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Title: Heal Thyself
Fandom: X-Factor
Characters: Jamie Madrox
Rating: PG (swearing)
Word Count: 1,041
Summary: Jamie's dupes can be unpredictable, and they're often the opposite of what he wants. Sometimes, though, they're exactly what he needs.
A/N: I think I just wrote hurt/comfort where the comfort is...himself. Jamie's life sucks, so I wanted him to feel better, which basically meant him manifesting the aspect of himself that's somebody's mom. Also, first X-Factor fic. Whee.
They were out of beer.
Jamie didn't even want to get drunk. He didn't even really want a buzz; not a substantial one, anyway. He just wants one measly beer, because he liked the taste of the pretentiously fancy microbrew Monet imported (but doesn't even drink) and because one measly beer would help him unwind just enough to stop rattling around in his own skull like a caged raccoon.
But they're out of beer, because the universe hates him, and he was beaten severely by Doombots the day before yesterday and Terry wasn't speaking to him for reasons he couldn't begin to guess and he hadn't been laid in months and he was running a team of dysfunctional maniacs and at this particular moment in time he just really, really couldn't deal, so he was glad he had the place to himself for the day because if anyone had seen him punch the refrigerator as hard as he could, they probably would have rolled their eyes.
"Ow," he said, with feeling, because motherfuck, and reached out to reabsorb the dupe that had resulted from the impact. But he paused when the dupe sucked in air through his teeth, resulting in that sympathetic, wincing hiss one makes upon witnessing a nasty injury. Seemingly unconcerned by the fact that Jamie could suck him up like a dustbuster on spilled Cheerios, the dupe reached out to take Jamie's injured hand and turned it over to examine his battered knuckles.
"Now why would you do that?" the dupe asked, sounding distracted, as though he didn't really expect a reply.
"You know why," Jamie answered anyway, bitterly.
Other Jamie raised an eyebrow at him. "Because we're out of beer?"
Jamie Prime sighed. "Because decisions are hard, happiness is fleeting, fate wouldn't throw me a bone if I had a gun to its head, and I'm standing in the kitchen visibly judging myself."
"I'm not judging you," his dupe said matter-of-factly, "although, in the future, resorting to harming yourself as a method of stress relief should probably be our last course of action."
Jamie sighed again. "I know. I just..."
"I know. You're having a rough time and lashing out was the only way you could find to ease your suffering. I just don't want you to hurt any more than you already are," said the dupe, looking him dead in the eye with sincerity Jamie honestly didn't know he possessed. "Now let's get you patched up. There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom."
I know, Jamie wanted to say, but he kept silent as his dupe led him through the building by the hand as though he were a child.
Moments later, his dupe was kneeling beside him as he sat on the lid of the toilet, swabbing his bloodied knuckles with surgical disinfectant. "You know," said the dupe, "I know you've never thought about it, but we have good hands. There's a lot of strength in them."
Jamie snorted. "I wouldn't say that. The right one was just thwarted by a kitchen appliance."
Other Jamie clucked his tongue. "Because you hit it as hard as you could. Pretty hard, for someone without superstrength. Ah-ah, stop twitching."
"It stings," Jamie whined.
"It's over now," said the dupe, in the exact reassuring tone his mother had used when he'd cried over skinned knees as a child and she'd patched him up in the kitchen. Clinically, the dupe set about wrapping his knuckles in gauze.
"I hate my life," Jamie continued to whine, because he'd found someone who would listen while professing not to judge him.
"No, you don't," said Other Jamie. "You hate some parts of your life, sure, but there are parts you love. The team. Stupidly fancy beer. Layla."
"That's not--"
"No, no, you're right," the dupe soothed, quickly but without contrition. "Let's not get into that now. But you have good friends who love you, a good job, and a future. That's more than a lot of people have - not to devalue your angst." The dupe smirked, and Jamie was abruptly amused into laughter for reasons he couldn't explain. Other Jamie smirked harder and began to wrap Jamie Prime's gauzed hand with medical tape.
"I don't know why I'm even running this team, though. I couldn't make a decision to save my life," Jamie pointed out.
The dupe shook his head. "You're running this team because your people trust you and believe in you. You get the job done. That's all that matters."
"Is it?"
"Yes," his dupe said firmly, making eye contact again. "You get the job done."
"You already said that."
"And I'll keep doing it until you believe it. You deserve better than doubting yourself. There are people who love you. I love you."
Jamie chuckled. He wasn't sure if it was nervous. "Little weird."
Other Jamie smiled tiredly. "Yes, but you needed it. I think it's important that you realize you don't actually hate yourself."
"Maybe," Jamie conceded. There was a comfortable silence as the dupe finished his work and stood up, offering a hand to Jamie Prime to help him stand too. Jamie took it, and when he was up, Other Jamie hugged him hard enough that he could feel it deep in his bones. It was…nice.
But. "Little weird," he commented, when the dupe pulled back.
The dupe smiled, unconcerned. "Yes. But you needed it."
"Maybe. Look, I…" He ran a hand through his hair. "Thanks. For fixing me up."
"No problem."
"And for reminding me that there's someone like you in me."
The dupe grinned blindingly, an expression that looked out of place on a Jamie's face. "Absolutely no problem. And remember this, narcissistic as it may be: you're a hero, Jamie Madrox. You could make an army of me."
And with that, the dupe held out a hand, palm up, and waited to be reabsorbed. When Jamie pulled him in, he was filled with an odd sense of contentment.
He flexed his taped-up hand, smiled for no reason at all, and went out to the living room. He texted Guido to have him pick up beer. Then he kicked his feet up on the coffee table, stretched, grabbed the remote, and thought...
