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Anya wakes up with her fingernails dug deep into the soft flesh of her lower abdomen. For a moment—just a moment—she swore that she was back in the Tulpar, that the parasite was still taking a hold of her. It all felt so real, as if it wasn’t a nightmare but a reality; how hard is it to detangle the two, when the months she lived on that crashed ship were worse than anything a nightmare could conceive of?
She gasps, her heart pounding in her chest as she lies beside you.
“Hey, you okay?” you ask, your voice halfway to a sleepy murmur. You can barely keep your eyes open, visibly startled awake by the way in which she suddenly jolted.
It’s dark in her shared bedroom, the scenery barely visible but familiar and grounding enough. Anya lies in her childhood bedroom, on a bed she never thought she’d return to; she’s been staying at home with her mother ever since getting back to Earth. You’re sharing the room with her, too—surprisingly welcomed by her mother. (It turns out that being a lesbian is much less of a big deal to her family than nearly dying on a crashed ship is.)
Anya always feels bad for waking you up like this. It isn't the first time, though, and it surely won't be the last. It’s unfortunately common; at least this time, she didn’t wake up screaming and thrashing, but she still isn’t happy about having woken you up.
“For a second, it— I felt like it was still there,” Anya raggedly explains, a wave of nausea hitting her strongly enough that her malaise must be audible in her voice when she speaks. She can't pry her hands away from herself, as if she's trying to dig the invader out of her body on her own. “My stomach hurts…”
There's a kind look in your eyes. You’re gentle with her, as always. “Oh, Anya… I'm so sorry.” You shift closer, lying on your side, and your hand finds Anya’s. “Be gentle with yourself, baby. It’s okay. It's gone.”
Logically, Anya knows this; as it turns out, the combination of malnutrition and cryostasis nearly did Anya and the parasite in, and she ended up needing an emergency procedure to save her life once the rescue ship reached Earth. There was little time to process everything that happened before she was put under and woke up lying in a hospital bed, kept alive by machines and medication, before she was even allowed to go home. If that wasn’t enough, she needed intensive outpatient programs to keep her afloat. Appointment after appointment blended into each other and left time a confusing mess in her mind.
It’s been over six months since she returned to Earth. Ever since then, she’s refused to leave your side unless she has no other choice; the two of you are essentially inseparable.
Anya’s eyes fill with tears, and she shudders, beginning to relent her grip on herself. “It's gone, you're right,” she croaks out, trembling. “Sorry. I– I hate to even disturb your sleep like this. I know it isn't fair…”
“It's okay,” you reassure. “What happened wasn't fair at all. You were put in an impossible situation—we all were, but you especially had so much to handle.”
Anya's trembling hands find yours, finally releasing the grasp on herself. Already, her hands feel clammy, sweat accumulating beneath her pajamas. She inhales sharply, giving your hand a squeeze and looking into your eyes. Barely visible in the dimness of the night, you’re beautiful as ever and as much of a comfort as you were back then. Your comfort is invaluable.
“Thank you,” is all Anya manages to get out, curling her legs up closer to her body. When she closes her eyes, her mind begins to drift back to that nightmare—Jimmy screaming, his hands on you, a gun pointed at your head. None of it was real, but the sensation of that thing squirming just beneath the surface has Anya feeling itchy and wrong.
When she says little more, you speak up in hushed tones. “Anya, I’m right here. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I just… hate him so much,” she replies after a moment’s hesitation. “I hate knowing that he’s still out there—that he could come back at any second and ruin everything if he wanted to.”
“Oh, Anya,” you coo, drawing her hand to your lips. You press a sleepy kiss atop the back of her hand, nuzzling yourself closer to her. “I know. It sucks. It feels like any bad thing that happens to him will never be enough. Right here, though? Right now? You’re safe. He can’t get you anymore.”
Her throat hurts, hit with a nauseous feeling so familiar that it reminds her all too painfully much of morning sickness. Anya moves in closer, and you wrap your arms around her.
“Sometimes, I wish I had it in me to be worse to him. I wish I could’ve told him off, could’ve said no in a way that mattered.” A beat follows before Anya can continue. “Not that he’d listen, but— I don’t know. I wish I hadn’t been so nice to him. I put up with so much, and for what?”
You sigh. “I know the feeling,” you answer, draping your arm over Anya and holding her unsteady frame close to your warm, welcoming body. “You did what you had to do to survive, though. You were braver than anyone else on the ship.”
“It’s hard to feel that way,” Anya murmurs. “I let him do things to me that I shouldn’t have.”
You shake your head, rubbing your thumb against the back of her hand. “You didn’t let him. You were being abused and coerced. Please don’t blame yourself for your abuse. It’ll never be your fault, honey. None of it will ever be.”
“Not even the crash?”
A silence falls between the two of you.
“That was Jimmy’s fault,” you quietly say.
