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.
Tension he was ignoring, to no significant effect, leeches from his shoulders. Here, she thought she might bring up Prairie again.
"They're in the laundry. Like I said, you'll get them back in the morning." Every reminder of what they've done that he can cleanse, he will. She doesn't have to sleep in the stench of their sex, up here or down there.
She visibly relaxes, exhaling in one long stream of breath. "Okay," she says, her smile tentative. When does the other foot fall and squash her? "Okay, thanks. That's all I got."
She doesn't point out how kind he's being, how he's changed his mind; she doesn't ask when she's going back to her personal dungeon or if he wants to go again. The thoughts cloud her mind like a swarm of bees, and she ignores them lest she get stung. She looks into his eyes and, smiling, wishes he gave a single shit whether she lived or died.
Hap shakes his head, trying not to chuckle. It isn't funny. Just absurd. She'll take his amusement poorly, regardless, because what woman wouldn't. It's such a reasonable concern, in such an unreasonable situation. Stealing women's underwear, you'd think, would be the red flag that suggests a man might kidnap you, not the other way around.
"One last thing," he says, looking back at her. "Don't lose any sleep over the possibility of pregnancy, okay? I've had surgery. The odds are a thousand to one."
"God, no," he says, shaking his head with far less levity. He'd be a monster to have five people forcibly dependent on him, if his health were in constant flux. He is terrified that his days as a smoker will one day catch up with him, despite quitting many years ago, but he doesn't need to heap that mundane fear onto her shoulders. "I had a vasectomy."
"Oh, Jesus." She slumps forward, elbows on her knees so she can put her head in her hands. Once she does, she starts laughing, a few confused barks caught between her fingers. "Why didn't you say that? Christ."
Sitting straight up again, she smooths her hair back and sets her comb down. She begins braiding her hair into one long rope, mostly because she can. It prolongs the moment, whatever this is. "I get it. I'd get my shit tied up if I could."
Her relief doesn't quite wash over him. He lets it lap at his feet, cautiously heartened that her first response to the idea of him sick was concern and not malice. If he doesn't let that matter to him too much, then it doesn't matter that the root of it is about looking after herself, not him.
The arms across his chest fall slack. For skin and bones, she looks pretty, braiding her hair for bed. As ghostly as she's ever appeared, yet never more like a person. Hap wets his lips and takes a step toward the chair. The nylon pack rests on the seat. He grabs it and brings it over.
"I'd like you to apply these," speaking of the peel-and-stick electrodes inside, "before you go to sleep." She seems once again amenable to his direction. Joan has applied them to herself plenty of times now. He always checks that they're correct and lately they always are.
She nods, braids the last few plaits of her hair, and twists the hair into shape so it sticks. She wishes she had a ribbon; she knows better than to ask. The electrodes are placed carefully, following his instruction and not wanting his sternness before bed. Now that her dreams are sacred, she likes to go to bed feeling, if not peaceful, at least not absolutely wrecked. She's noticed her dreams have more clarity when there isn't a thick film of anxiety on them.
(She hasn't shared this with Hap; she assumes he knows already, and would scoff at her observation.)
"I'll think about my brother before bed?" It's usually the easiest way to lead her lucid dreams into a prophetic zone, but sometimes he asks her to focus on different prompts. Selfish for attention, she doesn't want him to leave just yet. At all, really, but she knows a few extra minutes are all she can hope for.
If you can would be self-aggrandizing, wouldn't it? Whatever he may mean by it. Of course she would turn to thoughts of her brother. They're what get her through. He'll have no choice but to think about her, but he'll have the data to keep him cold company and assist him in cutting her vexatious whole into neat little pieces.
Hap nods.
"I'll be coming in a little later than usual," he says, like she has any idea of the time beyond morning, afternoon, evening and night, "so you can get the full five cycles."
He carries on, riding the familiarity of the exchange. "You remember what we talked about?" An effort to render the unspoken before... as quiet as possible.
