Page 117 of Untouchable

“Good,” Parker murmurs. He doesn’t even feel chill in the air anymore, focusing instead on rubbing Harp’s back in slow circles. “Hold it for as long as you can—good, good—keep going—”

After an impressive moment, Harp lets out the air in a rough, ragged sigh.

“Great job,” Parker says. “Okay, just one more, okay?” He knows he sounds like he’s talking to a kid or a wounded animal, but he doesn’t care. It works. Harp sucks in another breath and Parker continues talking in the same gentle, soothing voice. Parker vaguely remembers a time when Harp had mentioned a panic disorder, and he guesses what he’s seeing now is the full flare of it. He’s glad he’s here, crouched in the snow beside Harp, glad he actually knows what to do for once.

“This will help your system reset, okay? It’s like force restarting your phone—good job—just keep holding, as long as you can—”

* * *

There'ssomething about Parker's voice that... well, it doesn't quite fix things. But it centers Harp. He turns off the world around them and the danger at their back and he just listens to the directions.

Parker's voice is cool but familiar and clear. Like a snowflake, Harp thinks absurdly as he holds his breath and stares again at the horizon.

“Great,” Parker says again when Harp exhales. “If you need to do that a few more times you can, but that should help. I want you to focus on your sense of sight, okay? Find something to look at and really see it.” He pauses for a moment. “Did you find something?”

Harp looks out, his eye catching on the silvery glint of the sun on the icicles forming on the eaves of the house. He nods dumbly.

“Good,” Parker says. “I want you to find four more things, okay? It can be anything. Just look at them and make a list.”

It makes no sense, but Harp does as he’s instructed. A crow alighting on the fence, watching them curiously. Pawprints in the snow, criss-crossed tracks in small, medium, and large. His own fist, still clenched, on his lap. The dark wood of the cabin’s exterior.

“Did you find them?” Parker asks gently after a moment, and Harp nods. “Great. You’re doing a good job, Harp. Now I want you to focus on sound. What do you hear?”

Parker guides Harp through all his senses this way, asking him to notice things—and he does. The smooth warmth of Parker’s voice, the cold of the snow packed beneath him. The sharpness of the blue of the sky, the far-off sound of a horse banging its hoof against the barn wall.

Parker’s requests seem odd and useless, but Harp humors him.

And then, miraculously, it begins to work.

The panic wound tight in Harp’s chest begins to uncurl and oxygen works its way back into his lungs. His muscles feel loose and used up, the way they feel after he braces himself for a second car accident in traffic that never comes—but at least he can breathe again, can think again.

Parker hauls him up with one hand and a perfect pivot of his body and Harp feels astounded to find himself on his feet again.

Parker is shivering under the blanket, he finally realizes.

"Let's get inside," Harp says. His own voice sounds far away, but Parker doesn't protest.

The house smells like char and soot and the dogs greet them at the door, all three nervously wagging and wondering what all of the commotion has been about this morning. Parker sits him down at the table and returns with a glass of water.

"Maybe you should skip the coffee," he says gently and Harp nods.

"Supposed to be a quiche," Harp says, after he takes a gulp.

"Are you okay?” Parker asks in a cautious way Harp fears. “Is whatever happened over now?"

"Yeah, I'm—I'll be okay," Harp says. He almost tells Parker that he's fine but he realizes that isn't true. Panic attacks have a tendency to throw him into a chaos that can only be quieted with enough liquor to tranquilize him and send him into a deep sleep.

But this one is different. He feels it tapering off faster—and though it was just as intense, he doesn't have the hit by a truck feeling that usually lingers.

"There was an accident when I was a teenager," Harp says. "I worry a lot about... accidents."

Parker reaches across the table and takes Harp’s hand in his own. Harp pauses for long enough that Parker speaks up.

“You’re welcome to talk about it,” Parker says softly. “If you feel comfortable.”

"Better not to," Harp says quickly. "I was just—-"

Worried about you? For what?Harp feels jumbled again just thinking about it.

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