xp_logs | Arthur, Haller: A decision

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Haller finds Arthur alone in one of Muir’s waiting rooms after his talk with Sooraya. They talk.

The man sat alone.

It was some hour past ten o'clock locally, but time had lost all meaning for Arthur Centino between the seven hour flight from New York City and the emotional toll of the day. He was out of practice with travel, and it was draped over him like a shroud.

The only true illumination in the room was the muted glow from the television as it showed some scene from Animal Planet involving a man in a broad hat valiantly wrestling a crocodile. The screen cast the darkened room in alternating swaths of color and shade. Its light revealed Arthur's face in slivers: strong jaw, symmetrical features, striking, light eyes; all familiar landmarks. He was still dressed in the button down he'd picked for the trip, just now less crisp and more sloppily unbuttoned.

Everyone else had gone to where they belonged. There was no one left to entertain.

He leaned forward in a plush armchair that was picked right out of some "how to furnish a temporary space for maximum, generic comfort" catalog, and absently watched the pixels on the large screen dance. Phantoms filled his skull: cliffs, castle ruins, dark, mismatched eyes, and plans falling apart in real time like a train derailing. They all faded into a vacant, expansive night. His eyes shined black, unblinking.

The lights came on.

Jim stood in the doorway of the common room, hand still on the lightswitch. While the telepath still looked tired his expression was no longer flat, and he had taken the trouble to shave. As the light revealed the blond's slouched posture and uncharacteristic lack of elan he hesitated.

"Um, the switch was over here," Jim said. "Sorry. Do you have a minute?"

It took a few blinks for Arthur to snap out his blank state, and he turned toward Haller like a flower leaning toward the sun. "Anytime," he offered without a second thought, natural as breathing, "but you already know I’m here just for you." His eyes twinkled. "Just don't let the kids know. I've convinced them I'm a traveling magician."

This brought a wan smile. "Aren't you?" Jim asked softly.

Now that got a quirk of the lips. "Excuse me," the blond brought a hand to his chest, "I am a performer dash psychic detective. Do not bill me as anything less."

The telepath snorted as he settled onto a nearby couch. "You do have an interesting resume," he conceded, although he knew the comment was only there to buy himself time for what he should really be saying. Jim took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he said after a moment. "Sometimes when I’m overwhelmed, I . . . disconnect. I don't feel, I don't process. It's like watching someone else talk for me. When it's really bad I can't always remember what I did afterwards." Jim halted again, damaged hands closed lightly against his thighs. "I left because I didn't want to talk to you while I wasn't there."

There was a creak of chair leg against hardwood as Arthur repositioned to more directly face Haller. He rested his elbows on his knees thoughtfully, closing the distance between them if only by hairs. The blond took in everything in sequence — even if he'd intuit it all at once — the flash of bandages on David's palms, a fresh knick from the shaving. The familiar scars on the skinny man's right arm. The uncomfortable tightness of his brow. Haller's components.

"Okay," he said, "That's good — help me understand. What do I learn for next time?"

Jim's laugh was rueful. "More like what should I learn. I'm still trying to work out exactly what triggered me. Sooraya and I were trying to unpick it." He flicked his eyes over to meet Arthur's before letting his odd-colored gaze fall again. "I don't . . . it's hard to get close to people. The mutant thing. The DID thing. Family stuff, before I even manifested. I think the mansion was the first time I really felt like I'd found people who understood. It was only a few, but it was more than I ever thought I'd have. I had people I could love. Then the Phoenix came and they . . . just like everyone else, they . . ."

The telepath stopped, took a breath. Once in, once out.

"I stopped being a person after that," he concluded, forcing his voice soft and level. "It was a long time before I came back from it. I almost didn’t. It was like living inside my own corpse. Letting myself get close to people did that. Now I panic when I even think about trying again.”

A moment of quiet silence stretched between the two, although at no point during that confession had Arthur's attention strayed. He sat, resolute and reassuring, and let the words wash between them. At the end, though, he couldn’t help but reach a hand out. A tentative gesture. A bridge.

"You take care of me, I take care of you," he offered carefully, "That's what I said out on the cliffs. What good of a promise would that be if I imagined it would be easy?"

The telepath stared at the other man's hand. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

"That's the thing. I can’t ask anyone to be there for me when I can’t be there for them, even if I want to be. Because of . . ." Jim gestured hopelessly to his head.

Hate. That was the word for it. He hated admitting this because it ran contrary to the mask he had so painstakingly crafted over the years. Modeling acceptance. Modeling recovery. Always okay, or, if not, working to get back there. There was no use being angry or ashamed about things he couldn't help. Clutch the edges of the image tightly enough, he hoped, and maybe he could push it into his own skin until it became the truth. Sometimes he thought it was.

