xp_logs | Warren, Haller: Glad you're not dead

xp_legion posting in

Warren and a newly-recovered Haller share a moment of genuine sincerity. ...But not too much.

It was easy to tell who was in the kitchen because the aroma was, as always, incredible.

Jim took personal inventory before engaging. Did the other man deserve this courtesy? Without a doubt. Was he, David Haller, emotionally and mentally prepared for the interaction? Outlook unclear, ask again later.

On the other hand, dodging one of his most devoted visitors now that he was conscious and coherent was a shitty thing to do. Jim decided to take the chance.

He just had to make sure his shields were prepared. He wasn't sure he could handle the unvarnished truth of Warren Worthington III.

"Hey, Warren."

Warren shushed Haller. He was in the process of doing the designs on his sourdough and wanted it to look perfect. It was the holidays so a leaf motif would be slightly gauche. He thought he'd try mistletoe but creating a circular cut on the top? Difficult at best.

So he focused, tongue peeking out just a little, squinting even (he'd definitely do an eye mask tonight to compensate) and when it was just right, he lightly brushed it with a touch of milk and put it in the oven before finally turning around to give Haller a greeting back. Warren pointed to the table.

"Fresh baguettes and butter. I churned it myself. I have amazing wrist muscles. Sourdough will be another 20."

"Oh. Okay." Jim wondered, briefly, whether he had already spoken to Warren since waking up. It was possible; even had his mind been operating at 100% he hadn't necessarily been the one doing the talking.

On the other hand, this was also Warren. He took a seat and waited.

Warren put his hands on his hips, and inspected Haller for unknown reasons before giving a nod. "Well you look alive now. You're welcome. I made sure to moisturize you daily. Coma patients never come out looking good and that was not going to be allowed for you."

"Thanks," said Jim's mouth even as his brain tried to delete the last two sentences before they could hit permanent memory storage. Until Warren had invoked that daily ritual Jim hadn't even recalled it, and he was very much hoping to return to that reality.

Warren beamed. "You are very welcome. Skin care is important, as is lip care. A good lip scrub will really help your game, you know."

He reached for a baguette and tore a hunk off of it. "I read you the newspaper every day. Did any of it sink in? Oh and I used you like those octopuses -- octopi -- that predict soccer games only I got you to pick stocks. I owe you like $20 grand so I bought you a tiny little cabin in Maine in case you want to be comatose again."

"How . . . how does that work?" Jim asked, unable to stop himself. After all the post-operative confusion there was something almost comforting about struggling to follow Warren's train of thought. This was only social brain damage, not actual brain damage.

"Hmm? Oh, simple. I would put them down on a sheet, lift your hands and the one that actually hit the piece of paper first, I'd invest. You had like a 60% success rate actually. It was great."

For one wild moment Jim wondered if Arthur's luck powers and predictive psychometry might actually work in this context, immediately followed by the knowledge that he should never, ever voice this question around Warren.

"Well," he said, "I appreciate your attempts at enrichment. I'm not sure I'd call it boring, I wasn't exactly conscious, but when you're like that it . . . everything lacks definition. You can't engage. Things just happen around you. So being talked to . . ." Jim shook his head. "It helped. Thanks."

Warren almost never was told he was helpful. Just hearing the words froze the man and he blinked at Haller a few times before giving him an actual, genuine smile. One of those smiles that very few people ever got to see.

"You're welcome, Haller," he said happily. "I'm glad you're not dead."

Jim stared, taken off-guard by an expression of actual sincerity. It wasn't something he'd ever expected to see from Warren. He honestly hadn't been sure his words ever penetrated deep enough to have much of an effect one way or another. Seeing evidence to the contrary was strangely affecting. The smile he returned was just as warm.

"Thanks," Jim said. "Me too."

He blinked.

"Wait, were you serious about the cabin?"

"Yes! And I'm 80% positive no one has been murdered there. You're going to love it, I have pictures," Warren said reaching into his pocket.

"It's rustic cottage-core. With indoor plumbing. I splurged."

Jim felt his eyes already starting to glaze over as Warren paged through the listing photos. Discussion of something that sounded ominously like a property tax rate began to creep into the conversation.

Never mind.