The X-Project

Haller helps Jean with her spring cleaning and they discuss things Haller recently learned.


"I wish Cyndi'd been able to use this application of the micro-TK when she was still consistently setting things on fire," said Jim once the excess cleaning solution had been returned to the bucket. "Vinegar and dishwashing soap smells like my adolescence. At least we can hit high ceilings without a ladder now."

"Hopefully it gets the smoke smell out. I can practically taste it on a humid day," Jean said, making a face as she brushed a few strands of hair behind her ears while digging through a broom closet.

"Why do I have so much crap?"

"Be glad it's just you. I gave up and let the alts have their own room." The other man knelt down to pull at the tag on the underside of the couch. Good, steam-cleaning allowed. "Think of this as a chance to declutter."

"Wait...one room for all of them to share? How does that work?" Jean said. She squinted. "I've been in your head. Sounds...messy."

"For their stuff. Mostly Davey and Cyndi, really. Jack keeps things organized." Jim pulled himself back to his feet and brushed off his pants. "He also has comments about the fact I'm helping with your spring clean rather than doing our own, but he's a dick like that."

Jean glanced over her shoulder. "I mean, he's not wrong," she said, pulling out a toolbox, bag of de-icing salt, and a stack of magazines.

"Not that I don't appreciate it but...why are you helping me spring clean?"

Jim hesitated, but it wasn't as if he hadn't been intending to get to it himself.  Might as well dive in.

"I ran into Garrison the other day," he admitted. "He told me about the curse, at least in broad terms, and that you were trying to help him with it. It . . . seemed serious."

The muffled banging around of Jean rummaging through the closet stopped completely, leaving only silence for a few moments.

"He told you?" she said finally.

"That's...a big step for him."

The other man rubbed at the back of his head uncomfortably. "I pressed him," Jim admitted. "And probably didn't help the situation. The two of us aren't really close, and I overstepped. But when he said you were helping him with it . . . I just wanted to check on how you were doing."

Climbing up off the ground, Jean grabbed a bottle of cleaner and a rag and started to spray the counter.

"Not sure," she admitted. She drew in a breath, wiping off the counter with wide strokes.

"Couldn't find a medical journal article for 'slowly dying by cosmic imbalance,' so I just have to sit and wait and be there for him and watch."

"I'm sorry." It was a trite phrase, but it was true. Slowly, Jim picked up another rag and bottle and moved a nearby mirror.

"I know Amanda is working hard, and that other specialists have been tapped," the other man remarked as he began to mist the surface. It was surprising how much smoke residue clung to glass. His mouth thinned. "But I know knowing that doesn't make the waiting any easier for those of us who care."

Jean stared at the beads of moisture that clung together on the surface of the counter from the cleaner. "I don't know what else to do. He acts like it'll all work out. But what if it doesn't? Do I have to be the one to make the call to his family?" she glanced away.

"I'm good at it, after all. I've done my share. Never quite...for someone like this, though."

"Have you talked about it with him?" Jim asked. Carefully, he began to wipe down the surface of the glass. "Contacting family, final arrangements, that sort of thing. Or with Rogue, maybe? I know they're close."

"She doesn't know," Jean said immediately. "Or least...I don't think she does. He's been very private about it. Doesn't want a lot of people to know. I'm surprised he told you."

She rubbed her forehead. "If she doesn't know...I'm sure once she finds out she'll not be pleased to be kept out of the loop."

Jim exhaled a long breath and suppressed the urge to bang his forehead against the mirror he was currently in the process of cleaning.

"I'm the last one to throw stones about being overly private," he said, "and I can see how he wouldn't want to burden people with his problems. I'd ask him about Rogue, though. If she knows she'd be a great person to talk to. If she doesn't, maybe it'll remind him that his friend would want to know what's going on."

"Good luck with that," Jean made a face. "You know how stubborn he is."

The other psi gave a snort. "Like I said, I don't get to talk. Especially not to Garrison. I shouldn't have pushed him, but he hit some buttons. 'Things will just work out' . . ." Jim gave his head a short, sharp shake. "I'm sure he's just trying not to dwell on it, but it comes off differently when your job is to be one of the people that does the fixing. But that's not his fault."

Jim was silent for a moment, just passing the rag across the glass, and sighed.

"And it made me worried about you, I guess."

The comment gave Jean a long pause. "Thanks," she said finally. There was no use denying her emotions to a fellow telepath, even if he didn't usually pry.

"It's been hard. I don't...usually get this close. At least with everyone else I can maintain a small bit of distance." Very small, considering they all lived in the same mansion.

"But I can't say it's new. I dated Parker Matthews, after all. At least Garrison hasn't tried to---wait no, that's not true either." She smiled.

"Look, I don't have a type. Not intentionally."

Jim gave an inadvertent snort of laughter. "Sorry," he said, "it's not funny. Instead of 'type,' let's call it 'workplace convenience.' Unless Garrison turns out to be hosting a psychic parasite, in which case that's, what, three for three and probably mandatory therapy?"

Jean eyed him wordlessly. Her response was a telekinetic smack in the back of the head with a pillow.