Lecter had said that, too. That it wasn't about her, wasn't about anything she could or couldn't do, that it was a system of fuckery perpetuated by entitled boys. A system no single person could be expected to dismantle or stop. Neph can acknowledge that, but she doesn't have to like the fact that it's an issue too big to get her arms around, dig her fingers into, and claw apart all on her own. She doesn't have to accept it any more than she resigned herself to shuttling around fostercare. Given the choice between safe acceptance and truly stupid risks, she batters herself against the latter like a moth on a lampshade.
Neph doesn't snap any of that at Will. The cringe that always lingers in his voice is out in full force, as if he know how unhelpful it is to say, to hear. It's not his fault she's been through this enough times to know the script. Maybe, if she hears it repeated often enough, she'll come up with some brilliant response that turns the whole thing over on its head. At least she got someone new thinking about it, looking at the system and reaching out to take her hand instead of turning away from it. That must count for something, she thinks, as Will pulls closer to her side.
Her other arm is stretched out a little further to Hannibal, a strained point of contact anchored by the desperate grip of their hands. She hasn't looked at him since as-good-as-admitting she trusts him at her back. His answering silence is river-dark and cold, rushing around her, pulling at her, but still she doesn't look. Say something, she urges as a muscle works at the corner of his jaw, visible in her periphery. Neph's not sure which of them she means. Say something.
When he does, it's not an acknowledgement. Not exactly.
Except that it is.
Will fumbles at her side, and Neph--stops. Hannibal's momentum and her hold on his hand pulls him around to face her, while Will practically trips into her back. She rocks forward a little, seeking out Hannibal's face, his eyes. Whites flash around the edges and his nostrils flare a little. She can never tell if that's a sign of nerves or active mutation, with him. A little frown crinkles her face, words poised on her tongue, go home? but before you said--, when he unlocks a door she hadn't realized existed.
Neph's face falls open. They're all three of them standing in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to part around them, but nobody says anything about the girl with one boy at her back and another staring her down like a reluctant penitent, her hands in both of theirs. That's a minor miracle right there. Another might be the clarity with which Neph hears what Hannibal means.
They've talked around it before. This uncertainty played unwelcome third wheel those first few months, when neither of them knew if she would (or should) stay, or leave him with his money and pick up her own life where she'd left off. How much did she owe him, and was it even about debt at that point? How much of their unity was sheer momentum? Where was the choice in any of it, if at all? If they'd met like this in another timeline, his or hers, peers without any convoluted temporal history, would they have been friends?
Neph, in typical go-with-the-flow, focus-on-the-present fashion, started to enjoy herself too much to question it. And then little changes became big ones, became a joint lease and dishtowels and staking territory and suddenly the beginning no longer mattered. Knowing she could leave at any time didn't mean she wanted to, not at all. But Hannibal--
--she hasn't made him any promises. Not out loud.
"You're not a cage," she says vehemently, a wind beating back the river. Her hand shifts in his so she's grasping it from below, fingers wrapped around his, her thumb pressed against the back of his knuckles. "You weren't ever a cage, you were--you are--"
The trouble with 'you' is, it's both singular and plural, something Neph has never tasted so clearly in her own mouth before. Were. Are. One person and two people who've been very different things to her at very different points in her life. All kinds of possibilities crowd her mouth, conclusions like safe, honest, trustworthy. Like home. All of them too much and not enough.
She is very, very bad at this. "I'm always glad to have you there. Here." Neph says, at length. It's not right. It's not perfect. It's not even really a promise. If she's very, very lucky, it might make sense, in context of what she thinks he's saying, and what he's just offered her.
