Her scream cuts off as her heel hits Will's thigh, her hip checks his shoulder, and she goes down. Again, the loss of balance triggers a panic spike that - almost - overrides the splintering pain. Neph's good hand goes out, hooking at leylines, but then there's an arm around her middle and she's only half-falling over Will's legs. Are they his legs? She's not real clear on where his limbs are. Or where her limbs are. Except the one.
Will's grip tightens, clamping down on her swollen ribs. Neph tries to bleat a protest, but she clutches instinctively at her bad arm with her good hand and ends up squeezing down on a fracture--
Everything goes swimmy.
When she refocuses, they've moved. The oil barrels loom large at Will's back, and she's sort of wedged against his hip, her spine against the side of his ribcage as though she were drowning and he's trying to one-arm swim them both to safety. That's enough of a shock to drag her wounded animal thoughts from the safe den of her brain; he pulled her away? He's touching her? On purpose?
Neph's head lolls back so she can stare at him in proper shock. His mouth moves, but she can't hear anything over the harsh hhah hhah hahh of her own stuttered breath. Her arm lays across her lap, a frayed wire that dangles from her shoulders, spraying sparks everywhere. She can't look at it. She doesn't want to know the damage. It's easier to look at Will, to wonder how he's not recoiling after what he's just seen. What he just got dragged through.
"I'm sorry," she pants, maybe she's babbling over him, she can't tell. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sor-."
Oh, wait, no, panting hurts. Panting stabs right at her ribs. Neph cuts herself off with a hiss, tries for longer, shallower, more careful breaths, but that kind of muscle control slipped away when she wasn't looking. It's all she can do not to shake, nevermind monitor her mouth.
"Don't," her uninjured hand clutches at the arm holding her up, fingers digging urgently into his sleeve. She tries to focus on his face, hovering over hers. "Don't--don't be mad, don't--please--don't go--"
Whether he made any sense of that will have to wait; Will looks up and away from her. He shouts something, and it sounds more alarmed than frightened or mad, though her ability to parse words is still floating somewhere in the ether. He wobbles, his arms tighten around her again, and then he's twisting away to reach for something. Before Neph can wonder if she oughta worry, there's a gunshot. She jolts up, or tries to, falls back with a bitten-off cry, and then Hannibal's there.
He reaches for her face. His hands are sticky. He's probably talking at her, too, but none of the sounds come together right. It's all just syllables, nothing that fits together into sense. Neph watches the rest of his red, red face while his mouth makes shapes. His eyes are a little more human now, crackling with rage like a summer sky. She decides she likes that better than the dispassionate feyness from earlier. She loosens her grip on Will's arm and reaches for him, clamps onto the back of his neck.
"You're okay," she might have enough oomph left to pull herself up, or maybe he leans down to her. Either way, her face ends up in his shoulder. Hannibal literally smells like death, but it's whatever. He's not hurt. If only her other arm weren't in pieces; she needs to wrap him up close for an indeterminate amount of time to let that reality sink in properly. "You're okay we're okay it's--it's fine, I'm fine, I just can't, um, um, stop bullets?" Not enough mass, not enough muscle. Somebody like Benkei or Samson or Atlas could manage it, but that's never been her forte. She was stupid to forget that. "S'not like ricochetin' 'em I'm not--I'm not strong enough it's fine it's gonna be okay."
Everything hurts a little less when she's talking, enough that she risks a look at her arm. It's badly swollen, bruises already rising to the surface of her skin like ink in water. Seven, eight bad ones, likely marking the breaks. At the end of it all there's her hand, the inverted arc of her fingers, bone showing white at the joints where skin split and cartilage burst.
Neph whips her face away a full 180 degrees, practically grinding her eyes into Will's shoulder. Just seeing it makes the pain real and alive again. "Ohhhhh no, no nope I take it back it's not fine wow that's bad that's bad okay, okay, okay," she breathes through her teeth, puffing out her cheeks against vomiting her panic all over the depot floor.
