xp_logs | Collective Soul | Lingering Problems

Shatterstar has a chance to give Arthur the gift he promised before the break, but finds that Arthur is not in a good place with his spiraling powers.

Shatterstar didn't realize how passive aggressive the message he and Benjamin had sent to Arthur before Christmas was, but had genuinely meant the sentiment behind wanting to give Arthur a gift in turn. He had dug through the belongings he had left in Boston to find it and wrapped it carefully in tissue paper. Shatterstar had more or less chased the older man down to find him.

"Arthur. Your Christmas gift," he said, presenting the small package to him.

The older man studied Shatterstar curiously. It wasn't his usual good natured enthusiasm, but almost as if the blonde was holding himself back. His smile seemed tired. Shatterstar had caught him, though, and he shifted on his feet like a cornered thing not wanting to upset or break anything he touched. Yesterday his powers were what he was used to. Today, they were worse.

"Shatterstar," hell even Arthur's voice was tired, "That's so incredibly considerate. Did you get the gift I had sent to your suite?"

He did not reach out for the present.

Shatterstar nodded multiple times in a row in enthusiasm, even if his face stayed straight as he did. The gift has been generous, too generous really. He had hung the bandolier that, if he was not mistaken, was a genuine movie prop, on his wall and had spent almost half an hour just watching the iridescence of the throwing knives catch the light.

"I haven't had a chance to use them yet. Funnily enough, you and Haller both got me knives," he said, trying not to think too hard about Arthur's tired eyes. There must be a lot to have been done immediately after the destruction of the mansion the night before he left for Boston.

He placed the small package on a side table next to a vase of dried flowers. "Thank you so much."

"Well then it is excellent you have that bandolier now, huh?" It was a question that delivered a laugh, as if Arthur didn't realize someone wouldn't use an object for its intended permanent use. Then again, he was also a man who only kept tiny mementos of his memories after his entire life had been once torn apart. He barrelled forward.

"I'll have to take a look at Haller's knives. Did he get you ones balanced for full spin? Or just kunai? Ooh, we could do butterfly knives. Those are always fun."

Throughout that train of thought and some more additional musings, Arthur's eyes kept traveling over to the box on the table. He even tried tentatively reaching out before remembering himself and drawing back.

It was this that finally tipped the scales.

Surrendering the mystery, he held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. "I'm being unfair. I want to see what's inside that box more than anything right now, but I'm having power issues."

Shatterstar's eyes followed Arthur's eyes and hands as he spoke. "I'd have to make sure both sets fit without slipping. And the ones Haller got are just kunai — no spin."

He had been willing to accept that perhaps Arthur had just been private about opening gifts, or found it embarrassing to get a gift from a fan but... "Wait," Shatterstar said, suddenly putting two and two together. "If you're having power troubles... You didn't mean to leave that memory for me to find?"

A surge of frustration rose for a moment — he had accepted by now that Arthur hadn't meant to give the image of Rita to him in any malicious intent, but it hurt in a different way to think he didn't mean to give it at all.

"What?" The look on Arthur's face slid from guilty, to confused, and settled on blank resignation. Like he already knew.

"I touched one of your knives — which maybe I shouldn't have, apologies — and I experienced a memory from you. Or your memory. Of," here Shatterstar paused, deciding if he would call her his mother or not. "Of Ricochet Rita."

Arthur was staring at his fingers incredulously. His eye contact with Shatterstar had broken at the word "memory," and he couldn't find his way back to looking at the youth directly. "Rita. I think of her all the time, you know. She was one of the first things they took back... when. Back before Nevada. They claimed it was bad for the brand."

The tiredness sagged on the man, dragging him down like a weight.

"Honesty. I said we’d be honest with each other.” Even if he’d never made that promise aloud.

“Shatterstar, I don't know what's happening. My ability to see the past has grown over the last month like that one lipsticked plant from Little Shop of Horrors. This is only the second time I've heard that I'm putting memories on the things I touch. If I could do this on purpose, well, " he laughed a little, "I wouldn't be like this. I'd happily share everything I have left of her with you."

Shatterstar didn't know what exactly Arthur meant by Rita being the first thing taken from him, but he had his own suspicions about Major Domo Industries — conspiracy theories it seemed rude to question Arthur about. While he didn't know the details, or need to know them, the idea of them separating Arthur and his mother made perfect sense, especially if Arthur was — (but no, that was the remnants of childhood wishful thinking).

He moved like he was going to awkwardly pat the man, but instead tugged one of his braids. Who knew with how out of it Arthur's powers were being touched, even through clothes, would affect him.

