Haller, Arthur | Cliff's Edge of Muir

[xp_longshot]

After Sooraya and Arthur land at Muir and exchange initial pleasantries, Arthur goes to find Haller out near the cliffs. Their conversation doesn’t stay on script.



If there was one thing that could be said of Muir Island, it was that it knew how to do dramatic views. Even after all these years Jim still marveled that there was not a single location on the island that was anything but picturesque. More than that, though, it was isolated. Crashing waves, chattering gulls, and salt-heavy air: all grounding, sensory details that made it easy to clear one's mind and simply be.

The end of his cigarette glowed in a sudden sharp gust of northern air. Gathering the collar of his coat close against the wind with one hand, Jim closed his eyes and took another drag.

"Ahem."

It wasn't until the very end of that drag until the figure standing just just enough behind him decided to interrupt.

It wasn’t even a proper clearing of the throat, either. He had actually said the word. Still, it was hard to tell how long Arthur Centino had been standing there. Waiting. The politely smiling man’s natural talent for appearing at ease made it seem like he belonged here on Muir, on this stage, like he was written for the part. Dramatically lit with his hands in his pockets, the usually rough, rushing wind made an exception to only gently blow his hair and peacoat behind him like this was, instead, something on the BBC.

He held up a finger. Timing, especially in these moments, was key. Arthur took a long, appreciative inhale through his nose before turning his full attention onto Jim and the scene before him.

"You know," he began, "convalescence sure is a funny word."

Jim choked.

"Arthur?" he gasped once the hacking cough had been downgraded to merely streaming eyes. Like a student seeing a teacher outside of school, Jim was having serious difficulty processing the man's presence on Muir. Moreover, conventional flights between NYC and Edinburgh were at least seven hours, and that wasn't even taking into account the four hour time difference. The fact Arthur Centino was currently standing before him, looking every bit the perpetual morning person he was while Jim had "been thinking about" shaving for the last five days, briefly made the telepath wonder if he'd advanced to manifesting people besides those living inside his own head.

"It's mostly a thing in period dramas, I think," Arthur continued with his own train of thought — although the look on the man's face could have said any number of other things, namely 'Who else?' or 'Of course it is me' or 'You're the telepath here, Jim.' He turned, contemplatively, to stare out over the sea like the figure from some romantic painting. Did the man have a bad angle? Did probability manipulation mean one never had any bad hair days, or did they steal them from someone else? "You know," he said without any worry about the mechanics of any of that, "something rich nobles or Victorian people do to escape to the countryside. I just never guessed the 'con' part might be literal."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Never overburdened by melanin even outside of spending several heavily overcast weeks on Muir, Jim was suddenly grateful for the recent lack of executive function. Maybe the stubble would disguise the uncomfortably guilty heat in his cheeks. The telepath tossed away the cigarette and pulled his collar closer. "Working things out at the mansion wasn't practical. Charles knows me, and Muir has better facilities for powers issues."

"Muir is lovely," Arthur conceded. "Moira and your father were very welcoming. Happy to see us, even. In fact, everyone here has been very happy to share how delighted they are that you have friends. It doesn't take a detective, or just an interviewer, to put together this puzzle." His eyes narrowed as he sighed. "Charles knows exactly how you're doing, but he's either too polite or too British — honestly, hard to tell what's happening with that accent — to say anything."

"But not Moira, I bet." Charles rarely challenged his son's decisions. Jim suspected it might have been a form of overcompensation for all the years he'd been so heavily involved in David's care without revealing the exact nature of their relationship. Moira, on the other hand, had honored his parents' secrecy only under protest. She had never been anything but forthright in the years they'd known each other, and had no such compunctions when it came to making her opinions known.

Jim dragged a hand through hair which, unlike Arthur's, was responding to the wind not with picturesque drama but increasing hostility. "I'm not ready yet," he said wearily. "I'm not actively leaking anymore, but I want to be solid before I go back."

"Oh, well then. If that's all." Arthur dug his hands into his pockets, but his eyes weren't all that convinced. Still, he made an exaggerated show of turning away. This lasted as long as the drama was worth — which is to say, he didn't even fully pivot. "Just, though, let's pretend I can't read minds. Who gets to decide what solid means?"

"I do," Jim snapped, knowing even as he said it that it was sharper than Arthur deserved. For a start, it wasn't Arthur who'd been leaving someone on read for a month. The younger man winced and dropped his hand. "Sorry. What I mean is, I know my powers best. Or thought I did. After what happened it wouldn't be responsible to go back until I'm sure I've got a handle on the problem. I have to think about more people than just myself here."

Arthur considered, settling back into his typical, unhurried posture. Yet there was a tension upsetting his usual effervescence. Something off with the vibes. "So, if I've got this right," and he was frowning, that was the difference, "you've been too busy considering everyone else in your being heroically alone to consider what you might mean to the people who miss you. Jim, you didn't even say goodbye," to me, left unsaid, "and it hurt."

Suddenly Jim's mouth was dry. It seemed nothing was quite as desiccating as guilt.

