InsaneJournal

Why do you care?
Who: Jean and Abigail
What: Jean senses someone in distress
When: Before Abby went into the hospital
Where: Coffee shop
Status: complete
Rating: PG-13
warnings: Talk about abuse and sexual assault.



The migraines weren’t as bad as they’d been. Jean knew she was gaining control, and power but it still wasn’t fully there just yet. Someone was distressed, and she looked around the coffee shop, trying to figure out where the signals were coming from without resorting to invading minds. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t listen in to surface thoughts...

Abigail was sitting in the corner with her coffee, back to the wall. She was studying, jotting notes from her textbook, and trying hard to ignore everyone in the coffee shop. But she did like that her back was to the wall. It was more comfortable, somehow.

Jean took another sip of her coffee. The hard part was always filtering out the irrelevant stuff when you were trying to find what you were looking for. But she treated this like a training exercise. Find the disturbance in the mental landscape, the thing that was sending out ripples.

Looking up, Abigail took the time to take stock in her environment. Ripples of her dreams came through - her dream father training her how to take shot on white tail does, their long sinewy legs dappled in sunlight. She noticed a statuesque redhead looking around, which immediately made her uncomfortable. Abigail proceeded to gnaw on her pen as she tried to look like she was taking notes.

Frowning, Jean got to her feet. She followed the faint trail of the disturbance, until she reached a young woman sitting at a table. She wet her lips, then leaned over and smiled kindly. “Excuse me, miss? Is everything okay?”

Oh, crap, the redhead was walking over. Abigail shook her head, holding onto her cup defensively. “Just doing homework. I’m fine, I’m good.”

Jean didn’t need telepathy to tell that Abigail was neither fine nor good. But she didn’t know how to help her or even if she should. “I don’t know if I agree that you’re fine, but I don’t really have an explanation for how I feel that way without sounding crazy. But if you wanted to talk, I have an ear. I’m a teacher, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Abigail couldn’t help the sarcastic, lopsided smile that played upon her lips. “Well, thanks. I’m really okay, though.” How to talk about her fucked up dreams? How to talk about her fucked up life? Most of the people that had dreams were at least normal at first. Abigail hadn’t been normal since she was seven.

“Okay. Would you like me to get something, before I go, then? Some sugar for your tea?” A packet floated out of the container and landed near Abigail’s hand.

Blinking, Abigail looked up. “Why does everyone get awesome stuff from their dreams but me?” All she’d gotten from her dreams was knowledge about hunting, shooting guns, and field dressing. Not super showy stuff.

“To be fair,” Jean said. “It started out awesome and quickly turned to nightmare fuel.” It was more complicated than that, but she didn’t want to get into ‘my dreams are worse than yours’ because everyone dreams were pretty terrible and no one’s trauma trumped another’s.

“Well, at least everyone’s seem to go that way. Solidarity.” Abigail held up a fist and made a sound that was meant to be an explosion before drinking more of her tea. It didn’t really inspire her to talk about her dreams, though. Just because they were nightmares didn’t mean they’d go away if she shared her feelings.

Obviously the girl wanted to be left alone, but Jean wasn’t sure she should be left alone. She weighed her options, then asked. “I could buy you another drink, if you’d like.”

Abigail looked up at her. “Why do you care?”

“Because I do. Because I sense someone in distress and my first reaction is to try to help.” Jean smiled at her again. “Even if helping is just a cup of tea.”

“I’m not in distress, I have PTSD. My brain just thinks the shit hasn’t stopped yet. Don’t worry, I’m medicated.” Abigail smiled sweetly, able to fake it after years of practice.

“Brains are funny things, sometimes,” Jean replied, with all the weight of someone who’d spent far too much time in other peoples’ heads. “But I think I understand.” Abigail hadn’t straight up told her to go away, so she was sticking around.

“PTSD is like a blister. It’s there to protect the fucked up thing behind it,” Abigail muttered. It was something that helped her feel normal when she felt like a freak, and one of the few useful things she’d gotten out of therapy.

That made sense. Jean thought about how she’d lost her friend, and how it had taken her years to feel safe around cars again. Of course, in her dreams, things had gotten weirder and worse, and Xavier had never really taught her any coping mechanisms. “When I was a little girl I watched my best friend get killed by a car. I was afraid of them for a long time. I know it’s not the same, but I think I get it a little.”

Abigail nodded. “That sucks. I mean, I didn’t see any of my trauma, I heard it, though.” Arterial spray absolutely had a weird sound to it, and she’d heard gurgling.

“I think imagination might help with that too much.” Jean frowned a little. The mind tended to amplify things a thousand fold, but them sometimes learning what you were hearing was still somehow worse.

If the chick could read minds, Abigail just shrugged and let the memories come flooding back. Being seven and falling asleep cosy and safe in her footie PJs, being woken by the sounds of a struggle and her mother’s gurgling last breaths. Climbing onto the roof in a Minnesota winter to escape her father’s entreaties to “let me fix this”, not moving even after she knew he was dead. She’d heard her mom’s death rattle, so she could identify her father’s as one. Then to the dreams - her father raping her, her father finding substitutes, her father making her help.

Have fun with that.

Oh jesus. Jean found it difficult to maintain a neutral expression. Sympathy and anger broiled together in her chest and she gripped the chair she was leaning on so tightly that it started to smoke where her fingers were touching it. The Phoenix, perhaps, wanting to cleanse with fire.

“I’m so sorry. For all of that.”

Abigail shrugged. “It happened. Not much I can do about it now.”

“No, not much, but…” Jean shrugged her shoulder. The world was sometimes vastly unfair. “Makes me want to cleanse things. With fire.”

“I debated doing that to the house I lived in, but child services wouldn’t let me move around without supervision much until they dumped me at eighteen.” Abigail was still thankful for her good grades, and that she got scholarships.

This poor girl had been through hell, and it seemed like she was going to continue to suffer. Jean couldn’t do much about that, but she took out a paper and a pen. Her voice was kind, and full of sincerity. “I’m going to give you my number. If you ever want to chat, or get lunch or something, call or text.”

“Are you a shrink? You feel like you should be a shrink.. I’m Abigail, by the way.” Abigail grabbed a napkin and a Sharpie from her backpack and gave the woman her mobile as well. She’d picked up on her mental distress and wasn’t calling her awful or weird or running away. It mattered.

“I’m Jean,” she replied. She tucked the napkin carefully into a pocket. “I’m just a teacher, but I have taken some psychology classes to try to help with some of my students.”

“You give a crap. That’s honestly the best part.” Abigail shrugged and tucked the piece of paper into her backpack. “Um. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Jean nodded her head at Abigail. “I have places to be, and I’ve kept you from your work long enough. Have a good night, Abigail.”

“You too, Jean. Thanks.” Abigail put her headphones back into her ears, music very quiet so she could still hear her surroundings, and resumed working. She felt somehow that she’d made a friend.