+- Court of the Fallen (https://cotf-rpg.com)
+-- Forum: Out of Character (https://cotf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=26)
+--- Forum: Important (https://cotf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=27)
+---- Forum: Archives (https://cotf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=38)
+---- Thread: someday soon this dust's gonna settle (/showthread.php?tid=11922)
someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Vesper - 08-18-2025
Vesper doesn’t make a production of the fact that he was staying over; not on the surface, anyway. A night bag slung from one shadow, wine balanced in another, the weight of steaks and fruit and vegetables divided neatly between the rest, Vesper strolls up Colt's porch steps with his hands empty and his pockets deep, like he’s come only to knock. In truth, it’s the first time he’s ever shown up somewhere intending to stay, and the difference hums through him like a taut string he refuses to pluck.
He’s dressed for ease, the collar of his shirt open to the evening air, hair pale as bone in the last light before dusk. The bag carries more than its share of meaning; a change of clothes, a scattering of essentials, the viper skin that needs to breathe the night air for his quest, tucked carefully in its folds. He’d let his sisters handle the packing; better for them to send what he might need than admit he doesn’t know what someone brings when they mean to stay. Besides, letting them help pack would probably keep them from interrogating him had he just sent a letter saying he'd not be back for a bit.
The market in New Haven had offered up its treasures readily enough when he'd passed through: Halovian ursur steaks—marbled and thick—with fruits that taste like sunlight and vegetables earthy enough to balance them. The wine he picked without ceremony but with a good eye; a deep red that promises heat and comfort alike.
By the time Vesper reaches her door, his shadows have neatly arranged the whole spread like a silent entourage. He leans one shoulder against the frame, knocking with the other hand as if he hadn’t brought half of a feast with him. When she opens it, he’ll greet her with the same easy crooked smile as always, as if this isn’t the first time he’s made the choice to belong anywhere overnight.
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Colt - 08-18-2025
It's nice that one of them isn't making a production, because Colt has essentially launched her own Hollywood company at this point over it. First, the back and forth silent arguing with herself (and sometimes out loud too, for a change of pace) over why she'd even permitted this and whether or not she ought to send a courier to him to tell him nevermind, she's too busy or her house burnt down or some other explanation. The stupid, traitorous part of her kept insisting it'd be fine though, that they'd already spent nights in the desert and in a tree house, so what's an evening at home? It's not like he's moving in, it's not like this is becoming more—that's just ridiculous. This is just, sensible, and comfortable, and fine.
Then there'd been the frantic cleaning, as if every speck of dust to ever exist had suddenly made itself known on every surface of her home, even bothering to still look dirty at certain angles in the right light and if she squinted a certain way. At one point at least six different things were halfway in progress of being scrubbed, scoured, or sorted before she'd spot something else that hadn't even been on the fucking list and grumble over to tackle it before she forgot, including the inside of her fridge. She didn't think she had a habit of being particularly messy, but suddenly the house looked far too lived in, too many nights spent passing out on the couch with a box of crackers in hand a little too apparent.
The dogs had long been kicked out. She couldn't handle the shadow of them pacing her from room to room, yelping when she tripped over them after an abrupt turn and cursing at them throughout the stumble. That'd been earlier today, but they still sulk on the porch, dusting various edges of it with their fur and paws. As Vesper arrives their announcement of him rings like a nervous chorus, tails wagging cautiously while curious noses press up towards him and his goodies.
[say]"Enough!"[/say] she shouts back at them, mostly uselessly as one or two continue to alert like the entire meadow hasn't heard. [say]"One seeeeecond,"[/say] she calls, pulling out the whisk from the bowl with an approving nod of her head after tasting the batter. She turns, spinning accidentally in place once while searching for the hand towel she forgot she put of her shoulder. Wiping the mix off her wrist onto it, she takes a moment to fix her loosely tied back hair, setting it back over one shoulder. She smooths her t-shirt under her apron and dusts some flour residue from her jeans before heading to the door, bare feet whispering over the wood and tile.