“I told him I was pregnant,” Anya reminds you, her rising emotions bleeding into her words as she chokes out, “and he crashed the ship.”
You hold her close as she begins to weep, her head pressed into your shoulder blade. She wraps her arms around you, near-suffocated by the heat of her own breath against the fabric of your pajamas. Your tender fingertips rub Anya’s back, holding her close and speaking so gently to her.
“Never in a million lifetimes will that be your fault,” you murmur, shifting a bit so that you can press a kiss to Anya’s scalp, your lips brushing against the thin, light baby hairs growing anew amidst what black locks remain from before. “Oh, my darling… I’m so sorry he’s still holding power over you, even now. He doesn’t deserve to take up so much space in your mind.”
“I d– don’t want him to,” Anya laments, muffled against you. “I hate it. I should be better than this. I should avoid news articles and court proceedings and– and— I should avoid it all, but everywhere I go, I feel like he’s still trying to get to me, even from far away.”
“Oh, baby...” You press another kiss to Anya’s scalp. “I’ll be honest with you, Anya—I think he’s more afraid of you than you know. I think he’s scared shitless, with the power you have to absolutely ruin his life. You should never have to rehash what happened to you, especially not to the public—but if you do, you know that you could absolutely ruin his life. Don’t forget that.”
Anya mumbles something incoherent in response to you, holding you tightly and pressing her face against you.
“Right now, though, he isn’t going to get you. I’ll kill him if he even tries, okay?”
“You’ll… kill him?”
“Yeah—with hammers, knives, and bombs. Maybe I’ll hit him with my car if I’m feeling creative.”
Despite everything, your exaggerated threat gets a wet, pathetic little laugh out of Anya. “Thank you. That’s very sweet of you, dear.”
You let out the tiniest chuckle, satisfied with having amused your lover. “It’s no problem. I’d do anything for you. Just say the word.” Your hand rubs her back, a slow and soothing up-and-down motion. “Honey, do you think taking your meds might be a good idea? You’re totally justified in being upset about this, but… they might help you get back to sleep.”
For the first time in a moment, Anya pulls her face away from your shoulder. While impossible to see in the dark, she wouldn’t be surprised if she left a face-shaped imprint from her tears and snot in your clothing. Anya sniffles audibly, nodding her head against the pillow. “Yeah. I think you’re right… That’s probably a really good idea.”
“Let me get them for you,” you tell her. Carefully pulling away from Anya, she misses your touch the moment you’re gone. All you need to do is walk around the bedroom, though; once you do, you’re back with a bottle of anxiety medication and her favorite water bottle, already filled from before bedtime. “Here, baby.”
You hand the pills to Anya, and she uncaps the bottle, taking out a pill. Benzodiazepines have become her best friend in recent times. Closing the bottle back up, she pops the pill into her mouth and takes a swig of water from her bottle. The pill goes down easily, and especially so after a couple of extra sips.
“You’re so sweet to me,” Anya says. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you…”
“Being the best girlfriend, best nurse, and most wonderful person in my life?” You lightheartedly suggest. “You’re perfect, Anya. Don’t ever think of yourself as being undeserving of love and care.”
Anya smiles slightly despite her puffy eyes and runny nose. Handing the bottles back to you, she lets you put them back into place, bringing her a tissue. After unceremoniously blowing her nose, she settles back down into bed with you. She breathes slowly, in and out—just like her poster on the Tulpar reminded her to. Just like her therapist in the ward told her to. Just as you remind her to, so often, when nothing else seems to work.
“Sorry again for waking you up,” Anya says. “I feel… silly. It’s– It’s not fair for you.”
“Babe, if I’m allowed to wake you up with my panic attacks without you getting mad at me, then you can obviously do the same.” You take hold of her hand again, snuggling close to her. “It’ll always be okay, dear. Every night won’t be like this. It won’t be like this forever.”
“You think so…?” Anya softly asks you, a small hope reignited in her.
“I know so. One day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll realize you haven’t thought about it—about him—in days, or weeks, or even months. I don’t know when the day will come, but I’ll be here with you every day until then.”
Despite her tears and exhaustion, Anya manages to smile a little. “You’ll be here the whole time?”
“I will,” you assure her, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, her self-cut bangs slightly dampened from perspiration.
“You won’t get tired of me?” Her voice is small, insecurity gripping at her.
“Never, Anya. I could never even imagine it.”
Anya leans into you, feeling her body beginning to lose its tension, if only slightly. “Thank you… I’ll never get tired of you, either.” She takes another long and slow deep breath, feeling her muscles begin to relax a little. “It’ll be okay. Someday, it’ll be okay. I have to hope that it will.”
“I know it will,” is your response. “We’ll be okay some day, and we’ll be so glad we made it through this.”
It’s a future that will take some time, no doubt, but Anya will trust and believe you. It’s the very least she can do. She stays close with you, basking in your warmth and love until her medication kicks in, mercifully granting her a restful and thoughtless slumber.