"I'm sorry." The telepath forced himself to meet Arthur's eyes. "When Jean told me I was causing it I just — I couldn't be there. David got sc . . ." Jim felt a familiar twinge between his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, pausing to sort out who was feeling what. He shook his head. "I panicked. Jack picked up the slack. Like he always does."

"So you ran away. You left."

Jim felt a pulse of irrational anger. "Yeah. I did. What was I supposed to do, stay there poisoning the mansion?" He laughed, bitterly. "I still can't believe I spent the whole time trying to help you figure out what was going on with your powers. How fucked is that? Of course I couldn't help. I was the cause."

His heart rate was going down a little. Jim took a deep breath and met Arthur's gaze again.

"I just wanted to stop hurting you," he said.

"You weren — " Arthur caught himself there and his frown tightened into a thin line. "It wasn't — " Another false start, and his hands tightened into white-knuckled fists. He stepped forward to close the distance between them. "I would have happily choked on that poison if it meant I could have helped you."

He took a deep breath and turned away. "You didn't have to be alone," was added softly. "You don't have to be now."

The wind was picking up again, but that wasn't why Jim's eyes stung. In all the years he'd spent helping others only a handful had ever thought to offer it in return. It ran through his excuses and bled them dry.

"Thanks." The word was insufficient, but it was all he had. Jim looked away, blinking back the brightness in his eyes. "I'm . . . I should have said something to you first. And I'm sorry I dodged your calls. You didn't deserve that. It was my problem, and I made it yours."

Arthur's attention snapped straight back to Haller with a glare of unfiltered disapproval. "Don't be sorry. Come home."

Jim hesitated. Arthur's insinuations had been right: his shields were fine. Jim had always been a fast learner, and fear was a powerful motivator. Even the handicap of working within a psi-dampening room for the first several days hadn't slowed him down. Plus, Shatterstar was back at the mansion. While the boy hadn’t said it outright Jim knew he’d been shaken by his experience in Arcade’s facility. Shatterstar wanted him home, too.

But . . .

"I have to think about it," he said with reluctance. He dropped his eyes as he scuffed his feet against the stony ground, feigning a need to warm himself so he could avoid Arthur's expression. "It's not just about containing the power leak. I can't work until I know I have everything under control. Until then I'm not going to be much use."

Arthur opened his mouth to answer. Nothing came out. His face hung between expressions, and if he was staring blankly at Haller it was only because he was trying to sort through exactly what had just been said.

"You know," was what he settled on with a hint of resignation. A stalling phrase. The vibes were still off, even though Arthur was no longer strictly frowning. "I had this whole speech prepared. A real show stopper. All about what you mean to people, the difference you make to Shatterstar, Jess, Warren, Jean, Scott, Sooraya. Those eighty people at Haven. The list goes on. And then . . . me." He took a steadying breath. "But then you go and say something like that." A twitch in what should have been his unshakably untroubled expression or the sudden heaviness in his eyes unveiled the real truth: he was disappointed.

Arthur pointed, finger a breath from Haller's chest. A hovering accusation. "You," and his eyes sharpened as he laid into it, "are a coward. We — I — don't need you to 'work' or 'be of much use.' All of this talk about responsibility and selfishness, Jim.” A steadying pause. “I just know I'm better when you're in the same room. I've missed you — not what you do. That's why I'm here. You took care of me, let me take care of you."

It was a genuine offer. Jim knew that even without telepathy. Why, then, did it feel like someone had punched him hard enough to knock the world off-center? Everything was taking on that too-sharp, unreal quality that meant he was starting to lose his grip. The old mantra rose in his mind — What are you feeling? Why are you feeling it? — as his hands curled into fists. He tried to concentrate on the sensation of nails digging into palms, little points of pain to orient him like a lighthouse in the fog, but still he could feel himself slipping.

What are you feeling? Why are you feeling it?

He didn't know. Differentiating one emotion from the other felt like trying to identify individual rocks from beneath the bottom of an avalanche. Still, there was one thing Jim and Arthur could agree on.

"You are a coward."

Slowly, Jim's fists uncurled. "I need to step away," he said in the distant tones of something decided upon by the brain without passing through the heart. With some effort, he managed to focus on Arthur's face. "I'm not here right now. I need to think."

Their eyes locked, and the blond man's anger and disappointment crumbled in upon itself, leaving only concern and his own exhaustion.

"I'm not going anywhere," Arthur promised gently.

Jim gave him a wordless nod. The chattering of gulls now seemed muted. Dully, the telepath dropped his eyes to inspect his hand. White curls of skin had been gouged from the meat of his palm. At some point the sting had stopped registering. He dragged his eyes up again, heterochromatic gaze glassy.

"I'll be back later."

Arthur couldn't be sure if his attempt at a reassuring smile even registered as Haller turned to leave, but he stood that way, waiting, as the dark haired figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance. It wasn't until he was absolutely positive that Haller was close enough to the facility that he let himself break. His shoulders slouched without an audience. He dug his hands into pockets. Sometimes one played a stronger version of themself, and Arthur assured himself it wasn't a lie — a necessary, supporting role.

First, though, a text. It was Sooraya’s turn, and she would need what luck she could get.

Then Arthur turned to share his own melancholy with the cliffs and the sea.