She’s always been good at reading people, feeling the way the air shifts, and now that she’s seeing it all through different eyes, Nancy swears it’s electric. It’s the way the second the words leave her lips, the brunette regrets them, reminding herself suddenly who Rose is exactly, Nancy’s posture suddenly perfecting itself.
A smile would normally tug at the corner of her mouth in amusement at the ultimate Mom Comment, but as Nancy does genuinely fear her life (in a sense of the word), she forces it down. Any slip out of line from her in plain sight, she knows Rose will have no problem making her… disappear, rather easily. It isn’t as if Nancy’s Shine is truly anything spectacular, but there is an aspect of her character she hasn’t shown them yet, one that Nancy herself had chalked up to pure talented and skill.
Rose’s tone reminds her of a mother scolding their child, and in a way, is that not the roles they will eventually play? Down the line, perhaps posing as mother and daughter, their features similar enough; Nancy remains almost doe-eyed in fear as the woman speaks. Hardly visible, her head nods in understanding, taking Rose’s change in tone as her cue to hesitantly take a danish herself, hunger becoming the new forefront of her brain, popping a piece of it into her mouth, swallowing it down quickly, before she nods.
“Yes, ma’am,” it comes out soft, but clear, Nancy finally able to really find her voice. She doesn’t even bother to look to Crow yet, having a feeling some kind of gentle reprimanding will ensue after this little breakfast.
be careful where your thoughts bring you, lest they bloom into reality. Crow wants to laugh, just a little ( he had predicted this happening, but not quite so soon ; he stares down, and the scone stares back at him as if sharing in his amusement. it’s the sort of humour that Rose clearly does not mean to acknowledge, if the piercing icepicks that are her eyes are to serve as a barometer. Crow sighs, a short exhale of exasperation slithering out long and slow from his lungs, and meets her stone-sharpened gaze, even as she continues berating the kid. )
and KEEPS berating him, too, somewhere between the lines. without protest, Crow watches her talk, lets them sort it out between them, and busies himself with reaching up to let his hair down ( literally ), running a hasty hand through the wet locks. ( as if he didn’t have a care in the world. the elastic band joins the bracelets around his wrist. he stares at the scone. the scone stares back. Rose throws more insulting insinuations his way, and he takes another blueberry-filled bite, an easy excuse not to answer. an easy excuse not to openly sigh her way, pin her down with too knowing eyes. that’s too far, and you know it. what is TRUST, Rosie darling? not regarding this child, but regarding–– )
and why should he not? why should his stomach do summersaults, his pulse become uneasy? the results of this ‘conversation’ were writ large, right in front of them, from the beginning. it isn’t as if he expects the kid to be dumb enough to stir shit up with Rose over breakfast. she will at least delay it until lunch.
“ Rosie. . . . ” he finally says, tone lazily casual in the aftermath of Nancy’s quietly spoken words ; one of his fingers circle the rim of the cup in an unspoken acknowledgement ( it’s fucking tea, not coffee, Crow doesn’t DRINK TEA–––– ) before bringing the cup to his lips and taking a sip. ( with that much amount of sugar, it manages to taste a little like hard candy melting on his tongue. he can stomach it. )
“ no need to worry about it. Nancy just woke up and is still adjusting. we’ve yet to go around or have a chat. ” ‘I’ll take care of it’ is what he means between the lines, the words painted with large brushstrokes. taking care of it could mean many things: showing the kiddo the way to get in touch with what the True really were, helping her to understand. . . .. . removing her vocal cords from her throat as she tried to scream, and burning the clothes that remain as she turns to steam blow apart by the wind. it could mean many, many things. and he means all of them. but even if his words are smooth, tiptoeing the line towards complacent, he’s certainly been rubbed the wrong way. ruffled feathers feel usual to him, and he has no object to peck at as an outlet. so the irritation rests on his shoulders like an invisible lead blanket. but that is something to sort out much later.