"Phrasing, Hannibal. Phrasing." Neph snort-laughs into his shirt, breath gusting over their joined hands. He really needs a broader circle of friends, 'cuz she doesn't play with innuendo enough to teach him how not to use English.

Her amusement passes in a flicker, leaving a ghost of warmth around her mouth. She wriggles her arm back underneath her, so she can sit up on her elbow and look down at him through the dark. What kind of unguarded face would she see, if she had Tin to burn?

"I know you're up to it. Or for it, anyway," she says, speech coming slowly as she fishes for the best way to say the things jittering around in her head without coming up with a handful of the terrible, dangerous shit. "And I know you don't do failure. I want you with me, but I want you alive, too."

It hits her, then, as she fumbles through the steps of that thought, a dance she's learning for the first time. Neph's eyes widen, the words welling up and overflowing before she can check them. "But I'd rather have you with me and in danger all the time than split up to keep you safe." Take responsibility. For what? For putting him in harm's way just so she doesn't have to be alone? Well, fine. "And I'm sorry but I'm not real sorry."