Nobody's ever trusted her to come back, before. She's never given anyone reason to. It's a limit she finds she's eager to test. Her chin comes up, the hair on the back of her neck lifting and tickling where Will's breath stirs it. Somewhere in all of this he's drawn in close, but it doesn't trigger any crawly feelings. It's a steady press of warmth instead. "I think I'd like to go for a run," she says, threaded through with wonder. "Not, um, not from anybody. Just for me." A grin pops out of nowhere, from the ether, from the thing inside her that keeps putting one foot in front of the other. "I bet I beat you home."
no subject
Neph doesn't snap any of that at Will. The cringe that always lingers in his voice is out in full force, as if he know how unhelpful it is to say, to hear. It's not his fault she's been through this enough times to know the script. Maybe, if she hears it repeated often enough, she'll come up with some brilliant response that turns the whole thing over on its head. At least she got someone new thinking about it, looking at the system and reaching out to take her hand instead of turning away from it. That must count for something, she thinks, as Will pulls closer to her side.
Her other arm is stretched out a little further to Hannibal, a strained point of contact anchored by the desperate grip of their hands. She hasn't looked at him since as-good-as-admitting she trusts him at her back. His answering silence is river-dark and cold, rushing around her, pulling at her, but still she doesn't look. Say something, she urges as a muscle works at the corner of his jaw, visible in her periphery. Neph's not sure which of them she means. Say something.
When he does, it's not an acknowledgement. Not exactly.
Except that it is.
Will fumbles at her side, and Neph--stops. Hannibal's momentum and her hold on his hand pulls him around to face her, while Will practically trips into her back. She rocks forward a little, seeking out Hannibal's face, his eyes. Whites flash around the edges and his nostrils flare a little. She can never tell if that's a sign of nerves or active mutation, with him. A little frown crinkles her face, words poised on her tongue, go home? but before you said--, when he unlocks a door she hadn't realized existed.
Neph's face falls open. They're all three of them standing in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to part around them, but nobody says anything about the girl with one boy at her back and another staring her down like a reluctant penitent, her hands in both of theirs. That's a minor miracle right there. Another might be the clarity with which Neph hears what Hannibal means.
They've talked around it before. This uncertainty played unwelcome third wheel those first few months, when neither of them knew if she would (or should) stay, or leave him with his money and pick up her own life where she'd left off. How much did she owe him, and was it even about debt at that point? How much of their unity was sheer momentum? Where was the choice in any of it, if at all? If they'd met like this in another timeline, his or hers, peers without any convoluted temporal history, would they have been friends?
Neph, in typical go-with-the-flow, focus-on-the-present fashion, started to enjoy herself too much to question it. And then little changes became big ones, became a joint lease and dishtowels and staking territory and suddenly the beginning no longer mattered. Knowing she could leave at any time didn't mean she wanted to, not at all. But Hannibal--
--she hasn't made him any promises. Not out loud.
"You're not a cage," she says vehemently, a wind beating back the river. Her hand shifts in his so she's grasping it from below, fingers wrapped around his, her thumb pressed against the back of his knuckles. "You weren't ever a cage, you were--you are--"
The trouble with 'you' is, it's both singular and plural, something Neph has never tasted so clearly in her own mouth before. Were. Are. One person and two people who've been very different things to her at very different points in her life. All kinds of possibilities crowd her mouth, conclusions like safe, honest, trustworthy. Like home. All of them too much and not enough.
She is very, very bad at this. "I'm always glad to have you there. Here." Neph says, at length. It's not right. It's not perfect. It's not even really a promise. If she's very, very lucky, it might make sense, in context of what she thinks he's saying, and what he's just offered her.
Nobody's ever trusted her to come back, before. She's never given anyone reason to. It's a limit she finds she's eager to test. Her chin comes up, the hair on the back of her neck lifting and tickling where Will's breath stirs it. Somewhere in all of this he's drawn in close, but it doesn't trigger any crawly feelings. It's a steady press of warmth instead. "I think I'd like to go for a run," she says, threaded through with wonder. "Not, um, not from anybody. Just for me." A grin pops out of nowhere, from the ether, from the thing inside her that keeps putting one foot in front of the other. "I bet I beat you home."