Then something would happen, and the illusion would crumble in his hands.

"I'm stuck," he whispered. "No matter how much I try to move on I just can't get there." Jim squeezed his eyes shut, bandaged hands knotting in front of him. "The memories still feel fresh. What it's like for you when you read an object . . . for David, it's always like that. The past is always my present."

There was a slight squeeze against David's knotted hands matched with the warmth and soft texture of a familiar pair of gloves. Sometime during the course of Haller's explanation, Arthur had moved himself from the chair to suddenly be there, beside him. A bridge crossed.

"No, Jim, the thing is that I'm not asking," Arthur said, and he tried to temper this with a soft smile. His right eyebrow crept up as his head tilted by five degrees — puzzled, not disappointed. "You've already been there for me, and I'm the one who decides what I feel. You can't be lucky if you never take a chance."

He broke eye contact, attention drifting anywhere else, and his next words formed slowly. "I hate that you're stuck, I do, and if you need to stay here that's fine. I'll just convince Moira that she needs a permanent magician dash psychic detective dash performer on staff. Easy."

The contact brought connection — not the jarring intrusion of thoughts cutting through damaged shields, but the warm presence of a familiar mind against his. Through Arthur's touch Jim could feel the emotional top notes and all their expected traces: confusion, concern, and an exhaustion that mirrored his own.

But Arthur was never one to dwell on such things. His focus was on the now. More than anything else, Jim could feel the core of him: the will to turn the present towards the future he hoped for, and the optimism that the ideal could become reality. Always optimism, no matter how long the odds.

Shining like a star.

Jim laughed, soft and short. He leaned forward to press his forehead against Arthur's hands over his.

"It's okay," he managed. "Don't bother your agent. You and Sooraya win. I'll go back."

For a moment the telepath just stayed there, holding on the weight of Arthur's hands, breathing in the scent of him. Then, finally, he straightened and met Arthur's eyes.

"I missed you, too," Jim said.

Something in Arthur unclenched.

The earlier shroud had been clearing gradually, but it only took three words to pull him back to the surface completely. Caring could drown you, if you let it — but it could also be a buoy. He perked up with a smile, lifted his chin, and smiled with an almost defiant sort of joy.

"I thought I'd lost you," he whispered as he studied Haller with an appreciative fierceness. Past the component parts and instead toward the areas only recently charted: a landscape forged by love denied or lost, the expressions grown into that were a mirror of his father's, the kinder parts nurtured by Moira, and the grooves that had been defined by running from one inescapable tide to the next. Arthur looked at Haller like he was a miracle.

The blond's free hand drifted to rest on the other man's shoulder, cradling his neck. A stray finger slowly traced the line of Haller’s chin. There was a moment in the small space between them. Another chance. It passed.

"I don't miss the beard, though."

"You mean 'executive dysfunction' isn't my best look?" Jim snorted, reaching up to give the wrist at his shoulder a squeeze. He closed his eyes and let his head drop to touch his forehead to Arthur's, calm now. The warmth of Arthur's clarity still lingered in his thoughts like heat retained by stone long after the sun had set.

With a slow exhale, Jim opened his eyes again and leaned back.

"I should pack," he said. "What time's the flight?"

Arthur, withdrawing, self-consciously ran a hand over his own travel and stress-wrinkled clothing. He was in the middle of re-buttoning his dress shirt as he answered, "Depends. Sooraya talked you into coming back, right? I'm pretty sure I last saw Wilmer zoning out with some headphones upstairs, but she likely already has a plan. Sooraya's efficient, I'll give her that."

He paused. "Wilmer's our pilot, but his real passion is poetry."

This got a blink until Jim recalled the conversation with Sooraya. "Oh, right. Private jet." Sometimes he still had a hard time believing Warren was a real person. Reluctantly, Jim pushed himself off the sofa and extended a hand to Arthur to help him up. "Well, if we can set our own schedules we should probably get some sleep. And I promised Sooraya I'd check in with her one last time after I talked to you, anyway. I think she's worried I'll . . . actually, I'm not sure. Manage to talk myself out of going back so hard I develop a new personality, probably."

A clear laugh escaped from the blond as he settled on his feet, hair mussed and eyes bright. In that moment, he could have been laughter bottled into skin — ready to spill out of him at any turn. Renewed. "You're right. We both deserve a rest," he said, contrary to any of the energy he was giving off. He still hadn't released Haller's hand, and, if anything, their fingers were only intertwined tighter.

"Let's get to it, then," and Arthur still hadn't let go.