x_project | FIC: [Moira/Haller] Cyndi was restless

An unfortunate music video with Fergie and Haller's player base was linked to me today. Don't ask me to explain it. There were tattoos involved. Also a hat. It was upsetting and I don't want to talk about it. But anyway. The tattoo issue reminded me of yet another old, old writing exercise that proceeds the sixth entry of Five Against One.

The attending doctor was apologetic. "I'm sorry to wake you, Dr. MacTaggart. We found your card in his wallet, and given the nature of the incident . . ."

"Nay, ye did righ' t' call me." Moira glanced around the quiet ER. It was gone three in the morning, now. "Thank ye. Where is 'e?"

"We moved him to one of the private rooms." The doctor gestured her to follow him, handing her the chart as they walked. "He wouldn't let us give him anything for the pain, and under the circumstances we thought it best not to agitate him by insisting. Some of the burns are rather severe, particularly those on his forearm, but he wouldn't let us move him upstairs to the clean rooms, either." The man hesitated. "He told the on-call doctor how he incurred the injuries. Some of the staff are . . . concerned about what will happen when the shock wears off."

Moira nodded, not looking up from the chart. "Did 'e give ye 'is name?"

The doctor gave her a puzzled look. "Yes. David Haller. The same as his identification."

"'e'll nay be 'urtin' anyone else, then." She left it at that. She'd thought as much when the woman she'd spoken to over the phone had told her he'd come in on his own; none of the other personalities would have done that. Not knowing the hospital staff might connect David's burns with the incident in town.

The attending looked as though he would have appreciated some elaboration, but allowed her to drop the subject. "We've already completed the debriding. He was fortunate, all things considered. If you can convince him to let us start an IV and consider letting us take some tissue for skin-grafts, I think your place of sainthood will be assured." He stopped in front of a semi-darkened private room. "He's in here."

Moira nodded. "Thank ye. 'e should nay be agitated right now, so I'll see 'im alone, if ye do nay mind."

His expression indicated he might, but he seemed to realize now was not the time to challenge her expertise. Nodding in reply, he made his exit.

Moira waited for the other doctor to disappear around the corner before knocking briefly, then opened the door to enter. "Jim? Are ye a'righ'?"

He appeared not to notice the intrusion immediately, and when he did his mismatched eyes were slow in settling on her. "Moira?" Jim said thickly. "I think I set a club on fire." He paused. "I can't remember my last tetanus shot. Cyndi pierced our ear again."

Moira had been a doctor for too long and seen too many destructive mutations to show her alarm, but the boy looked . . . bad. Worse than he had in years. The ER had removed his shirt and cut off most of his jeans to clear the field, and even in the half-darkness of the room the burns stood out dark and angry -- his right arm had been elevated and immobilized to minimize contact. More shocking, though, were the contusions. His pale skin was mottled with bruises, a dozen or more, some larger than her fist and in various stages of healing. Face, extremities, torso . . . weeks upon weeks of trauma. As far as Moira was concerned, the angry reddened area around the three safety-pins stuck through his left ear was an afterthought.

Under her carefully controlled stare Jim's mismatched eyes fell away. "I couldn't let them give me anything," he said. He coughed and reached over to the tray at his bedside to retrieve a cup, took a swallow of water. "I can't hold it when I'm doped. It doesn't hurt right now. I'm keeping it down." Barely a beat, and then, in the same, inflectionless tone, "Did I kill anyone?"

David would have been crying at that, she thought. But then, Jim was harder than David had been. "Nay, lad. I checked. Only two were 'urt, an' them barely at tha'."

"Just me, then." The cup was replaced on the tray. He rolled his head to the side and closed his eyes. "Good."

"Jim . . ." she knew how painful this was going to be, but she had to say it. Now wasn't the time she would have chosen for this, but at the rate things were going later might be too late. "We need t' talk . . ."

"About me going back to Muir," he finished. He hadn't even opened his eyes. "I know."

