Collective Soul: An Awakening
Dec. 17th, 2023 02:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsAfter weeks lost and wandering, David Haller comes home.
"What h . . . happened?"
The question, more reflex than actual thought, came out in a croak. The tongue that tried to form it felt thick and clumsy. It had been a long time since it had been used for speech.
He had a vague sense that people had been talking around him at some point, but the room he woke to seemed empty. Only a single fluorescent light in the bathroom was lit. He tried to sit up only to flinch as his head swam with voices. Pressing his hands to the side of his head did nothing -- it wasn't his ears he was hearing with.
"What happened?" he repeated, beginning to feel the intent behind the question. He turned his head and felt something stiff flex against the side of his face and nose. Fumbling at his cheek, he found a thin tube had been threaded into one nostril and taped in place. The babble in his head made concentration a struggle.
Bed. Tubes. Sickness smells. Hospital smells. Familiar. This place, this waking . . . this was something that had happened a long time ago. Wasn't it?
Gripping the sides of the hospital bed, this time he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. It was an effort. As he bent over his knees to catch his breath he caught sight of his arms. They seemed too long, and almost skeletally thin. Disbelieving, he flexed his fingers, testing whether they were his.
A tremor ran through his body. Suddenly his lungs couldn't seem to catch a breath. He began to hyperventilate.
A hand rested on his shoulder, and one gentle word brushed against the edges of his mind. Breathe.
Outloud, "It's not like before. It's okay."
The dual touch brought a flinch of surprise, but the presence itself was familiar. He jerked his head towards the voice to find Charles beside him, blanket still folded across his lap. His wheelchair had been positioned off to the side to keep the area around his bed clear for medical staff. Even in the dim light he could see how tired the man looked.
"Professor?" he managed, struggling to orient himself. Before. That's right. He'd woken up like this before, a long, long time ago. It had been after the accident that had driven him into the black, and he'd woken up to find he'd lost . . . years . . .
"How long?" he burst out before the older man could say anything else. "How long was I -- has it--"
"A month," Charles assured him. "Just a month."
Just a month. Things were starting to come back to him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block the dysmorphia caused by what his eyes were telling him and focus on the weight of the hand on his shoulder. His body didn't feel right. He felt small, and weak, and young. Like a kid. But he hadn't been a kid in a long time.
Another jumble of thoughts pulsed through his brain. He winced, hands automatically flying to cover his ears.
"Something's wrong," he managed. "My telepathy. Why am I hearing things?"
"You suffered a massive telepathic trauma," Charles said. "It will take some time to heal. How much do you remember?"
"I think . . . it was Oregon. Quentin asked for help, so we went to Oregon. We were going to . . ." He paused, then abruptly lifted his head. "There was a plan. I said I could do it. Hope was going to carry us, but Quentin had to stay behind with Radha. Are they okay?"
"Ms. Abbott and Mr. Quire are fine. As far as we can tell, no one has suffered any long-term effects." Aside from you went unsaid.
"Good. That's, that's good." The knot in his chest loosened just a little. Someone had said . . . someone had said something about a choice, something that had shaped the decisions he'd made. He couldn't recall what, but he could remember what was important.
Nobody else had paid.
He swallowed hard, and asked the question he'd been afraid to ask.
"Professor, who am I? Can you tell me who's tuh . . . who's talking to you right now?"
At that, Charles smiled. "You're Jim. I'm speaking with Jim."
Jim. Suddenly he felt like he was finally able to get his feet back beneath him. This fragility, this disorientation -- he knew it now. He'd felt it before, after Charles had knit their psyches together to create Jim. It had passed. It would pass.
His eyes stung, and he realized that this question had been building long before he'd regained consciousness. It was a question he had been asking himself ever since Radha Dastoor had reached into his mind and collapsed his system as easily as pressing flowers in a book. Not a day had passed without the dread of wondering what might have been lost from that, or what would be left when it was finally undone.
But it was okay now. Because Jemail was strong, and David was steady, and they were Jim again. It would be okay.
A sob caught his throat, then another. The full force of what he'd been through boiled over, and Jim had nothing left to fight it. The last of his composure dissolved. Curling over his knees like a child, he began to cry.
"Charles, it was so bad," he choked. "I tried to hold on, but I could feel myself coming apart and -- and I -- dad, I couldn't stop it--"
Another, gentle telepathic touch reached out to brush Haller's mind, and a hand on his shoulder again, squeezing a little tighter, trying to be grounding. There wasn't much Charles could say at that moment - he had suffered through something horrific, something that had nearly broken him in a very real way. No amount of comforting words would make it better.
But there was intent behind the telepathic brush. Wordless comfort, an assurance, that while things may not be okay now, they would be. It wasn't his fault. And he would come back from this.