Inhaling, she reaches for the door and pulls it open, her smile already in place at the sight of him, his name just there on her lips before they stretch out wider in surprise as she glances to each held item he's got like an overladen fruit tree. [say]"What,"[/say] she starts, the word falling apart into a laugh. [say]"What is all of that?"[/say] All the what ifs quiet at the sight of him on her porch, chased away by that crooked smile and those endless eyes. [say]"Come in,"[/say] she seems to remember after a beat, pressing against the door to let him pass, one hand extending towards him in offering. [say]"You got it all?"[/say]
Her home is not complicated, opening up into the living room first, her back door visible across from the front where the citrus trees grow and a stray animal or two might be found should the need arise for close watch. Her kitchen is open and near the living room, an island serving as a border against the entry way, and a small kitchen table ready near the hallway into her room and the bathroom. Another room runs the opposite way, empty now. The house is decorated, but organized, never too much to make it difficult to clean (more than it already is) or feel cluttered. Some artwork of horses or cattle in various mediums line the wall, along with some skulls and horns and old tack or leather mounted to the wood and stone of the higher supports of the building.
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Vesper - 08-19-2025
The dogs get the first of his attention, not her, but it’s not the deliberate slight it might look like. With his hands unburdened, he drops them easily to muss over heads and ears, his touch light but affectionate, like he’s acknowledging them as part of her chorus rather than trying to silence it. They won’t listen to him anyway, not when their loyalty’s so knotted around Colt, and he’s never tried to match the particular sharp pitch of her voice when she calls them off. He lets them nose at the packages, shadows coiling tighter around what they carry, before he straightens again, breath leaving him in a quiet huff of amusement at her laughter.
She opens the door wide and he steps into the threshold without hesitation, shadows trailing obediently after. He doesn’t look at the house the way a guest might, cataloguing details, filing away observations. He already knows more of her than any number of paintings or mounted horns could say. But what catches him, what makes his gaze sharpen, is the way she stands in the middle of it all. Colt inside her own walls. Colt in bare feet, apron dusted from cooking, her hair tugged loose in its braid. He can hear the static of her mind as always, full of restless turns and second-guesses, but there’s something about seeing her here, shaped by the rooms she’s shaped in return, that settles more heavily in his chest than any thought could.
[say]"I brought dinner,"[/say] he says at last, voice coloured by the chuckle that still lingers at the edge of his mouth. His glance slides past her shoulder to the kitchen, then back again, where her hand still hovers in offering. His shadows glide past him like a procession, setting their burdens neatly against the island. Only then does he tilt his head, flicking a look over his shoulder toward the dogs pressed close at the door. Brows lift, dry humour curling into his words. [say]"Though if they’re any indication, there won’t be leftovers for you to worry about, even if I did bring too much."[/say]
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Colt - 08-19-2025
[say]"Dinner?"[/say] she repeats with a wry twist of her lips, [say]"or the entire market?"[/say] His laugh tells her that he's well aware of what he's done, as if he's prone to doing anything unintentionally, so she's just left shaking her head after him. It might be worth remembering that dinner for Colt usually consists of just the alcohol and only one of the many things he's brought, usually something bready or cheesy, eating like a lazy and drunken carbivorous bird.
Her hand is hardly needed when he's got more than an octopus, so it falls to her hip as both their gazes turn towards her fleet of hounds. Some have already settled, the commotion of arrival short lived, but a few of the younger ones, Smooches among them, linger at the threshold of the entrance. Their tails still wave slowly, eyes turned up in complete guilt-encouraging puppydog fashion. [say]"You just arrived and you're already trying to spoil them?"[/say] Her head tilts back with the force of the laugh, closing the door shut on the pleading mongrels like it might break the spell they've woven. [say]"They've got your number early,"[/say] she teases, attention drifting back to him with a swell of adoration for his inclusion of her small, four-legged family.
As it always seems to, the worries that had been so prevalent and loud scatter, like the breath from his tilted lips is all the wind she needs to clear out the dust that manages to settle inbetween. It seems to be residue from old heartaches and problems drifting around, the result of trying to burn and bury something that flakes off too easily. For now, the breeze is better than polish.
She'd pictured him here a time or two before, albeit far less domestic and clothed, but the present sight does not undo old fantasies easily when new ones get suggested instead, inspired by the reality of him framed in her home. She'd not considered him in the kitchen before, an easily forgotten portion of her home to be honest, best for chilling liquor and managing her baking energy where restlessness can be turned into production of treats. She certainly has a new use for it in mind though—him in nothing but an apron, serving up plenty of meat with her scattered over the island like a dish in need. Or, bent over her rarely used kitchen table, all of her hunger being fed. Her gaze flicks there briefly, a sly grin sprouting up where nerves had been.
