"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)
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She cringes back once she says it. He's about to explode. She just implied he's vulnerable.
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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."
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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.
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(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.
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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.
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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."
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"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.