Archive of Our Own

Violent. Painful anxiety. 

Prairie woke up screaming.

Homer jolted in the bed beside hers (the one secluded on the other side of the glass, so far away). “Hey, OA, it’s okay. It’s just a dream.”

Prairie couldn’t stop screaming. At first it was out of instinct; the fear of drowning in a school bus in Russia, remembering dying there (and coming back). Then it was out of desperation. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be with her parents again. Or with her father and Khatun. Somewhere, anywhere, just not there. She wasn’t sure why she decided to come back after that first NDE with Hap, except that she wanted to protect Homer her friends.

Now, she couldn’t hear Homer. She couldn’t see his hand pressed up against the glass, desperately trying to hold onto her — she could only see blues and purples and oranges. 

“Help me!” “Help me!” “Help!” 

Scott groaned into his pillow, waking up from a daze, “It’s not going to work. Go back to sleep.” 

Rachel rolled over onto her back, “He’s right. It’s late OA. I’m tired.”

Then, the sound of the combination code at the top of the basement stairs, the clicking of Hap’s heals on rock.

Everybody got tense. Scott swore into his pillow. “Hey are we allowed to get some fucking sleep down here?”

Prairie calmed slightly out of fear and choked on her sobs, she could finally hear Homer then, on the other side of the glass, so soft, “Shhh, OA, you’re alright. I’m here.” 

Prairie could see. More than just colors now — she could get lost in the green of Homer’s eyes, watch what Hap was doing without him knowing, she realized it gave her a sense of control she didn’t have before. It calmed her.  

She’d stopped screaming by the time Hap got to her cell, the locks clicked, the door was open. Prairie was still sobbing quietly. She couldn’t get the bus out of her head. Too much blue, too much purple, too much orange.  

She let her gaze drift to Hap (faux emptiness, faux blindness). He wasn’t in his usual uniform, the usual belt of needles and medical equipment. Instead he was standing there in a white T-Shirt you’d wear late at night to bed, a pair of black jeans.

Everyone was watching him, now. 

“Calm down.” Hap said lowly, there was a softness there, urging her to comply, but Prairie couldn’t. She knew she was supposed to do what he said, that she was his slave, that they were all his, but she couldn’t help it.

The only thing keeping her even the slightest bit calm was the control she felt from her sight, Homer’s voice; Shhh you’re alright, I’m here.  

Hap took a step inside the cell, noticing immediately the icy glare from Homer, before pressing his hand to her forehead to check for a fever. Prairie flinched slightly at the contact, but didn’t pull away. 

If she was sick he didn’t want it spreading to the others. He didn’t want anything interfering with the experiment. 

She felt clammy and warm, sitting there, pale as a sheet, trying to suppress her sobs for his sake. He studied her for a moment, then, “Come on, let’s go. Stand up.”

Prairie didn’t want to stand. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to sit there on her bed beside Homer’s and be with him. She didn’t want to think about NDEs or Hap or his experiment. She didn’t want to fake blindness for him. 

She was so tired.  

“I’m okay.” She finally said, her breathing steadied as evidence. “Really Hap—“

“No, you’re not. Stand up.” 

Blindly, Prairie let her hand graze the glass between her cell and Homer’s, and stood obediently. Hap took her arm to lead her and brought her up the stairs. 

He had been in the kitchen, working on paper work illuminated by a small desk lamp. His mug of coffee was half empty, looking almost luke warm. 

Hap placed her hand on the table, sighed, “There’s a chair in front of you. You can sit, if you want.” 

If you want.   

Prairie almost faltered, as if just having the choice to sit was some sort of milestone. She wondered what he’d do if she continued to stand there, if it was really her choice after all. 

She could see the chair in front of her as clear as she could see the paper work on Hap’s desk. As a show, she grazed her fingers on the table until she ‘found it.’ She sat down, rubbing the tears and red from her eyes. 

After a moment she could hear his breathing steady, sense him ease back into his work, calm now that she was no longer manic (no longer screaming for help).  

“I’m sorry.” She said after another moment. “If I woke you.” 

“I was awake.” Hap said without looking at her, mind occupied with his work. Then, as if to somehow make her feel better. “It’s alright. I enjoy your company.” 

Prairie almost smiled — then she felt sick. 

She wasn’t there for his amusement. She thought; he should be angry with her for screaming for help. For making him go down and get her. She wanted him to be. Without that she almost felt a sensation of safety. A false security.  

She hated it. She hated him. 

“Can I go back down now?” Prairie tried, smiling her best fake smile, thinking of Homer. His presence suspended behind glass. “I’ll be quiet.”  

Hap considered her, her obvious desperation to get away from him. “You’re alright up here.” He finally said. “It’s warm. I’ll make you some tea.” 

Prairie didn’t want tea. Not with him, but she nodded. The tea kettle whistled and the next thing she knew he was placing her hand on the handle of a mug. “I was in India a couple years ago.” He began. “The locals were selling bins of goods and fabrics. This tea is supposed to cure anything, any illness, —“ he chuckled softly, “—it doesn’t of course. But it should help with your anxiety.”

Cure anything.

Prairie wrapped her hands around either side of the mug, let the heat warm her hands. “Thank you.” She finally said, and she meant it.

They existed in a mutual calm for almost an hour. Before bringing her back down to her cell, Hap allowed her to step outside into the chilly night air and just breath. 

Prairie had never been so grateful for crickets and wind and cold.