Moira nodded, hating that it had come to this, hating that she had to be the one to ask. Five years, and she still saw Kevin's pain when she looked at him. "I know 'ow much it means for ye ta live on yer own out 'ere, but wit' all o' this an' some of the things Allen's been tellin' me . . ."

"I have to. I know. It's okay." Jim rolled his head back and folded his uninjured arm over his face. "I'm too dangerous."

Something about the utter desolation of those three words made her heart break. Moira pulled the visitors' chair around to his undamaged side. "Jim, what 'appened? Wha' set this off?"

"I don't know." His laughter rasped from the smoke inhalation. "I really don't. I came back and everything was on fire. Me included." He laughed again, a horrible, tight sound. "'Everything burns.' Thank you, Buddha. I'm fucked when I run down. This is going to hurt like hell."

It was still startling to hear that tone and language coming from a mouth that could seem so much like David's at times, but she'd learned to read the root of Jemail's sarcasm long ago. He's so afraid.

"'Ow long 'ave ye been 'avin' problems?" Moira asked. She knew Allen's thoughts on the matter, but the psychiatrist was still a relative stranger. Jim wasn't exactly open with strangers.

"A few months." The boy wouldn't lower his arm to look at her. "When we started being Jim it was better for a while. I thought that maybe it would be okay, because Jemail wasn't . . . like this. And even when it started coming back I thought we'd be all right, because I'm still stronger this way. I was doing better. I thought." He murmured, almost inaudibly, "'What we think, we become.'"

She recognized the self-calming technique; it was something he'd begun after his integration the previous year. It definitely had shades of David, and the subject matter bespoke Charles' influence. If he was using it now he must be more upset than he was showing. "Aye," Moira said softly. "Allen said ye'd made great progress at pullin' the number o' alters down."

"Too much." The unburned hand gathered into a fist. "They're getting so strong. Charles always said the TK would get more concentrated, but I didn't think it . . ." He stopped, and Moira didn't miss the tremor that shivered through his hand. "Jack cracked my rib with a table a few weeks ago. And then Monday he knocked out two of Allen's teeth in session. I knew I couldn't handle him yet, but I thought maybe Cyndi . . ."

Moira gently pulled Jim's hand away from his face and took it in both of her own. He didn't fight her. "Ye pushed for an integration?"

"Yeah." This time the laugh ended in something like a sob. "I forgot Cyndi doesn't like to be forced. I don't even remember switching out. I lost time. I haven't lost time since I was fourteen. Not like this."

"Shh. It's a'righ'." Moira disengaged one hand to stroke his hair. "Ye've 'ad setbacks before. Ye got o'er 'em, too."

Jim slowly shook his head under his arm. #I'm going to kill someone.# The touch of his mind filled her throat with the bitter rush of mingled horror and certainty. #It's not just tonight. I'm a threat to everyone around me. Me, too. You know it.#

"Aye." It was useless to argue with a telepath -- and anyway, their relationship had long passed the point of comforting lies. She held to what she knew to be true. "This is nay yer fault, Jim."

Again that slight, pained shake of the head. "I was stupid. I wasn't ready. I even knew I wasn't ready. I tried anyway. Now I only made it worse." His hand curled around hers, almost tight enough to hurt, but Moira's only response was to squeeze it in return.

"It was okay before," Jim continued, his voice carefully even. "David was okay. He was used to it. But he -- Jemail didn't know, and now he has to be the same way. We're not . . . handling it well. He . . . we couldn't . . . I can't be like this, I--" Jim moved their hands against his cheek, and she could feel his tears under her knuckles, "help me . . ."

Moira stroked his hair in silence, squeezing his hand while he wept. The clinical portion of her mind told her that he needed intravenous fluids, and quickly, but she made no move to disturb him. She understood why Charles and the two boys had done what they had done, and could even acknowledge it as the best choice of a bad lot, but there were times she couldn't help but hate the decision they'd made. It had saved both boys' lives, but in some ways it had also made things immeasurably worse. This merging wasn't like any that could have resulted from David's illness -- David and Jemail had been completely separate individuals, each with their own wounds in their short lives. Now Jim carried all theirs, and more.

