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Description
Chamille awoke with a crash. She quickly reached over to turn the light on and survey the damage, heart thundering. Her small TV, mercifully, had been fixed to the wall and was still intact. The lamp on her nightstand had been fine, and the dome of glass around her ceiling light was also fine. Small blessings. She crawled toward the foot of her bed to see better and spied her laptop on the floor. It was also, somehow, unbroken.

Thank god for carpeting, she thought wryly.

It was not the only thing on the floor that had not been there when she had gone to bed. Her hamper had emptied itself onto the floor around it, the few books she left on her single bookshelf were splayed open on the ground. Her other shelf, a shelf of various knick-knacks that she'd accrued over the years, had also been strewn about the room, and it was in that mess that she found the source of the crashing noise that had awoken her. She sighed deeply as she beheld the ceramic cat, shattered in what must have been ten different pieces.

While it would still be easy, she pulled the pieces toward her, letting them sit in her lap. She pulled some superglue out of a desk drawer that had also been opened in the middle of the night. The cat had been done at one of those paint-it-yourself ceramics places when she'd been younger, done with a friend who she'd lost contact with after she'd been institutionalized. As she put the pieces back together, she wondered how that friend was doing now, if she still possessed the cat that she had made that day.

She was attaching the last piece when Josie finally knocked on the door. She'd felt her out there, thinking about whether or not she really should check in. "Hey, Chamille. You alright?" she asked through the door.

Chamille pulled the door open from her spot on the bed and sent the cat, now back together if a bit more fragile, back to its shelf.

Josie stood just in the doorway, surveying the damage. It wasn't so bad today. It'd been much worse before. She stepped over clothes and a couple pieces of paper that had come out of the desk and sat on the edge of the bed beside Chamille. "You alright?" she repeated.

Chamille put her head in her hands, rubbing at her forehead. It was so loud so close. Josie hid it well. She had to, to be their leader. She didn't let it show that anything bothered her, except when she needed to. It didn't matter, though. Chamille could feel the fear coming off her in waves. Could hear the memories that flashed through her of times when Chamille had woken up to more chaotic scenes, times when it had spread beyond her room and to the other members of the team. Could hear the plans that Josie didn't want to be making, the ways she was thinking about dealing with this if it got too out of control.

Chamille didn't blame her. She was glad, really, that someone was willing to think about it. The rest of the team often pretended the problem didn't exist, that everything was fine as long as Chamille did what she was supposed to. She was doing what she was supposed to, though, and some days she still woke up to a shattered room or a pounding headache. Some nights she found herself wandering in other people's dreams, there simply because her sleeping mind had heard them and gone to investigate. She hated that especially, worried that one day she would walk into something that was supposed to be very, utterly private and that the team would decide she was more trouble than she was worth.

Hands still covering her face, she pulled her pill box and glass of water over. She let the glass hang in the air as she, using her hands, found her pills for that morning. Josie just watched, waiting. Chamille took them, washing them down, and said finally, "Sorry." Everyone else was awake, too. She could feel them, wondering. Not very afraid, not now that it was done, but anxious. Cautious.

Josie looked at the pill box. Carefully, she ventured, "Should we see about changing those?"

New pills or new doses, something just before bed maybe. The pills wouldn't take effect for a little while more, and Chamille felt the calculations that Josie was making. Chamille sighed. "I can see about it." She'd been on all kinds of medications since that initial institutionalization. Anti-psychotics of all different varieties, some epilepsy meds, sedatives, hypnotics, and a few other things that she hadn't bothered remembering. It was such a hard balance to find: too strong a dose and her powers disappeared but too weak and they overwhelmed her. She didn't want either, didn't want to be useless to this team that had become her only friends, didn't want to be shattering all kinds of things while she slept and walking into the minds of others without realizing it.

Josie reached out and put a hand on Chamille's shoulder. She was afraid, sure, but she was also a superhero, and a team leader. She was afraid of all kinds of things, and it was her job to face them for her team, for her friends. She would help Chamille face this, help her find that balance, no matter how many ceramic cats suffered in the process, and she wouldn't let her see that fear. Not once, not if she could help it. "Want some help cleaning this up?"