"I — thank you," he said and looked at the package again. "I wanted to give you something of her too."

"Oh, to hell with it." Arthur suddenly had the box in his hand, and was pleasantly surprised to find that there wasn't a backlash of memories connected to wrapping paper. He took his time unwrapping it like he was planning on saving the emotionally uncomplicated paper for later.

But, then. There she was.

The picture was in an old black frame, a lens flare in one corner, but the image was Rita, looking exhausted but smiling. She had bangs, unlike in Arthur's memory and she had a little more baby weight, but it was Rita- unmistakeable Rita. The same dimples in her cheeks and in her chin. The same cocky look. She was winking at the camera with an easy smile, one hand gesturing like she was shooting the camera. Her other hand was occupied by holding a bundle of baby, still with the hospital blanket around it.

It was their — Benjamin and Shatterstar's — favorite picture they had of the two of them. They wouldn't have given it to Arthur if there weren't two copies. (There were so few pictures of Rita and her baby. She'd been the one taking most of the baby pictures, after all).

"I always liked her smile in it."

"Rita," Arthur's words were barely a breath, and he couldn't help but reach out. He didn't touch the frame. The intent, though? The action had been enough. The room lit with his power, a starburst of golden light.

An empty apartment. It wasn't due to a lack of people — there were signs of life everywhere. Cups on the table. The sounds of a television in the background.

It was filled with a profound feeling of loneliness. A weight like being a familiar stranger. The sense of being a permanent guest.

There was a muffled man's voice —

Arthur recoiled back, and the vision died. His expression implied that he was still there.

"You made this for me," he couldn't keep the emotion from his tone, "Oh, Shatterstar. I've felt alone too."

His whole body tensed uncomfortably at the comment. "It's — it's nothing. I wanted you to have it." It hadn't been his copy of the photograph. He hadn't thought Arthur would be able to read it, especially without touching it. Then, Arthur had just said his powers were wonky.

The older man slumped, and he visibly withdrew into himself.

"Thank you for the thoughtful gift," he replied, sounding even more tired than before, "I do appreciate it, but I have someone I need to find. I'm going to fix this."

Shatterstar nodded, not wanting to press. Arthur looked too... Un-Arthur and Shatterstar didn't know how to comfort him. He didn't even know if it was his place. "If you..." He began, trailing off. "I can bring it to your suite for you. So you don't have to touch it."

This offer did crack the gloom just a little. Still, Arthur shook his head.

"I have to do this part by myself, but I would love your company." Wincing a little, he picked the box and there was no explosion of light. He tried to smile more. "Walk with me?"

"Of course," Shatterstar said, moving to stand next to Arthur like he was his sworn knight. "Always."

***

Arthur, exhausted and frazzled by his psychometry, seeks out Haller for a path forward. Felix facilitates.

The crunch of boots against frozen ground stopped.

"You're seeing what now?"

Felix drew up beside the two men, tail wagging with what was either concern at the sudden cessation of their walk or cautious hope that this may be the start of a brand new game. Jim automatically brushed his fingers against the top of the golden's head as he rubbed past his leg as he frowned at Arthur.

Arthur couldn't meet his friend's eyes. He buried his own, still gloved, hands as deep into his pockets as physically possible. "Jim, I don't know," and he was like a man trying to fold into himself, "I can't turn it off. I'm seeing and feeling everything around me. The gloves don't work, mindfulness isn't doing what it should, and I know from at least two people that I'm leaving my memories on the things I do touch."

He paused, considering. "One and a half. Shatterstar, though. He got a vision of his mother that only I could have shared. He thought I did it on purpose."

"I'm sorry." It wasn't much, but it was the first response Jim had. For the hopelessness of the situation. For the guilt Arthur must surely have felt. And, for Jim's part, for the sick knowledge that he was almost certainly not going to be able to offer his friend the answers he needed.

"You got yourself checked out, right?" the telepath asked after a moment. "There's nothing you might've come into contact with because of Radha?"

"It isn't the luck." That statement came so fast it was like Arthur had been practicing. He sighed heavily. "I haven't made a lucksnap in years. Just... this. The medlab said I'm fine. They ran their tests, and everything came back roses."

"So just the one aspect. Okay, that's good. That means whatever's going on with your powers isn't global." It sounded like cold comfort, but in fact it might have been the best news about this. Unchecked probability manipulation could easily have turned into something lethal . . . and probably not for Arthur.