There is no justice in this. She could no longer hold back tears of her own at the welling of pain for Kevin. 'Help me.' How many times had her own son begged that of her, by the end? He had been seven years old. Moira clasped Jim's hand fiercely in both of hers and let the tears come. Never enough. There will never be enough justice for this.

She didn't notice the contact immediately; it was subtle, and the pain in it sunk into her own. But Moira had worked with Charles for many years, and so when she realized what she was feeling she recognized the wordless offer of comfort for what it was.

For one disorienting moment she truly did not know how to respond. Jemail had never been the type to extend himself in this manner, and David had never been able. Jim, it seemed, was both.

Her confusion was met with a wan smile and a surge of gentle reassurance. His face was still pale in the semi-darkness, but the tears seemed to have stopped. #Integration wasn't all bad,# the young man teased gently, squeezing her hand. In spite of his earlier assurances, he was in pain; she could sense it like a gathering storm over the link. Considering how unnatural turning his telepathy outward was under the best of circumstances, the strain of maintaining this sort of contact must have been enormous. He noticed that thought, too.

#Still messed up,# Jim sent, moving to bring her knuckles to his lips, #but I'm stronger now. Like we said.# He dropped his hand to his chest, his grip loosening. #I hate just taking from everyone. You, and Charles . . .# A spasm passed over his face. #I can't stand it anymore.#

Moira laughed, wiping away her tears. "Ye silly. Ye take nothin' nay freely given."

"No, I don't." He turned his head away from her, into the darkness. "David took Jemail's life, and Jemail took his. Twice. Both of them."

Moira's heart twisted. He truly believed that. All of him. Still, and perhaps for always. "Aye, maybe," Moira murmured after a long moment. "But ye bot' paid it back ta t' ot'er, jus' as true."

The boy took a long, shuddering breath. She could see he still didn't believe it, but let the matter rest just the same. When he spoke again his voice had regained some semblance of normalcy. "I'll go back. To Muir. We'll go." He added, "I need a tattoo removed."

". . . Wha'?" Moira wasn't sure what was more startling: the incongruity of the statement or the mental image it presented.

"My back. Found it when I was trying to isolate the burns." His laugh was short and sharp. "I think I need help."

Moira smiled. "Ye only need t' ask it, lad." She leaned over to kiss him lightly on the forehead. His skin was feverish. The smell of smoke still clung to his hair. "Always."

"Thank you." It was soft, but sincerely meant. David was always polite, she thought. Jim lolled his head back to look at her, his mismatched eyes shadowed with pain. "I can't . . . I don't think I can hold it much longer. I'm so tired."

He wasn't talking about the pain. "It might be better if ye let yerself slip out for a bit," Moira said. "I know ye do nay like th' idea, but yer body needs ta recover. Ye'll come back from it when ye're well enough ta 'andle it." She ruffled his hair encouragingly. "Dinna worry. Jus' let me take care o' t'ings out 'ere."

She saw the muscle work in his jaw, a very Jemail mannerism that had carried over to Jim, and knew he was afraid. David's fears had never left him. Not entirely. The terror of slipping away into the dark, not to find his way back for days, years -- or not at all. It must be even worse for Jim, she realized. David had at least been able to rely on Jemail. Jim had only himself.

"You'll be here?" The question was almost too soft to be heard.

"Aye," Moira smiled, "I will. Ye can le' go, now."

He looked at her for a long moment, breathing deep and evenly to steady himself. Three breaths, four, and then he let go.

Slowly, every muscle going slack, every line of tension smoothing from his face. His lids half-fell, like one drifting off to sleep. She knew it wasn't. It was unresponsive catatonia, David's natural state.

Moira stayed with him a moment longer, one hand still clasped around his. Then, gently, she closed the boy's eyes the rest of the way and rose. She had some phonecalls to make.