Whatever the word might be for the bastard offspring of a sob and a relieved sigh, that's the noise that cracks out of her when he says he didn't blame her for not being there. It ends up muffled in his shoulder, drawn in as she is by the hug, but the force of it still rattles her thin frame.
"I worried you worried," she says, an admission as groundshaking as it is quiet.
The hug only lasts long enough for her to remember, in the wake of her relief, that this isn't something they really do. Touching for a while, that is. Triss used to, but she feels like she's forgotten how to do it, or let it happen, and now it's like trying to eat with chopsticks instead of a fork. Hannibal projects a no-touching forcefield so strongly it almost makes her wanna mess him up. She hasn't yet, for the same reason she was so worked up in the car - it's all too new, and she can't risk being sent back to CPS.
So they both lean back, Hannibal to look up at Ruth, Argus and Danae, Triss to swallow down all those freefloating pointless anxieties. She's still got a fistful of khakhi pant, though, bunched up next to his knee. She frowns at it until he calls her name.
Half her Christian name, even, yikes. Triss snaps to wary attention, fingers flying straight, but Hannibal just runs a hand down the back of her head like he's testing for gooseeggs and asks her if she's been hurt. If any of them hurt her.
Someone - Danae, probably - snorts. Someone else sighs at that, though she can't guess who. Triss gives the request for honesty a moment of serious consideration, recognizing with the mercurial speed of a practiced liar all the many ways she could make this really unpleasant for the three adults who kept her in a strange house overnight. Like, it wouldn't even be hard. She knows kids whose parents or stepparents got arrested for less. Technically, Danae swearing if you don't stop kicking me in the fucking spleen I'll leave you here to drown I swear to God while towing them both out of the harbor could count as threatening.
"No," she says at length, turning her hands over so Hannibal can see her abraded palms. The first layer or two of skin has just peeled away, leaving them red and raw. The insides of her calves, which were pressed against the kelpie's sides, look about the same, and that's not even starting on her lividly swollen left knee. "The horse thing did that. They were just--" her nose wrinkles as she turns in Hannibal's grip to squint up at them, "Confusing."
Ruth laughs, all the smile lines interlocking. "I'll bet we were," and next to her Danae's rolling her eyes, but Argus' lack of a reaction is the weird thing. He's got his head tilted to the side, like he's listening to them all, but his eyes aren't locked on anybody. They jump around a little, especially over Hannibal, though his attention flicks into the foyer beyond once or twice just while Triss watches.
"There really was a horse," she doesn't mean to sound defensive, it's just...she knows how it sounds, and if it were anybody but Hannibal she wouldn't even've told the the truth about that much, she'd've run away from her rescuers somehow and thought up some other story. But Hannibal knows about the weird. And it's important that he doesn't think she left on purpose. "M'not making it up, she saw it too."
Danae rocks away from the finger Triss points her way, but Argus shifts into the line of accusation and says, still calm as anything, "That's where the story gets long." He's not talking to her, he's talking to Hannibal, which is a familiar if unpleasant sensation that makes Triss sigh out all her frustration and exhaustion. The look she gives her guardian, back safely to the others, says: Now do you see what I've been dealing with?
Hannibal pointedly gives no reaction at all to the responses to his asking Patricia if she's alright. He's not about to have three strangers deposit his adopted daughter back on his doorstep and not assume foul play may still be involved, and he absolutely trusts Patricia - if not to tell him the truth on purpose, then to at least fumble when asked point-blank. She has, after all, far less reason to lie than the motley crew tracking mud and errant cattail seeds onto his porch.
But Hannibal doesn't see or smell a lie from Patricia when she says 'no', and if he's going to keep building her trust as he's been, he'll believe her. He takes her wrists, gently, to inspect her palms - they haven't been cleaned, there's still some dirt shoved in the crevices of skin. They didn't have first aid with them? Or they didn't care? Or they couldn't get close enough? Hannibal has no confusion about Patricia's aversion to strangers. Getting a ride on 'the horse thing' immediately prior couldn't have helped, no matter how friendly or unfriendly her rescuers.
'She saw it too'. The older woman smells like kelpie almost as much as Patricia - Hannibal believes her. It's the first time he looks away from her face, to size up the woman who reeks of water demon and was apparently the only one present when the kelpie was. That would logically mean she gathered the other two afterwards. They're an odd group. Out of necessity, then? What sort of secrets are they hiding?
"I believe you." Hannibal says to Patricia, in a very reasonable tone considering they're discussing a kelpie kidnapping an eight year-old child out of a second story window. When he stands up again, he lets his hand linger on Patricia's shoulder, until it can't reach anymore. His fingertips brush the tangled, damp fluff of her hair, instead, and he takes an unmistakable step forward - defensive and offensive all at once, although his face has melted into a cordial mask.
Patricia ends up behind his left leg as he reaches out a hand. This is, after all, the second time the man has tried to be the only one actually offering up the promise of an explanation. "I apologize. I wasn't expecting anyone to bring her home for me."
And then. Then he turns to the taller woman, while still holding the man's hand. And, certainly not because he slept for only two hours last night and definitely not because he's been up frantically searching through old books for clues as to where his adopted child might have been kidnapped to, and obviously not because she was the one who snorted at him trying to assure that said adopted child hadn't been manhandled by the strangers who dropped her off, he asks: "Should I thank you for getting her away from the kelpie? You certainly smell as though you fought it yourself."
At this point Triss has slept maybe five hours out of the last thirty, she hasn't eaten since dinner the night before, and she hurts. She thinks she can be forgiven for both her wide, watery smile when Hannibal doesn't refute her claim, and for falling back to shelter behind him when he stands up. It's not the first time he's been a wall between her and potentially hostile grown ups; he came to a lot of the State of Massachusetts vs The Boston Diocese trial sessions, and then there were all the custody hearings. Triss doesn't remember the first time she let him walk her out to the waiting social workers, but it became the norm.
She manages not to grab onto any more of his clothes, curling her hands up in the overlong sleeves of Argus' sweater instead. It smells comfortingly of coffee and old books, only familiar 'cuz Hannibal's got a whole library full of antique stuff, too.
The two men shake hands, Argus' attention fully on Hannibal's face instead of some point over his shoulder, though his head hasn't tilted all the way back up yet. Triss lapses back into silence and watches him, unable to put her finger on what, exactly, is so weird about that. There's something about the set of his mouth that makes her think he might be biting down on the side, his cheek or tongue or inner lip, and what's up with that? Whatever it is relaxes as he goes to answer Hannibal's apology, but her guardian's already done that thing where he's steamrolled the conversation over to Danae instead.
Triss catches two things: that Danae's gonna need some aloe for that burn, and that she, Ruth and Argus all jerk in surprise. Their reaction sets Triss into immediate flight-mode, her whole brain lighting up with the instinct to get away from Angry Adults, especially the one who sliced a horse mostly in half right in front of her. She doesn't have the capacity left to wonder why they react the way they do, she's too caught up in what that means for her safety, and maybe Hannibal's.
Except nothing about his posture changes at all.
Danae grins a not-grin at him, lips peeling back to show all her teeth. Unlike some people in this conversation, Triss's never been a medical doctor, but she's pretty sure that's more teeth than most people have? Something ripples over her skin, too, like a band of cloud sweeping in front of the sun, and now Triss does grab hold of Hannibal's sleeve. She can't remember what Danae did with that huge rusty knife she had, it's just another blank space in her memories, but what if she's hiding it under her jacket somewhere or-- "Break out those knives you got up your sleeve, man, and I'll show you how I did it."
"Danae," Argus groans. Ruth, who Triss would've expected to be the one shushing Danae again, only eyes Hannibal speculatively, smile lines no longer in evidence. Whatever she sees, it has her shaking her head and planting her hands on her hips.
"Well, since there's no use closing the stall door now that the horse, or kelpie or what have you, is already loose, why don't we hash it out somewhere with a first aid kit? Maybe she'll let you clean those scrapes, Mister..?"
The dangling question is obviously an invitation for an introduction, but Triss is too busy reeling to notice. Ruth said kelpie but so did Hannibal. He didn't just know she'd been taken away by something, he knew what, and that she must've been rescued, and--
She sorta kinda understands how his powers work. She knows his nose is really sensitive, anyway, but once again he's put all kinds of not-even-there clues together to come up with a true answer. It's creepy when it's directed at her, but kind of neat to watch from the outside. Maybe she doesn't even need to ask these people about what happened, maybe Hannibal can just look at them and know.
There is a specific, sublime feeling that comes from looking at someone's hidden set of cards, announcing them, and then lighting those cards on fire. Metaphorically speaking. As someone without fighting of defensive abilities augmented, physically no better than a talented normal human, Hannibal has chosen to exemplify what was gifted to him - gathering information, and using knowledge to guide other people to useful places. And watching the tall, rude woman's face flatten and grow calmly cold is the sort of thrill you can't quite get any other way. Hannibal's lips only barely bend up in response to her smile - a gentle, unmistakably false gesture of good will, although his clear amusement is probably visible enough.
"If it bothers you, perhaps we can all disarm before we enter my home." 'Home', not 'house'. He feels Patricia's small hand spasm into his sweater's sleeve, and he adjusts the angle of his wrist so that he can loosely hold her hand - she could slide away with a pull, but he wants the family aspect of this to be a clear signal to the strangers. If they rescued Patricia because of something like duty or compassion, perhaps it will help everyone's attitudes. And if they pose a threat, then Hannibal does not mind asserting ownership and attachment as a warning. "But I was very concerned when I heard visitors had arrived, so soon after my daughter was kidnapped. I think precautions are something we can all find understandable, Danae." No point in saying 'adoptive' in the sentence, too clunky, too awkward - it's already how Triss is introduced to curious waiters and bank tellers, after all.
But then the shorter, stockier woman proves to be a very determined truce-organizer. Hannibal considers her, head tilted a few degrees, birdlike curiosity surprised into full focus. He evidently likes what he sees, though, because his smile turns a few degrees less glacial and he offers her his hand, as well. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter." He looks from her to the man. "And I have to agree. I'd be delighted to learn your names as well - inside." And he does indeed take a small step back, looking down as he does so.
The hand holding Patricia's had never let go, assuming hers hadn't, and he sticks that hand out in front a few more degrees so that he can allow her to walk in first.
He stands to the side of the door to watch everyone walk in after them, holding it ajar with the patience of a practiced host.
Something passes between her three rescuers when Hannibal suggests they all disarm (Triss doesn't know that word, but since Danae's accusing him of having a knife and he's not saying he doesn't, she can sorta guess what it means). Like, they all...settle, somehow. They seem very sure? Well, Ruth has this whole time, but Danae's fists relax and Argus nods. He seems really decisive about it, especially after Hannibal makes it sound like Triss is really, truly his kid.
They've been lying about that for a couple months now. She's not as natural about it as she wants to be, so mostly she lets him handle that line.
"I doubt any of us are armed in a way we can help," Argus says, like it's the punchline to a joke Triss hasn't heard yet. "Except maybe those knives." But that's part of the joke too, in a way that also doesn't make sense to her, not with Danae's teeth shining white against her dark lips. At least it sounds like she left her weapon back at Argus' house? Triss tries not to look like she's clinging to Hannibal's hand while totally, completely, one hundred percent doing so.
"It's nice to meet you, Doctor Lecter, and you too, Patricia" Ruth says as she clasp's his free hand and smiles a real, not-an-inside-joke smile at Triss, who is suddenly awash with embarrassment at her earlier lack of manners. She could've told them her name. "Or Triss? I'm Ruth Bar-On. This young man is Argus, and you've both met Danae already."
Triss can't help the way her face twists, all skeptical and unimpressed, startling a laugh out of Ruth (she can always tell when people laugh without meaning to. It's like a victory, every time). Hannibal pulls her away ever-so-carefully and she lets him tug her into a turn, guiding her back into the house.
She lets go so she can sit down on the bench just inside the door and peel off her soggy sneakers. Her knee doesn't appreciate the walking or the bending, now that she's been standing still for a while, leaving her hissing through her teeth. The shoes take longer than usual, with half her attention on the tangled laces and half on the 'guests' as they enter and look around the foyer. Triss approves of Hannibal waiting by the door, pleased to have someone at their backs, though it's obvious from the way Danae sidles in that she's not super comfortable with it. Good.
"Are those really your names?" she asks as she drops one scummy shoe to the floor. It kinda plops. "Those don't sound like real names."
"They're very real names," 'Argus' says with that same punchline smile. His head has gone sideways again. Listening, but not to her.
Unsure whether she likes any of that or not, Triss narrows her eyes at him and says, "Okay...but, not yours." After a year and a half with Hannibal for a therapist, she's getting better at noticing how people say the things they do, and the things they don't.
"I think I liked your silent treatment better," Danae mutters, but at least she's not talking over Triss this time. While that's an improvement, maybe, Triss scrunches up her nose, sticks out her tongue, and lobs her other shoe at the woman.
It doesn't just miss, it stops, hovering in midair before thumping to the floor.
"Danae," Ruth says in a tone Triss has heard hundreds of times from social workers. Danae reacts much like the bratty kids she's known: with a roll of her eyes and a flick of her fingers.
"Like we weren't going to get to that anyway," she shrugs.
Hannibal had smiled at the inside joke about being perpetually armed, but he spends the next half minute of intervening time wondering...what, exactly, he's currently watching walk into his foyer. Are they mutants like himself? Do they know what he is, or are they merely guessing because he knows what a kelpie is without needing his hand held? Hannibal has told only two other still-living persons his secret, and having it announced by strangers rings...foreign.
And yet... There's a strong chance they're not mutants. That they're something else, something closer to magic. It's just fact that a lot of mutants don't ever get further than, well, other mutants - not everyone scrambles for the shadows, gets their hands on every scrap of information on the broad supernatural that they can.
It's too soon to tell, all around, and that certainty is more quieting than aggravating. Hannibal is much better with being patient than he'd been as a younger man.
That, and Ruth earned more brownie points in addressing him formally. Flattery will, in fact, get you things, if you're smart with it. His host-smile is a little less empty when the shards of it are directed at her.
Until the other shoe drops. "Patr--" is all he manages in calm reproach before he cuts himself off.
Telekinesis. Alright. That seems to be what Triss can do as well, as unplanned and hard to categorize as her outbursts of power have been. Hannibal looks surprised, although not alarmed, and he collects himself quickly from staring and wondering if it means that Patricia has somehow attracted her kind of strange, compared to the chances of coincidence. "As eager as I am to hear your explanations for this, I'm afraid you're going to need to wait for us down here." Trusting three strangers, at least one of whom has powers, alone in his house is apparently just something that's going to happen if he takes time to care for Patricia, which means that Hannibal is going to wrestle back a semblance of control the only way he knows how: acting completely unruffled about it. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." His outstretched hand is indicating his kitchen. "But please do not touch the books that have been left in there. They are fragile, and were difficult to acquire. I can get us all something to drink when we return."
He nods his head politely, but turning his back is a pointed affair - 'I'm not afraid of you' - so he can address Patricia. "Let's get you some dry clothes." Which is a clear invitation for her to run upstairs, even if the hardwood is going to bear the brunt of wet footprints and soggy run-off from squelching sleepwear.
Edited (Re-thought his dialogue; Hannibal isn't as polite this time) Date: 2016-06-04 01:07 pm (UTC)
Somehow, despite the kidnapping kelpie and the almost-drowning and her minor meltdown about how all this might affect her adoption status, Triss still finds the energy to panic at the shoe thing. Danae's so casual about it, like she doesn't even care that other people might get hurt, or that she could end up tied down and punished. Triss flushes and shivers in turns, battered by the sense-memory of stifling candleflames and biting cold ice water. Her pulse drones in her ears, drowning out Hannibal's rebuke, if there is one, and anything else he might say to Danae about that.
