After months of living in a hospital room, he became accustomed to being woken by a nurse checking his vitals. Most of the time, unless they spoke to him, he'd let them complete their tasks and fell back asleep as soon as they were done. This time, his eyes flew open as his senses not recognizing the footsteps, nor touch of fingers against his wrist. Jerking away, he sat up in bed then winced as his back protested the motion.
"Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you, Dr. Ames" the deep melodic voice soothed.
Mackland quickly remembered where he was and recollected that the man sitting by his bed had been introduced to him. He was Jim's friend. He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes at the morning light.
"Do you remember me from last night?" The young dark-skinned man smiled at him warmly. He was dressed professionally in tweed, giving him the look of a professor or librarian with a pyramidal-styled mustache to complete the look. His hair had an afro, neatly shaped around his chiseled face.
"Yes," Mac assured, "You're Jim's friend. I remember that we were introduced but your name escapes me. And please, call me Mac." He returned a half-smile.
"My name is Dr. Griffin Porter, Griffin please." Griffin shifted back to allow Mac room to regain his equilibrium.
Mac slid out of bed, socked feet touching the hardwood of the oak-stained dining room floor. Grunting, he was able to get to his feet, struggling to straighten with shooting pain through his back. Porter extended his hand silently, a ray of sunshine reflecting the silver ring he wore as if it were a test. Mac was not in the mood for tests, taking the hand as was offered until he could stand.
Jim had come in from the kitchen, wearing an off-white apron over his clerical clothing. "Mackland, it's good to see you on your feet." His friend went over to the armoire and unpacked Mac's cane. Approaching, Jim handed him the cane, smiling. "You look like you might need this today along with a homecooked meal. How are you feeling?"
"A bit worse for wear, I'm afraid. Please excuse me," Mac motioned towards the bathroom, shuffling inside and closing the door behind him. He emptied his bladder, washed his hands, then turned towards the tub. He wanted to take a shower, the dried sweat and dirt clung to his clothing and body however he wasn't sure if he could step into the tub without assistance. In the privacy of the small room, Mac could admit that he smelled.
He turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run until it was a comfortably warm temperature. He wet the hand towel then lathered the cloth with a bar of soap. He was content with a sponge bath for the time being.
There was a knock on the bathroom door, Jim's voice on the other side. "Mackland, I thought you might need a change of clothing. May I come in?"
"You can come in," Mac called out. The door slowly swung open, Jim holding a small pile of clothes out to him.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be able to bend to pick them up off the floor if I put them outside the bathroom." Jim pulled out a bottle from his pocket. "I also thought you might need a bit of relief today."
Mac took the bottle of muscle relaxants, shook out a couple of pills, and then dry-swallowed them. "Thank you, Jim." He laughed, "You might be the psychic today as you seem to be reading my mind."
Laughing along, Jim shook his head, "I'm not a psychic, Mackland. Just unfortunate to have known so many men in pain that I can spot it even when they try to hide it. Between you and Griffin, I'm the odd man out."
Jim was by the bathroom door, shutting the door behind him before Mac caught the reference. "Wait, are you saying Griffin is also a psychic?" The man chuckled a non-answer and left him to finish cleaning up.
The knowledge that another psychic, one that was kinder to him than Missouri Moseley, was at the farmhouse fueled his desire to speed things along in the bathroom so that he could get to know Dr. Porter. The fact that he failed to notice last night put into perspective how he faired after leaving the police station. Not well.
After changing, he struggled back up using the cane opening the door of the bathroom. Atticus Finch must have wandered inside, smelling the bacon aroma or even hearing the sizzling pan in the kitchen. He went over to the doctor, padding alongside him towards the kitchen as if he were spotting him or preventing a fall. The young dog was very smart and gentle, the kind that Mac had dreamt of as a child. He had begged his father for a puppy and was denied consistently. Once he had gotten his first apartment, the doctor realized it would be unkind to bring in an animal to wait long hours until he got home. Mostly, he used the place to sleep. The farmhouse was the first home that he ever wanted to spend time indoors. It was comfortable.
The doctor knew that his time at Jim's farm was coming to an end. The small town of New Haven was quaint but lacked the resources that he required to build the life he envisioned. He needed to ascertain his standing. He had left the hospital without knowing the status of his finances; his father had taken care of him and Mac imagined it meant taking care of all his needs. Before the accident, he had been spending beyond his paychecks from the hospital and had started tapping into the family trust. Once he was physically ready, Dr. Ames knew that he could rebuild his career and repay his father.
