As his head sags with exhaustion and his eyesight gathers warning sparks at its corners, Will is realizing he's stopped looking to lay blame for what happened today. Not beyond the men who attacked them. Isn't it easier to focus on that, to let it be as simple as 'once you cross me, I can do anything to make sure I win instead'? Isn't it easier to let that explain it rather than try to measure out extremes and compare one atrocity to another?
Atrocity. Will thinks of the flapping esophagus of the man he first watched Hannibal kill. He thinks of the arterial spray from the first ones he'd seen Neph kill.
Will thinks of a literal warehouse full of evidence about to go up in flames as per his own suggestion, and he swallows back confused nausea. He tries to smother his relief equally hard.
"If it means I won't just bleed out in the apartment, alright." Hannibal gives him a searching stare, pupils too wide to look away from, and Will has a sudden suspicion he's considering stealing blood from a hospital on the way back home.
(Why is it that Will's so easy with assuming they can't actually go to the police? Why does it feel so instinctual not to call attention to his own injuries and dangers, not to drag in more outside adults? Maybe he's lucky he's around two kids more competent in a fight than he is.)
Neph's turned in towards him as Hannibal goes to work, which makes it easier to fold around her like she's even smaller than she is, as if they aren't both willowy seventeen year olds with a lot to prove and not many people worth proving it to. She screams without air and Will fears for a moment that his own lungs will burst with the vibrations. His back, right outside the flat jut of his scapula, stings with the raw-edged pain of dull nails still managing to tear skin. Will's breath hitches, he bears down, and he grunts against Neph's hair, but he only squeezes her in tighter against himself.
When it ends and she's trying to stand up away from him, the gasp of cold air on his chest hurts. He lurches to stand but his leg slips in its own puddle of blood, the pain is a siren of warning, and even as he tries to lean up through that there's a flagging weakness that makes his muscles feel like rubber.
He flounders against the oil drum, useless, and watches Hannibal catch at Neph instead.
"Or you could be a reasonable person and we could throw in the Molotov from one of the windows." Hannibal is already unraveling his balled-up shirt from earlier, re-folding it into tight controlled lines. "It's not as though oil is going to actually explode like in American movies." He's dragging his shirt across Neph's shoulder, tucking and tying it around just below her elbow, clearly scanning for a non-bruised spot to rest the sling on.
"Bet you can throw far enough to get it in while standing with us outside." Will says. And while he's pretty certain he's also seeing stars and he isn't sure if him being certain counts anymore. How much blood has he lost?
Down come fat black raindrops, clanking and pinging against the ground after falling faster than gravity. The unnaturalness is a primal sense, something Will didn't realize he was capable of catching until right now as it sends goosebumps up and down his arms.
Nails. Screws and bolts, all raining from the ceiling.
"What're you doin'." Will blinks, and the moment the world turns black seems to linger and warp like coffee swirling with cream.
"I will find a bottle, and a lighter, and while it's throw in we can all be outside. On the ground." Hannibal is still hovered close to Neph, no nearer to looking for a bottle. Will blinks sweat out of his eye and presses a hand to his warm, warm pant leg, and he lets realizations just press right back into him, too. Hannibal isn't hovering because of Neph's injuries so far. He's hovering because he's worried she's going to get more hurt if he lets go of her and lets her fling herself off past the roof she's clearly about to rip off.
"Don't get hurt again," Will croaks, still hunched over his own thigh on the ground. "We'll need someone else to help pay rent on the new apartment."
no subject
Atrocity. Will thinks of the flapping esophagus of the man he first watched Hannibal kill. He thinks of the arterial spray from the first ones he'd seen Neph kill.
Will thinks of a literal warehouse full of evidence about to go up in flames as per his own suggestion, and he swallows back confused nausea. He tries to smother his relief equally hard.
"If it means I won't just bleed out in the apartment, alright." Hannibal gives him a searching stare, pupils too wide to look away from, and Will has a sudden suspicion he's considering stealing blood from a hospital on the way back home.
(Why is it that Will's so easy with assuming they can't actually go to the police? Why does it feel so instinctual not to call attention to his own injuries and dangers, not to drag in more outside adults? Maybe he's lucky he's around two kids more competent in a fight than he is.)
Neph's turned in towards him as Hannibal goes to work, which makes it easier to fold around her like she's even smaller than she is, as if they aren't both willowy seventeen year olds with a lot to prove and not many people worth proving it to. She screams without air and Will fears for a moment that his own lungs will burst with the vibrations. His back, right outside the flat jut of his scapula, stings with the raw-edged pain of dull nails still managing to tear skin. Will's breath hitches, he bears down, and he grunts against Neph's hair, but he only squeezes her in tighter against himself.
When it ends and she's trying to stand up away from him, the gasp of cold air on his chest hurts. He lurches to stand but his leg slips in its own puddle of blood, the pain is a siren of warning, and even as he tries to lean up through that there's a flagging weakness that makes his muscles feel like rubber.
He flounders against the oil drum, useless, and watches Hannibal catch at Neph instead.
"Or you could be a reasonable person and we could throw in the Molotov from one of the windows." Hannibal is already unraveling his balled-up shirt from earlier, re-folding it into tight controlled lines. "It's not as though oil is going to actually explode like in American movies." He's dragging his shirt across Neph's shoulder, tucking and tying it around just below her elbow, clearly scanning for a non-bruised spot to rest the sling on.
"Bet you can throw far enough to get it in while standing with us outside." Will says. And while he's pretty certain he's also seeing stars and he isn't sure if him being certain counts anymore. How much blood has he lost?
Down come fat black raindrops, clanking and pinging against the ground after falling faster than gravity. The unnaturalness is a primal sense, something Will didn't realize he was capable of catching until right now as it sends goosebumps up and down his arms.
Nails. Screws and bolts, all raining from the ceiling.
"What're you doin'." Will blinks, and the moment the world turns black seems to linger and warp like coffee swirling with cream.
"I will find a bottle, and a lighter, and while it's throw in we can all be outside. On the ground." Hannibal is still hovered close to Neph, no nearer to looking for a bottle. Will blinks sweat out of his eye and presses a hand to his warm, warm pant leg, and he lets realizations just press right back into him, too. Hannibal isn't hovering because of Neph's injuries so far. He's hovering because he's worried she's going to get more hurt if he lets go of her and lets her fling herself off past the roof she's clearly about to rip off.
"Don't get hurt again," Will croaks, still hunched over his own thigh on the ground. "We'll need someone else to help pay rent on the new apartment."