Description
Chamille awoke with a crash. She quickly reached over to turn the light on and survey the damage, heart thundering. Her small TV, mercifully, had been fixed to the wall and was still intact. The lamp on her nightstand had been fine, and the dome of glass around her ceiling light was also fine. Small blessings. She crawled toward the foot of her bed to see better and spied her laptop on the floor. It was also, somehow, unbroken.

Thank god for carpeting, she thought wryly.

It was not the only thing on the floor that had not been there when she had gone to bed. Her hamper had emptied itself onto the floor around it, the few books she left on her single bookshelf were splayed open on the ground. Her other shelf, a shelf of various knick-knacks that she'd accrued over the years, had also been strewn about the room, and it was in that mess that she found the source of the crashing noise that had awoken her. She sighed deeply as she beheld the ceramic cat, shattered in what must have been ten different pieces.

While it would still be easy, she pulled the pieces toward her, letting them sit in her lap. She pulled some superglue out of a desk drawer that had also been opened in the middle of the night. The cat had been done at one of those paint-it-yourself ceramics places when she'd been younger, done with a friend who she'd lost contact with after she'd been institutionalized. As she put the pieces back together, she wondered how that friend was doing now, if she still possessed the cat that she had made that day.

She was attaching the last piece when Josie finally knocked on the door. She'd felt her out there, thinking about whether or not she really should check in. "Hey, Chamille. You alright?" she asked through the door.

Chamille pulled the door open from her spot on the bed and sent the cat, now back together if a bit more fragile, back to its shelf.

Josie stood just in the doorway, surveying the damage. It wasn't so bad today. It'd been much worse before. She stepped over clothes and a couple pieces of paper that had come out of the desk and sat on the edge of the bed beside Chamille. "You alright?" she repeated.

Chamille put her head in her hands, rubbing at her forehead. It was so loud so close. Josie hid it well. She had to, to be their leader. She didn't let it show that anything bothered her, except when she needed to. It didn't matter, though. Chamille could feel the fear coming off her in waves. Could hear the memories that flashed through her of times when Chamille had woken up to more chaotic scenes, times when it had spread beyond her room and to the other members of the team. Could hear the plans that Josie didn't want to be making, the ways she was thinking about dealing with this if it got too out of control.

Chamille didn't blame her. She was glad, really, that someone was willing to think about it. The rest of the team often pretended the problem didn't exist, that everything was fine as long as Chamille did what she was supposed to. She was doing what she was supposed to, though, and some days she still woke up to a shattered room or a pounding headache. Some nights she found herself wandering in other people's dreams, there simply because her sleeping mind had heard them and gone to investigate. She hated that especially, worried that one day she would walk into something that was supposed to be very, utterly private and that the team would decide she was more trouble than she was worth.

Hands still covering her face, she pulled her pill box and glass of water over. She let the glass hang in the air as she, using her hands, found her pills for that morning. Josie just watched, waiting. Chamille took them, washing them down, and said finally, "Sorry." Everyone else was awake, too. She could feel them, wondering. Not very afraid, not now that it was done, but anxious. Cautious.

Josie looked at the pill box. Carefully, she ventured, "Should we see about changing those?"

New pills or new doses, something just before bed maybe. The pills wouldn't take effect for a little while more, and Chamille felt the calculations that Josie was making. Chamille sighed. "I can see about it." She'd been on all kinds of medications since that initial institutionalization. Anti-psychotics of all different varieties, some epilepsy meds, sedatives, hypnotics, and a few other things that she hadn't bothered remembering. It was such a hard balance to find: too strong a dose and her powers disappeared but too weak and they overwhelmed her. She didn't want either, didn't want to be useless to this team that had become her only friends, didn't want to be shattering all kinds of things while she slept and walking into the minds of others without realizing it.

Josie reached out and put a hand on Chamille's shoulder. She was afraid, sure, but she was also a superhero, and a team leader. She was afraid of all kinds of things, and it was her job to face them for her team, for her friends. She would help Chamille face this, help her find that balance, no matter how many ceramic cats suffered in the process, and she wouldn't let her see that fear. Not once, not if she could help it. "Want some help cleaning this up?"