Neph has only regular nightvision at her disposal just now; Allomancers are no more immune to heavy metal poisoning than the next person, so conventional wisdom dictates they burn off their day's supply of metals and sleep on an empty stomach, rather than risk digesting them. There's no Tin in her belly to light, nothing but the clock to see by. It's enough to make out shapes and movement - the bed, the nightstand, Hannibal's head lifting off the pillow as he disengages from whatever he was dreaming.
It's not enough to make out his face. She can't be sure it's whole and not--not bashed open. Neph leans forward, planting her hands on the mattress for balance. Something about her approach flips him wide awake. And why shouldn't it? She's never snuck into his room without a reason, before. If he did the same, she'd immediately assume they were in danger.
"What is it?" he asks, quiet like somebody might overhear. The low, sleep roughed urgency in it is nothing like the matter-of-fact tone from her dream. Now that he's sitting up, the ghostly light shows the flat angles of his cheek, jaw and nose. Unbroken. Neph lets out a breath, relaxing so abruptly her ribs rattle around her deflated lungs.
Hannibal doesn't take that as an answer, asks her what happened as he reaches for her arm. For a lightheaded moment, Neph's not sure he'll actually be able to make contact. She couldn't rip loose in her dream, no matter how hard she tried. Then his hand is on her elbow, warm and heavy from sleep. The touch slides down her forearm to settle around her wrist and Neph finds the muscle memory to inhale again.
"Nothing." Apparently. He's fine. There's nothing to worry about except for this sudden change in nightmare programming. She could turn around and go back to her room and find something to do until morning, if she wanted.
She does not want.
Neph pulls her other knee onto the bed, weight rocking forward onto her hands as she folds her legs under her. "I just," the dry click of her swallow is mortifyingly loud in the muffled room. Neither of them can see her flush but it burns her face and neck, feverish under the sheen of drying sweat. "Can I stay? Here?"
Nothing in her head, heart or gut screams that he might turn her away. Not after all the nights they've navigated his nightmares together. Nope, instead those battered organs whisper about the risks of being seen, of becoming dependent on others for comfort, of how much worse this may make her own dreams.
She clenches her fingers in his ridiculous threadcount comforter and resolutely does not care.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-04-02 10:06 pm (UTC)It's not enough to make out his face. She can't be sure it's whole and not--not bashed open. Neph leans forward, planting her hands on the mattress for balance. Something about her approach flips him wide awake. And why shouldn't it? She's never snuck into his room without a reason, before. If he did the same, she'd immediately assume they were in danger.
"What is it?" he asks, quiet like somebody might overhear. The low, sleep roughed urgency in it is nothing like the matter-of-fact tone from her dream. Now that he's sitting up, the ghostly light shows the flat angles of his cheek, jaw and nose. Unbroken. Neph lets out a breath, relaxing so abruptly her ribs rattle around her deflated lungs.
Hannibal doesn't take that as an answer, asks her what happened as he reaches for her arm. For a lightheaded moment, Neph's not sure he'll actually be able to make contact. She couldn't rip loose in her dream, no matter how hard she tried. Then his hand is on her elbow, warm and heavy from sleep. The touch slides down her forearm to settle around her wrist and Neph finds the muscle memory to inhale again.
"Nothing." Apparently. He's fine. There's nothing to worry about except for this sudden change in nightmare programming. She could turn around and go back to her room and find something to do until morning, if she wanted.
She does not want.
Neph pulls her other knee onto the bed, weight rocking forward onto her hands as she folds her legs under her. "I just," the dry click of her swallow is mortifyingly loud in the muffled room. Neither of them can see her flush but it burns her face and neck, feverish under the sheen of drying sweat. "Can I stay? Here?"
Nothing in her head, heart or gut screams that he might turn her away. Not after all the nights they've navigated his nightmares together. Nope, instead those battered organs whisper about the risks of being seen, of becoming dependent on others for comfort, of how much worse this may make her own dreams.
She clenches her fingers in his ridiculous threadcount comforter and resolutely does not care.