The pressure on her chest is all in her head. She knows that, she's actually talked to Hannibal about it before, how sometimes it's like she's stuck in a small space even when she's not, and sometimes she feels like there isn't enough air when there is. When that happens, she's supposed to try and count to five and take a breath, right? She's just groping for two when Hannibal says "Let's get you some dry clothes,", his voice closer and louder than before, direct enough to snag her attention. Triss' face jerks towards him, nostrils flaring and pupils rapidly dilating back to something normal.
"Yeah, yes, 'kay," she slides off the bench, shaking hands in her sleeves, and bolts for the stairs. Everyone's watching her now, even Argus, which only drives her need to run. She'd take the steps two at a time if her knee didn't hurt so bad; she ends up half-hopping just to climb the stairs normally, 'cuz her palms sting too much to grab at the bannister.
The house, her room, it's all still too new and impermanent to feel safe, especially since she'd been snatched out of it like six hours ago. Triss hangs in the doorway for a moment before darting to her dresser, digging past the top layers of carefully folded new clothes to the faded, well-worn stuff underneath. She wants her things right now. If it wouldn't be such an obvious sign of babyish weakness, she'd grab Otto off her bed and take him back downstairs with her for the grown-up talk to come.
Triss turns with an armful of clothes to find Hannibal with his feet still respectfully in the hallway. "I don't like this," she blurts before burying her mouth and chin in her favorite shirt. It's got jellyfish on it and her mom bought it for her on the last field trip before things went bad and even if her mom lit all the candles herself the shirt's still really soft. "I don't wanna."
It's not until they're out of sight from the strange visitors that Hannibal feels the weight of the unexpected mask he's been wearing. He thought he'd only need to have a strong outlook for a child, at the end of this - if he found her alive, they'd still be alone. He hadn't expected to be observed when reuniting, to have to talk about this incident with someone with more powers of deduction than an eight year old girl.
As he pads after her in the dim hallway, he lets the full extent of his relief really hit him. While no one can see, he stands alone outside of Triss's room, eyes closed, and lets the little spiderwebbing cracks open up.
He'd considered the possibility of her being kidnapped before, even though she'd been publicly confirmed as a non-mutant. Most assumed her parents were merely delusional, but not all haters of the preternatural were easily dissuaded. There was always a risk, more specific and more vengeful than the normal fear of child abduction. But calmly planning for such an event had, in the end, done very little to help him cope with the reality. It's not a result he'd ever have predicted.
And then comes a small shard of a voice, and Hannibal smelts that mask back into something cohesive and containing. He turns to her and then gets on one knee. All of their emotional conversations have ended up with their lines of sight level, either from him sitting or from Patricia perching on a tabletop. "You don't need to speak with them if you don't want to. And I cannot reasonably demand that you stay in my sight from now on forever, regardless of how much losing you may have frightened me this morning." He speaks with the same calm, even keel he always uses with her, although there are still fractures in that mask. He isn't concerned about hiding from Patricia the way he's concerned about hiding from other adults.
"Once you've changed, I'd like to look at where you've been hurt, to make sure you're alright. Afterwards, you may stay up here if you like."
If they're talking, it's okay for Hannibal to come into her room. That's just one of the rules they've sorted out, some spoken and some not. He's told her it's okay that you don't always want to talk and you're allowed to want to be alone in your own space, but he's also made it clear that she has to reopen those doors when she's ready. She can't expect other people to magically know what she wants the second she decides she wants it. They never sat down and decided on signals or anything, but 'Patricia starts a conversation' turned into one anyway. She's okay with that.
She's not okay that stuff keeps happening that scares not just her, but people around her, too. Only what's she supposed to do about that? How's she supposed to stop that, or control it? Triss bites her lip, nods, and reaches up to shut the door so she can change clothes. So she can think about it for a second.
When the door opens again she's wearing her jellyfish shirt and a pair of shorts, because rolling up jeans sucks bad enough when your knee isn't purple and blue and the size of a softball. "It bit me," she sulks and picks at the hem of her shorts instead of scratching at the raw skin down the inside of her legs, like she really wants.
Hannibal used to be a doctor, and even though Neph's never met anybody he took care of, she assumes he was a good one. She's been to lots of doctors, she appreciates quick and relatively painless. Hannibal doesn't have to ask her dumb questions she can't answer anymore, either, which is always a plus. She follows him silently to the master bath, where they keep the big first aid kit, and hops up on the toilet without being asked.
While he plucks out all the stuff he'll need - antiseptic packets, sterile pads, wipes, gauze - she asks, "Do you think they know stuff?" a pause, while she chews some dry skin off her lips, then, "Like...stuff we need to know too?"
"So it did." A nasty bite too, more bruising than blood, which means realistically the most he can do is clean out the few scrapes she actually has and just give her an ice pack when they're downstairs. There's a certain theatrical magic in just paying attention to hurt areas, though, especially with children - the weight of acknowledgement and the shared burden of getting help can comfort even adults.
There's a little first aid kit in the bathroom's linen closet, on a low shelf that Patricia can reach. With Neosporin and band-aids, it's moreso a safety net and a way of making her feel a little less out of control, should he ever not be home during normal scrapes and bumps. Above that, of course, is a kit that's had to come down...not too frequently, all things considered. If the way Patricia eyes his banisters when she thinks he's not looking is any indication, though, then Hannibal has maybe two more 'settling in' months before she's comfortable enough to really act out. They'll see how long the 'not even minor injuries' stretch lasts.
Hannibal kneels in front of her again, kit opened on the immaculate floor. He'd treated several children in his time as a surgeon, although never for something this minor. It feels more like a heavy ritual than a medical routine. Her hands are so pale, miniature against his palm where he holds one steady.
Patricia, like all children, apparently still has that ability to sometimes hit things innocently, exactly, on the nose with no warning. "That is what I'm hoping." He's cleaning the abrasions with care, although he can't help the fact that raw skin is always going to hurt. "Triss. I know you don't like discussing magic. But that creature that took you is a magical being. I believe that your mismatched rescuers may know things that will help us keep that from happening to you again." Band-aids aren't really going to work on her palms, even as small as they are. So he wraps gauze around them, very aware that children are often more entranced than put-off by large bandages on themselves. She looks not entirely unlike she's about to go have a tiny, terrible boxing match, and Hannibal thinks that on any other day, he'd have a chance at catching her shadow-boxing in a mirror.
Not this morning, not likely.
Her calves - somehow both skinny-flat and curved, in the strange shapeless strength of children - are a bit more rough. Hannibal wonders if the kelpie's sides presented more scales to scrape against, whereas her hands might have been cushioned by its mane. Her knee remains the worst by far, and he is very careful as he plucks dirt from it with bright red, plastic tweezers. He is absolutely not going to gloss over a horse bite, as far as the antiseptic goes. "This will hurt, but it will also be quick."
It'll be a while yet before Triss actively worries about the terrible math that is open wounds + open sewers (and what else is the Harbor, honestly?), but she does know that bandaids help. Nothing hurts as bad when it's covered up, and right now she's got a lot of exposed pain. Therefore she sits with only minimal squirming and hissing as Hannibal wipes her palms clean, fingers curling spasmodically, ineffectually, over his. Even so, she doesn't cry, not even when he has to pick dirt from the ragged edges where her the whole skin stops and the flat shiny pinkness starts. It pulls when she spreads her fingers so he can wrap the gauze securely around each digit, but the end results are totally worth it.
Triss makes experimental fists, so entranced by kickboxer chic she almost doesn't notice when Hannibal takes hold of her left ankle and starts on her leg. He didn't point out how she came back wearing pjs and shoes, shoes Triss can't even remember putting on or tying, shoes she keeps at the foot of her bed still, just in case. Maybe he will later, when they don't have to put up a unified front for the strangers.
Chewing on stuff's a bad habit, every adult says. She's scraped all the rough parts off her lips, which leaves her with her nails or hair. Unaware of the math regarding open sewers + mucus membranes, she pops a lock in her mouth and nibbles while Hannibal dabs at her leg and explains his suspicions.
"I guess I wanna know why it happened," she admits. You have to understand something to stop it, she gets that. That's exactly why she doesn't like this magic stuff, or talking about her experiences with it, 'cuz she doesn't understand and nobody, not even Hannibal, has been able to explain things so she can keep from hurting people. Kidnapping is definitely a thing she'd like to avoid, if she can, and she doesn't think Hannibal knows how to stop that either. If he thinks these weirdos might be able to help with that...then, okay, it could be worth it.
"I'll go downstairs then," she says as he tapes a large square of sterile gauze to her calf and considers her knee. "But you gotta tell them no magic here incase somebody notices." Danae was so obvious about it, like she didn't care at all about getting in trouble. Was she like that when she took out the kelpie? Triss can't remember much except the noise it made when the knife went in, the hot stink of its guts and the way they splashed to the water below. Hannibal could be wiping off kelpie gut-residue right now, for all she knows.
That thought makes her a lot more compliant about the whole 'this will hurt' thing. She just sticks her leg out, frowns intensely, and nods.
He glances up at her 'demands', just in time to see her chewing on a lock of white hair. Any other time, it would be another reminder of why not to do that - 'There are germs, Triss, little tiny bugs that live on surfaces that you don't want in your mouth' - but right now, he simply fans his hand near her cheek. It's a comforting gesture that just so happens to also pull the strands of hair clear of a very chapped lips.
While Hannibal is more than intrigued to see continued displays of their powers - although he is hoping to avoid outright threats-by-way-of-showing-off - he also knows that there is a very real risk of a meltdown from Triss if things get too outrageous. "I will talk to them about that. But as I've said before, Triss, our home offers quite a lot of protection from anyone finding out if magic has happened inside. Little shows of it will not draw anyone's attention." They'd discussed it, in the sense that one or two fearful tantrums had needed to be soothed by Hannibal assuring beyond the shadow of a doubt that any accidental tendrils of magic from Patricia, in their home, would be a) unpunished by him, and b) undiscovered by others. With 'a' of course being the case no matter where her powers manifested.
She tenses and holds her breath - not the best case for ignoring pain, but it's such a very instinctive action. "Breathe, Triss." He coaxes, with no urgency. The rubbing alcohol doesn't fizzle or pop the way abrasive peroxide does, but that belies the sting of it.
He's wiping it away with a sterile cloth moments later, not bothering to let it air dry. This one, at least, can be sufficed without mummifying her entire knee, although he still uses a gauze strip in lieu of a presized bandaid. Even an eight year old knee is a large surface area when 'horse bite' was the cause of injury.
"Alright." Hannibal is packing things back in the kit, tight and orderly, as if nothing had even been removed. He stands and offers a hand. "Did you need anything else from up here?" He asks it lightly, with an easy expression but minimal eye contact.
He's noticed the attachment to Otto, Triss, and there's not going to be any judgment, regardless of her eight-year-old verdict.
Triss pouts - at being denied something to gnaw on and at the reminder that they still don't agree on this big thing. Hannibal just worries about staying secret; so long as they don't get found out, accidents are fine. But Triss, who's seen the results of 'little shows', whose life is still in the middle of being shaped by that kind of thing, refuses to buy it.
(It's not even about punishment or a lingering reluctance to make trouble. Hannibal's mutation won't protect him from a falling building or an exploding refrigerator. It might be able to stop her panic, but can't shield him from it. She's tried to explain that fear, but it keeps coming out 'I'm scared of what I can do' and not 'I'm scared I'll hurt you, too', like she means.)
The alcohol swipes that all away, has her biting her lip instead of puffing it out. She almost jerks out of his hand and she definitely whimpers, but here's where the 'medical doctor' thing is helpful: it's over pretty quick, as promised. Triss blinks back a prickle of tears of waits 'til her knee's all patched over to stand up. It still aches just as bad, or even worse, but all the exposed skin is comfortably swaddled away. She tests the fist wrappings again while Hannibal packs away the first aid stuff, wondering if it'll scar. She kinda hopes not, she's got enough weird marks without having to explain whole patches on her hands and legs.
"No," she's decisive about that, at least. Triss doesn't worry about Hannibal thinking she's a baby, but those three downstairs aren't allowed to laugh at Otto. The jellyfish shirt might be pushing it. She does take his hand, though, as they go back downstairs. Her knee likes the downward angle even less, a fact she'd wield like a club if anybody accused her of hanging on too tight.
Argus, Ruth and Danae wait in the kitchen as asked. Ruth's seated at the table, straightbacked and gesturing over something she's saying to Danae, who's perched on a stool at the kitchen island. Triss bristles a little; she likes to sit up high but she definitely doesn't wanna sit next to the mean one. Argus hasn't found anywhere to sit, he's leaning halfway over the table, hands clasped behind his back as he studies the books Hannibal's left out.
"This is an impressive collection of titles to have onhand for emergencies, doctor," he says, and he actually sound like he means it. Triss eyeballs the stack of books, but can't think of where they usually go when Hannibal's not using them. He's got so many, she can't keep track of them all, and lots of them are too old for her to touch without asking for help.
"Alright then. Let's make sure our guests haven't gotten lost." Which may or may not be a tease about a certain small child, some months back, telling him that this new house was 'too big' and 'easy to get lost in'. Hard to say.
The stairs are taken slowly, still tethered as he is to Triss, who has adopted a sideways slant to accommodate keeping her leg mostly straight. Rounding their way past the sweeping end of the staircase gives them a clear view into the kitchen, where Hannibal gets an answer to at least one internal question. Not only is one of them - Argus - interested enough in the books to have looked at them, he isn't even going to try to hide that he's done so.
So they are definitively here to talk shop. What a strange grouping of metas they make.
Hannibal goes straight to the metal-and-black fridge that stands about two feet from the table that the books rest on. Tendrils of cold air leech from the freezer portion as he removes an ice pack, wrapping it in an oxblood dish towel and handing it down to Patricia. At Argus's words, his mouth bends up, approving and willing to share, although his eyes don't quite thaw. "I take my responsibilities of raising a child seriously. I have found it is best to be prepared."
He sweeps right by Argus and Ruth at the table, happens to draw a little closer to Danae when he crosses over to the stove top. He turns his back on them to gather down a teapot from the cabinets, although his neck is turned owlishly to watch them still. His host-smile has grown a little more firm - it's an expression Triss might recognize from their court days. It's a face that means negotiation. A face for unknowns, for strangers, for hostiles; for when he doesn't know enough about the enemy yet to play the game any other way. When in doubt, chilled and exacting hospitality has always served him well.
Water from the sink fills the teapot. His voice is as steady as his hands. "I am under no illusions here. You have only come to speak with me because of her, not myself. Why were you so certain she is one of you?" There is no confusion in his tone, only a bare statement requesting information. "Ordinary children have been taken by kelpies before."
He only refrains from saying killed by because said child is currently standing among the head-height countertops.
Climbing onto a stool (or up a countertop, her other favorite) isn't gonna happen with her knee all cranky and her legs taped up, so Triss takes the icepack and claims the chair across from Ruth. There's nothing special about the old books as far as she can tell, but Argus sure does look excited about them and Hannibal's got his happy smug face on. He likes when people likes his things, she's noticed. Fixing dinner's one of the best parts of the day for that reason.
Ruth laughs into her hand, maybe because she can see these aren't exactly parenting manuals. There's something kind of dry about the way she looks at the stack, and then at Triss on the other side of them, that tells Triss she must be missing something here. "You must have been quite the boyscout," she says, which conjures up a mental image so freaky Triss misses the first part of Hannibal's reply and only tunes back in on 'why were you so certain she is one of you?'
