But this is too much. Whatever kindness he's trying to show her, she's misunderstood again. Her gut feels cold and heavy; she moves away, looking down. How can she be so awful that her kidnapper rejects her? She stews in self-pity, moving quietly away.
She curls her arms around herself, a transparently self-comforting gesture, and stares at the mattress, her forehead pressed into it. "Can I have a shower? Or a bath?"
Her trust — her hope — flickers out. Hap swallows hard, bereft. She has more right than ever to deny him. It will keep him awake, wondering why. The trigger. The core. The rest, he understands. It's his doing.
His hand slides down her back, and off.
"Yes." If that's all she'll accept. "I'll get it ready."
It's difficult to look away from her, as well as a comfort. Apart, with a task ahead of him, he can ground himself, even though a miasma of eager self-recriminations surround him. Hap gets up and leaves the room without another word.
He retrieves a pair of pajama bottoms from his room, then gets underway. After cleaning himself off and dressing in the guest bathroom, he goes about stripping it of anything that could present a danger, an escape, or both. Chemicals, implements, all bath towels but one. The window is a narrow rectangle set near the ceiling. He can't do anything about the glass, or the medicine cabinet mirror, but keep an ear open.
It's not ideal, but Hap gave his word. She can't lock him out, at least. He didn't skip this one when fitting the doors with keypad locks.
Before returning, he checks the state of her on his computer monitor. It grants him insight into whether or not to pause between announcing himself with a knock and opening the door to her room.
Once Hap leaves, Joan... doesn't move at all, just breathes into the mattress and feels her breath reflected back at her face. She realizes after a minute that she's wasting her time. He's still going to send her back down. She wraps herself in a sweaty blanket and walks over to the far wall, staring out the window, fogging it with her breath. Intermittently, she wipes the window down.
She can't decide how she feels. She can never decide how she feels about him. Acceptance, then rejection. Interest, and more rejection. Whenever she does something good, he turns around to step on her throat. It makes him feel unattainable, exotic in a way that sets her teeth on edge. She thinks she hates him. She thinks she's as close to loving him as she's ever felt for anybody. She wants to make him come again; she never wants to see him again. If she could, she'd leave simply to exorcise these feelings from her body.
The image in the computer monitor is a woman standing very near the window, not moving at all except to breathe.
Her stillness could fascinate him. He's not going to make that mistake twice in one night. Hap takes her resilience for what it is and respects it by addressing it as nothing else.
A knock, and then the door is opened. Peripherally, he notes where their clothes are strewn. Distantly, he wants to grab his glasses.
While her back is turned, he glances at the matte gleam of cum streaking her thigh.
"Come with me," he says in the commanding monotone he uses in front of the other subjects.
She ignores him until the last possible moment, turns only when he addresses her. In her mind, that's the voice of common address. It's what everyone gets, and her only sometimes. Oh, she thinks, I'm an idiot. Hap is just like every other man in the world. Once he's fucked her, he's lost interest.
It's a huge relief. It means she's no longer interesting enough to punish. She's not going back down forever. He just wants her to bathe so he doesn't have to clean her himself. She turns around, no longer caring about her own nakedness, and walks calmly at his side and a little before, just like always. "Are you gonna handcuff me?"
"Do you want me to?" The potential for flirtation is a dimension away from them. Hap isn't even sparked to wonder if that's something she likes, or just something she dreams about. He's thinking in variables and asking for information.
Her nose wrinkles. She hasn't considered flirtation either, often forgets that 'kink' isn't just a way of describing hair. "No. It just seems like something you'd do."
Being allowed to use her own bathroom is an absurd privilege, if- oh. "You're going to keep the door open, aren't you."
"I have to," he commiserates. "It's that or keep coming in to check on you."
And putting her on a timer is too systematic. It rings of establishing a process, and tonight is an anomaly. An aberration. She's learned she doesn't want what misery and isolation coerced her into believing she did. And whatever he wants is of no consequence, the same as it's always been. His worse instincts will go back to sleep once they don't have hers to play with.
"As long as you don't sit on the toilet and watch," she murmurs, dragging her hand down the side of her face. It's a lucky thing she no longer feels any shame around him-- he watches her on a 24 hour camera. He's probably seen her pee. He's now been inside her. He is, currently, the person on the planet who knows her most intimately. It shouldn't make her feel safe, but it does.
"Do I get shampoo? Or soap? I'll wash my hair with soap, I've done it before."
"There's soap." Hap left the door open, and pushes it wider ajar as they come to it. He peers into the bathroom. warily, as though he's ushering her into a den of slumbering wolves.
Hap stands aside, allowing her in. He lingers as she familiarizes herself with the space, reluctant to leave her.
He knowingly opens himself up to mockery, warning her, "Don't make me regret this."
Her brow furrows, her jaw tightens. Her hands curl into fists. Standing in a bathroom, naked and used, with a clothed man who eats hot food and drinks ice water, and he acts like she has the upper hand?
"What have I ever done to you? I'm sorry being mouthy has you running scared."
She turns away, walking toward the tub, her shoulders hunched with embarrassment.
