"I know, but...you shouldn't hafta," is pretty weaksauce coming from somebody who let herself be kidnapped in order to stage a rescue. Even if she had a leg to stand on, there, Hannibal's statement - his pledge - would kick it right out from under her.
Neph can count her Burnouts on one hand. Only once was anybody around to nurse her through the aftermath; the first time, when she was thirteen and Ruth had carefully nudged her up to and past that limit, so she'd know the warning signs for herself. Every other incident has been a nightmarish struggle to stay awake long enough to reach safety, back when 'safe' meant 'a shitty apartment with a cheap chain bolt' if she was lucky. No one to trickle Pewter into her, no one to change her bandages, no one to move her if the Inquisitors came...
No guarantee she'd wake up in her own room, instead of strapped to a table in some sterile government facility.
Hannibal brushes at the backs of her hands, urging them away from her eyes, and Neph lets him. The closer she edges to unconsciousness, the brighter and steadier the glow. What started as a foxfire flicker is already evening into a phosphorescent shine. By the time she stops fighting it, the blaze will light up her eyelids from the inside. But Hannibal smiles at her, his teeth the dull gleam of old bone against the bloody mask of his face, and clasps her knuckles. Even Will doesn't flinch away in her periphery, though his breath stutters against the back of her neck. She'll choose to put that down to shock and bloodloss instead of horror.
"I trust you t'do it," Neph doesn't look away. Her eyes are twin points reflected in Hannibal's, lending them a fervent sheen that might or might not be real. "But I should'a prepped. Prepped you. I just--I hate it."
She hates the tremors crawling up the raw passages of her body, the layers of insulating numbness, the brittle cold that blows off the dead forge in her gut. Even now she has to drop her head back against the seat or risk overbalancing in the wrong direction. Will makes an unreadable noise, enough to draw her attention around to where he's hanging like a half-mauled koala.
His eyes are huge and glassy, his skin waxy in the corpselight she sheds. Neph blinks rapidly to shake that impression, searching instead for the concern she'd heard in his voice a minute ago. He's not afraid. He really, really should be, but maybe he moved past the capacity for fear somewhere back in the warehouse. Maybe he's just trying to drag himself to safety, too. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
"Will you stay 'til m'awake again?" maybe they can both pretend like she didn't beg him for a much more open-ended promise, in the shock of having her hand smashed backwards. Her ears had rung so badly, she can't remember anything he might've said, can't remember anything but the iron band of his arm around her bruised ribs as he dragged them both away on one leg. "Please."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-08-07 07:06 am (UTC)Neph can count her Burnouts on one hand. Only once was anybody around to nurse her through the aftermath; the first time, when she was thirteen and Ruth had carefully nudged her up to and past that limit, so she'd know the warning signs for herself. Every other incident has been a nightmarish struggle to stay awake long enough to reach safety, back when 'safe' meant 'a shitty apartment with a cheap chain bolt' if she was lucky. No one to trickle Pewter into her, no one to change her bandages, no one to move her if the Inquisitors came...
No guarantee she'd wake up in her own room, instead of strapped to a table in some sterile government facility.
Hannibal brushes at the backs of her hands, urging them away from her eyes, and Neph lets him. The closer she edges to unconsciousness, the brighter and steadier the glow. What started as a foxfire flicker is already evening into a phosphorescent shine. By the time she stops fighting it, the blaze will light up her eyelids from the inside. But Hannibal smiles at her, his teeth the dull gleam of old bone against the bloody mask of his face, and clasps her knuckles. Even Will doesn't flinch away in her periphery, though his breath stutters against the back of her neck. She'll choose to put that down to shock and bloodloss instead of horror.
"I trust you t'do it," Neph doesn't look away. Her eyes are twin points reflected in Hannibal's, lending them a fervent sheen that might or might not be real. "But I should'a prepped. Prepped you. I just--I hate it."
She hates the tremors crawling up the raw passages of her body, the layers of insulating numbness, the brittle cold that blows off the dead forge in her gut. Even now she has to drop her head back against the seat or risk overbalancing in the wrong direction. Will makes an unreadable noise, enough to draw her attention around to where he's hanging like a half-mauled koala.
His eyes are huge and glassy, his skin waxy in the corpselight she sheds. Neph blinks rapidly to shake that impression, searching instead for the concern she'd heard in his voice a minute ago. He's not afraid. He really, really should be, but maybe he moved past the capacity for fear somewhere back in the warehouse. Maybe he's just trying to drag himself to safety, too. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
"Will you stay 'til m'awake again?" maybe they can both pretend like she didn't beg him for a much more open-ended promise, in the shock of having her hand smashed backwards. Her ears had rung so badly, she can't remember anything he might've said, can't remember anything but the iron band of his arm around her bruised ribs as he dragged them both away on one leg. "Please."