The other three go grave and serious. Triss clutches the ice pack to her knee and tries not to be noticeable. Adults are a lot more likely to talk about important stuff if they forget she's in the room, especially when that stuff has to do with her. Only her eyes move, flicking between them all. None of them look like they want to say 'no' to Hannibal's claim that she's like them, but what does that mean? What did he mean? She's sort of like him, too, isn't she? But he cut himself out of that, because he's a mutant and she's not? Does he know for sure that they aren't, too? Is it a mutant nose thing? Does she smell like them, under the kelpie stink?
"Historically, yes, you'd be correct," Argus says, "But you don't see that as much these days, for a variety of reasons."
"Modern security systems are harder to work around," Ruth interjects.
"Cold Iron limits their movements Overhill," Danae mutters.
"And changechildren in general have...fallen out of style with the fae in recent decades," Argus nods. He looks back and forth between Hannibal and Triss, the adult who has more context for his explanation and the child affected by it. "Any modern attempts have to be based on more than just whims. They have to be worth the risk." His tired gaze settles on Triss, eyebrows crimping together apologetically, "Whatever you are, you're either very interesting, very powerful - ultimately the same thing as far as the fae are concerned - or you pose a significant threat to them in some way."
That doesn't sound good. Triss went through half a dozen foster homes in her eighteen months with CPS, she knows exactly what bullies do to new threats. Stomp 'em out fast. Hannibal's face reflects none of her dismay, all politely flat and assessing. Why can't her stupid magic let her read minds?
"The list of things that trigger that sort of reaction from the Courts is fairly short," Argus has turned back to Hannibal, now. "There's always something new under the sun, especially these days, but..."
"Occam's razor," Danae's not even looking at them, she's got her chin in her hand and she's staring out the window, a frown fixed on her face. Argus nods anyway.
"Exactly, it's a good idea to work from that list, for starters. We have a pretty decent guess as to what it is about her that set them off."
"Unless you have some thoughts?" Ruth speaks over the soft beginning of the kettle's whistle. "You're her father, you've obviously been doing your homework, you hit on 'kelpie' quickly. What's your assessment?"
Their tandem speaking is almost endearing. Almost - Hannibal is generally playing the part of someone who has no idea about supernatural events. His political stance on the Mutant Registration Act, when asked about it at work, has always been gently brushed away with calm aphorisms about human freedom and safety and the delicate balancing act their poor legislatures and law enforcers have to deal with, with supernaturally-gifted people wandering around.
But in this conversation, he can flag himself as someone who does, in fact, know what he does. He's spent the better part of two decades getting his hands on every piece of ancient literature, media gossip, tabloid half-truths, and whispered fairy tales he could find. He knows a lot, and what isn't known tends to come with at least a general outline - shadowy secrets, skeletons of facts, the scattered bones of people and creatures hunted for millennia.
So being told things he knows, or could guess at, is at once thrilling and vexing. When was the last time he discussed magic in a place he lived in? Not since France, not since he was a teenager with a nose full of other people's emotions and the sensation that he was a living biological weapon, not since the one and only straight conversation he'd ever had with a family member about his powers.
(Only conversation - until Triss. She knows, and Hannibal had been very content that her fear of her own magic would see her take his secrets to her grave - at least until magic users had shown up at his door, with the possibility of normalizing all of this for her. Would a lack of fear make her less cautious, would it endanger both of them?)
He's getting ahead of himself. Hannibal stops to breathe, to remove the teapot from the stove.
Ruth asks him a question, and he looks straight at her. His eye contact is surprised but not alarmed; he's pleasantly taken off-guard that one of them thought to ask.
Hannibal makes eye contact with Patricia before answering, however. "I know how often you've had adults speak about you as though you're not in the room, Triss. I apologize." Since he is clearly about to do something tangentially related to that. When he starts answering Ruth, he still looks at Triss occasionally, and his words are chosen with the care of acknowledging that she's listening.
"I actually just gained custody of Patricia about six months ago. I'd known her for ten months prior to that, acting in the role of a professional therapist." He didn't usually see children. She had been a special exception to his normal clientele - a favor called in by an old colleague. Dr. Bloom had been shocked and initially skeptical at their development, five months down the line, when the idea had first been broached to foster her himself.
None of that is anything these three need to know. Hannibal measures out the tea leaves, places them in to steep. "Patricia has powers which have escaped my ability to pin down, but she is not a mutant, as the court involved with her case initially assumed. She's gifted with magic of some kind, and when I realized who her abductor this morning was, I assumed as much as you have." He looks fairly approving that they've all reached the same conclusion. By now, five identical teacups are laid out on the counter by his elbow. "Someone else thinks either that she is very dangerous, or very useful. Someone with better abilities of detection than myself."
He watches the other three with a small smile, eye contact sharp, tone pleasant. "Would you happen to fall into that latter category, as well? I confess, I was only so willing to let you in our home because I hoped you had something new to tell me."
The icepack's starting to go smushy. Triss checks out of the conversation to consider her options when all the ice inevitably melts. Already it's trickling down her leg, dampening bandages and wetting down tape. Oh, well, she can just fix it herself before bed.
Bed? Bed was a few hours ago. Are they all gonna go through the whole day pretending like they got sleep? Or can she take a nap after this? A bath and then a nap, with some food in there somewhere? Will there be food after these guys leave? She can't imagine Hannibal cooking for them, not right away. Tea's probably about as good as they're gonna get for now.
She straightens up when Ruth calls him 'her father', looking to him to see if he verifies it as fact. She doesn't mean to, but it's a sticky thing they don't really talk about - in public they're parent and kid, 'cuz that's what people expect and it's easier that way. At home, he's never asked her to call him 'dad' or 'father' or anything except 'not Dr. Lecter, that's for colleagues and patients', so she's always just settled on 'Hannibal'. They're at home now, so--
Argus and Ruth look at each other, and then very intently back at Hannibal, when he explains about the adoption. Argus' head tilts again. Danae continues frowning out the window. Triss gnaws on her lip and watches, watches for any sign of what they might be thinking. Now that they know she's adopted, can they guess the rest? That her parents didn't want her? That she scared them, that she's hurt people, can they figure out about the--no, no. She shoots Hannibal an alarmed grimace when he talks about 'courts involved in her case'; that sounds so bad, like there was something wrong enough for them to notice. Which, there was, but these people don't need to know that.
Oddly, it's Danae she catches watching her from the corner of her eye. The thin woman's face has gone flat and unreadable, at least from this angle, but she doesn't pretend like she wasn't watching. She just blinks once, slow and unbothered, before directing her eyes back out the window.
"We hope so, too," Argus says simply. "There are some types of inborn magic that the fae have very, very strong feelings about. "Luckily those are pretty easy to test for."
"Test?" ice clatters to the floor, spilling out of the towel and Triss' spasming hands. She winces apologetically at Hannibal and hunches down in her chair.
"Nothing painful or scary," Argus goes wide-eyed at her reaction, hands opening wide on the tabletop. "It just checks to see if you react to certain substances. Like...like an allergy test."
Triss had a bunch of those done during the early days with CPS - every kid did, since you couldn't send somebody with a serious peanut allergy into a house full of JIF. If she has any allergies at all, they weren't common enough to turn up on the tests, so the example doesn't carry any unpleasantly itchy associations. She sits up a little, nodding her understanding. Argus smiles back, relieved around the edges of his own exhaustion.
"Those 'substances' are things you'd have to eat, though," Ruth cups her tea between her hands, her frown a worried echo of Danae's. "I know you weren't comfortable with accepting anything from us earlier--"
"--smart," Danae grunts.
"--but that's up to you. The two of you," Ruth amends, and sips her tea.
Triss sucks her whole bottom lip into her mouth. When Hannibal brings her her own cup, she cranes her head back and stares up at him, her whole face a question. Is it okay? Should I? They're strangers and it's not smart but we're at home so is it safe?
Hannibal's only reaction to the word 'test' is to look for Patricia's face to see how she's faring; and sure enough, she startles hard enough to jostle her chair legs against the floor. It's a cascade of disconnected reactions, looking after her emotional health - he wants her receptive and trusting, although his own emotions tend to be distanced from hers.
(This morning is a tangle in his mind, a thorny hedge that he can't examine too clearly, only peering at the facts through the vines. If he thinks too hard about her being gone from his home without knowing why or by who, he feels the thorns catch at his ribs, get stuck behind his heart.)
Argus takes it upon himself to salvage the moment, though, and Hannibal continues pouring out servings of tea without comment.
Triss's own serving was made first, poured out from the boiled water before he added the leaves - hot cocoa, a special treat which seems both appropriate and a possible way of using sugar to help stave off the way her eyes are a little puffy and dark underneath. She's not drooping, not yet, probably due to all the action going on, but it's surely a matter of time--
Hannibal's thoughts grind to a rude halt. He pauses while holding Triss's cup out to her. When he reanimates and finishes handing it over, he gives Patricia a 'wait just a moment' finger, low at the level of his waist.
Holding his own cup, he now joins Patricia and Ruth at the table. His gaze settles on Ruth, and he looks as considering as he feels. "I'm sure all three of you realize what your request sounds like. It's neither particularly dangerous, nor is it particularly innocent. It's the sort of request that could easily be assuaged with trust - of which we have very little. Unless I'm misreading Danae's body language." His brief smile at her is not as discourteous as his words are, however.
"Is this substance meant to trigger something in the user? Or merely mark them for you? If the former, I think you may find Patricia will be very unwilling to participate in a demonstration."
There's a small sting and the taste of blood, just a little, as her raking teeth shred healthy skin off her lip. Triss swallows it down while Hannibal sits, too far away for comfort, and answers for her. Normally she'd be delighted to be asked what she wants, but this is too much. It's like when Hannibal first said I've been considering approaching your social worker about fostering you, Patricia, would you like that?, with the catch that he wouldn't be able to be her therapist anymore. The choice was just too big, would change too much. She'd been too afraid to make it for weeks.
"I do," Ruth says, her mouth all twisted up and hard to read. Argus nods, but mostly he just looks embarrassed. Danae doesn't even twitch, nevermind go back to watching Patricia openly on the side. "Realize how it sounds, that is." But instead of answering the real question, she tilted a hand towards Argus, practically handing it over to him.
"The problem here is that she hasn't been using any magic for some time, that I can tell," his words are slow and thoughtful and, under other circumstances, they'd probably cheer Triss up a whole lot. She's been trying not to do anything for weeks and weeks, even though there's a warm spot in her belly that rolls around funny from time to time. "What we'd give her is, ah, a kind of fuel. If she has the predilection for the kind of magic I suspect, she could use it, but she wouldn't have to. The ability to detect it as fuel at all is its own answer, honestly."
Triss frowns at that, turning the words around to see which ones she can pick out to boil it all down to something sensible. Ruth taps her forefinger against the handle of her cup, and says, "Patricia, when you do use your magic, where does it come from?"
"Huh?"
"Is it something you feel in the air around you? Or do you draw it out of your body? From the ground?"
As Ruth lists off the possibilities, Triss' hands fall unconsciously to her stomach, palms flat against a silkscreened jellyfish. Everyone notices. Ruth nods and Argus smiles, neither of them seems at all surprised.
"Then that's where it'll be," Argus doesn't even say 'if', like 'if we're right about your magic', but maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it's different for everyone and she just works off her gut somehow. "You'll feel it, but you won't have to use it if you don't want to."
"It would be good if you did," Ruth's voice is very, very gentle, but Triss can't think past her own alarm to take offense. "If this is the right kind of fuel for you, I promise the results won't be bad. Danae and myself can stop that from happening."
Why? Why can they promise that? Ruth sounds so sure, but how? What do they know that Triss, and Hannibal, don't yet? And how badly do the two of them need to know it? Bad enough to take that risk? Bad enough to break the house?
Her breathing's gone all uneven, hot chocolate untouched. She twists the wet towel between her hands and stares at the pattern on the teacup, a geometric blue and gold she really likes. Think. Think about the 'why's and not the 'how's, that's what all her therapists have ever told her. Why do they know she's got magic? 'Cuz a kelpie wanted her. Why did the kelpie want her? 'Cuz her magic's dangerous to monsters. What kind of magic's dangerous to monsters? She doesn't know, but these people do, and they've said there are probably only a couple kinds. If they know that, maybe they can know how to stop her from being dangerous right here, right now. In her own house.
It didn't used to be a big deal. Triss can remember, fuzzily, moving stuff around in her room or her parents' kitchen. She turned the TV on once without touching it. Just reached out and pushed a button with her...she's not sure what, but she did it. A harmless use of magic. It doesn't have to be all tearing roofs apart with the simmering heat in her belly.
She says, "Okay." And they don't smile at her, but they all look a little happier. Relieved. Triss checks in with Hannibal, searching his face as Argus says, "Danae, we'll need yours for this."
'That I can tell', says Argus. Ruth deferred to him knowingly for this part of the explanation. Ruth is also clearly good with people, though, so it's not from a lack of being able to segue into trying to convince a man to let strangers give his daughter foreign substances to try. Hannibal is quite happy to remain quietly brooding over his teacup's steam, allowing them to extract information and permission from Triss in calm tones, while he rapidly slots the pieces they've given him, together and together and together. Discarding where they don't fit, vexed at not having enough corner pieces, staring at the empty areas in the middle.
But is it possible he does have a few of those other pieces, and he just hasn't been guided about where to look for them?
The difficulty, Hannibal thinks, in having your mind so rigidly organized by subject, means that accidentally coming up with answers is far less likely. He needs to look for it by associations, and he has very few search terms for the moment.
Until something clicks.
They're going to give Triss something to eat. Something they don't even question the safety of giving a child - so the dose and the type can't be terribly high. It's clearly something Hannibal could eat to no ill effect, since even with all this evidence they're not sure she's one of them, yet. (Hannibal remembers when Triss had first confided about the power coming from her belly - how it felt 'hot and awful' when she'd moved things around her parents, sometimes. He remembers wondering if it was just guilty anxiety, or a true symptom of her powers. It seems it might have really been the latter.)
So it's either a very benign non-edible substance, or a naturally-eaten nutrient - Hannibal leans towards the latter. Triss has performed magic before, after all, and he doubts she's been eating chalk to get those results. What else do children eat, though, is it possible? Medical facts run through his mind rapidly. Most common cause of accidental death in children under six: poisoning. Usually from vitamins. Lead paint used to be, and still is, alarmingly high on the list as well. Lead paint is usually craved as a result of malnourishment, because the body mistakenly trusts it as a good source of iron.
The iron in vitamins is almost always the cause of accidental poisonings. It's a substance that is so lowered in vitamins at this point that it's very unlikely Triss would ever have had too much of it, unlike nutrients like calcium and vitamin C. On the other hand, she's not terribly enthusiastic about leafy greens, so it's equally possible that vitamin K is what's snuck around, causing havoc with her powers.
Hannibal's ears feel like they're ringing. He feels close. Why does eating iron sound familiar, why is that the phrase he keeps returning to?
He turns towards Triss when he feels her gaze on his, leans forward in his chair towards her. He sat closest to her - instead of in a high seat over with Danae - specifically so he could be within reaching distance if she needed reassurance. His hand presses against the tabletop in front of her, an invitation to hold onto someone familiar if she'd like, although he watches her wring the towel nervously and isn't certain she'd want to mangle his hand the same way. "I'm right here, Triss. These people seem to know what they're doing. I trust them - and you - about your powers not being a threat to anyone here."