[say]"You can put your bag in either room. Shoes off,"[/say] she instructs, crossing to where he stands, a bit more surefooted than usual in her own home, and the tequila on the counter that'd been her partner in crime for mixing up dessert. She means to return to the kitchen and her batter, but she can't pass him without stopping, without turning a little portion of her thought into life. Lifting up on her toes, her hands reach to each edge of his jaw, delivering a soft, careful kiss. She keeps it light, fleeting, full of promise for more. [say]"Can I get you anything?"[/say] she asks, quiet beneath the heat of him still lingering while she forces herself to withdraw, not wanting to lose her footing so soon.
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Vesper - 08-20-2025
He lets her wry jab wash over him with an easy roll of his shoulders, laughter slipping out under his breath, low and warm. [say]"What can I say? I’m used to shoppin’ for Nova and Caly. Pair of black holes when it comes to food."[/say] The shrug is helpless, but the spark in his eyes makes it clear he’s not really sorry. He angles a glance down at the dogs still loitering, brow hitching as his mouth pulls crooked.[say]" Just tryin’ to keep the peace,"[/say] he adds, bone-dry, like it’s the most obvious excuse in the world for why he’s already halfway to bribery.
Colt’s thoughts scatter sharp and bright, shameless and unfiltered, and he doesn’t have to reach far to catch them. The image of him in nothing but an apron, skin catching the kitchen’s dim light while she sprawls across the island beneath, clings vivid and hot. Just as quickly, the picture shifts: her bent over the narrow kitchen table, her laughter bleeding into a rough edge as he drags her hips towards his mouth like a platter of food.
Vesper's expression doesn’t shift a hair. Neutrality is armour as much as charm, but even so, his gaze betrays him with a flick toward the island, judging it not for polish or sturdiness but for whether it would hold her the way she’d envisioned. The kitchen table earns a similar glance, a sly weight behind his eyes as he tests the scenes she’s conjured, wondering in silence which would break first—the wood, or her voice. If he lingers in the measure of it all a half-second longer than he ought to, it’s only because part of him is already cataloguing the possibilities, turning over how easily he could oblige every thought she’s just scattered. And if the corner of his mouth threatens to curl before he reins it back, well—he isn’t about to admit it.
Instead, Vesper follows her instructions with a sort of deliberate imprecision, setting his bag vaguely in the hall rather than committing it to a room. The shoes, he kicks off before toeing them into a line, like the concession of a guest trying not to leave rough edges. By the time he returns, she’s already reaching for him, and he stills under the touch as if it’s something fragile, breath easing out at the brush of her lips. His answer to her quiet offer is a smirk tugged slow across his mouth, one brow tipping high. [say]"Sure,"[/say] he murmurs, the drawl rich with suggestion, [say]"more of that."[/say]
And then, with the long-suffering sigh of a man cornered into civility, he adds, [say]"Though I wouldn’t turn down a drink, either."[/say] The glance he gives her after makes it clear which he’d rather be served first.
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Colt - 08-20-2025
A grin spreads like wildfire on her face, one admonishing cluck of her tongue given. [say]"Careful, you test my hospitality and I won't be able to resist delivering."[/say] A pointless threat, she knows all too well, but this time she means not to rush their evening and she'll put the weight of that responsibility in his hands. He's the one proven capable of restraint after all, so it's safest there. Her gaze does trail off him with reluctance though, like she's second guessing the whole concept of patience.
She manages to make it back into the kitchen, swiping up the wine with a raised 'brow. [say]"This?"[/say] she asks, tilting it carefully, [say]"or do you have a different preference for poison?"[/say] The wine gets set on the counter as she reaches up to her stocked liquor cabinet. [say]"Just don't ask for anything complicated, only one of us is a bartender,"[/say] she reminds him with a glance, because despite her stocked shelves, most of this gathers more dust than use. Seeming to catch herself, her hand falls from the cabinet door to the counter. [say]"Or did you mean something like, water?"[/say] She tries to keep the disapproval from her voice, aware she might have jumped to her preferences over his own, and water is certainly fine.
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Vesper - 08-20-2025
A grin cuts across his mouth, lazy and sharp in equal measure, and he tips his head just enough for his words to rumble out low. [say]"Duly noted."[/say] The mutter carries a curl of amusement, his gaze drinking in the second-guessing flicker of her thoughts like they’re poured sweet into a glass just for him. He doesn’t need to push for them—they brush against him with the warmth of a hearth fire, all restraint and impatience tangled together—and he takes them in like smoke curling deep in his lungs. Neutrality stays painted across his face, but behind it he savours the edges of her temptation, the way she imagines undoing her own patience before he even has the chance.
