jessica was forced to pause to catch her breath, "I take it you're doing better."

Jessica eyed him irately, but she still had to wait to speak until she could breathe. "No. I am not doing better. I'm in the fucking hospital at a mutant commune." There was clearly more to this, possibly an entire speech, but her breathing was still laboured, so she had to settle for glaring.

"Awake and swearing at me is an improvement from unconscious on a stretcher," the telepath pointed out with carefully calibrated blandness. He gestured to her room from his position in the doorway. "Can I come in? You can keep cursing me out."

"Oh, now you ask if you can come in," Jessica said, but she waved him in with one hand, rolling her eyes. "And an improvement for who? Not for me. Thanks a fucking lot."

Jim accepted the invitation and pulled up a chair a respectable distance from the young woman's bed. It served to grant her some personal space as well as kept him out of striking range.

"I am sorry I couldn't ask before I went in," said the telepath. He leaned forward on his knees, fingers laced. "When someone's in a situation like that there's no way of knowing if the answer I got would have been what you really wanted. So we get you back to baseline first, then work out where you want to go from there."

Jessica shifted uncomfortably - the only way she could shift - still watching him with ire lighting her eyes, undisguised by the impressively developing bruises down one side of her face. "That's a convenient reason to do whatever you want to whoever you want." Was that a mild recognition that she was being unfair, somewhere in her expression? Maybe, or maybe it was just the drugs; a pain pump sat next to her hip, not clutched in her hand, but in reach.

The telepath gave her a humorless smile. "Oh trust me, I know just how shitty it is. That's how I met Professor Xavier. But it did beat being locked in my own mind for another few years, so eventually it was a net gain."

"Yeah, sure," Jess said, unimpressed and unconvinced, "A nice long nap, who'd want that." She looked directly at him, eyebrows creasing. "Is that what happened to you? Your whole thing. With the - thing."

"You mean the fact it looks like someone ran me through a meat-grinder and then stitched me back together? Yeah, basically." Jim had thought about this and decided to give her the simplified version of events. A full explanation was too much for either of them, but he felt instinctively that he owed something to Jess. When you got down to it, she was right: he hadn't just gone into the most vulnerable parts of her mind, he'd taken a decision away from her. They weren't on equal footing. She needed something of her own to have.

"I have something called dissociative identity disorder," Jim explained. "Some people still call it multiple personality disorder. My powers didn't cause it, but my manifestation made it worse. I killed people. Because of my telepathy I felt them die when I did. I broke." He gave her a lopsided shrug. "I spent three years locked inside my own head. The professor had to break in and pull me out, and that was only possible after major repairs. My brain's basically jerry-rigged together."

The telepath glanced away, allowing a hint of real discomfort to enter his voice. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't spread that around, by the way," he said. "I don't like people seeing me like that."

"I have better things to talk about," Jessica snapped, defensive, one arm crossing her stomach protectively. She kept her eyes on him, though, when he looked away, mapping his real face with the pieced-together one. "It just - looked like it hurt, that's all." The phrase game recognizes game crossed her mind, irrelevantly.

"It did. But it turns out you can live through a lot, if you have to." Even, Jim did not add aloud, if you spent the entire procedure screaming. That wasn't her problem. He shook his head and met Jess' eyes again. "Anyway, that's my whole thing. Can I ask you some questions now?"

Jess regarded him flatly. "Depends on the questions," she said, wary.

"Don't worry, I just want to make sure your brain is working."

She stared at him, mouth dropping open. "Are you telling me there's a chance it's not?" she demanded.

That reaction got a more genuine smile. "Sorry, I'm messing with you. Actually I just wanted to see how everything feels. You also took a pretty good blow to the head, so there are some symptoms I'd expect to come from that, too, but Jean's keeping an eye on that aspect. How does thinking feel to you? What I mean is, do your thoughts feel sluggish, or do they seem to be skipping around, or anything else that seems unusual?"

Jess's shoulders relaxed back against the bed; lacking an opportunity to interject, she had to settle for glaring. "It feels . . . normal," she said grudgingly. "I mean, apart from the never-ending headache, I guess, and I'm sleeping a lot. And it's kind of been a while since, well."