Life's pretty good.
Fandom: X-Factor
Characters: Jamie Madrox
Rating: PG (swearing)
Word Count: 1,041
Summary: Jamie's dupes can be unpredictable, and they're often the opposite of what he wants. Sometimes, though, they're exactly what he needs.
A/N: I think I just wrote hurt/comfort where the comfort is...himself. Jamie's life sucks, so I wanted him to feel better, which basically meant him manifesting the aspect of himself that's somebody's mom. Also, first X-Factor fic. Whee.
They were out of beer.
Jamie didn't even want to get drunk. He didn't even really want a buzz; not a substantial one, anyway. He just wants one measly beer, because he liked the taste of the pretentiously fancy microbrew Monet imported (but doesn't even drink) and because one measly beer would help him unwind just enough to stop rattling around in his own skull like a caged raccoon.
But they're out of beer, because the universe hates him, and he was beaten severely by Doombots the day before yesterday and Terry wasn't speaking to him for reasons he couldn't begin to guess and he hadn't been laid in months and he was running a team of dysfunctional maniacs and at this particular moment in time he just really, really couldn't deal, so he was glad he had the place to himself for the day because if anyone had seen him punch the refrigerator as hard as he could, they probably would have rolled their eyes.
"Ow," he said, with feeling, because motherfuck, and reached out to reabsorb the dupe that had resulted from the impact. But he paused when the dupe sucked in air through his teeth, resulting in that sympathetic, wincing hiss one makes upon witnessing a nasty injury. Seemingly unconcerned by the fact that Jamie could suck him up like a dustbuster on spilled Cheerios, the dupe reached out to take Jamie's injured hand and turned it over to examine his battered knuckles.
"Now why would you do that?" the dupe asked, sounding distracted, as though he didn't really expect a reply.
"You know why," Jamie answered anyway, bitterly.
Other Jamie raised an eyebrow at him. "Because we're out of beer?"
Jamie Prime sighed. "Because decisions are hard, happiness is fleeting, fate wouldn't throw me a bone if I had a gun to its head, and I'm standing in the kitchen visibly judging myself."
"I'm not judging you," his dupe said matter-of-factly, "although, in the future, resorting to harming yourself as a method of stress relief should probably be our last course of action."
Jamie sighed again. "I know. I just..."
"I know. You're having a rough time and lashing out was the only way you could find to ease your suffering. I just don't want you to hurt any more than you already are," said the dupe, looking him dead in the eye with sincerity Jamie honestly didn't know he possessed. "Now let's get you patched up. There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom."
I know, Jamie wanted to say, but he kept silent as his dupe led him through the building by the hand as though he were a child.
Moments later, his dupe was kneeling beside him as he sat on the lid of the toilet, swabbing his bloodied knuckles with surgical disinfectant. "You know," said the dupe, "I know you've never thought about it, but we have good hands. There's a lot of strength in them."
Jamie snorted. "I wouldn't say that. The right one was just thwarted by a kitchen appliance."
Other Jamie clucked his tongue. "Because you hit it as hard as you could. Pretty hard, for someone without superstrength. Ah-ah, stop twitching."
"It stings," Jamie whined.
"It's over now," said the dupe, in the exact reassuring tone his mother had used when he'd cried over skinned knees as a child and she'd patched him up in the kitchen. Clinically, the dupe set about wrapping his knuckles in gauze.
"I hate my life," Jamie continued to whine, because he'd found someone who would listen while professing not to judge him.
"No, you don't," said Other Jamie. "You hate some parts of your life, sure, but there are parts you love. The team. Stupidly fancy beer. Layla."
"That's not--"
"No, no, you're right," the dupe soothed, quickly but without contrition. "Let's not get into that now. But you have good friends who love you, a good job, and a future. That's more than a lot of people have - not to devalue your angst." The dupe smirked, and Jamie was abruptly amused into laughter for reasons he couldn't explain. Other Jamie smirked harder and began to wrap Jamie Prime's gauzed hand with medical tape.
"I don't know why I'm even running this team, though. I couldn't make a decision to save my life," Jamie pointed out.
The dupe shook his head. "You're running this team because your people trust you and believe in you. You get the job done. That's all that matters."
"Is it?"
"Yes," his dupe said firmly, making eye contact again. "You get the job done."
"You already said that."
"And I'll keep doing it until you believe it. You deserve better than doubting yourself. There are people who love you. I love you."
Jamie chuckled. He wasn't sure if it was nervous. "Little weird."
Other Jamie smiled tiredly. "Yes, but you needed it. I think it's important that you realize you don't actually hate yourself."
"Maybe," Jamie conceded. There was a comfortable silence as the dupe finished his work and stood up, offering a hand to Jamie Prime to help him stand too. Jamie took it, and when he was up, Other Jamie hugged him hard enough that he could feel it deep in his bones. It was…nice.
But. "Little weird," he commented, when the dupe pulled back.
The dupe smiled, unconcerned. "Yes. But you needed it."
"Maybe. Look, I…" He ran a hand through his hair. "Thanks. For fixing me up."
"No problem."
"And for reminding me that there's someone like you in me."
The dupe grinned blindingly, an expression that looked out of place on a Jamie's face. "Absolutely no problem. And remember this, narcissistic as it may be: you're a hero, Jamie Madrox. You could make an army of me."
And with that, the dupe held out a hand, palm up, and waited to be reabsorbed. When Jamie pulled him in, he was filled with an odd sense of contentment.
He flexed his taped-up hand, smiled for no reason at all, and went out to the living room. He texted Guido to have him pick up beer. Then he kicked his feet up on the coffee table, stretched, grabbed the remote, and thought...
Life's pretty good.