You're safe. You're home.
"What h . . . happened?"
The question, more reflex than actual thought, came out in a croak. The tongue that tried to form it felt thick and clumsy. It had been a long time since it had been used for speech.
He had a vague sense that people had been talking around him at some point, but the room he woke to seemed empty. Only a single fluorescent light in the bathroom was lit. He tried to sit up only to flinch as his head swam with voices. Pressing his hands to the side of his head did nothing -- it wasn't his ears he was hearing with.
"What happened?" he repeated, beginning to feel the intent behind the question. He turned his head and felt something stiff flex against the side of his face and nose. Fumbling at his cheek, he found a thin tube had been threaded into one nostril and taped in place. The babble in his head made concentration a struggle.
Bed. Tubes. Sickness smells. Hospital smells. Familiar. This place, this waking . . . this was something that had happened a long time ago. Wasn't it?
Gripping the sides of the hospital bed, this time he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. It was an effort. As he bent over his knees to catch his breath he caught sight of his arms. They seemed too long, and almost skeletally thin. Disbelieving, he flexed his fingers, testing whether they were his.
A tremor ran through his body. Suddenly his lungs couldn't seem to catch a breath. He began to hyperventilate.
A hand rested on his shoulder, and one gentle word brushed against the edges of his mind. Breathe.
Outloud, "It's not like before. It's okay."
The dual touch brought a flinch of surprise, but the presence itself was familiar. He jerked his head towards the voice to find Charles beside him, blanket still folded across his lap. His wheelchair had been positioned off to the side to keep the area around his bed clear for medical staff. Even in the dim light he could see how tired the man looked.
"Professor?" he managed, struggling to orient himself. Before. That's right. He'd woken up like this before, a long, long time ago. It had been after the accident that had driven him into the black, and he'd woken up to find he'd lost . . . years . . .
"How long?" he burst out before the older man could say anything else. "How long was I -- has it--"
"A month," Charles assured him. "Just a month."
Just a month. Things were starting to come back to him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block the dysmorphia caused by what his eyes were telling him and focus on the weight of the hand on his shoulder. His body didn't feel right. He felt small, and weak, and young. Like a kid. But he hadn't been a kid in a long time.
Another jumble of thoughts pulsed through his brain. He winced, hands automatically flying to cover his ears.
"Something's wrong," he managed. "My telepathy. Why am I hearing things?"
"You suffered a massive telepathic trauma," Charles said. "It will take some time to heal. How much do you remember?"
"I think . . . it was Oregon. Quentin asked for help, so we went to Oregon. We were going to . . ." He paused, then abruptly lifted his head. "There was a plan. I said I could do it. Hope was going to carry us, but Quentin had to stay behind with Radha. Are they okay?"
"Ms. Abbott and Mr. Quire are fine. As far as we can tell, no one has suffered any long-term effects." Aside from you went unsaid.
"Good. That's, that's good." The knot in his chest loosened just a little. Someone had said . . . someone had said something about a choice, something that had shaped the decisions he'd made. He couldn't recall what, but he could remember what was important.
Nobody else had paid.
He swallowed hard, and asked the question he'd been afraid to ask.
"Professor, who am I? Can you tell me who's tuh . . . who's talking to you right now?"
At that, Charles smiled. "You're Jim. I'm speaking with Jim."
Jim. Suddenly he felt like he was finally able to get his feet back beneath him. This fragility, this disorientation -- he knew it now. He'd felt it before, after Charles had knit their psyches together to create Jim. It had passed. It would pass.
His eyes stung, and he realized that this question had been building long before he'd regained consciousness. It was a question he had been asking himself ever since Radha Dastoor had reached into his mind and collapsed his system as easily as pressing flowers in a book. Not a day had passed without the dread of wondering what might have been lost from that, or what would be left when it was finally undone.
But it was okay now. Because Jemail was strong, and David was steady, and they were Jim again. It would be okay.
A sob caught his throat, then another. The full force of what he'd been through boiled over, and Jim had nothing left to fight it. The last of his composure dissolved. Curling over his knees like a child, he began to cry.
"Charles, it was so bad," he choked. "I tried to hold on, but I could feel myself coming apart and -- and I -- dad, I couldn't stop it--"
Another, gentle telepathic touch reached out to brush Haller's mind, and a hand on his shoulder again, squeezing a little tighter, trying to be grounding. There wasn't much Charles could say at that moment - he had suffered through something horrific, something that had nearly broken him in a very real way. No amount of comforting words would make it better.
But there was intent behind the telepathic brush. Wordless comfort, an assurance, that while things may not be okay now, they would be. It wasn't his fault. And he would come back from this.
You're safe. You're home.