"Right." Almost ten years of mind control without even the small mercy of being unaware of what she did under its influence. He didn't need to remind her of that; Jess was more aware than anyone. Jim simply nodded. "Both of those symptoms have equal odds of being from the traumatic brain injury, so flag Jean if it gets worse. I do want to warn you that there might be nightmares, especially as your body starts to recover. Things are still settling in there. If it gets bad you can either ask for me or she can give you some of the good drugs. Both strategies are valid."

From Jess's expression, it was clear that she did not agree that both of these strategies were valid; and the way she eyed him certainly suggested that she suspected he was straight-up trolling her, even if she couldn't prove it. "Great advice, thank you," she said insincerely, back on her preferred ground of not talking about the other thing. She added under her breath, "A full-service hippie commune, what the fuck."

"Think of it as free healthcare and three square meals a day without being required to listen to sermons." Jim tilted his head to catch her eye, trying to determine how to put this as circumspectly as possible.

"How clear are your memories of the first time you were here?"

Her withering gaze - designed to deflect any impromptu sermons Haller might have come up with - faded; her jaw worked mulishly. "I remember - pieces," she said finally, looking away. "Mostly out of fucking context, or backwards, or - I mean, I can't even fucking tell whether it's real, if I do remember it." Her eyes sharpened, moving back to him. "So, what. You're here to figure out whether I'm a threat?"

Jim looked at where Jess lay bruised and battered in her hospital bed and raised an eyebrow. "Right now I think I could take you," he said. "But no, I was thorough. There's nothing left in there that any of us needs to worry about, including you. But memories from that time especially might be fragmented because the entire experience was embedded in so much artificial structure. Some pieces went with it when I removed the remains."

She let out a breath, half relief and half something like hurt, quickly masked; but uncharacteristically, she stayed quiet, just watching him with half a frown.

They'd been bound to hit this block at some point. He'd been treading carefully, getting the sense that Jessica would immediately shut down in the presence of anything that could be remotely construed as pity; for some people, downplaying the magnitude of what they'd been through more bearable. Now, though, they were getting dangerously close to an area where she'd be forced to confront the experience directly. Jim decided not to push. It wasn't fair to do that to a person who was literally a captive audience.

"About all that," he said, "don't worry, we don't need to talk about it. But if you have any questions, or if there's anything on your mind, just ask. Any time."

Jess narrowed her eyes, but settled back after a moment, something obviously occurring to her. It still took her a moment to spit it out - and then, grudgingly. "is there . . . anything that can be, I don't know, done? To, I'm just throwing this out there, prevent - " She had to brace herself, jaw tight. " - the mind control. Or whatever."

A muscle in Jim's jaw worked. He'd hoped she wouldn't ask him that.

"No," he said with reluctance. "If that could be done, we'd do it for everyone. Even for psis there's nothing foolproof."

"Of fucking course not," Jess said, not surprised, but certainly not happy about it. She eyed him with clear disfavor. "You spend all that time putting people's brains back together, but an actual solution, of course not."

The telepath shook his head. "I'm sorry. We can teach you how to develop defenses of your own, but that's not a guarantee. I wish I had more."

"Oh, you're fucking sorry?" Her voice rose, sharpened, burst out. "You, the guy who gave me big speeches about being me again, endless fucking opportunities to find out what I want, but there's actually fucking nothing you can do to keep it from happening again? Fuck you." She had to stop; her breath was laboured, her face flushed and frustrated.

Jim didn't take the outburst personally -- she had a point, among other things. Still, he disliked not being able to give her more. "I didn't say that," he said, "but I also don't want to lie to you. We'll give you as much protection as we can, but there's a practical limit." But it wasn't fair, was it, a part of him said, to have brought her back but be able to give her no guarantee. And even teaching her to shield was going to be a daunting task; Kilgrave had been stripping her mind for years. What she had now wasn't so much defenses as scar tissue-

Wait . . .