"Okay. Let me think." Jim pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up, trying to direct the smoke away from both Arthur and Felix, a good boy that didn't deserve to spend the rest of the day smelling like an ashtray just because Jim needed something to do with his hands. He took a deep drag. "Okay. Contributing factors. Do the readings seem to increase if you're exhausted? Stressed? Have you noticed them worse at any particular times -- late at night versus first thing in the morning, for example?"

"I have to be focusing," Arthur guessed. "I've been making a list of clues. Leads. Quentin said I should treat this like a case, so I've been looking for patterns. Is it ironic that I can't just empty my head completely? I never really got that concept, but rain on a wedding day and all that."

He dug around in his too large pockets before offering a phone over to Jim. The list.

The telepath gave the screen a quick once-over. Nothing jumped out at him -- stress obviously exacerbated it, and of course the very fact this was happening at all meant the stress was constantly compounding. Yet so did focus, oddly enough, as if turning his attention towards something else triggered a corresponding reaction.

"It's hard to empty your head when the world keeps dumping new information into it," Jim remarked with the certainty of a man all too familiar with that particular problem. He passed the phone back to Arthur and took another drag.

"Okay. Possible causes. This is a new power for you, and this spike started after you started actively engaging it for the case at Haven. You've been strengthening it like a muscle. Reading without touching and imbuing memories could be a further development of it as you start testing its limits. It's obviously not ideal, but it took you a while to get the hang of the initial manifestation, too. You've been able to do this for, what . . . less than twelve months? Most psionic powers take years to learn how to manage."

This earned Jim the most disappointed frown.

"I don't want to imbue objects with memories," was delivered exactly like a 12 year old might complain about eating vegetables, pout and all.

Jim made a face around his cigarette. "I'd like to be able to stop using Ubers because I almost drove into a tree the first time my shields cut out on me, but I can't rush that, either." He exhaled smoke through his nose and gave his head a shake. "There are some things you could try to improve your odds. Would you be open to trying medication? This is a pretty stressful situation, and I can tell you from experience that stress feeds into the power flares. It's a self-perpetuating cycle. Sometimes things like antidepressants can help you break out of it, or at least make it feel manageable again. I've been on maintenance medications for years with the odd addition as needed for crisis situations, but I know it's not for everyone."

"I'm not —" Arthur cut himself off there. His mouth moved around the words, but nothing came out. He squatted down to give Felix a good, thorough pat as his face crumbled in consternation.

"Jim. I trust you. If you think they'll help, I will try them. I just hate the idea of anything that will make me less... me. I've built up so many walls in my head that I'm not sure what's hiding in there anymore. I can't give any of that to anyone else."

Jim nodded. "I don't do psychopharmacology, but a few of the doctors at Muir do. There are different classes. With you I'd guess more low-dose antidepressants rather than anything with an effect that might twig as invasive -- anti-anxiety medications, for example, are PRN and very noticeable. We want something gentle that only operates in the background until you get a handle on things again." Jim waved his cigarette to the interest of Felix, who seemed to briefly wonder whether it was about to become an implement of fetch. "The goal is not to bury what you're feeling, especially not when you're dealing with power issues. You should never feel like someone you aren't. We just want to treat the symptoms so you can be who you are again."

This got Arthur's attention, and the blank expression on his face was like someone staring across a vast abyss. Flat eyes met Haller's own. "I have spent a year putting other people into my head. All of those feelings, those thoughts. They don't go anywhere if I don't bury them. What happens when I touch something that's even worse?"

"We figure something out," Jim replied firmly. "I found a technique that worked for Adrienne, I can find one for you, too. And if not me, then one of the other telepaths. Every mutation has something that needs to be worked around. This is no different than finding the right balance for your luck."

There was a disconnect between the disbelieving stare on Arthur's face and the words that came out of mouth. Like mismatched movie audio.

"I knew you could help me, Jim. Things will go back to normal, or we'll make a new one."

"We will." Unlike Arthur, Jim's words and expression were in perfect synchronicity. He dropped the cigarette, ground it into the frozen dirt to extinguish it, and then gathered the crushed remains of the butt to take back with him. He stared at Arthur as he pinched the cooling stub between his fingers. "Look, I've had my powers for over half my life, and I'm having more problems with my telepathy now than I did when I was a teenager. It happens. Through time, or injury, or evolution. That lack of control is terrible, I know -- trust me -- but you're not alone here. We'll get you through it."

Arthur pulled himself back together. First to his feet, then next his posture straightened back to cool youth pastor action hero, and finally his smile spread to erase any hint he'd ever engage with a single thought.

"Promise?" It wasn't really a question, but a vow.

"Promise." Jim curled the cigarette butt between his fingers and extended a fist. "Bump on it."

Two fists met in the cold winter air. A promise.