Ruth and Danae can stop it from happening. They specifically want Danae's substance for this. Argus can sense that Patricia hasn't cast lately. Perhaps Hannibal is already being too specific in trying to suss this answer out - it sounds like there's a variety to be accounted for.
His voice is soft, non-accusing, like he's remarking on his choice in banking, as Hannibal looks over to Argus. "You're certain the amount will be appropriate for a child her size? I wouldn't want any accidental overdoses happening in my kitchen."
"Completely certain," Argus doesn't even bat an eye, which Triss only kinda notices since she's so busy watching Danae, who's straightened up a little. The thin woman sits back off her elbows and shrugs out of her jacket, revealing a cuff around her left wrist. It's almost as wide as Triss' palm, made of heavy cloth or maybe leather, decorated with...bullets? That's all her brain can come up with until Danae reaches for one of them, plucks it free, and tosses it to Argus. His reflexes are pretty good for somebody with that many bags under his eyes, he practically palms it outta the air.
What he sets on the table in front of Patricia isn't a bullet at all. It's plastic vial, about as long and wide as her pinky finger, stoppered off with a foam cork. She has to squint to make out the contents, a clear liquid suspending tiny flakes of something too dark to be sand. They spin and drift as the liquid settles, drifting slowly towards the bottom.
"What's in it?" for a second she's not anxious, or wary, she's just curious about the strangeness of it all.
"Iron," Triss looks up, surprised, when Danae answers instead of the other two. She's propped one elbow back on the island and watches the group at the table with dark and unblinking eyes. It's creepy. She's creepy. "You wanna talk allergies, just about everything that crawls out from Underhill's deathly reactive to it. Freaks 'em right out that some of us can use it to our advantage. So that's top of the list for 'things they don't like'."
That makes even less sense than the stuff Ruth and Argus have been saying. How's it supposed to hurt a kelpie if she can somehow turn a little bit of iron into magic? Would that magic be iron-flavored and dangerous to any faerie thing it touched? She keeps trying to work out some kind of peanut analogy in her head and falling flat. Her confusion must show, because Argus and Ruth trade an exasperated look and Argus says, "That's...fundamentally right, although there's more to it. But the important thing is that these pieces are too big for you to digest. They'll pass out of your body if you can't use them for fuel, like we talked about."
While that's reassuring, it's also embarrassing. Triss reaches for the vial so they won't have to talk about bathroom stuff, pulling at the cork with her fingernails. There's little indentations all over it, like...like teeth marks and, okay, she can see how it'd be easier to just bite and pull but she's not gonna try now that she's pretty sure Danae's mouth's been all over it.
"That's water and a little bit of alcohol, to keep the iron from sticking together," Argus says just as Triss gets a whiff. "It doesn't taste the greatest but it's not a shot, either."
"Luckily you've got that hot chocolate," Ruth sounds like maybe she's about to laugh, but Triss is squinting down the vial like it's the barrel of a gun and doesn't check the way she usually would. Nothing about this makes enough sense to her. How can magic come from a metal? Isn't it just supposed to be something you are, like Hannibal's mutation? Does that make magic a mutation, too, just an older one? Are faeries mutants? She should've shouted that at the kelpie earlier, see if it pissed it off. Her knee throbs in agreement and the towel in her lap is cold and heavy and she wishes none of this had to happen.
She's been wishing that for almost half her life, now. Why should it change now?
Nose wrinkled, mouth twisted up, she takes a breath, holds it, and slugs the iron-water-alcohol down. It's hardly even a sip, just enough to get to the back of her throat without leaving leaving the iron grit everywhere. It burns a little bit, like cough syrup, but it doesn't stick all over the inside of her mouth like a real medicine would, and it doesn't taste sticky-sick either. She reaches for her hot chocolate anyway, just to help get it to her stomach faster. Triss imagines she can feel it making its way, scraping sandpaper-like down her throat.
"'Kay," she says, grimly, "Now what?"
"Give it a second," Argus says, and she can tell Ruth's trying not to swallow. Danae hasn't blinked this whole time. "Then check the place where your magic usually comes from."
So Triss sits, and waits, and tries not to feel too much like she's back at a hearing with all kinds of important people staring only at her. Her stomach knots up at the thought, her hands curl into fists, and she's just about to say no this is dumb nothing's happening when the warm spot in her belly sort of rolls over and a second one throbs to life.
"It's--there's something--!"
Somebody, Danae, lets out a long breath. Triss' looks up and around with wide eyes, to find Argus nodding encouragement and Ruth smiling, a little...sad?
"You can poke at it, if you want," she says.
"Poke?" that's one of the weirder things she's heard tonight, which is saying something. Ruth's smile widens at how offended she sounds. "But--what if it..."
"You can turn it on without using it," Danae's scornful tone triggers a hot, angry stab from her gut, and Triss scowls at her. "Like, lighting a match doesn't have to set a fire. I got it even if you do, anyway."
She's so dismissive Triss almost wants to show her otherwise, wants to break something without using her hands, wants to throw things around. What does Danae even know about what she can do, Danae wasn't there at the church, she didn't feel every single nail peeling loose from the rafters, the walls, the pews, she didn't--
It's not a 'poke', it's a breath. It's blowing gently on an ember to coax a flame, or throwing open a window on a fire and setting a roaring backdraft alight. Triss' irritation is a gust, a puff of air that strikes a spark into something more and the warm spot turns into a pool of warms, spreading up her chest and neck and settling behind her eyes and--
"What're those?!" it's like she's in a spy movie and just put on special goggles, suddenly they're all sitting in a net of glowing blue lasers. Some are thicker than others, some glow brighter, but all of them start (or end?) in one spot: her midsection.
"There you go," Danae says, but not to her. "Lurcher."
Iron. Hannibal nearly laughs. His face shudders, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and nose deepening with a smile that he's only successful in keeping from his mouth.
His attention keeps skipping from one to another around his kitchen, interested in everyone's thoughts on Patricia - they clearly are all one something, one cult-like branch-off of the great preternatural tree that sprouted all of them. And they're being forced to share this knowledge with him present, presumably because they realized Triss would never keep something like what they're showing her a secret. (He cynically dismisses that they're genuinely interested in showing her guardian these tricks, helped along with the strongest defensive waves coming over from Danae. He can smell the tension, the trepidation, from everyone including of course Triss - it saturates the room.)
Hannibal takes a deep breath, relaxes more deeply into his chair, and prepares to ride the waves of the room's collective anxiety...right back into his own mind.
Metals. Different powers, different metals? They'd wanted Danae's, specifically, and they all smell too different to share a house and resources, which means that if it's something they all need, then it's something they all have their own supply of.
Eating metal. He thinks of that phrase in different languages - first in the habitual way of adding things to his memory so it's easier to find if he's speaking another one, and then out of curiosity. Lithuanian, French, German, Russian, Ital--
Italian rings out. Flashes of pages - ancient, sheepskin, notes written and rewritten in margins, editing as they went, gossipy and fearful. Hannibal relaxes into the memory rather than tear after it, lets associations gather so he has more threads to follow in this labyrinth...
Patricia snags his attention. He watches her face set at the disparaging tone from Danae. When it's clear that Patricia has somehow managed to do something, Hannibal feels an echo of the pride that normal parents likely get to experience when their child makes the honor roll. It thrums through his chest, warm and generous and selfish all at once. "What do you see, Triss?" His hand reaches out, fingers near Patricia's - more of a gesture of wonderment than any attempt at trapping her hand in his. This is...wonderful, finally there's answers. Have they finally found a way to let Patricia develop less fear about her powers, for her to grow into the fascinated amazement she deserves to feel for her abilities?
Hannibal is visibly happy about what's going on. His features warm, he looks over Triss's head. "You could have just said something, Argus. Or any of you." His expression doesn't budge from the quiet elation that had settled in, as soon as he'd mentally ticked through to the page he'd been looking for.
"Please pardon the slurs of our past generations, but: metallo-mangia abominazioni, are you not?"
"Uhmmm," Triss can't stop looking around, head almost lolling as she tries to take in all the threads. It takes real effort to focus on Hannibal, nested as he is in the middle of the crosshatching. Some of the heavier lines go right through him without stopping, like he's a hologram and they're the only thing that's real. She gets hung up on one spearing under his collarbone, stunned awe fading into bemusement, "Lines. Blue lines everywhere. They're glowing? And I'm--attached to all of 'em."
Which kinda makes the obvious question: what's on the other end? Before anybody in the room can get all teacher-y on her, Triss takes quick stock and comes up with an interesting inventory. Each shining pot and pan hanging above the kitchen island has a line. Every knife in the butcher block, too. The oven's a mass of thick and thin cables all wound together, splitting off for eyes and buttons and racks. The chrome drawer-pulls are tied to her, and the microwave too. Even the steaming kettle sits fat and heavy and waiting. Triss's face smooths out in sudden understanding. "It's all the metal stuff."
"Oh, good job," Ruth smiles into her teacup. Argus sets his down with a broad grin.
"That's--you're very quick, Triss."
"She bit the fucking kelpie," Danae says, not that Triss can see how that's got anything to do with her revelation about metal, not when she's suddenly remembering all the things in her parents' house that used to slide around on their own. Silverware, picture frames, candlesticks...but it makes Ruth laugh and curl a hand over her mouth.
"Did you now?"
"Well it was sorta tryin' to drown me," Triss frowns again, "And I didn't like it."
"You bite things you don't like?" Argus has that particular choked 'I know I shouldn't laugh but it's really hard' voice adults get sometimes, which makes Triss roll her eyes. The lines remain stable.
"My old therapist said I had an oral fixation problem," after she'd bit a couple other kids who, to be fair, were holding her down at the time, so what was she supposed to do? Not unlike the kelpie problem, come to think of it.
Ruth stops trying to hide her laughter and even Danae snickers at that, like it's some great joke. Although if they've got to eat their magic, and her magic works like that too, then...yeah, okay, she can see how that's funny. Naturally that's when Hannibal says something in a language Triss doesn't know, too round and fast for her to even properly hear it, and everything goes inside out.
Ruth goes completely, utterly still, cold and unreadable in a way that frightens Triss so badly she almost doesn't notice Danae leaping to her feet, wouldn't've if she didn't hiss "What the fuck did you just say?" and knock her stool over as she lunges forward.
Three things happen almost instantaneously: Argus throws an arm out towards her with a sharp "Danae, stop, that's not a se--", Triss howls "Don't!" and rises up in her chair, palms slamming the tabletop, and every glowing blue line contracts sharply inward.
The oven door bangs open, metal rattles and shrieks and Triss reels backward with her arms over her head, blind and choking on her own panic again it's happening again I did it again but there's a yank, like a big fish running away with a lure and all the tension on those threads gets snatched away from her.
She blinks the blue away to a strange tableau. The air around the kitchen table is full of hovering things, knives and the egg timer and magnets and pans and egg beaters. Both the fridge and oven door have banged open and hang ajar, some of their contents spilling into the air, too. Triss gawks, while Argus runs a hand down his face. Danae's only taken a single step forward but her posture's changed, from threat to straining effort, her jaw set with it.
"Kid, I swear to god," she snarls. "Let go before you really do hurt somebody."
Those aren't very clear instructions, but somehow Triss finds she doesn't need anything more. Stunned and shaking, she holds her breath, cuts off the air to the coal in her belly and, like a smothered candle, it puffs out.
"Huh," Argus says, "Interesting technique."
Things don't just magically float back to their original places, but they do settle down on the nearest available surface. The floor, mostly, or the counter. Some crash dramatically while others, the breakable stuff, gets a gentler landing. Danae doesn't gesture like wizards in cartoons, she just stands there with a fixed look on her face and slightly flared nostrils, and when it's done she turns blazing eyes on Hannibal.
"Danae," Through all of it, Ruth has sat there in perfect stillness, watching him with a calm that's anything but placid. "Trust me to handle it if needbe."
Triss is too shaken to read the look Danae shoots her then, or maybe she wouldn't know enough to make sense of it anyway, but it does make her look younger and less mean. A little scared, maybe. "I...yes, okay."
Somehow the way Argus' hands thud to the table is exasperated. "Everyone just stop, please. It's not a difficult term to find if you're reading the right books." When he addresses Hannibal, he holds his hands out, palm up, but his head's gone to the side again. What is up with that? "And I can guess which ones those were, so...you can understand why anyone who fits that description would be upset to hear it. Especially from someone they don't know."
Watching the back-and-forth of the adults and Triss (Danae is not registering as an adult, not all the way, and she is certainly not included in this) keeps the good humor on Hannibal's face, although something else joins it. Curiosity, calculation - is this ragtag group going to just dump information and possibly a book-lending system on his front door and then huff away? Unlikely. So: are they thinking of a long-term relationship?
Is this a group of teachers, no matter how strange or untrained? Is that the environment Hannibal has invited into their home? It's...odd. More intimate than just the tutor Hannibal had been considering to help get Triss's young brain started on Italian. He wants her to learn about her powers, though, just as he wants to know more about them; he wants her to become something more. To grow as far as her abilities will let her.
It's possible some small, ignored part of himself wants her to have what he never did. But Hannibal has never confronted that part of his mind, and never intends to, and Patricia - however young and unfailingly rude in some of her questions - has yet to think to ask.
When the calm vibes are shattered, Hannibal remains still. His face is placid, loose, unthreatening, all except his eyes - which watch the angle of Danae's lunge, the way Ruth's face turns to stone, how Argus immediately becomes the voice of reason against everyone else's fear. Hannibal has had plenty of practice in not flinching - when you can smell the visceral root of someone's fearful anger, there is a good deal more to rattle you. Just to get to the point where he can breathe a roomful of terror and smile, not frown, was an uncoupling from normal reaction. This - in his own warded home, with people who want his child's education and safety so badly that they were willing to talk to a stranger about ancient magic - this isn't enough to frighten him. Not yet.
Triss's magic reacts poorly, however - powerfully, but poorly. Hannibal's face remains completely still and pointed at Danae, but his eyes flicker from side to side. He sees burnished pans to the left, salt and pepper shakers to the right, even his wheeled metal side table has leaned into his peripheral vision from the corner. She was frightened on his behalf...?
Which is logical. He's her guardian. This safe house that she values - if he was harmed, she might not have it anymore. And she likely is still on a knife's edge, ready to fall off and blame herself again at the slightest push.
There is still something a little small, a little vulnerable, in the expression Hannibal directs at Patricia. "That's some wonderfully impressive magic, Triss. Don't worry - I surprised them, that's all." He doesn't move his hands towards her to comfort. They stay on the tabletop, loose and ready, until Hannibal seems satisfied that Danae is done coming towards him.
Hannibal obligingly looks at Argus instead of staring down Danae, when Argus takes control of the conversation. There is still a thread of amusement in his face, a lack of repentance, although there shouldn't be any doubt that he's taking this conversation seriously. "Of course. It was a rash decision on my end." Hannibal doesn't look smug, but he doesn't look particularly apologetic, either. If anything, he looks very alert, even more than when they'd first showed up at his door. His eyes sweep to Ruth and Danae, but he settles back on Argus, and he's clearly speaking to him. "Your secrecy even while demonstrating made me curious. I wanted to know what you would do."
His eyes on Ruth are calculating, suspicious, and jarringly respectful - like he's spotted a jungle cat where he'd thought he'd been alone. His glance at Danae is alert but exasperated. Unimpressed, even if he remains cordial enough not to outright sneer. Clearly, he considers it a win - Hannibal got the answers he'd wanted.