"Fucking convenient of you not to mention that when - hey, asshole, are you even listening to me?"

"I am." Jim's focus turned back to the young woman. "There might be something we can do," he ventured. "It's not something I've ever tried before, but in your case . . . the psychic influence was losing efficacy on you. Your mind was starting to push back. Like an immune system that recognizes an infection, even if it can't fully shake it."

Jess stared at him, momentum thoroughly lost. "Yeah, that's why I was basically losing my mind. You were there. Kind of."

Actually it had been more a matter of her brain eroding under years of an outside influence twisting it out of shape -- and to the point it was honestly astonishing she'd survived at all, at that -- but Jim didn't see that as a productive contribution to the conversation. Instead he continued to trace his line of thought. "Sort of," he allowed. "Either way, your mind has had enough exposure to that specific influence that it recognizes it. I still don't think I can fully block it, but it might be possible to augment your pre-existing reaction."

She squinted at him, not only completely thrown off her tirade but also now confused. "Care to explain that in a way that actually explains it?"

"It would be a physical reaction," Jim said, working his way into the explanation as he was constructing the procedure in his own mind. "Something in addition to shields. Basically, I could tweak your sensitivity to that influence enough that you'd be able to feel if it was trying to get into your head again, help you separate what you're thinking from what you're being made to think. It's not perfect, but it would mean you can't be taken by surprise again."

Jessica stared at him, taken aback. Her hands, relaxing minutely from almost-fists, twisted uncertainly. "Like an - early warning system, or something," she ventured cautiously. "What do you mean by 'physical'?"

The telepath frowned, considering this. "A headache," he concluded. "I think pain is the only thing I can route it through that'll be obvious enough to get your attention and sharp enough to cut through the suggestions. And when I say headache I don't mean a little sinus pressure, either -- if I do this, the harder you're pushed the more it's going to hurt." Jim ran a hand through his stiff, dark hair, brows still creased in thought. "Yeah. I could make that work. It's not perfect, but it'd buy you time."

"That . . . could help," Jess said, the tension in her body shifting subtly - not dissipating, just moving to her shoulders, her mouth. "And this wouldn't screw up my head. Beyond the usual."

This brought a hint of a smile. "No. Just make it want some tylenol." Jim's body language relaxed in response to the change in Jessica's, mirroring her. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I would need to go back into your mind to set it up, and I don't want to oversell it. It wouldn't work against every type of interference, just -- that one."

"That's . . . not nothing," she said, not grudging this time, just tired and a little abstract, as though she was running what he said through her mind. With effort, she pulled herself back, meeting his eyes. "It could help." Still wary, she added, "And you wouldn't have to do - anything else, or whatever."

"No, this is just setting up a reflex. No deep work, no memories." He stopped, thinking about what it meant that she was willing to accept this offer, and what she might need to get through it. "I usually do this kind of thing while people are asleep, but if you want, you can be awake for it."

"Awake," she said immediately, too quickly, not needing to think about it. She swallowed, tension standing out in the tendons in her neck, the shallow breaths, her hands curling in her lap. "I'd rather be awake."

"Okay. Now?"

She pressed her lips together, then nodded. "Just tell me when it's going to hurt."

The telepath's lips twitched in a slight smile. "No pain this time, either. But I do need to ask for a favor. Would it be okay if I held your hand? Not in a cute way, it's just that without physical contact my focus is weak with strangers, and this is going to take some concentration."

The look Jessica gave him was complex - not just suspicious, or afraid, or confused, but all three at once. Her jaw moved slightly, and it was only after a long moment that she held out her hand.

Jim nodded and pulled his chair to her bedside. He reached out for her hand, then stopped. Instead, he rested his own on the bed beside her.

"Here -- just put your hand over mine," he said. He gave her another smile. "If you don't like what's happening, just break my wrist."

She gave him an incredulous look, but just muttered, "Don't think I won't." Then she took her hand, and, with only a little hesitation, fingers stretching forward and then pulling back, placed it over his.

He only smiled. "Do what you have to do," he said. The telepath settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"I trust you."