He shakes his head at the bottle in her hand. [say]"That’s for dinner,"[/say] he says, voice easy, shadows stirring at his heels as if echoing the tilt of his head. [say]"Rum, if you’ve got it."[/say]
When she reminds him only one of them knows what they’re doing behind a bar, his smirk crooks wider, slow as the spread of oil over calm water. [say]"Then I’ll keep it simple. On the rocks."[/say] The pause that follows is deliberate, smug as sin, before he leans in just a fraction closer, constellation freckles glimmering faintly in the kitchen light. [say]"That means with ice."[/say]
And though he turns back toward the counter as if it’s nothing more than a quip, the truth of her mind lingers in him, sticky-sweet. Aprons, tables, islands—her hunger is threaded through every surface of this place, and if his eyes stray once more to the countertop, it’s with the private satisfaction of knowing how thoroughly he could make good on the pictures she’s already painted.
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Colt - 08-20-2025
At the mention of rum she nods and pivots back to the open cabinet, reaching up for the bottle that seems a bit fancier than the other. Something better for sipping, she imagines, versus the low quality shit that gets used to add kick to a cocktail. A glass follows next from a different cabinet, and she's about to reach for the freezer when his sly remark coasts over. She pauses, the glass tapping on the counter as she sets it down and leans her hands against the surface with the faintest breath of a laugh. When she sweeps her eyes his way, he's already turned his back to her, but it doesn't stop the harmless glower she sets to his shoulders all the same. [say]"Good thing you told me, almost ran out back for some rocks from outside,"[/say] she says dryly, fighting off the twitch of more humor at her mouth as she resumes retrieving the ice, still tempted to serve him up some quartz now.
The ice breathes under the pour of the rum, and it rattles against the glass as she sets it down near his hand. Shortly thereafter her own margarita joins it, and she hops up onto the island counter, a practiced perch. What a different experience the last time had been that she'd sat here, margarita in hand, regaling Thorn with desert adventures and pleading for the secrets of amputating feelings. Now the thought of barricading Vesper out and denying all the opportunities to use this counter with him seems foolish at best. Just a matter of Goldilocks really, finding a night between the one with Thorn and the one at the masquerade, where everything is just right. Not too light. Not too heavy.
Certainly easier said than done, with the inevitability of him just within reach. It's one she doesn't balk at though, overly confident of this middle ground. As if in proof, she chooses to trace the shape of him anew. Her gaze drifts over the hairs that have fallen out of place near his temple, no doubt from the trip over here, one he's chosen to take numerous times if she's counting right. She draws a pattern amongst the starlight that freckles his cheek, newly made constellations born against his skin. Her eye drops to the curve of his hands along the counter, the capability of so much nestled within the curl of them, and some small part of her is anxious to find out all of it, for better or worse.
[say]"This is quite the production,"[/say] she observes, peering over her shoulder at the haul he's brought in. She raises her hand, offering her drink in toast. [say]"What do you need?"[/say] A crooked shape finds her lips then, unashamed as she considers his first request, but hides the memory of it behind a sip of lime and fire. [say]"Fair warning, my cooking's as good as my bartending."[/say] She grins, as helpful as a pair of pants on a rooster.
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Vesper - 08-20-2025
Vesper's mouth quirks as the glass is set down, a dry flicker of something like approval curling beneath his grin. She’s poured the good stuff, but then, of course she has. Colt doesn’t half-ass anything she cares about, not even the hospitality she claims she might weaponise. He tips the glass lightly in her direction before sipping, letting the rum bloom dark and clean across his tongue. It tastes like summer grown up and tired of sweetness—bold, bruising, warm.
She hops onto the counter, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the invitation written in the shape of her legs or the tilt of her hips, but gods, it would be so easy to set the glass aside, crowd the space between her knees with his body hips and tug her forward until denim scraped across tile and everything else faded. To press his mouth to the base of her throat and learn the taste of salt and lime where her skin runs warm beneath the apron, before stripping off her jeans and declaring dinner served. The thought lingers just long enough to sink its teeth in, a predator circling under still water.