It makes his gaze at Argus all the more pleasant, by contrast. He's practically smiling at him, even if his face barely moves. "I respect the paranoia and fear of your compatriots. I don't mean to insinuate a threat. Besides--" He reaches down for his sleeve, and pokes a glint of metal back inside. Patricia's tug of war with his metal appliances had nearly ripped it free of his sweater. Once the blade is fully back in, he flicks it out the end of the sleeve, one-handed, in a gesture that is all utilitarian movements and clearly practiced.
But he also puts it down on the table, willingly disarming himself, as soon as it's out. "--it's not as if I could hurt anyone with this. If I had known what you were when you showed up, and felt negatively about it, surely I would have picked a better weapon."
He stares at Argus, his own head tilting to the side as well. "Or. I couldn't have hurt Danae with it. I'm not so sure that extends to everyone else." His eye contact finally breaks for a moment, and he leans a few degrees further back in his chair. Physically, he's doing everything short of putting his hands palm-out for a truce. "Gladium linguas sounds much more fitting, however. I'm not such a hypocrite that I would call you abominations." It's a long-delayed olive branch - it's surely been an open assumption, but Hannibal will confirm he's not fully - or not simply - human, in the interests of perhaps calming everyone down.
Well. Calming the other two down. Hannibal clearly approves of Argus's commanding patience throughout this.
Forget whether or not the adults have all decided it's cool, they can be calm about this, Triss has reached no such conclusion! She only smothered that thing in her belly out of fear, driven by the revelation of her magic's connection to metal objects. She knows, now, how she destroyed the church. What pieces she must have pulled to bring the tower tumbling down. The clarity this brings to her hazy imaginings and half-remembered nightmares of destroying this new house (or any of her old ones, or sometimes Hannibal's office, and often the courthouse) is so horrifying she just stares at Hannibal. Impressive? No!
She wants to say you surprised ME, or maybe they SCARED me but also you scared THEM but the soundless vacuum in her own head doesn't allow for any of that. She might as well be six years old staring up at the firefighter who uncovered her in the wreckage, although this time she manages to blink.
"I can respect curiosity," Ruth says. She doesn't raise her voice or even put much into it, but the vacuum in Triss' head crystalizes into a piercing scream. That's not good, not good at all, not-- "But there's a time and a place, and baiting potentially dangerous people when there's a frightened child in the room is callous at best."
Even Argus flicks her a worried, slightly wide-eyed look. Danae, apparently taking Ruth's request to heart, says and does nothing, not even when Hannibal flashes the knife up his sleeve. What does that make Ruth? What does that make Argus? Triss holds mouse-still and tries to swallow a frightened squeak. She's maybe 95% effective.
"Maybe we all got a little...carried away with discovery," Argus sighs. "Although I don't think you can call it secrecy when there's no real point to explaining a whole system of magic she might not have had, Even though we are. Secretive. As a whole." His mouth twitches a little, almost smiles when Hannibal says something else in a language Triss can't follow. Ruth only hmmms, unbending just enough to fold her arms back on the table. Triss lets out a breath she hadn't known she was holding at all. There's so much here she's not following, most of it probably, but it kind of looks like Hannibal's stepping back. He's making that face he uses when he's made his point to someone and he's just waiting for them to work through it. But what's the point? And are they keeping up? Frustration and uselessness and feeling-stupid simmers in her gut, next to the weird lumps of magic, and Triss goes back to chewing at her lip to keep from crying with it all.
"The accepted term these days is 'Allomancer'," Argus says, and then he bothers to look at Triss and does a very small double take. "Uh, are you...okay?"
"I'm fine," but her voice is really high and tight and her eyes burn and she just wants to be outside where there aren't any blue lines or heavy things to throw at people. Triss puts her head down on the table and folds her arms over them and shakes for a minute, oblivious to how any of the adults react to this.
"Oh, neshama, it's all right," at least Ruth sounds more normal now, like she's over whatever warning she was trying to inject into the air itself, "Everyone's first couple tries go badly. We've all got a story like that. Some much worse than others! You've done nothing wrong."
"'don't care," there's the mouse-squeak, "'don't wanna be dangerous and--and have demon horses mad at me and don't wanna be an a--allo--" and there's the hot burn of frustrated tears. Great. Wonderful.
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timeasmymeasure
man I'm gonna have to go expand these kid icons, I've only got 2 leftover from before...
Date: 2016-06-04 12:24 am (UTC)"I worried you worried," she says, an admission as groundshaking as it is quiet.
The hug only lasts long enough for her to remember, in the wake of her relief, that this isn't something they really do. Touching for a while, that is. Triss used to, but she feels like she's forgotten how to do it, or let it happen, and now it's like trying to eat with chopsticks instead of a fork. Hannibal projects a no-touching forcefield so strongly it almost makes her wanna mess him up. She hasn't yet, for the same reason she was so worked up in the car - it's all too new, and she can't risk being sent back to CPS.
So they both lean back, Hannibal to look up at Ruth, Argus and Danae, Triss to swallow down all those freefloating pointless anxieties. She's still got a fistful of khakhi pant, though, bunched up next to his knee. She frowns at it until he calls her name.
Half her Christian name, even, yikes. Triss snaps to wary attention, fingers flying straight, but Hannibal just runs a hand down the back of her head like he's testing for gooseeggs and asks her if she's been hurt. If any of them hurt her.
Someone - Danae, probably - snorts. Someone else sighs at that, though she can't guess who. Triss gives the request for honesty a moment of serious consideration, recognizing with the mercurial speed of a practiced liar all the many ways she could make this really unpleasant for the three adults who kept her in a strange house overnight. Like, it wouldn't even be hard. She knows kids whose parents or stepparents got arrested for less. Technically, Danae swearing if you don't stop kicking me in the fucking spleen I'll leave you here to drown I swear to God while towing them both out of the harbor could count as threatening.
"No," she says at length, turning her hands over so Hannibal can see her abraded palms. The first layer or two of skin has just peeled away, leaving them red and raw. The insides of her calves, which were pressed against the kelpie's sides, look about the same, and that's not even starting on her lividly swollen left knee. "The horse thing did that. They were just--" her nose wrinkles as she turns in Hannibal's grip to squint up at them, "Confusing."
Ruth laughs, all the smile lines interlocking. "I'll bet we were," and next to her Danae's rolling her eyes, but Argus' lack of a reaction is the weird thing. He's got his head tilted to the side, like he's listening to them all, but his eyes aren't locked on anybody. They jump around a little, especially over Hannibal, though his attention flicks into the foyer beyond once or twice just while Triss watches.
"There really was a horse," she doesn't mean to sound defensive, it's just...she knows how it sounds, and if it were anybody but Hannibal she wouldn't even've told the the truth about that much, she'd've run away from her rescuers somehow and thought up some other story. But Hannibal knows about the weird. And it's important that he doesn't think she left on purpose. "M'not making it up, she saw it too."
Danae rocks away from the finger Triss points her way, but Argus shifts into the line of accusation and says, still calm as anything, "That's where the story gets long." He's not talking to her, he's talking to Hannibal, which is a familiar if unpleasant sensation that makes Triss sigh out all her frustration and exhaustion. The look she gives her guardian, back safely to the others, says: Now do you see what I've been dealing with?
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Date: 2016-06-04 12:57 am (UTC)But Hannibal doesn't see or smell a lie from Patricia when she says 'no', and if he's going to keep building her trust as he's been, he'll believe her. He takes her wrists, gently, to inspect her palms - they haven't been cleaned, there's still some dirt shoved in the crevices of skin. They didn't have first aid with them? Or they didn't care? Or they couldn't get close enough? Hannibal has no confusion about Patricia's aversion to strangers. Getting a ride on 'the horse thing' immediately prior couldn't have helped, no matter how friendly or unfriendly her rescuers.
'She saw it too'. The older woman smells like kelpie almost as much as Patricia - Hannibal believes her. It's the first time he looks away from her face, to size up the woman who reeks of water demon and was apparently the only one present when the kelpie was. That would logically mean she gathered the other two afterwards. They're an odd group. Out of necessity, then? What sort of secrets are they hiding?
"I believe you." Hannibal says to Patricia, in a very reasonable tone considering they're discussing a kelpie kidnapping an eight year-old child out of a second story window. When he stands up again, he lets his hand linger on Patricia's shoulder, until it can't reach anymore. His fingertips brush the tangled, damp fluff of her hair, instead, and he takes an unmistakable step forward - defensive and offensive all at once, although his face has melted into a cordial mask.
Patricia ends up behind his left leg as he reaches out a hand. This is, after all, the second time the man has tried to be the only one actually offering up the promise of an explanation. "I apologize. I wasn't expecting anyone to bring her home for me."
And then. Then he turns to the taller woman, while still holding the man's hand. And, certainly not because he slept for only two hours last night and definitely not because he's been up frantically searching through old books for clues as to where his adopted child might have been kidnapped to, and obviously not because she was the one who snorted at him trying to assure that said adopted child hadn't been manhandled by the strangers who dropped her off, he asks: "Should I thank you for getting her away from the kelpie? You certainly smell as though you fought it yourself."
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Date: 2016-06-04 02:01 am (UTC)She manages not to grab onto any more of his clothes, curling her hands up in the overlong sleeves of Argus' sweater instead. It smells comfortingly of coffee and old books, only familiar 'cuz Hannibal's got a whole library full of antique stuff, too.
The two men shake hands, Argus' attention fully on Hannibal's face instead of some point over his shoulder, though his head hasn't tilted all the way back up yet. Triss lapses back into silence and watches him, unable to put her finger on what, exactly, is so weird about that. There's something about the set of his mouth that makes her think he might be biting down on the side, his cheek or tongue or inner lip, and what's up with that? Whatever it is relaxes as he goes to answer Hannibal's apology, but her guardian's already done that thing where he's steamrolled the conversation over to Danae instead.
Triss catches two things: that Danae's gonna need some aloe for that burn, and that she, Ruth and Argus all jerk in surprise. Their reaction sets Triss into immediate flight-mode, her whole brain lighting up with the instinct to get away from Angry Adults, especially the one who sliced a horse mostly in half right in front of her. She doesn't have the capacity left to wonder why they react the way they do, she's too caught up in what that means for her safety, and maybe Hannibal's.
Except nothing about his posture changes at all.
Danae grins a not-grin at him, lips peeling back to show all her teeth. Unlike some people in this conversation, Triss's never been a medical doctor, but she's pretty sure that's more teeth than most people have? Something ripples over her skin, too, like a band of cloud sweeping in front of the sun, and now Triss does grab hold of Hannibal's sleeve. She can't remember what Danae did with that huge rusty knife she had, it's just another blank space in her memories, but what if she's hiding it under her jacket somewhere or-- "Break out those knives you got up your sleeve, man, and I'll show you how I did it."
"Danae," Argus groans. Ruth, who Triss would've expected to be the one shushing Danae again, only eyes Hannibal speculatively, smile lines no longer in evidence. Whatever she sees, it has her shaking her head and planting her hands on her hips.
"Well, since there's no use closing the stall door now that the horse, or kelpie or what have you, is already loose, why don't we hash it out somewhere with a first aid kit? Maybe she'll let you clean those scrapes, Mister..?"
The dangling question is obviously an invitation for an introduction, but Triss is too busy reeling to notice. Ruth said kelpie but so did Hannibal. He didn't just know she'd been taken away by something, he knew what, and that she must've been rescued, and--
She sorta kinda understands how his powers work. She knows his nose is really sensitive, anyway, but once again he's put all kinds of not-even-there clues together to come up with a true answer. It's creepy when it's directed at her, but kind of neat to watch from the outside. Maybe she doesn't even need to ask these people about what happened, maybe Hannibal can just look at them and know.
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Date: 2016-06-04 02:42 am (UTC)"If it bothers you, perhaps we can all disarm before we enter my home." 'Home', not 'house'. He feels Patricia's small hand spasm into his sweater's sleeve, and he adjusts the angle of his wrist so that he can loosely hold her hand - she could slide away with a pull, but he wants the family aspect of this to be a clear signal to the strangers. If they rescued Patricia because of something like duty or compassion, perhaps it will help everyone's attitudes. And if they pose a threat, then Hannibal does not mind asserting ownership and attachment as a warning. "But I was very concerned when I heard visitors had arrived, so soon after my daughter was kidnapped. I think precautions are something we can all find understandable, Danae." No point in saying 'adoptive' in the sentence, too clunky, too awkward - it's already how Triss is introduced to curious waiters and bank tellers, after all.
But then the shorter, stockier woman proves to be a very determined truce-organizer. Hannibal considers her, head tilted a few degrees, birdlike curiosity surprised into full focus. He evidently likes what he sees, though, because his smile turns a few degrees less glacial and he offers her his hand, as well. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter." He looks from her to the man. "And I have to agree. I'd be delighted to learn your names as well - inside." And he does indeed take a small step back, looking down as he does so.
The hand holding Patricia's had never let go, assuming hers hadn't, and he sticks that hand out in front a few more degrees so that he can allow her to walk in first.
He stands to the side of the door to watch everyone walk in after them, holding it ajar with the patience of a practiced host.
no subject
Date: 2016-06-04 06:51 am (UTC)They've been lying about that for a couple months now. She's not as natural about it as she wants to be, so mostly she lets him handle that line.
"I doubt any of us are armed in a way we can help," Argus says, like it's the punchline to a joke Triss hasn't heard yet. "Except maybe those knives." But that's part of the joke too, in a way that also doesn't make sense to her, not with Danae's teeth shining white against her dark lips. At least it sounds like she left her weapon back at Argus' house? Triss tries not to look like she's clinging to Hannibal's hand while totally, completely, one hundred percent doing so.
"It's nice to meet you, Doctor Lecter, and you too, Patricia" Ruth says as she clasp's his free hand and smiles a real, not-an-inside-joke smile at Triss, who is suddenly awash with embarrassment at her earlier lack of manners. She could've told them her name. "Or Triss? I'm Ruth Bar-On. This young man is Argus, and you've both met Danae already."
Triss can't help the way her face twists, all skeptical and unimpressed, startling a laugh out of Ruth (she can always tell when people laugh without meaning to. It's like a victory, every time). Hannibal pulls her away ever-so-carefully and she lets him tug her into a turn, guiding her back into the house.
She lets go so she can sit down on the bench just inside the door and peel off her soggy sneakers. Her knee doesn't appreciate the walking or the bending, now that she's been standing still for a while, leaving her hissing through her teeth. The shoes take longer than usual, with half her attention on the tangled laces and half on the 'guests' as they enter and look around the foyer. Triss approves of Hannibal waiting by the door, pleased to have someone at their backs, though it's obvious from the way Danae sidles in that she's not super comfortable with it. Good.
"Are those really your names?" she asks as she drops one scummy shoe to the floor. It kinda plops. "Those don't sound like real names."
"They're very real names," 'Argus' says with that same punchline smile. His head has gone sideways again. Listening, but not to her.
Unsure whether she likes any of that or not, Triss narrows her eyes at him and says, "Okay...but, not yours." After a year and a half with Hannibal for a therapist, she's getting better at noticing how people say the things they do, and the things they don't.
"I think I liked your silent treatment better," Danae mutters, but at least she's not talking over Triss this time. While that's an improvement, maybe, Triss scrunches up her nose, sticks out her tongue, and lobs her other shoe at the woman.
It doesn't just miss, it stops, hovering in midair before thumping to the floor.
"Danae," Ruth says in a tone Triss has heard hundreds of times from social workers. Danae reacts much like the bratty kids she's known: with a roll of her eyes and a flick of her fingers.
"Like we weren't going to get to that anyway," she shrugs.