In addition to money, he needed to rebuild his home. The cold sleek minimalist styles the interior designers had suggested to present a display of power and wealth would no longer meet his needs. He wanted to feel warm again, surround himself in true friendship and love. He wanted a family; he missed his father. He spoke to him frequently, Cullen checking on him weekly to make sure he was alright, but it was not the same as spending time with him.
When he arrived in the kitchen, both Jim and Griffin were plating a variety of breakfast foods. Eggs, hash, bacon, toast, oatmeal, and pancakes. Jim noticed his hovering and waved him to sit at the table. It was when Jim's ring glinted in the sun that he realized that the doctor who had woken him wore a matching ring. Mac sat at the table, his usual spot after a couple of months of sharing breakfasts and dinners. "Did you meet in college?" Mac did not know much regarding the Brotherhood outside of the threats Missouri alluded to, perhaps it was like the Skull and Bones where members joined during college years.
Jim motioned for Griffin to sit next to him and bring the last plate to the table. "No, Griffin and I met after I returned from the war. I had been working as an associate pastor to Father Solomon O'Shaughnessy. After I lost my wife, Emma, I felt lost, angry at God. Father Solomon tried to heal my heart and bring me back to God, but the rage took over. I started hunting under Father Solomon. He had been part of the Brotherhood; the Father's specialty was performing exorcisms to banish demons from their vessels. He told me of the ancient order, trained me. Once I was ready to join the organization, I trained with Julian Smith, one of the leaders. He was the one who introduced me to Griffin. With his and Father Solomon's guidance, I was able to find my way back to God. Griffin is a dear friend to me." They both smiled at each other.
Griffin passed the dishes to Mackland one-by-one, who took a pass on the bacon and pancakes but filled his plate with the rest. Jim bowed his head, Griffin following him in a prayer before they started their morning meal. Mac listened finding peace in their words.
"Griffin," Mac asked, "what's your specialty?" He chewed on a piece of toast, feeling a bit nauseous, the migraine was starting to ease yet still behind his eyes.
"My specialty is genetic research. I completed medical school, but preferred research to practice. Within the Brotherhood, my expertise focuses on the Triad histories, bloodlines, and ancient weaponry." Griffin explained.
"The Triad?"
"The Triad are the leaders of the Brotherhood," Jim explained, "composed of three men. The Guardian, the Knight, and the Scholar."
Griffin joked, "The Brains, the Braun, and the Peacekeeper, you mean?"
"Pay him no mind, Mackland. They are honorable men and we're both proud to serve them." Jim scolded his friend playfully.
Mac ate slowly, deep in thought, and still pained. Pain always made him lose his appetite. He sat, eyes closing of their own accord, listening to the two men chat amicably.
A hand covered his own and Mac pried his eyes open, "I apologize, I'm being rude." Dr. Porter had exchanged seats with Jim to sit closer to him.
"Please don't worry yourself, we know you're not feeling well. I would like to read you if you'll allow me to," Griffin asked earnestly.
Taking in a deep breath, Mackland realized what he meant, "Jim mentioned that you had gifts like mine."
Griffin chuckled, "No, Mac. My abilities are nothing like yours. I need to be in contact with a person through touch for my abilities to work. I can read people, dull pain sensors, and the like. I'm working on other skills but haven't perfected them yet."
"Dull pain sensors?" Mac's brow was scrunched up, looking down as he remembered the night before when the pain melted away. "Did you – help me last night?"
"Yes," Griffin smiled widely. "You were in a considerable amount of pain last night and I wanted to help you."
"Thank you," Mac gushed. He was not used to people who would go out of their way to help him. At his core, he was a New Yorker; raised in a man-eat-man city, scrambling over each other on their way to the top. "If it won't cause me any more pain, you have my permission to read me."
"No," Dr. Porter promised, "it won't cause you pain. If anything, I believe I can further assist you."
It was a strange feeling that washed over him, indescribable. A flutter of air, gentle unlike the overwhelming river of power that he kept dammed.
"You're hurting yourself," Griffin started, pulling away to sit back.
The comment confused the doctor. He was not one for self-harm. "What do you mean by that?" Mac snapped. Jim came up behind him and lay a hand on his shoulder, calmly telling him to let Griffin explain.
"Have you had migraines before?" Dr. Porter asked.
"The migraine's started after my accident. I suffered a traumatic brain injury; an occasional migraine is acceptable. I couldn't have wished for a better outcome." Mac was grateful. He could have suffered amnesia, permanently lost use of his limbs, or could have a child's mind. None of those things happened. He would take on the challenges he now faced and be grateful for the opportunity.
Griffin leaned forward, "That's incorrect. The migraines are the result of backwash."
Mac shook his head no.
