Triss pouts - at being denied something to gnaw on and at the reminder that they still don't agree on this big thing. Hannibal just worries about staying secret; so long as they don't get found out, accidents are fine. But Triss, who's seen the results of 'little shows', whose life is still in the middle of being shaped by that kind of thing, refuses to buy it.
(It's not even about punishment or a lingering reluctance to make trouble. Hannibal's mutation won't protect him from a falling building or an exploding refrigerator. It might be able to stop her panic, but can't shield him from it. She's tried to explain that fear, but it keeps coming out 'I'm scared of what I can do' and not 'I'm scared I'll hurt you, too', like she means.)
The alcohol swipes that all away, has her biting her lip instead of puffing it out. She almost jerks out of his hand and she definitely whimpers, but here's where the 'medical doctor' thing is helpful: it's over pretty quick, as promised. Triss blinks back a prickle of tears of waits 'til her knee's all patched over to stand up. It still aches just as bad, or even worse, but all the exposed skin is comfortably swaddled away. She tests the fist wrappings again while Hannibal packs away the first aid stuff, wondering if it'll scar. She kinda hopes not, she's got enough weird marks without having to explain whole patches on her hands and legs.
"No," she's decisive about that, at least. Triss doesn't worry about Hannibal thinking she's a baby, but those three downstairs aren't allowed to laugh at Otto. The jellyfish shirt might be pushing it. She does take his hand, though, as they go back downstairs. Her knee likes the downward angle even less, a fact she'd wield like a club if anybody accused her of hanging on too tight.
Argus, Ruth and Danae wait in the kitchen as asked. Ruth's seated at the table, straightbacked and gesturing over something she's saying to Danae, who's perched on a stool at the kitchen island. Triss bristles a little; she likes to sit up high but she definitely doesn't wanna sit next to the mean one. Argus hasn't found anywhere to sit, he's leaning halfway over the table, hands clasped behind his back as he studies the books Hannibal's left out.
"This is an impressive collection of titles to have onhand for emergencies, doctor," he says, and he actually sound like he means it. Triss eyeballs the stack of books, but can't think of where they usually go when Hannibal's not using them. He's got so many, she can't keep track of them all, and lots of them are too old for her to touch without asking for help.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2016-06-05 06:21 am (UTC)(It's not even about punishment or a lingering reluctance to make trouble. Hannibal's mutation won't protect him from a falling building or an exploding refrigerator. It might be able to stop her panic, but can't shield him from it. She's tried to explain that fear, but it keeps coming out 'I'm scared of what I can do' and not 'I'm scared I'll hurt you, too', like she means.)
The alcohol swipes that all away, has her biting her lip instead of puffing it out. She almost jerks out of his hand and she definitely whimpers, but here's where the 'medical doctor' thing is helpful: it's over pretty quick, as promised. Triss blinks back a prickle of tears of waits 'til her knee's all patched over to stand up. It still aches just as bad, or even worse, but all the exposed skin is comfortably swaddled away. She tests the fist wrappings again while Hannibal packs away the first aid stuff, wondering if it'll scar. She kinda hopes not, she's got enough weird marks without having to explain whole patches on her hands and legs.
"No," she's decisive about that, at least. Triss doesn't worry about Hannibal thinking she's a baby, but those three downstairs aren't allowed to laugh at Otto. The jellyfish shirt might be pushing it. She does take his hand, though, as they go back downstairs. Her knee likes the downward angle even less, a fact she'd wield like a club if anybody accused her of hanging on too tight.
Argus, Ruth and Danae wait in the kitchen as asked. Ruth's seated at the table, straightbacked and gesturing over something she's saying to Danae, who's perched on a stool at the kitchen island. Triss bristles a little; she likes to sit up high but she definitely doesn't wanna sit next to the mean one. Argus hasn't found anywhere to sit, he's leaning halfway over the table, hands clasped behind his back as he studies the books Hannibal's left out.
"This is an impressive collection of titles to have onhand for emergencies, doctor," he says, and he actually sound like he means it. Triss eyeballs the stack of books, but can't think of where they usually go when Hannibal's not using them. He's got so many, she can't keep track of them all, and lots of them are too old for her to touch without asking for help.