An injury like this would've meant the end of her career and all her tentative plans, just a year or two ago. Even now it's hard not to feel the world tilting off its axis beneath her. In reality that's just Will (alive and here and not-shot), adjusting his hold. In reality she has Hannibal and his medical knowledge, a bathroom full of stolen supplies and--
--and a scavenged stash of Lecter's elixers in her closet.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-07-08 07:16 am (UTC)Will's grip tightens, clamping down on her swollen ribs. Neph tries to bleat a protest, but she clutches instinctively at her bad arm with her good hand and ends up squeezing down on a fracture--
Everything goes swimmy.
When she refocuses, they've moved. The oil barrels loom large at Will's back, and she's sort of wedged against his hip, her spine against the side of his ribcage as though she were drowning and he's trying to one-arm swim them both to safety. That's enough of a shock to drag her wounded animal thoughts from the safe den of her brain; he pulled her away? He's touching her? On purpose?
Neph's head lolls back so she can stare at him in proper shock. His mouth moves, but she can't hear anything over the harsh hhah hhah hahh of her own stuttered breath. Her arm lays across her lap, a frayed wire that dangles from her shoulders, spraying sparks everywhere. She can't look at it. She doesn't want to know the damage. It's easier to look at Will, to wonder how he's not recoiling after what he's just seen. What he just got dragged through.
"I'm sorry," she pants, maybe she's babbling over him, she can't tell. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sor-."
Oh, wait, no, panting hurts. Panting stabs right at her ribs. Neph cuts herself off with a hiss, tries for longer, shallower, more careful breaths, but that kind of muscle control slipped away when she wasn't looking. It's all she can do not to shake, nevermind monitor her mouth.
"Don't," her uninjured hand clutches at the arm holding her up, fingers digging urgently into his sleeve. She tries to focus on his face, hovering over hers. "Don't--don't be mad, don't--please--don't go--"
Whether he made any sense of that will have to wait; Will looks up and away from her. He shouts something, and it sounds more alarmed than frightened or mad, though her ability to parse words is still floating somewhere in the ether. He wobbles, his arms tighten around her again, and then he's twisting away to reach for something. Before Neph can wonder if she oughta worry, there's a gunshot. She jolts up, or tries to, falls back with a bitten-off cry, and then Hannibal's there.
He reaches for her face. His hands are sticky. He's probably talking at her, too, but none of the sounds come together right. It's all just syllables, nothing that fits together into sense. Neph watches the rest of his red, red face while his mouth makes shapes. His eyes are a little more human now, crackling with rage like a summer sky. She decides she likes that better than the dispassionate feyness from earlier. She loosens her grip on Will's arm and reaches for him, clamps onto the back of his neck.
"You're okay," she might have enough oomph left to pull herself up, or maybe he leans down to her. Either way, her face ends up in his shoulder. Hannibal literally smells like death, but it's whatever. He's not hurt. If only her other arm weren't in pieces; she needs to wrap him up close for an indeterminate amount of time to let that reality sink in properly. "You're okay we're okay it's--it's fine, I'm fine, I just can't, um, um, stop bullets?" Not enough mass, not enough muscle. Somebody like Benkei or Samson or Atlas could manage it, but that's never been her forte. She was stupid to forget that. "S'not like ricochetin' 'em I'm not--I'm not strong enough it's fine it's gonna be okay."
Everything hurts a little less when she's talking, enough that she risks a look at her arm. It's badly swollen, bruises already rising to the surface of her skin like ink in water. Seven, eight bad ones, likely marking the breaks. At the end of it all there's her hand, the inverted arc of her fingers, bone showing white at the joints where skin split and cartilage burst.
Neph whips her face away a full 180 degrees, practically grinding her eyes into Will's shoulder. Just seeing it makes the pain real and alive again. "Ohhhhh no, no nope I take it back it's not fine wow that's bad that's bad okay, okay, okay," she breathes through her teeth, puffing out her cheeks against vomiting her panic all over the depot floor.
An injury like this would've meant the end of her career and all her tentative plans, just a year or two ago. Even now it's hard not to feel the world tilting off its axis beneath her. In reality that's just Will (alive and here and not-shot), adjusting his hold. In reality she has Hannibal and his medical knowledge, a bathroom full of stolen supplies and--
--and a scavenged stash of Lecter's elixers in her closet.