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Date: 2016-06-04 12:13 pm (UTC)And yet... There's a strong chance they're not mutants. That they're something else, something closer to magic. It's just fact that a lot of mutants don't ever get further than, well, other mutants - not everyone scrambles for the shadows, gets their hands on every scrap of information on the broad supernatural that they can.
It's too soon to tell, all around, and that certainty is more quieting than aggravating. Hannibal is much better with being patient than he'd been as a younger man.
That, and Ruth earned more brownie points in addressing him formally. Flattery will, in fact, get you things, if you're smart with it. His host-smile is a little less empty when the shards of it are directed at her.
Until the other shoe drops. "Patr--" is all he manages in calm reproach before he cuts himself off.
Telekinesis. Alright. That seems to be what Triss can do as well, as unplanned and hard to categorize as her outbursts of power have been. Hannibal looks surprised, although not alarmed, and he collects himself quickly from staring and wondering if it means that Patricia has somehow attracted her kind of strange, compared to the chances of coincidence. "As eager as I am to hear your explanations for this, I'm afraid you're going to need to wait for us down here." Trusting three strangers, at least one of whom has powers, alone in his house is apparently just something that's going to happen if he takes time to care for Patricia, which means that Hannibal is going to wrestle back a semblance of control the only way he knows how: acting completely unruffled about it. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." His outstretched hand is indicating his kitchen. "But please do not touch the books that have been left in there. They are fragile, and were difficult to acquire. I can get us all something to drink when we return."
He nods his head politely, but turning his back is a pointed affair - 'I'm not afraid of you' - so he can address Patricia. "Let's get you some dry clothes." Which is a clear invitation for her to run upstairs, even if the hardwood is going to bear the brunt of wet footprints and soggy run-off from squelching sleepwear.
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Date: 2016-06-04 07:52 pm (UTC)The pressure on her chest is all in her head. She knows that, she's actually talked to Hannibal about it before, how sometimes it's like she's stuck in a small space even when she's not, and sometimes she feels like there isn't enough air when there is. When that happens, she's supposed to try and count to five and take a breath, right? She's just groping for two when Hannibal says "Let's get you some dry clothes,", his voice closer and louder than before, direct enough to snag her attention. Triss' face jerks towards him, nostrils flaring and pupils rapidly dilating back to something normal.
"Yeah, yes, 'kay," she slides off the bench, shaking hands in her sleeves, and bolts for the stairs. Everyone's watching her now, even Argus, which only drives her need to run. She'd take the steps two at a time if her knee didn't hurt so bad; she ends up half-hopping just to climb the stairs normally, 'cuz her palms sting too much to grab at the bannister.
The house, her room, it's all still too new and impermanent to feel safe, especially since she'd been snatched out of it like six hours ago. Triss hangs in the doorway for a moment before darting to her dresser, digging past the top layers of carefully folded new clothes to the faded, well-worn stuff underneath. She wants her things right now. If it wouldn't be such an obvious sign of babyish weakness, she'd grab Otto off her bed and take him back downstairs with her for the grown-up talk to come.
Triss turns with an armful of clothes to find Hannibal with his feet still respectfully in the hallway. "I don't like this," she blurts before burying her mouth and chin in her favorite shirt. It's got jellyfish on it and her mom bought it for her on the last field trip before things went bad and even if her mom lit all the candles herself the shirt's still really soft. "I don't wanna."
She doesn't. Not any of it.
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Date: 2016-06-04 11:01 pm (UTC)As he pads after her in the dim hallway, he lets the full extent of his relief really hit him. While no one can see, he stands alone outside of Triss's room, eyes closed, and lets the little spiderwebbing cracks open up.
He'd considered the possibility of her being kidnapped before, even though she'd been publicly confirmed as a non-mutant. Most assumed her parents were merely delusional, but not all haters of the preternatural were easily dissuaded. There was always a risk, more specific and more vengeful than the normal fear of child abduction. But calmly planning for such an event had, in the end, done very little to help him cope with the reality. It's not a result he'd ever have predicted.
And then comes a small shard of a voice, and Hannibal smelts that mask back into something cohesive and containing. He turns to her and then gets on one knee. All of their emotional conversations have ended up with their lines of sight level, either from him sitting or from Patricia perching on a tabletop. "You don't need to speak with them if you don't want to. And I cannot reasonably demand that you stay in my sight from now on forever, regardless of how much losing you may have frightened me this morning." He speaks with the same calm, even keel he always uses with her, although there are still fractures in that mask. He isn't concerned about hiding from Patricia the way he's concerned about hiding from other adults.
"Once you've changed, I'd like to look at where you've been hurt, to make sure you're alright. Afterwards, you may stay up here if you like."
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Date: 2016-06-04 11:24 pm (UTC)She's not okay that stuff keeps happening that scares not just her, but people around her, too. Only what's she supposed to do about that? How's she supposed to stop that, or control it? Triss bites her lip, nods, and reaches up to shut the door so she can change clothes. So she can think about it for a second.
When the door opens again she's wearing her jellyfish shirt and a pair of shorts, because rolling up jeans sucks bad enough when your knee isn't purple and blue and the size of a softball. "It bit me," she sulks and picks at the hem of her shorts instead of scratching at the raw skin down the inside of her legs, like she really wants.
Hannibal used to be a doctor, and even though Neph's never met anybody he took care of, she assumes he was a good one. She's been to lots of doctors, she appreciates quick and relatively painless. Hannibal doesn't have to ask her dumb questions she can't answer anymore, either, which is always a plus. She follows him silently to the master bath, where they keep the big first aid kit, and hops up on the toilet without being asked.
While he plucks out all the stuff he'll need - antiseptic packets, sterile pads, wipes, gauze - she asks, "Do you think they know stuff?" a pause, while she chews some dry skin off her lips, then, "Like...stuff we need to know too?"
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Date: 2016-06-05 12:36 am (UTC)There's a little first aid kit in the bathroom's linen closet, on a low shelf that Patricia can reach. With Neosporin and band-aids, it's moreso a safety net and a way of making her feel a little less out of control, should he ever not be home during normal scrapes and bumps. Above that, of course, is a kit that's had to come down...not too frequently, all things considered. If the way Patricia eyes his banisters when she thinks he's not looking is any indication, though, then Hannibal has maybe two more 'settling in' months before she's comfortable enough to really act out. They'll see how long the 'not even minor injuries' stretch lasts.
Hannibal kneels in front of her again, kit opened on the immaculate floor. He'd treated several children in his time as a surgeon, although never for something this minor. It feels more like a heavy ritual than a medical routine. Her hands are so pale, miniature against his palm where he holds one steady.
Patricia, like all children, apparently still has that ability to sometimes hit things innocently, exactly, on the nose with no warning. "That is what I'm hoping." He's cleaning the abrasions with care, although he can't help the fact that raw skin is always going to hurt. "Triss. I know you don't like discussing magic. But that creature that took you is a magical being. I believe that your mismatched rescuers may know things that will help us keep that from happening to you again." Band-aids aren't really going to work on her palms, even as small as they are. So he wraps gauze around them, very aware that children are often more entranced than put-off by large bandages on themselves. She looks not entirely unlike she's about to go have a tiny, terrible boxing match, and Hannibal thinks that on any other day, he'd have a chance at catching her shadow-boxing in a mirror.
Not this morning, not likely.
Her calves - somehow both skinny-flat and curved, in the strange shapeless strength of children - are a bit more rough. Hannibal wonders if the kelpie's sides presented more scales to scrape against, whereas her hands might have been cushioned by its mane. Her knee remains the worst by far, and he is very careful as he plucks dirt from it with bright red, plastic tweezers. He is absolutely not going to gloss over a horse bite, as far as the antiseptic goes. "This will hurt, but it will also be quick."
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Date: 2016-06-05 01:35 am (UTC)Triss makes experimental fists, so entranced by kickboxer chic she almost doesn't notice when Hannibal takes hold of her left ankle and starts on her leg. He didn't point out how she came back wearing pjs and shoes, shoes Triss can't even remember putting on or tying, shoes she keeps at the foot of her bed still, just in case. Maybe he will later, when they don't have to put up a unified front for the strangers.
Chewing on stuff's a bad habit, every adult says. She's scraped all the rough parts off her lips, which leaves her with her nails or hair. Unaware of the math regarding open sewers + mucus membranes, she pops a lock in her mouth and nibbles while Hannibal dabs at her leg and explains his suspicions.
"I guess I wanna know why it happened," she admits. You have to understand something to stop it, she gets that. That's exactly why she doesn't like this magic stuff, or talking about her experiences with it, 'cuz she doesn't understand and nobody, not even Hannibal, has been able to explain things so she can keep from hurting people. Kidnapping is definitely a thing she'd like to avoid, if she can, and she doesn't think Hannibal knows how to stop that either. If he thinks these weirdos might be able to help with that...then, okay, it could be worth it.
"I'll go downstairs then," she says as he tapes a large square of sterile gauze to her calf and considers her knee. "But you gotta tell them no magic here incase somebody notices." Danae was so obvious about it, like she didn't care at all about getting in trouble. Was she like that when she took out the kelpie? Triss can't remember much except the noise it made when the knife went in, the hot stink of its guts and the way they splashed to the water below. Hannibal could be wiping off kelpie gut-residue right now, for all she knows.
That thought makes her a lot more compliant about the whole 'this will hurt' thing. She just sticks her leg out, frowns intensely, and nods.
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Date: 2016-06-05 02:33 am (UTC)While Hannibal is more than intrigued to see continued displays of their powers - although he is hoping to avoid outright threats-by-way-of-showing-off - he also knows that there is a very real risk of a meltdown from Triss if things get too outrageous. "I will talk to them about that. But as I've said before, Triss, our home offers quite a lot of protection from anyone finding out if magic has happened inside. Little shows of it will not draw anyone's attention." They'd discussed it, in the sense that one or two fearful tantrums had needed to be soothed by Hannibal assuring beyond the shadow of a doubt that any accidental tendrils of magic from Patricia, in their home, would be a) unpunished by him, and b) undiscovered by others. With 'a' of course being the case no matter where her powers manifested.
She tenses and holds her breath - not the best case for ignoring pain, but it's such a very instinctive action. "Breathe, Triss." He coaxes, with no urgency. The rubbing alcohol doesn't fizzle or pop the way abrasive peroxide does, but that belies the sting of it.
He's wiping it away with a sterile cloth moments later, not bothering to let it air dry. This one, at least, can be sufficed without mummifying her entire knee, although he still uses a gauze strip in lieu of a presized bandaid. Even an eight year old knee is a large surface area when 'horse bite' was the cause of injury.
"Alright." Hannibal is packing things back in the kit, tight and orderly, as if nothing had even been removed. He stands and offers a hand. "Did you need anything else from up here?" He asks it lightly, with an easy expression but minimal eye contact.
He's noticed the attachment to Otto, Triss, and there's not going to be any judgment, regardless of her eight-year-old verdict.
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Date: 2016-06-05 06:21 am (UTC)(It's not even about punishment or a lingering reluctance to make trouble. Hannibal's mutation won't protect him from a falling building or an exploding refrigerator. It might be able to stop her panic, but can't shield him from it. She's tried to explain that fear, but it keeps coming out 'I'm scared of what I can do' and not 'I'm scared I'll hurt you, too', like she means.)
The alcohol swipes that all away, has her biting her lip instead of puffing it out. She almost jerks out of his hand and she definitely whimpers, but here's where the 'medical doctor' thing is helpful: it's over pretty quick, as promised. Triss blinks back a prickle of tears of waits 'til her knee's all patched over to stand up. It still aches just as bad, or even worse, but all the exposed skin is comfortably swaddled away. She tests the fist wrappings again while Hannibal packs away the first aid stuff, wondering if it'll scar. She kinda hopes not, she's got enough weird marks without having to explain whole patches on her hands and legs.
"No," she's decisive about that, at least. Triss doesn't worry about Hannibal thinking she's a baby, but those three downstairs aren't allowed to laugh at Otto. The jellyfish shirt might be pushing it. She does take his hand, though, as they go back downstairs. Her knee likes the downward angle even less, a fact she'd wield like a club if anybody accused her of hanging on too tight.
Argus, Ruth and Danae wait in the kitchen as asked. Ruth's seated at the table, straightbacked and gesturing over something she's saying to Danae, who's perched on a stool at the kitchen island. Triss bristles a little; she likes to sit up high but she definitely doesn't wanna sit next to the mean one. Argus hasn't found anywhere to sit, he's leaning halfway over the table, hands clasped behind his back as he studies the books Hannibal's left out.
"This is an impressive collection of titles to have onhand for emergencies, doctor," he says, and he actually sound like he means it. Triss eyeballs the stack of books, but can't think of where they usually go when Hannibal's not using them. He's got so many, she can't keep track of them all, and lots of them are too old for her to touch without asking for help.
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Date: 2016-06-05 04:20 pm (UTC)The stairs are taken slowly, still tethered as he is to Triss, who has adopted a sideways slant to accommodate keeping her leg mostly straight. Rounding their way past the sweeping end of the staircase gives them a clear view into the kitchen, where Hannibal gets an answer to at least one internal question. Not only is one of them - Argus - interested enough in the books to have looked at them, he isn't even going to try to hide that he's done so.
So they are definitively here to talk shop. What a strange grouping of metas they make.
Hannibal goes straight to the metal-and-black fridge that stands about two feet from the table that the books rest on. Tendrils of cold air leech from the freezer portion as he removes an ice pack, wrapping it in an oxblood dish towel and handing it down to Patricia. At Argus's words, his mouth bends up, approving and willing to share, although his eyes don't quite thaw. "I take my responsibilities of raising a child seriously. I have found it is best to be prepared."
He sweeps right by Argus and Ruth at the table, happens to draw a little closer to Danae when he crosses over to the stove top. He turns his back on them to gather down a teapot from the cabinets, although his neck is turned owlishly to watch them still. His host-smile has grown a little more firm - it's an expression Triss might recognize from their court days. It's a face that means negotiation. A face for unknowns, for strangers, for hostiles; for when he doesn't know enough about the enemy yet to play the game any other way. When in doubt, chilled and exacting hospitality has always served him well.
Water from the sink fills the teapot. His voice is as steady as his hands. "I am under no illusions here. You have only come to speak with me because of her, not myself. Why were you so certain she is one of you?" There is no confusion in his tone, only a bare statement requesting information. "Ordinary children have been taken by kelpies before."
He only refrains from saying killed by because said child is currently standing among the head-height countertops.
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Date: 2016-06-05 07:45 pm (UTC)Ruth laughs into her hand, maybe because she can see these aren't exactly parenting manuals. There's something kind of dry about the way she looks at the stack, and then at Triss on the other side of them, that tells Triss she must be missing something here. "You must have been quite the boyscout," she says, which conjures up a mental image so freaky Triss misses the first part of Hannibal's reply and only tunes back in on 'why were you so certain she is one of you?'
The other three go grave and serious. Triss clutches the ice pack to her knee and tries not to be noticeable. Adults are a lot more likely to talk about important stuff if they forget she's in the room, especially when that stuff has to do with her. Only her eyes move, flicking between them all. None of them look like they want to say 'no' to Hannibal's claim that she's like them, but what does that mean? What did he mean? She's sort of like him, too, isn't she? But he cut himself out of that, because he's a mutant and she's not? Does he know for sure that they aren't, too? Is it a mutant nose thing? Does she smell like them, under the kelpie stink?
"Historically, yes, you'd be correct," Argus says, "But you don't see that as much these days, for a variety of reasons."
"Modern security systems are harder to work around," Ruth interjects.
"Cold Iron limits their movements Overhill," Danae mutters.
