So now every time PRIP directs his full-of-loathing stare at his daughter he meets Fleabag’s rictus instead. Which is only fair, since Rat herself never looks at him directly. Only through her badges, the little round mirrors slung around her neck. She’s been seeing him in small fragments for so long now she can’t even imagine him in any way other than a series of reflections. She can’t perceive him as a whole. Not that she’d wish to.