Griffin put a hand on his shoulder, gently using a fingertip to turn his head so their eyes could meet again. "Jim told me that you were telekinetic and psychometric. When our minds touched, I saw a river. You're trying to hold back the river with a dam." The doctor saw him roll his eyes, then switched allegories to something that another doctor would understand. "Think of it like holding back a sneeze. Do it once, the likelihood of something happening is low. But, if you do it every day on every sneeze, complications occur, you can burst a blood vessel or an eardrum. Worst case, it could lead to a collapsed lung, broken rib, or throat damage. You're holding your powers back and causing yourself harm. If you don't stop, I'm afraid you'll cause yourself irreparable damage."
Jim squeezed his shoulder, still at his back. "Mackland, I trust Griffin. His family has been in the Brotherhood for generations. He has considerable knowledge of psychic energy; he's studied it."
Mackland swallowed hard at the new knowledge, rubbing his face. "What do I have to do?
Griffin let go, sitting back thinking. "I think you need to let the river run free. Take down the dam."
"No," Mac immediately disagreed. "If I let the river run free, the entire house could collapse."
Griffin looked startled. Slowly, spacing the question out, he asked, "Has that happened recently?"
"It happened while I was in the hospital. It's why I left. I lost control and I hurt someone who had been trying to help me. He nearly lost an eye. I nearly hurt my father." Mackland explained, full of regret.
"So that's what happened," Griffin realized. "You hurt someone and so you thought the best course of action was to hurt yourself."
"Of course, I did not! I'm not suicidal." Mac yelled. He pulled away from Jim's touch, ignoring the shooting pain when he aggravated his back in his agitation.
"I don't mean that you're doing it on purpose. But there is a psychological aspect to your turning your powers on yourself. Now, that you've gained basic control of your powers, you're redirecting the energy towards yourself subconsciously. You have to let it go."
"I could kill you." Mac was afraid, his heart pounding so hard that he could feel it in his temples.
Jim came around to face him, "You would never hurt us, Mackland. I believe in you."
"Would it make you feel better if we went outside, perhaps near the pond? There's nothing out that for you to hurt." Dr. Porter offered.
Mac felt sick. "Maybe some other time, I think I need to lie down."
"Let it go, Dr. Ames." Porter insisted. "Imagine a soft stream, nothing holding it back. It's peaceful, flowing."
"Mackland, please. If you haven't yet learned to trust Porter, I hope that you know that you can trust me," Jim pleaded. "No one wants to see you hurt."
He wasn't sure why he decided to let go if it were trust or a leap of faith, but he let the dam collapse in his mind. He had his eyes closed, photosensitive to the morning light coming in from the kitchen window. He heard and felt the tremors of items moving around the room, and he scrambled for the stones to rebuild. His shaking hand was taken, Griffin squeezing it tightly. "You don't need a dam. Just slow the flow. Calm the river. Breathe."
Gasping for breath and holding his head up with both hands, Mac imagined the rocks of the dam forming bedrock where the river flowed into a newly created lake. It was quiet there. He heard items clattering on the kitchen tiles but was too exhausted to bother with it.
"Jim, could you please get a cup of water for our friend? And a damp washcloth?" Porter ordered. Mac felt his fingers against his neck, pressing his carotid for a pulse. "You're alright. You did a great job."
"Don't be condescending," Mac snapped.
Griffin laughed, "Haha. Do you think I'm pulling your leg? Dr. Ames that was – extraordinary. You built a reservoir, one that can store extra psychic energy for emergencies. I've never heard of anyone doing that before."
"It seemed prudent since I was taking down the dam that I use the rocks for another purpose," Mac said logically, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the cool cloth Jim handed him. Looking down, his shirt was soaked through, as if he had been splashed with the water from the river of his mind.
Jim held out a glass of water and Mac drank from it, thirstily as if he had run a marathon.
Scanning his body, Mac noticed the absence of pain in his head now. The migraine had faded. Unfortunately, his back still ached, and his legs still weak under him. "It seems I owe you both a debt of gratitude that I'm unsure how to repay. You were right."
"There is no debt, my friend," Jim said, echoed by Griffin.
Mac looked at Griffin with new eyes, "Do you have other tips or research regarding psychic abilities that I could use? It seems that I could use the education."
Griffin smiled, "I'm sure that I could lend you some reading material."
Jim cleared away the broken dishes, waving away Mac's apologies. "I only pull out my Emma's good china on special occasions."
Quickly, the man fried up another few eggs and divided them. Without a pounding head, Mac's appetite returned, and he was able to finish breakfast. The quiet comradery the two men had shared extended to him. Mac had never had brothers, but imagined, sitting there with them, that they were like his family.