"And changechildren in general have...fallen out of style with the fae in recent decades," Argus nods. He looks back and forth between Hannibal and Triss, the adult who has more context for his explanation and the child affected by it. "Any modern attempts have to be based on more than just whims. They have to be worth the risk." His tired gaze settles on Triss, eyebrows crimping together apologetically, "Whatever you are, you're either very interesting, very powerful - ultimately the same thing as far as the fae are concerned - or you pose a significant threat to them in some way."
That doesn't sound good. Triss went through half a dozen foster homes in her eighteen months with CPS, she knows exactly what bullies do to new threats. Stomp 'em out fast. Hannibal's face reflects none of her dismay, all politely flat and assessing. Why can't her stupid magic let her read minds?
"The list of things that trigger that sort of reaction from the Courts is fairly short," Argus has turned back to Hannibal, now. "There's always something new under the sun, especially these days, but..."
"Occam's razor," Danae's not even looking at them, she's got her chin in her hand and she's staring out the window, a frown fixed on her face. Argus nods anyway.
"Exactly, it's a good idea to work from that list, for starters. We have a pretty decent guess as to what it is about her that set them off."
"Unless you have some thoughts?" Ruth speaks over the soft beginning of the kettle's whistle. "You're her father, you've obviously been doing your homework, you hit on 'kelpie' quickly. What's your assessment?"
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Date: 2016-06-05 10:06 pm (UTC)But in this conversation, he can flag himself as someone who does, in fact, know what he does. He's spent the better part of two decades getting his hands on every piece of ancient literature, media gossip, tabloid half-truths, and whispered fairy tales he could find. He knows a lot, and what isn't known tends to come with at least a general outline - shadowy secrets, skeletons of facts, the scattered bones of people and creatures hunted for millennia.
So being told things he knows, or could guess at, is at once thrilling and vexing. When was the last time he discussed magic in a place he lived in? Not since France, not since he was a teenager with a nose full of other people's emotions and the sensation that he was a living biological weapon, not since the one and only straight conversation he'd ever had with a family member about his powers.
(Only conversation - until Triss. She knows, and Hannibal had been very content that her fear of her own magic would see her take his secrets to her grave - at least until magic users had shown up at his door, with the possibility of normalizing all of this for her. Would a lack of fear make her less cautious, would it endanger both of them?)
He's getting ahead of himself. Hannibal stops to breathe, to remove the teapot from the stove.
Ruth asks him a question, and he looks straight at her. His eye contact is surprised but not alarmed; he's pleasantly taken off-guard that one of them thought to ask.
Hannibal makes eye contact with Patricia before answering, however. "I know how often you've had adults speak about you as though you're not in the room, Triss. I apologize." Since he is clearly about to do something tangentially related to that. When he starts answering Ruth, he still looks at Triss occasionally, and his words are chosen with the care of acknowledging that she's listening.
"I actually just gained custody of Patricia about six months ago. I'd known her for ten months prior to that, acting in the role of a professional therapist." He didn't usually see children. She had been a special exception to his normal clientele - a favor called in by an old colleague. Dr. Bloom had been shocked and initially skeptical at their development, five months down the line, when the idea had first been broached to foster her himself.
None of that is anything these three need to know. Hannibal measures out the tea leaves, places them in to steep. "Patricia has powers which have escaped my ability to pin down, but she is not a mutant, as the court involved with her case initially assumed. She's gifted with magic of some kind, and when I realized who her abductor this morning was, I assumed as much as you have." He looks fairly approving that they've all reached the same conclusion. By now, five identical teacups are laid out on the counter by his elbow. "Someone else thinks either that she is very dangerous, or very useful. Someone with better abilities of detection than myself."
He watches the other three with a small smile, eye contact sharp, tone pleasant. "Would you happen to fall into that latter category, as well? I confess, I was only so willing to let you in our home because I hoped you had something new to tell me."
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Date: 2016-06-05 11:07 pm (UTC)Bed? Bed was a few hours ago. Are they all gonna go through the whole day pretending like they got sleep? Or can she take a nap after this? A bath and then a nap, with some food in there somewhere? Will there be food after these guys leave? She can't imagine Hannibal cooking for them, not right away. Tea's probably about as good as they're gonna get for now.
She straightens up when Ruth calls him 'her father', looking to him to see if he verifies it as fact. She doesn't mean to, but it's a sticky thing they don't really talk about - in public they're parent and kid, 'cuz that's what people expect and it's easier that way. At home, he's never asked her to call him 'dad' or 'father' or anything except 'not Dr. Lecter, that's for colleagues and patients', so she's always just settled on 'Hannibal'. They're at home now, so--
Argus and Ruth look at each other, and then very intently back at Hannibal, when he explains about the adoption. Argus' head tilts again. Danae continues frowning out the window. Triss gnaws on her lip and watches, watches for any sign of what they might be thinking. Now that they know she's adopted, can they guess the rest? That her parents didn't want her? That she scared them, that she's hurt people, can they figure out about the--no, no. She shoots Hannibal an alarmed grimace when he talks about 'courts involved in her case'; that sounds so bad, like there was something wrong enough for them to notice. Which, there was, but these people don't need to know that.
Oddly, it's Danae she catches watching her from the corner of her eye. The thin woman's face has gone flat and unreadable, at least from this angle, but she doesn't pretend like she wasn't watching. She just blinks once, slow and unbothered, before directing her eyes back out the window.
"We hope so, too," Argus says simply. "There are some types of inborn magic that the fae have very, very strong feelings about. "Luckily those are pretty easy to test for."
"Test?" ice clatters to the floor, spilling out of the towel and Triss' spasming hands. She winces apologetically at Hannibal and hunches down in her chair.
"Nothing painful or scary," Argus goes wide-eyed at her reaction, hands opening wide on the tabletop. "It just checks to see if you react to certain substances. Like...like an allergy test."
Triss had a bunch of those done during the early days with CPS - every kid did, since you couldn't send somebody with a serious peanut allergy into a house full of JIF. If she has any allergies at all, they weren't common enough to turn up on the tests, so the example doesn't carry any unpleasantly itchy associations. She sits up a little, nodding her understanding. Argus smiles back, relieved around the edges of his own exhaustion.
"Those 'substances' are things you'd have to eat, though," Ruth cups her tea between her hands, her frown a worried echo of Danae's. "I know you weren't comfortable with accepting anything from us earlier--"
"--smart," Danae grunts.
"--but that's up to you. The two of you," Ruth amends, and sips her tea.
Triss sucks her whole bottom lip into her mouth. When Hannibal brings her her own cup, she cranes her head back and stares up at him, her whole face a question. Is it okay? Should I? They're strangers and it's not smart but we're at home so is it safe?
What if it's a trap?
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Date: 2016-06-06 12:28 am (UTC)(This morning is a tangle in his mind, a thorny hedge that he can't examine too clearly, only peering at the facts through the vines. If he thinks too hard about her being gone from his home without knowing why or by who, he feels the thorns catch at his ribs, get stuck behind his heart.)
Argus takes it upon himself to salvage the moment, though, and Hannibal continues pouring out servings of tea without comment.
Triss's own serving was made first, poured out from the boiled water before he added the leaves - hot cocoa, a special treat which seems both appropriate and a possible way of using sugar to help stave off the way her eyes are a little puffy and dark underneath. She's not drooping, not yet, probably due to all the action going on, but it's surely a matter of time--
Hannibal's thoughts grind to a rude halt. He pauses while holding Triss's cup out to her. When he reanimates and finishes handing it over, he gives Patricia a 'wait just a moment' finger, low at the level of his waist.
Holding his own cup, he now joins Patricia and Ruth at the table. His gaze settles on Ruth, and he looks as considering as he feels. "I'm sure all three of you realize what your request sounds like. It's neither particularly dangerous, nor is it particularly innocent. It's the sort of request that could easily be assuaged with trust - of which we have very little. Unless I'm misreading Danae's body language." His brief smile at her is not as discourteous as his words are, however.
"Is this substance meant to trigger something in the user? Or merely mark them for you? If the former, I think you may find Patricia will be very unwilling to participate in a demonstration."
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Date: 2016-06-06 01:11 am (UTC)"I do," Ruth says, her mouth all twisted up and hard to read. Argus nods, but mostly he just looks embarrassed. Danae doesn't even twitch, nevermind go back to watching Patricia openly on the side. "Realize how it sounds, that is." But instead of answering the real question, she tilted a hand towards Argus, practically handing it over to him.
"The problem here is that she hasn't been using any magic for some time, that I can tell," his words are slow and thoughtful and, under other circumstances, they'd probably cheer Triss up a whole lot. She's been trying not to do anything for weeks and weeks, even though there's a warm spot in her belly that rolls around funny from time to time. "What we'd give her is, ah, a kind of fuel. If she has the predilection for the kind of magic I suspect, she could use it, but she wouldn't have to. The ability to detect it as fuel at all is its own answer, honestly."
Triss frowns at that, turning the words around to see which ones she can pick out to boil it all down to something sensible. Ruth taps her forefinger against the handle of her cup, and says, "Patricia, when you do use your magic, where does it come from?"
"Huh?"
"Is it something you feel in the air around you? Or do you draw it out of your body? From the ground?"
As Ruth lists off the possibilities, Triss' hands fall unconsciously to her stomach, palms flat against a silkscreened jellyfish. Everyone notices. Ruth nods and Argus smiles, neither of them seems at all surprised.
"Then that's where it'll be," Argus doesn't even say 'if', like 'if we're right about your magic', but maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it's different for everyone and she just works off her gut somehow. "You'll feel it, but you won't have to use it if you don't want to."
"It would be good if you did," Ruth's voice is very, very gentle, but Triss can't think past her own alarm to take offense. "If this is the right kind of fuel for you, I promise the results won't be bad. Danae and myself can stop that from happening."
Why? Why can they promise that? Ruth sounds so sure, but how? What do they know that Triss, and Hannibal, don't yet? And how badly do the two of them need to know it? Bad enough to take that risk? Bad enough to break the house?
Her breathing's gone all uneven, hot chocolate untouched. She twists the wet towel between her hands and stares at the pattern on the teacup, a geometric blue and gold she really likes. Think. Think about the 'why's and not the 'how's, that's what all her therapists have ever told her. Why do they know she's got magic? 'Cuz a kelpie wanted her. Why did the kelpie want her? 'Cuz her magic's dangerous to monsters. What kind of magic's dangerous to monsters? She doesn't know, but these people do, and they've said there are probably only a couple kinds. If they know that, maybe they can know how to stop her from being dangerous right here, right now. In her own house.
It didn't used to be a big deal. Triss can remember, fuzzily, moving stuff around in her room or her parents' kitchen. She turned the TV on once without touching it. Just reached out and pushed a button with her...she's not sure what, but she did it. A harmless use of magic. It doesn't have to be all tearing roofs apart with the simmering heat in her belly.
She says, "Okay." And they don't smile at her, but they all look a little happier. Relieved. Triss checks in with Hannibal, searching his face as Argus says, "Danae, we'll need yours for this."
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Date: 2016-06-06 12:15 pm (UTC)But is it possible he does have a few of those other pieces, and he just hasn't been guided about where to look for them?
The difficulty, Hannibal thinks, in having your mind so rigidly organized by subject, means that accidentally coming up with answers is far less likely. He needs to look for it by associations, and he has very few search terms for the moment.
Until something clicks.
They're going to give Triss something to eat. Something they don't even question the safety of giving a child - so the dose and the type can't be terribly high. It's clearly something Hannibal could eat to no ill effect, since even with all this evidence they're not sure she's one of them, yet. (Hannibal remembers when Triss had first confided about the power coming from her belly - how it felt 'hot and awful' when she'd moved things around her parents, sometimes. He remembers wondering if it was just guilty anxiety, or a true symptom of her powers. It seems it might have really been the latter.)
So it's either a very benign non-edible substance, or a naturally-eaten nutrient - Hannibal leans towards the latter. Triss has performed magic before, after all, and he doubts she's been eating chalk to get those results. What else do children eat, though, is it possible? Medical facts run through his mind rapidly. Most common cause of accidental death in children under six: poisoning. Usually from vitamins. Lead paint used to be, and still is, alarmingly high on the list as well. Lead paint is usually craved as a result of malnourishment, because the body mistakenly trusts it as a good source of iron.
The iron in vitamins is almost always the cause of accidental poisonings. It's a substance that is so lowered in vitamins at this point that it's very unlikely Triss would ever have had too much of it, unlike nutrients like calcium and vitamin C. On the other hand, she's not terribly enthusiastic about leafy greens, so it's equally possible that vitamin K is what's snuck around, causing havoc with her powers.
Hannibal's ears feel like they're ringing. He feels close. Why does eating iron sound familiar, why is that the phrase he keeps returning to?
He turns towards Triss when he feels her gaze on his, leans forward in his chair towards her. He sat closest to her - instead of in a high seat over with Danae - specifically so he could be within reaching distance if she needed reassurance. His hand presses against the tabletop in front of her, an invitation to hold onto someone familiar if she'd like, although he watches her wring the towel nervously and isn't certain she'd want to mangle his hand the same way. "I'm right here, Triss. These people seem to know what they're doing. I trust them - and you - about your powers not being a threat to anyone here."
Ruth and Danae can stop it from happening. They specifically want Danae's substance for this. Argus can sense that Patricia hasn't cast lately. Perhaps Hannibal is already being too specific in trying to suss this answer out - it sounds like there's a variety to be accounted for.
His voice is soft, non-accusing, like he's remarking on his choice in banking, as Hannibal looks over to Argus. "You're certain the amount will be appropriate for a child her size? I wouldn't want any accidental overdoses happening in my kitchen."
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Date: 2016-06-06 05:01 pm (UTC)What he sets on the table in front of Patricia isn't a bullet at all. It's plastic vial, about as long and wide as her pinky finger, stoppered off with a foam cork. She has to squint to make out the contents, a clear liquid suspending tiny flakes of something too dark to be sand. They spin and drift as the liquid settles, drifting slowly towards the bottom.
"What's in it?" for a second she's not anxious, or wary, she's just curious about the strangeness of it all.
"Iron," Triss looks up, surprised, when Danae answers instead of the other two. She's propped one elbow back on the island and watches the group at the table with dark and unblinking eyes. It's creepy. She's creepy. "You wanna talk allergies, just about everything that crawls out from Underhill's deathly reactive to it. Freaks 'em right out that some of us can use it to our advantage. So that's top of the list for 'things they don't like'."
That makes even less sense than the stuff Ruth and Argus have been saying. How's it supposed to hurt a kelpie if she can somehow turn a little bit of iron into magic? Would that magic be iron-flavored and dangerous to any faerie thing it touched? She keeps trying to work out some kind of peanut analogy in her head and falling flat. Her confusion must show, because Argus and Ruth trade an exasperated look and Argus says, "That's...fundamentally right, although there's more to it. But the important thing is that these pieces are too big for you to digest. They'll pass out of your body if you can't use them for fuel, like we talked about."
While that's reassuring, it's also embarrassing. Triss reaches for the vial so they won't have to talk about bathroom stuff, pulling at the cork with her fingernails. There's little indentations all over it, like...like teeth marks and, okay, she can see how it'd be easier to just bite and pull but she's not gonna try now that she's pretty sure Danae's mouth's been all over it.
"That's water and a little bit of alcohol, to keep the iron from sticking together," Argus says just as Triss gets a whiff. "It doesn't taste the greatest but it's not a shot, either."
