Page 116 of Untouchable

* * *

How the hellcould he be so scatterbrained to go off and leave something baking? He could've burned down the house—with Parker and the dogs inside. Harp just would've been out here, welding away, oblivious to it and unable to help. Harp could've killed him.

When the realization occurs to him, it's like someone has pulled the pin on a grenade and handed it over to Harp. Total visceral panic envelops him in just a few seconds.

Holy shit, holy shit.

Harp's brain is off and running without him.

I could've killed him. I could've killed him. I wasn't paying attention. I never pay attention. I could've killed him.

Harp turns away from Parker and struggles to get the thick apron off of himself. He feels like it's dragging him down suddenly, hanging him, like the weight of the thing across his chest is too much and he can't breathe. Harp wants to run away but knows that doesn't make sense—Run away from what?

I could've killed him. Just like Walt. I never pay attention.

Harp is tangled in the strings of his apron and the thing cuts him strangely under the armpits, across the back. He reaches behind himself for it and pain rips across the muscles in his back as something in him pinches in the wrong way.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he says, raw and ragged and panicked.

How could you have been so stupid? How could you have been so careless? Don't you know he was relying on you?

* * *

Harp’sstill turned away from him, scrabbling at the strings of his apron. His posture is stiff and strange, and he’s swearing under his breath—it’s as if he’s forgotten Parker is there. Parker closes the distance between them, reaching up to undo the knot for him. He unloops it from around Harp’s head and the heavy apron falls to the floor.

"Thank you—I'm sorry—I need some air," Harp says, pushing past Parker, shaking his head. He rushes out of the shed, into the snow, which is blinding compared to the dimly lit shed. Parker follows Harp back outside, a pit of dread heavy in his stomach now. He wishes he’d put a shirt on.

Harp is standing, staring up at the cabin, but it’s as if he’s a million miles away. Something is clearly very, verywrong.

Parker gently reaches out and puts his hand on Harp’s arm.

“Harp? What’s going on?”

The touch seems to catch him the wrong way and Harp whirls on him—surprised, maybe, not expecting Parker to have followed him out.

Harp grabs his wrist roughly—it doesn’t hurt, but Parker can’t easily pull away. "Are you okay, Parker?"

There’s panic in Harp’s eyes, and Parker cowers slightly. He nods, stunned.

* * *

"The dogs are okay?"Harp demands. He hates the way Parker is looking at him like he's something to be afraid of but he can't turn it off now. He's in the full swing of a panic attack.

“Y-yeah,” he squeaks out. “It was just kind of smoky—I pulled it out—I’m sorry if I—I wasn’t awake—I wouldn’t have let it burn if—“

Harp sits down abruptly in the snow, trying to force all of the air out of his lungs. Maybe if he can get all of the old air out, his lungs will feel better, will hold air again, and breathing and standing at the same time seem to be too much for him to juggle currently.

Harp holds his head in his hands and tries to breathe.

Parker crouches down beside Harp. Inhaling isn’t doing anything and Harp opens his mouth to say something, but... When he looks up, Parker's shock or fear or whatever it was is gone and it's just Parker with his honest, open expression.

* * *

Parker findsthat his own panic has disappeared, replaced by a calm and cool voice, as smooth as glass, in his head that directs him. Harp’s having a panic attack, he realizes now, and his training—and personal experience—takes over. Harp’s close to hyperventilating.

“Harp,” Parker says in a firm, gentle voice. “I know it sounds counter intuitive, but I want you to take a big inhale for me, okay? Hold your breath as long as you can.”

Harp nods, sucks in a deep breath, and holds it while he looks at the horizon.

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