Hap scoffs. Her jab puts him at ease as it roles him. That's all he needs. Joan behaving like Joan. Maybe later he'll use her comment to prop himself up. He's not the one who cowers from tenderness.
He leaves her, fingers catching on the door to drag it with him a couple of meaningless inches. Then it's back to her room, to gather his clothes, deposited directly into a laundry hamper, and hers, folded and left on the chair he'd occupied. (Her underwear, he deigns to add to the wash.) His glasses are recovered, as well as the electrodes dotting the carpet. Provided the time, he strips the mattress and dresses it with fresh bedding.
Hap peers in on his trips down the hall, monitoring her incidentally.
Joan just lets herself float in the water for a hundred count. In a world without clocks, she's begun counting time by her breaths, counting up one on every inhale and exhale. She'd like to luxuriate in the water for hours, but Hap's patience isn't infinite, or very long at that. She sits up eventually and scrubs her body as hard as she can, wishing she had a fucking loofah or something. The corner of her towel does just as well, until her body is red and her hair is clean for the first time in what feels like years.
The water is a soupy shade of brown when she gets out of it. The sum total of months (maybe a year?) of suffering adds up to sweat and dirt in a few gallons of water, and come swirling in the drain. She washes herself up, dries off as best she can, and tries to catch Hap's eye as he looks in on her. "You a peeping Tom, now? Seems kinda beneath you."
Hap has set a load to start spinning in the washing machine. He's not going to sleep tonight, so he might as well. She'll have her panties back by morning; hopefully she sleeps so he can drop them off without having to put up with another biting remark.
Like the one she gives him on his way down the hall. Hap stops, seeing she's ready to return to her room.
"Thank you for not taking too much time in there." The temptation to push her luck must have been incredible. He could use a shower himself and intends to take one as soon as she's locked away. He gestures down the corridor.
Hap is whiteknuckling his facade of dispassion. Scoured of soil, skin red in patches from vigorous scrubbing, she's a damning vision. Colorless for the dirt that's been lost, her collarbone nearly punctures paper thin flesh. Tendrils of damp, deep red hair streak her shoulders like blood. And the bruise on her arm, a spiteful burst of frenzy.
It's at that moment that Joan turns her head and looks at herself in the mirror. She starts in surprise. She flinches on instinct. If she had any beauty before, she might be sad, but this is just more insult. "Christ," she says, "I hope whoever you were thinking of was hot."
Hap clenches his jaw, withholding a sigh. This is not who he prefers they pretend to be. The people they were at the start of the day. He would rather go back further.
"Come on." His chin juts toward their destination.
"They're in your room." It's not that far, he's not sure why she's being precious about it all of a sudden. "Except — I'm washing some of them. They'll be ready in the morning."
If circumstances were any different, he'd have put the flat of his hand on her arm or upper back to get her moving by now. He's not keen to watch her flinch away from him, or shirk him off.
"I can go back first?" She's keenly grateful. She stands up a little straighter. "Could I- could I brush my hair?"
She's aware it's a small, petty thing to ask for, but she figures it's a win-win. If he says yes, she gets to comb her hair; if he says no, he gets to feel good about himself for denying her something she can easily go without. It's like a controlled burn.
Her elation makes sense. What she says leaves him nonplussed. Hap shrugs it off, following behind to ensure the door is completely closed behind her. From his bedroom, he grabs his own comb. He staggers his walk back to give her time to dress.
A one-knuckle rap at the door and he enters. He holds the comb out to her before crossing his arms, unusually awkward in a space that barely qualifies as hers. Her claim to it has grown in defiance of how he's sullied it.
Joan opens his mouth when he returns, closes it. She takes the comb first, so she won't steal it, and begins vigorously brushing my hair.
"I wanna ask you something. Don't get mad? I just wanna know."
He's given her to absurdly kind boons in the last hour. She wants to test how far this goes, and some of that involves niceties. She's not sure she's up to the task-- the other foot is going to fall any second now-- but she has to try, or there's no point to anything.
Hap had been about to open his mouth. He still needs to tell her about his vasectomy. But there's nowhere for them to go from there. He'll bite his tongue until he's on his way out, which shouldn't be long.
"What is it?" He will not promise not to get mad, because it would sound silly to his ears. He certainly doesn't plan on it. He doubts he has the reserves of vigor to get that worked up a second time, anyway.
She cringes when she says it, more uncomfortable saying it than anything else. If this is part of the experiment, she might actually start trying to escape.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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She curls her arms around herself, a transparently self-comforting gesture, and stares at the mattress, her forehead pressed into it. "Can I have a shower? Or a bath?"
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His hand slides down her back, and off.
"Yes." If that's all she'll accept. "I'll get it ready."
It's difficult to look away from her, as well as a comfort. Apart, with a task ahead of him, he can ground himself, even though a miasma of eager self-recriminations surround him. Hap gets up and leaves the room without another word.