"Luckily you've got that hot chocolate," Ruth sounds like maybe she's about to laugh, but Triss is squinting down the vial like it's the barrel of a gun and doesn't check the way she usually would. Nothing about this makes enough sense to her. How can magic come from a metal? Isn't it just supposed to be something you are, like Hannibal's mutation? Does that make magic a mutation, too, just an older one? Are faeries mutants? She should've shouted that at the kelpie earlier, see if it pissed it off. Her knee throbs in agreement and the towel in her lap is cold and heavy and she wishes none of this had to happen.
She's been wishing that for almost half her life, now. Why should it change now?
Nose wrinkled, mouth twisted up, she takes a breath, holds it, and slugs the iron-water-alcohol down. It's hardly even a sip, just enough to get to the back of her throat without leaving leaving the iron grit everywhere. It burns a little bit, like cough syrup, but it doesn't stick all over the inside of her mouth like a real medicine would, and it doesn't taste sticky-sick either. She reaches for her hot chocolate anyway, just to help get it to her stomach faster. Triss imagines she can feel it making its way, scraping sandpaper-like down her throat.
"'Kay," she says, grimly, "Now what?"
"Give it a second," Argus says, and she can tell Ruth's trying not to swallow. Danae hasn't blinked this whole time. "Then check the place where your magic usually comes from."
So Triss sits, and waits, and tries not to feel too much like she's back at a hearing with all kinds of important people staring only at her. Her stomach knots up at the thought, her hands curl into fists, and she's just about to say no this is dumb nothing's happening when the warm spot in her belly sort of rolls over and a second one throbs to life.
"It's--there's something--!"
Somebody, Danae, lets out a long breath. Triss' looks up and around with wide eyes, to find Argus nodding encouragement and Ruth smiling, a little...sad?
"You can poke at it, if you want," she says.
"Poke?" that's one of the weirder things she's heard tonight, which is saying something. Ruth's smile widens at how offended she sounds. "But--what if it..."
"You can turn it on without using it," Danae's scornful tone triggers a hot, angry stab from her gut, and Triss scowls at her. "Like, lighting a match doesn't have to set a fire. I got it even if you do, anyway."
She's so dismissive Triss almost wants to show her otherwise, wants to break something without using her hands, wants to throw things around. What does Danae even know about what she can do, Danae wasn't there at the church, she didn't feel every single nail peeling loose from the rafters, the walls, the pews, she didn't--
It's not a 'poke', it's a breath. It's blowing gently on an ember to coax a flame, or throwing open a window on a fire and setting a roaring backdraft alight. Triss' irritation is a gust, a puff of air that strikes a spark into something more and the warm spot turns into a pool of warms, spreading up her chest and neck and settling behind her eyes and--
"What're those?!" it's like she's in a spy movie and just put on special goggles, suddenly they're all sitting in a net of glowing blue lasers. Some are thicker than others, some glow brighter, but all of them start (or end?) in one spot: her midsection.
"There you go," Danae says, but not to her. "Lurcher."
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Date: 2016-06-07 12:44 am (UTC)His attention keeps skipping from one to another around his kitchen, interested in everyone's thoughts on Patricia - they clearly are all one something, one cult-like branch-off of the great preternatural tree that sprouted all of them. And they're being forced to share this knowledge with him present, presumably because they realized Triss would never keep something like what they're showing her a secret. (He cynically dismisses that they're genuinely interested in showing her guardian these tricks, helped along with the strongest defensive waves coming over from Danae. He can smell the tension, the trepidation, from everyone including of course Triss - it saturates the room.)
Hannibal takes a deep breath, relaxes more deeply into his chair, and prepares to ride the waves of the room's collective anxiety...right back into his own mind.
Metals. Different powers, different metals? They'd wanted Danae's, specifically, and they all smell too different to share a house and resources, which means that if it's something they all need, then it's something they all have their own supply of.
Eating metal. He thinks of that phrase in different languages - first in the habitual way of adding things to his memory so it's easier to find if he's speaking another one, and then out of curiosity. Lithuanian, French, German, Russian, Ital--
Italian rings out. Flashes of pages - ancient, sheepskin, notes written and rewritten in margins, editing as they went, gossipy and fearful. Hannibal relaxes into the memory rather than tear after it, lets associations gather so he has more threads to follow in this labyrinth...
Patricia snags his attention. He watches her face set at the disparaging tone from Danae. When it's clear that Patricia has somehow managed to do something, Hannibal feels an echo of the pride that normal parents likely get to experience when their child makes the honor roll. It thrums through his chest, warm and generous and selfish all at once. "What do you see, Triss?" His hand reaches out, fingers near Patricia's - more of a gesture of wonderment than any attempt at trapping her hand in his. This is...wonderful, finally there's answers. Have they finally found a way to let Patricia develop less fear about her powers, for her to grow into the fascinated amazement she deserves to feel for her abilities?
Hannibal is visibly happy about what's going on. His features warm, he looks over Triss's head. "You could have just said something, Argus. Or any of you." His expression doesn't budge from the quiet elation that had settled in, as soon as he'd mentally ticked through to the page he'd been looking for.
"Please pardon the slurs of our past generations, but: metallo-mangia abominazioni, are you not?"
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Date: 2016-06-07 07:38 am (UTC)Which kinda makes the obvious question: what's on the other end? Before anybody in the room can get all teacher-y on her, Triss takes quick stock and comes up with an interesting inventory. Each shining pot and pan hanging above the kitchen island has a line. Every knife in the butcher block, too. The oven's a mass of thick and thin cables all wound together, splitting off for eyes and buttons and racks. The chrome drawer-pulls are tied to her, and the microwave too. Even the steaming kettle sits fat and heavy and waiting. Triss's face smooths out in sudden understanding. "It's all the metal stuff."
"Oh, good job," Ruth smiles into her teacup. Argus sets his down with a broad grin.
"That's--you're very quick, Triss."
"She bit the fucking kelpie," Danae says, not that Triss can see how that's got anything to do with her revelation about metal, not when she's suddenly remembering all the things in her parents' house that used to slide around on their own. Silverware, picture frames, candlesticks...but it makes Ruth laugh and curl a hand over her mouth.
"Did you now?"
"Well it was sorta tryin' to drown me," Triss frowns again, "And I didn't like it."
"You bite things you don't like?" Argus has that particular choked 'I know I shouldn't laugh but it's really hard' voice adults get sometimes, which makes Triss roll her eyes. The lines remain stable.
"My old therapist said I had an oral fixation problem," after she'd bit a couple other kids who, to be fair, were holding her down at the time, so what was she supposed to do? Not unlike the kelpie problem, come to think of it.
Ruth stops trying to hide her laughter and even Danae snickers at that, like it's some great joke. Although if they've got to eat their magic, and her magic works like that too, then...yeah, okay, she can see how that's funny. Naturally that's when Hannibal says something in a language Triss doesn't know, too round and fast for her to even properly hear it, and everything goes inside out.
Ruth goes completely, utterly still, cold and unreadable in a way that frightens Triss so badly she almost doesn't notice Danae leaping to her feet, wouldn't've if she didn't hiss "What the fuck did you just say?" and knock her stool over as she lunges forward.
Three things happen almost instantaneously: Argus throws an arm out towards her with a sharp "Danae, stop, that's not a se--", Triss howls "Don't!" and rises up in her chair, palms slamming the tabletop, and every glowing blue line contracts sharply inward.
The oven door bangs open, metal rattles and shrieks and Triss reels backward with her arms over her head, blind and choking on her own panic again it's happening again I did it again but there's a yank, like a big fish running away with a lure and all the tension on those threads gets snatched away from her.
She blinks the blue away to a strange tableau. The air around the kitchen table is full of hovering things, knives and the egg timer and magnets and pans and egg beaters. Both the fridge and oven door have banged open and hang ajar, some of their contents spilling into the air, too. Triss gawks, while Argus runs a hand down his face. Danae's only taken a single step forward but her posture's changed, from threat to straining effort, her jaw set with it.
"Kid, I swear to god," she snarls. "Let go before you really do hurt somebody."
Those aren't very clear instructions, but somehow Triss finds she doesn't need anything more. Stunned and shaking, she holds her breath, cuts off the air to the coal in her belly and, like a smothered candle, it puffs out.
"Huh," Argus says, "Interesting technique."
Things don't just magically float back to their original places, but they do settle down on the nearest available surface. The floor, mostly, or the counter. Some crash dramatically while others, the breakable stuff, gets a gentler landing. Danae doesn't gesture like wizards in cartoons, she just stands there with a fixed look on her face and slightly flared nostrils, and when it's done she turns blazing eyes on Hannibal.
"Danae," Through all of it, Ruth has sat there in perfect stillness, watching him with a calm that's anything but placid. "Trust me to handle it if needbe."
Triss is too shaken to read the look Danae shoots her then, or maybe she wouldn't know enough to make sense of it anyway, but it does make her look younger and less mean. A little scared, maybe. "I...yes, okay."
Somehow the way Argus' hands thud to the table is exasperated. "Everyone just stop, please. It's not a difficult term to find if you're reading the right books." When he addresses Hannibal, he holds his hands out, palm up, but his head's gone to the side again. What is up with that? "And I can guess which ones those were, so...you can understand why anyone who fits that description would be upset to hear it. Especially from someone they don't know."
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Date: 2016-06-07 03:57 pm (UTC)Is this a group of teachers, no matter how strange or untrained? Is that the environment Hannibal has invited into their home? It's...odd. More intimate than just the tutor Hannibal had been considering to help get Triss's young brain started on Italian. He wants her to learn about her powers, though, just as he wants to know more about them; he wants her to become something more. To grow as far as her abilities will let her.
It's possible some small, ignored part of himself wants her to have what he never did. But Hannibal has never confronted that part of his mind, and never intends to, and Patricia - however young and unfailingly rude in some of her questions - has yet to think to ask.
When the calm vibes are shattered, Hannibal remains still. His face is placid, loose, unthreatening, all except his eyes - which watch the angle of Danae's lunge, the way Ruth's face turns to stone, how Argus immediately becomes the voice of reason against everyone else's fear. Hannibal has had plenty of practice in not flinching - when you can smell the visceral root of someone's fearful anger, there is a good deal more to rattle you. Just to get to the point where he can breathe a roomful of terror and smile, not frown, was an uncoupling from normal reaction. This - in his own warded home, with people who want his child's education and safety so badly that they were willing to talk to a stranger about ancient magic - this isn't enough to frighten him. Not yet.
Triss's magic reacts poorly, however - powerfully, but poorly. Hannibal's face remains completely still and pointed at Danae, but his eyes flicker from side to side. He sees burnished pans to the left, salt and pepper shakers to the right, even his wheeled metal side table has leaned into his peripheral vision from the corner. She was frightened on his behalf...?
Which is logical. He's her guardian. This safe house that she values - if he was harmed, she might not have it anymore. And she likely is still on a knife's edge, ready to fall off and blame herself again at the slightest push.
There is still something a little small, a little vulnerable, in the expression Hannibal directs at Patricia. "That's some wonderfully impressive magic, Triss. Don't worry - I surprised them, that's all." He doesn't move his hands towards her to comfort. They stay on the tabletop, loose and ready, until Hannibal seems satisfied that Danae is done coming towards him.
Hannibal obligingly looks at Argus instead of staring down Danae, when Argus takes control of the conversation. There is still a thread of amusement in his face, a lack of repentance, although there shouldn't be any doubt that he's taking this conversation seriously. "Of course. It was a rash decision on my end." Hannibal doesn't look smug, but he doesn't look particularly apologetic, either. If anything, he looks very alert, even more than when they'd first showed up at his door. His eyes sweep to Ruth and Danae, but he settles back on Argus, and he's clearly speaking to him. "Your secrecy even while demonstrating made me curious. I wanted to know what you would do."
His eyes on Ruth are calculating, suspicious, and jarringly respectful - like he's spotted a jungle cat where he'd thought he'd been alone. His glance at Danae is alert but exasperated. Unimpressed, even if he remains cordial enough not to outright sneer. Clearly, he considers it a win - Hannibal got the answers he'd wanted.
It makes his gaze at Argus all the more pleasant, by contrast. He's practically smiling at him, even if his face barely moves. "I respect the paranoia and fear of your compatriots. I don't mean to insinuate a threat. Besides--" He reaches down for his sleeve, and pokes a glint of metal back inside. Patricia's tug of war with his metal appliances had nearly ripped it free of his sweater. Once the blade is fully back in, he flicks it out the end of the sleeve, one-handed, in a gesture that is all utilitarian movements and clearly practiced.
But he also puts it down on the table, willingly disarming himself, as soon as it's out. "--it's not as if I could hurt anyone with this. If I had known what you were when you showed up, and felt negatively about it, surely I would have picked a better weapon."
He stares at Argus, his own head tilting to the side as well. "Or. I couldn't have hurt Danae with it. I'm not so sure that extends to everyone else." His eye contact finally breaks for a moment, and he leans a few degrees further back in his chair. Physically, he's doing everything short of putting his hands palm-out for a truce. "Gladium linguas sounds much more fitting, however. I'm not such a hypocrite that I would call you abominations." It's a long-delayed olive branch - it's surely been an open assumption, but Hannibal will confirm he's not fully - or not simply - human, in the interests of perhaps calming everyone down.
Well. Calming the other two down. Hannibal clearly approves of Argus's commanding patience throughout this.
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Date: 2016-06-08 01:28 am (UTC)She wants to say you surprised ME, or maybe they SCARED me but also you scared THEM but the soundless vacuum in her own head doesn't allow for any of that. She might as well be six years old staring up at the firefighter who uncovered her in the wreckage, although this time she manages to blink.
"I can respect curiosity," Ruth says. She doesn't raise her voice or even put much into it, but the vacuum in Triss' head crystalizes into a piercing scream. That's not good, not good at all, not-- "But there's a time and a place, and baiting potentially dangerous people when there's a frightened child in the room is callous at best."
Even Argus flicks her a worried, slightly wide-eyed look. Danae, apparently taking Ruth's request to heart, says and does nothing, not even when Hannibal flashes the knife up his sleeve. What does that make Ruth? What does that make Argus? Triss holds mouse-still and tries to swallow a frightened squeak. She's maybe 95% effective.
"Maybe we all got a little...carried away with discovery," Argus sighs. "Although I don't think you can call it secrecy when there's no real point to explaining a whole system of magic she might not have had, Even though we are. Secretive. As a whole." His mouth twitches a little, almost smiles when Hannibal says something else in a language Triss can't follow. Ruth only hmmms, unbending just enough to fold her arms back on the table. Triss lets out a breath she hadn't known she was holding at all. There's so much here she's not following, most of it probably, but it kind of looks like Hannibal's stepping back. He's making that face he uses when he's made his point to someone and he's just waiting for them to work through it. But what's the point? And are they keeping up? Frustration and uselessness and feeling-stupid simmers in her gut, next to the weird lumps of magic, and Triss goes back to chewing at her lip to keep from crying with it all.
"The accepted term these days is 'Allomancer'," Argus says, and then he bothers to look at Triss and does a very small double take. "Uh, are you...okay?"
"I'm fine," but her voice is really high and tight and her eyes burn and she just wants to be outside where there aren't any blue lines or heavy things to throw at people. Triss puts her head down on the table and folds her arms over them and shakes for a minute, oblivious to how any of the adults react to this.
"Oh, neshama, it's all right," at least Ruth sounds more normal now, like she's over whatever warning she was trying to inject into the air itself, "Everyone's first couple tries go badly. We've all got a story like that. Some much worse than others! You've done nothing wrong."
"'don't care," there's the mouse-squeak, "'don't wanna be dangerous and--and have demon horses mad at me and don't wanna be an a--allo--" and there's the hot burn of frustrated tears. Great. Wonderful.
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