Late on the fifth day Neph's breathing changes from its so-slow-and-shallow-as-to-be-unnoticeable cadence, shifting back into the rise and fall of normal, restorative sleep. Her pulse strengthens and her fingers twitch, eyelids flickering as her brain comes back online and starts producing proper dreams.
Ten hours after that, she snuffles into her shoulder and blinks open dry, gummy eyes. Her whole face falls into creases at the sight of this unfamiliar ceiling with its abstract water stains, at the sound of car doors slamming just on the other side of a wall. The smell is the only reassuring thing about these strange new surroundings. Rather than the antiseptic sterility of her worst fears, she breathes in soap, french fries, cigarette smoke and scent cheap fabric softener. Where...how...?
Neph tries to sit up against the weight of gravity and the landslide of her exhaustion. This...she knows this awful wrung-out feeling, this chill deep in her gut. This is Burnout. She must've pushed herself too hard and gotten herself to a safehouse before she crashed. She's gotta call Hannibal, he must be losing his mind right n--
Out of habit, she goes to plant her elbows to lever herself up, but two things happen: warning flares go off all down her right arm, culminating in a terrible throbbing in her hand that she'd somehow managed not to notice until just now. Her left arm moves, but a sharp stinging tug on the back of her hand warns her not to go far. Neph lets out a confused, wounded mewl and drops back against the lumpy mattress. She tips her chin down to scope out the situation and finds an IV line feeding into her left hand and a cast, a cast with pins sticking out of it, immobilizing her right arm.
Oh.
Right.
That's not the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to her hair after all.
But how did she end up wherever this is, and where's--where're--
She doesn't have the energy for true panic, but the sudden uptick in her heart rate pounds through her whole wasted body. Neph's just contemplating pulling that IV out with her teeth and lurching off the bed when she notices something. Spread over her body, tucked under her arms, is her fuzzy star blanket. Its pale blues and yellows pop against the cheap polyester comforter, which is printed with the kind of loud, swirling pattern only ever found in roadside motels. Neph spreads her fingers against the soft microfiber and breathes out her alarm.
It's okay. She's okay. Hannibal brought them somewhere he thought would be safe, and he had the time and freedom to grab non-emergency supplies. Her nose burns like she might be about to cry, but her body's been running on just enough fluids to survive for the better part of a week. It has nothing to spare for a sudden surge of tears.
Carefully, soooo carefully, Neph wriggles against her pillow until she's propped up on her shoulderblades with the back of her neck against the headboard. It's not much, but it provides her with a better vantage point of the room (which could be any of the dozens of motels she's camped in over the years) and the signs that other people have been/are living here. She swallows and tries to call out.
"Han--" a sandpapery whisper emerges. Better try again. "Hannibal?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-08-19 12:51 am (UTC)Ten hours after that, she snuffles into her shoulder and blinks open dry, gummy eyes. Her whole face falls into creases at the sight of this unfamiliar ceiling with its abstract water stains, at the sound of car doors slamming just on the other side of a wall. The smell is the only reassuring thing about these strange new surroundings. Rather than the antiseptic sterility of her worst fears, she breathes in soap, french fries, cigarette smoke and scent cheap fabric softener. Where...how...?
Neph tries to sit up against the weight of gravity and the landslide of her exhaustion. This...she knows this awful wrung-out feeling, this chill deep in her gut. This is Burnout. She must've pushed herself too hard and gotten herself to a safehouse before she crashed. She's gotta call Hannibal, he must be losing his mind right n--
Out of habit, she goes to plant her elbows to lever herself up, but two things happen: warning flares go off all down her right arm, culminating in a terrible throbbing in her hand that she'd somehow managed not to notice until just now. Her left arm moves, but a sharp stinging tug on the back of her hand warns her not to go far. Neph lets out a confused, wounded mewl and drops back against the lumpy mattress. She tips her chin down to scope out the situation and finds an IV line feeding into her left hand and a cast, a cast with pins sticking out of it, immobilizing her right arm.
Oh.
Right.
That's not the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to her hair after all.
But how did she end up wherever this is, and where's--where're--
She doesn't have the energy for true panic, but the sudden uptick in her heart rate pounds through her whole wasted body. Neph's just contemplating pulling that IV out with her teeth and lurching off the bed when she notices something. Spread over her body, tucked under her arms, is her fuzzy star blanket. Its pale blues and yellows pop against the cheap polyester comforter, which is printed with the kind of loud, swirling pattern only ever found in roadside motels. Neph spreads her fingers against the soft microfiber and breathes out her alarm.
It's okay. She's okay. Hannibal brought them somewhere he thought would be safe, and he had the time and freedom to grab non-emergency supplies. Her nose burns like she might be about to cry, but her body's been running on just enough fluids to survive for the better part of a week. It has nothing to spare for a sudden surge of tears.
Carefully, soooo carefully, Neph wriggles against her pillow until she's propped up on her shoulderblades with the back of her neck against the headboard. It's not much, but it provides her with a better vantage point of the room (which could be any of the dozens of motels she's camped in over the years) and the signs that other people have been/are living here. She swallows and tries to call out.
"Han--" a sandpapery whisper emerges. Better try again. "Hannibal?"