He retrieves a pair of pajama bottoms from his room, then gets underway. After cleaning himself off and dressing in the guest bathroom, he goes about stripping it of anything that could present a danger, an escape, or both. Chemicals, implements, all bath towels but one. The window is a narrow rectangle set near the ceiling. He can't do anything about the glass, or the medicine cabinet mirror, but keep an ear open.
It's not ideal, but Hap gave his word. She can't lock him out, at least. He didn't skip this one when fitting the doors with keypad locks.
Before returning, he checks the state of her on his computer monitor. It grants him insight into whether or not to pause between announcing himself with a knock and opening the door to her room.
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She can't decide how she feels. She can never decide how she feels about him. Acceptance, then rejection. Interest, and more rejection. Whenever she does something good, he turns around to step on her throat. It makes him feel unattainable, exotic in a way that sets her teeth on edge. She thinks she hates him. She thinks she's as close to loving him as she's ever felt for anybody. She wants to make him come again; she never wants to see him again. If she could, she'd leave simply to exorcise these feelings from her body.
The image in the computer monitor is a woman standing very near the window, not moving at all except to breathe.
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A knock, and then the door is opened. Peripherally, he notes where their clothes are strewn. Distantly, he wants to grab his glasses.
While her back is turned, he glances at the matte gleam of cum streaking her thigh.
"Come with me," he says in the commanding monotone he uses in front of the other subjects.
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It's a huge relief. It means she's no longer interesting enough to punish. She's not going back down forever. He just wants her to bathe so he doesn't have to clean her himself. She turns around, no longer caring about her own nakedness, and walks calmly at his side and a little before, just like always. "Are you gonna handcuff me?"
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Does she feel like she might do something?
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Being allowed to use her own bathroom is an absurd privilege, if- oh. "You're going to keep the door open, aren't you."
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And putting her on a timer is too systematic. It rings of establishing a process, and tonight is an anomaly. An aberration. She's learned she doesn't want what misery and isolation coerced her into believing she did. And whatever he wants is of no consequence, the same as it's always been. His worse instincts will go back to sleep once they don't have hers to play with.
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"Do I get shampoo? Or soap? I'll wash my hair with soap, I've done it before."
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Hap stands aside, allowing her in. He lingers as she familiarizes herself with the space, reluctant to leave her.
He knowingly opens himself up to mockery, warning her, "Don't make me regret this."
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"What have I ever done to you? I'm sorry being mouthy has you running scared."
She turns away, walking toward the tub, her shoulders hunched with embarrassment.
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He leaves her, fingers catching on the door to drag it with him a couple of meaningless inches. Then it's back to her room, to gather his clothes, deposited directly into a laundry hamper, and hers, folded and left on the chair he'd occupied. (Her underwear, he deigns to add to the wash.) His glasses are recovered, as well as the electrodes dotting the carpet. Provided the time, he strips the mattress and dresses it with fresh bedding.
Hap peers in on his trips down the hall, monitoring her incidentally.
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The water is a soupy shade of brown when she gets out of it. The sum total of months (maybe a year?) of suffering adds up to sweat and dirt in a few gallons of water, and come swirling in the drain. She washes herself up, dries off as best she can, and tries to catch Hap's eye as he looks in on her. "You a peeping Tom, now? Seems kinda beneath you."
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Like the one she gives him on his way down the hall. Hap stops, seeing she's ready to return to her room.
"Thank you for not taking too much time in there." The temptation to push her luck must have been incredible. He could use a shower himself and intends to take one as soon as she's locked away. He gestures down the corridor.
Hap is whiteknuckling his facade of dispassion. Scoured of soil, skin red in patches from vigorous scrubbing, she's a damning vision. Colorless for the dirt that's been lost, her collarbone nearly punctures paper thin flesh. Tendrils of damp, deep red hair streak her shoulders like blood. And the bruise on her arm, a spiteful burst of frenzy.
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"Come on." His chin juts toward their destination.
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If circumstances were any different, he'd have put the flat of his hand on her arm or upper back to get her moving by now. He's not keen to watch her flinch away from him, or shirk him off.
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She's aware it's a small, petty thing to ask for, but she figures it's a win-win. If he says yes, she gets to comb her hair; if he says no, he gets to feel good about himself for denying her something she can easily go without. It's like a controlled burn.
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"If you'll go to your room," already is lightly intoned, "I'll get you a comb."
His eyebrows peak, urging her to get on with it.
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A one-knuckle rap at the door and he enters. He holds the comb out to her before crossing his arms, unusually awkward in a space that barely qualifies as hers. Her claim to it has grown in defiance of how he's sullied it.
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"I wanna ask you something. Don't get mad? I just wanna know."
He's given her to absurdly kind boons in the last hour. She wants to test how far this goes, and some of that involves niceties. She's not sure she's up to the task-- the other foot is going to fall any second now-- but she has to try, or there's no point to anything.
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"What is it?" He will not promise not to get mad, because it would sound silly to his ears. He certainly doesn't plan on it. He doubts he has the reserves of vigor to get that worked up a second time, anyway.
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She cringes when she says it, more uncomfortable saying it than anything else. If this is part of the experiment, she might actually start trying to escape.
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