Grudging retreat or not, Neph doesn't trust Samson not to lash out at the last. She doesn't have a frame of reference for how he reacts to a total asskicking - she'd kinda run away last time, after putting him halfway through the wall of an elevator car. He seems like the type to try for one last jab, one final word, so she keeps her eyes on him as he shifts his weight to pivot.
Then Hannibal steps past her, arms at his sides, composed and collected except for the glimpse she catches of his eyes and mouth. The restrained violence there sets her stomach tumbling, a small cascade of pebbles followed by a rockslide when he warns Samson away from her. When he follows her threats with his own, but because she made them first.
This isn't just backing her up, something she's somehow come to hope for from Hannibal, even if she wasn't yet at the point of expecting it. This is grabbing her problem by the ankles so its legs don't drag while she hauls it away. It's literally stepping up and putting himself in the middle of something she'd known, five minutes ago, she'd handle herself. Unasked, unanticipated, as though it were inevitable.
Neph--doesn't know how to handle that. With gloves on? Held at a safe distance? Cradled close to her chest? The buzzing from before, that spreading awareness that she is not an organism alone, but one plugged into a greater network, compresses to diamond stillness behind her sternum. It is sharp and raw and shining, too razor-edged too touch, too bright to look at. She stares at the back of Hannibal's head instead, Samson barely registering in her field of view. When Will draws up beside her, her wide eyes fall on him. For one accidental moment, their eyes catch, and her whole face blasting are you seeing this is this happening.
It must be, because Samson says, in the dead even voice of a Pewterarm who's lost count of how many bones he's broken. "I know yours, too. Best remember that."
"Samson," Neph barks, head snapping back around. Why is he still here? She should've anticipated it'd take some shoving to get him to back off - past evidence kinda bears that out. She reaches for Copper, compresses it to mirror smoothness and shoves it at him again. It's not as easy, this time, with only dregs guttering in her gut (she must've flared it hard, before, almost tapped it out). The wall doesn't go far, just enough to press against the red haze that had begun to seep from his body. He flinches. "I'll take you apart if you even think it. Get going."
She came on too strong, knows it the second his rage-bright eyes catch on hers, shift speculatively between her and Hannibal. Samson sucks in one last breath, Pewter coiled tight at his core, before he storms off down the path. There must be a second exit, an entrance into another wing of the museum.
Neph watches until she can't hear his footsteps, and then she lights Tin and strains extended senses after him. No echoes suggest he's doubled back, no crashing or banging indicates a tantrum just around the corner. The smell of him lingers in the air, a smell she hadn't realized she'd catalogued somewhere in her hindbrain. Her stomach heaves, but there's the dry iron scent of imminent snow to calm it, the cold frost of Hannibal's mouthwash, the cedar smoke of Will's aftershave lingering on the collar of his shirt, but not his skin. The urge to gag recedes, a little.
With Tin dismissed, Neph takes a deep breath. Then another. And another, until they're not so deep as they are short, sharp, and spiraling out of her control. She whirls away from the boys, all the careful, cautious composure she's been clutching flying apart at the seams. A burst of frenetic energy, of adrenaline and suppressed flight response, jangles her limbs. She stomps back to the two pillars and paces between them, wrenching herself back and forth and back again. One arm curls around her ribs, pressing against their heaving, while her other hand flattens over her mouth to catch and smother her steaming breath.
One final turn puts her back at her original pillar, and then her knees cut out. She folds to the ground, feet planted, knees up around her shoulders, hands reaching up to scrape her hair out of her pale face. "Shit." Neph gasps.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-01-20 06:20 am (UTC)Then Hannibal steps past her, arms at his sides, composed and collected except for the glimpse she catches of his eyes and mouth. The restrained violence there sets her stomach tumbling, a small cascade of pebbles followed by a rockslide when he warns Samson away from her. When he follows her threats with his own, but because she made them first.
This isn't just backing her up, something she's somehow come to hope for from Hannibal, even if she wasn't yet at the point of expecting it. This is grabbing her problem by the ankles so its legs don't drag while she hauls it away. It's literally stepping up and putting himself in the middle of something she'd known, five minutes ago, she'd handle herself. Unasked, unanticipated, as though it were inevitable.
Neph--doesn't know how to handle that. With gloves on? Held at a safe distance? Cradled close to her chest? The buzzing from before, that spreading awareness that she is not an organism alone, but one plugged into a greater network, compresses to diamond stillness behind her sternum. It is sharp and raw and shining, too razor-edged too touch, too bright to look at. She stares at the back of Hannibal's head instead, Samson barely registering in her field of view. When Will draws up beside her, her wide eyes fall on him. For one accidental moment, their eyes catch, and her whole face blasting are you seeing this is this happening.
It must be, because Samson says, in the dead even voice of a Pewterarm who's lost count of how many bones he's broken. "I know yours, too. Best remember that."
"Samson," Neph barks, head snapping back around. Why is he still here? She should've anticipated it'd take some shoving to get him to back off - past evidence kinda bears that out. She reaches for Copper, compresses it to mirror smoothness and shoves it at him again. It's not as easy, this time, with only dregs guttering in her gut (she must've flared it hard, before, almost tapped it out). The wall doesn't go far, just enough to press against the red haze that had begun to seep from his body. He flinches. "I'll take you apart if you even think it. Get going."
She came on too strong, knows it the second his rage-bright eyes catch on hers, shift speculatively between her and Hannibal. Samson sucks in one last breath, Pewter coiled tight at his core, before he storms off down the path. There must be a second exit, an entrance into another wing of the museum.
Neph watches until she can't hear his footsteps, and then she lights Tin and strains extended senses after him. No echoes suggest he's doubled back, no crashing or banging indicates a tantrum just around the corner. The smell of him lingers in the air, a smell she hadn't realized she'd catalogued somewhere in her hindbrain. Her stomach heaves, but there's the dry iron scent of imminent snow to calm it, the cold frost of Hannibal's mouthwash, the cedar smoke of Will's aftershave lingering on the collar of his shirt, but not his skin. The urge to gag recedes, a little.
With Tin dismissed, Neph takes a deep breath. Then another. And another, until they're not so deep as they are short, sharp, and spiraling out of her control. She whirls away from the boys, all the careful, cautious composure she's been clutching flying apart at the seams. A burst of frenetic energy, of adrenaline and suppressed flight response, jangles her limbs. She stomps back to the two pillars and paces between them, wrenching herself back and forth and back again. One arm curls around her ribs, pressing against their heaving, while her other hand flattens over her mouth to catch and smother her steaming breath.
One final turn puts her back at her original pillar, and then her knees cut out. She folds to the ground, feet planted, knees up around her shoulders, hands reaching up to scrape her hair out of her pale face. "Shit." Neph gasps.