She's been in Baltimore long enough, now, to have mapped about eighty percent of the city's rooftops. Neph can close her eyes and visualize the route she'd take as easily as she can call up the contents of their fridge. If she pushed herself, she could beat Hannibal and Will (if he came along) back to the apartment, even if they went by bus or subway.
But as Hannibal slots their fingers together, she lets go of the course she'd half-charted, wiping the slate clean of rooflines and window ledges. Maybe she'll double back some other time, test the feasibility just in case the Walters ever has something she wants. If she ran off now, after they'd both backed her, it'd be nothing but self indulgence. Worse, it might actually spit in the face of what Hannibal's offered.
Neph might not be able to bring herself to believe his promise, but she's pretty sure he meant it. People often seem to, at the time.
She puts that out of her mind, sets aside all thoughts of conditional support and affection to look back down at Will, who's adjusted his grip as though they're both wearing mittens. There's a crinkle on his forehead she hasn't seen before, almost-but-not-quite-worried as he studies their hands. A broiling surge of embarrassment fills her chest and singes her cheeks; should she...not have reached for him when he nudged her? Did she overstep again? Uncertainty bubbles up from under her 'no sir nothing suspicious to see here' mask, singes her cheeks pink, but why wouldn't he have let her hand slip away when she stood up, if he minded? Why would he take a surer grip? It must be...okay?
Hannibal tips into her, jolting her from that well-worn rut in her thoughts. Neph blinks at him, anxious lines smoothing away at the corners of her eyes. When she turns to Will again, her hesitance is more muted, less linked to this one thing. She gives his hand a light tug, silently urging him to his feet. "Yeah, I think so."
They wait for Will to collect the map and get his feet under him, then head for the armory. At first, the silence is wary, cautious, all of them on the lookout for a strike. Neph's pretty sure Samson came alone, knows he wasn't in town long enough to've made any serious alliances of his own, but Will and Hannibal have no reason to think the same. They don't know the guy, they know if he has any cranky friends, and they don't know much about how a blacklist scenario plays out (neither does Neph, really, but only because nobody's ever cut off a Mistborn on purpose). Neph stares straight ahead, past suits of armor and racks of halberds, gratingly aware that her reaction must've given them both a wonky impression of how dangerous Samson actually is.
She should've hit him. Nobody's all that scary with a broken nose and a few less teeth. Or maybe that's all the pointy metal talking. It's hard not to feel braver surrounded by an arsenal.
Will was right that there are fewer people in these galleries, but they still get more than their fair share of stares. Three kids trailing along hand-in-hand, paying little attention the actual exhibits, that's the sort of thing people notice. Neph tries not to think about what they must be thinking. She reaches for that untouchable carelessness Hannibal projects so easily, but it doesn't fit her quite the same. She's much better at being part of the background, or creating a character for the occasion. Layla, maybe? Even Elle can handle the occasional audience. Her grip tightens on the hands in hers, but then they're through the Ancient World nave, then the lobby, past the ticketing desk and back at street level.
Neph breathes out, the din of traffic and pedestrians and city life providing better cover than anything the hushed interior of a museum could offer. She might wonder if Samson came this way, but there are too many conflicting sounds and scents to bother trying, and that's as comforting an excuse as any to just dismiss him from her mind.
Or can she? The further they walk, the more the watchful tension dissipates, the more she figures everyone's minds must be turning back to what just went down. How much did Hannibal and Will overhear, and what did they make of it? Had Samson said anything really condemning? Neph's ability to recall conversations is pretty limited at the best of times, but she can't fish anything from the red haze of those moments. Was there anything there that might tip Will off? Would he say anything if he were suspicious? And--and that's not even getting to what they're probably thinking about how that fight got started in the first place.
Neph fights not to squeeze down or let go of their hands, not to make any outward signs, but her footsteps fall unusually heavy and her shoulders inch up. She doesn't want to answer these questions. She doesn't want this silence. The status quo is unbearable, teetering, but she's terrified of the fall.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-01-24 03:01 am (UTC)But as Hannibal slots their fingers together, she lets go of the course she'd half-charted, wiping the slate clean of rooflines and window ledges. Maybe she'll double back some other time, test the feasibility just in case the Walters ever has something she wants. If she ran off now, after they'd both backed her, it'd be nothing but self indulgence. Worse, it might actually spit in the face of what Hannibal's offered.
Neph might not be able to bring herself to believe his promise, but she's pretty sure he meant it. People often seem to, at the time.
She puts that out of her mind, sets aside all thoughts of conditional support and affection to look back down at Will, who's adjusted his grip as though they're both wearing mittens. There's a crinkle on his forehead she hasn't seen before, almost-but-not-quite-worried as he studies their hands. A broiling surge of embarrassment fills her chest and singes her cheeks; should she...not have reached for him when he nudged her? Did she overstep again? Uncertainty bubbles up from under her 'no sir nothing suspicious to see here' mask, singes her cheeks pink, but why wouldn't he have let her hand slip away when she stood up, if he minded? Why would he take a surer grip? It must be...okay?
Hannibal tips into her, jolting her from that well-worn rut in her thoughts. Neph blinks at him, anxious lines smoothing away at the corners of her eyes. When she turns to Will again, her hesitance is more muted, less linked to this one thing. She gives his hand a light tug, silently urging him to his feet. "Yeah, I think so."
They wait for Will to collect the map and get his feet under him, then head for the armory. At first, the silence is wary, cautious, all of them on the lookout for a strike. Neph's pretty sure Samson came alone, knows he wasn't in town long enough to've made any serious alliances of his own, but Will and Hannibal have no reason to think the same. They don't know the guy, they know if he has any cranky friends, and they don't know much about how a blacklist scenario plays out (neither does Neph, really, but only because nobody's ever cut off a Mistborn on purpose). Neph stares straight ahead, past suits of armor and racks of halberds, gratingly aware that her reaction must've given them both a wonky impression of how dangerous Samson actually is.
She should've hit him. Nobody's all that scary with a broken nose and a few less teeth. Or maybe that's all the pointy metal talking. It's hard not to feel braver surrounded by an arsenal.
Will was right that there are fewer people in these galleries, but they still get more than their fair share of stares. Three kids trailing along hand-in-hand, paying little attention the actual exhibits, that's the sort of thing people notice. Neph tries not to think about what they must be thinking. She reaches for that untouchable carelessness Hannibal projects so easily, but it doesn't fit her quite the same. She's much better at being part of the background, or creating a character for the occasion. Layla, maybe? Even Elle can handle the occasional audience. Her grip tightens on the hands in hers, but then they're through the Ancient World nave, then the lobby, past the ticketing desk and back at street level.
Neph breathes out, the din of traffic and pedestrians and city life providing better cover than anything the hushed interior of a museum could offer. She might wonder if Samson came this way, but there are too many conflicting sounds and scents to bother trying, and that's as comforting an excuse as any to just dismiss him from her mind.
Or can she? The further they walk, the more the watchful tension dissipates, the more she figures everyone's minds must be turning back to what just went down. How much did Hannibal and Will overhear, and what did they make of it? Had Samson said anything really condemning? Neph's ability to recall conversations is pretty limited at the best of times, but she can't fish anything from the red haze of those moments. Was there anything there that might tip Will off? Would he say anything if he were suspicious? And--and that's not even getting to what they're probably thinking about how that fight got started in the first place.
Neph fights not to squeeze down or let go of their hands, not to make any outward signs, but her footsteps fall unusually heavy and her shoulders inch up. She doesn't want to answer these questions. She doesn't want this silence. The status quo is unbearable, teetering, but she's terrified of the fall.