She can't complain about having a little more time to stare out the window. She assumes this is a concession to her request to go outside. He won't let her, thinks he can't let her, refuses to trust her. She can have an extra half hour of window time, maybe, if he's still feeling merciful in the morning. She's tried in her time here to think of his moods like the weather, but she's still angry at God; how can she fail to resent the judgement of a single man?
But all she can do is nod back. "Ask him about the last movement. The fifth one. Hope to fuck that he's a better dancer than he was at fourteen."
Hap smiles gently. She's almost beautiful, right then. At his side, his fingers rub against his thumb. He'd caress her face if she wouldn't withdraw. He isn't sure what from. Bemusement. Offense. Hostility. He can't predict her as well as he'd like to. But then, if he could, she'd be down there with the rest.
"Alright. I'll leave you to it." His gaze flicks to her braid and back to her face before he turns to leave. One last thing, he'd said, but there's a sentiment that's been skittering beneath his resolve since he walked her out of the bathroom. A fact that's neither here nor there: Except for at the very end, unbidden and unwanted, he didn't imagine anyone but her.
He shuts off the light and closes the door in silence.
Edited (burnin it slow stylez ) 2024-08-19 21:47 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
"Come on." His chin juts toward their destination.
no subject
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"They're in the laundry. Like I said, you'll get them back in the morning." Every reminder of what they've done that he can cleanse, he will. She doesn't have to sleep in the stench of their sex, up here or down there.
no subject
She doesn't point out how kind he's being, how he's changed his mind; she doesn't ask when she's going back to her personal dungeon or if he wants to go again. The thoughts cloud her mind like a swarm of bees, and she ignores them lest she get stung. She looks into his eyes and, smiling, wishes he gave a single shit whether she lived or died.
no subject
"One last thing," he says, looking back at her. "Don't lose any sleep over the possibility of pregnancy, okay? I've had surgery. The odds are a thousand to one."
no subject
She cringes back once she says it. He's about to explode. She just implied he's vulnerable.
no subject
no subject
Sitting straight up again, she smooths her hair back and sets her comb down. She begins braiding her hair into one long rope, mostly because she can. It prolongs the moment, whatever this is. "I get it. I'd get my shit tied up if I could."
no subject
The arms across his chest fall slack. For skin and bones, she looks pretty, braiding her hair for bed. As ghostly as she's ever appeared, yet never more like a person. Hap wets his lips and takes a step toward the chair. The nylon pack rests on the seat. He grabs it and brings it over.
"I'd like you to apply these," speaking of the peel-and-stick electrodes inside, "before you go to sleep." She seems once again amenable to his direction. Joan has applied them to herself plenty of times now. He always checks that they're correct and lately they always are.
no subject
(She hasn't shared this with Hap; she assumes he knows already, and would scoff at her observation.)
"I'll think about my brother before bed?" It's usually the easiest way to lead her lucid dreams into a prophetic zone, but sometimes he asks her to focus on different prompts. Selfish for attention, she doesn't want him to leave just yet. At all, really, but she knows a few extra minutes are all she can hope for.
no subject
Hap nods.
"I'll be coming in a little later than usual," he says, like she has any idea of the time beyond morning, afternoon, evening and night, "so you can get the full five cycles."
He carries on, riding the familiarity of the exchange. "You remember what we talked about?" An effort to render the unspoken before... as quiet as possible.
no subject
But all she can do is nod back. "Ask him about the last movement. The fifth one. Hope to fuck that he's a better dancer than he was at fourteen."
no subject
"Alright. I'll leave you to it." His gaze flicks to her braid and back to her face before he turns to leave. One last thing, he'd said, but there's a sentiment that's been skittering beneath his resolve since he walked her out of the bathroom. A fact that's neither here nor there: Except for at the very end, unbidden and unwanted, he didn't imagine anyone but her.
He shuts off the light and closes the door in silence.