Instead, he rolls his shoulder and lets a huff of a chuckle slip loose, the kind that threads with self-restraint. His glass lands back against the counter with a soft clink as he leans into the space beside her again, spine curved in the kind of half-slouch that says he isn’t bothered by proximity, even if his shadows have crept fractionally closer to her ankle.
[say]"Oh?"[/say] he drawls, letting the word stretch. [say]"All this counter space, and you’re sayin’ you don’t cook?"[/say] His brows lift with exaggerated disbelief, as if she’s just told him she’d rather drink water than tequila. The grin that follows is slow and wolfish, amusement playing in the corners of his mouth as his gaze drops deliberately to the flour dusted across her apron. [say]"Funny,"[/say] he murmurs, [say]"you sure look the part."[/say]
And then he’s in motion, peeling away from the counter with the ease of a man used to moving through other people’s spaces like they’re already his. The bags await—silent, orderly, curated—and he starts pulling them open, laying out meat and produce with the careful, casual grace of someone who doesn’t need to rush to be in control. [say]"Bowls,"[/say] he says, as if he’s asked her for something simpler than surrender. [say]"Spices, if they’re not ancient. An’ I’m assumin’ the grill out front ain’t just ornamental?"[/say]
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Colt - 08-20-2025
[say]"I'm using the counter space,"[/say] she protests, a hand gesturing at all of her claiming it as a chair as if it's obvious. [say]"Besides,"[/say] she continues like he's in need of an education. [say]"I said I cook as well as I bartend."[/say] She nods pointedly towards his rum. [say]"You got a drink, dontcha?"[/say] As for her attire, she glances down at it as if guilty as charged. [say]"I do bake,"[/say] she clarifies further, brushing off some of the flour she just now noticed. [say]"Very different from cooking."[/say]
A quieter moment sinks in among the playful corrections though, her hand running over the cool marble surface with a touch of fondness she doesn't often linger on. [say]"Anyway, this counter really belonged to my mother. She was the one who loved cooking, and baking."[/say] Colt does not remember her well any more, too young for the memories to stick so strong, but she does recall the way she'd been warm and always wreathed in music. Her mother often hummed and sang through each day's work, and she always had a fragrance to her that was delicious, like she couldn't help but stay dusted in all the spices she used.
The memory fades under his rise to industry, her attention flicking up with a slow curl to her lips as he finds a pace she didn't think he could manage, like lazy stroll was his only setting and not just the default. She slides off the counter to fetch the request bowls, setting them out with a jingle as the stack hits the counter. [say]"Define ancient,"[/say] she asks skeptically as she pulls a few jars out of a cupboard and gives them a test shake, tilting her head as it rustles by her ear. Movement seemed like a good sign. [say]"'Course not, the grill is where I do my best bartending."[/say]
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Vesper - 08-21-2025
A dry chuckle flicks past his mouth as he lifts one hand in theatrical surrender, the faint clink of his rings tapping against the glass still resting in his other. [say]"Oh, I see,"[/say] he says, like her explanation has unveiled some great architectural secret. His gaze trails lazily from her hips to her heels, drinking in the sprawl of her posture like it’s a blueprint he could happily memorise. [say]"You’re usin’ the counter. My mistake."[/say]
And she’s not wrong, either; he does have his drink. Exactly as ordered, chilled to perfection, just the way he likes it. [say]"Suppose if your bartendin’ is any indication, maybe your cookin’ll be just fine,"[/say] he concedes, rolling the glass between his fingers as if warming to the idea. [say]"An’ bakin’, huh."[/say] His eyes lift again, catching on the flour as she dusts it off. [say]"I've never had much of a sweet tooth before—maybe you’ll change my mind."[/say]
Her thoughts flicker then—unexpected, soft-edged—rising like steam from a summer street, warm and bittersweet, as tangible as the fondness in the curve of her palm where it strokes the marble. He doesn’t usually ask; doesn’t need to, and doesn’t care to pretend he’s someone who gets curious out loud. But tonight is already different—by design, not accident—and maybe that’s reason enough to pull the thread. His voice lowers as he turns toward her, one hand still cradling his glass, the other resting against the counter like he’s not quite sure whether to close the distance or hold the line.
[say]"What happened to her?"[/say] he asks quietly, not pushing, not gentle either. Just present, and—unusually—honest in the asking. Her reply can come when she’s ready, or not at all. Vesper's already grinning again at her last quip, the one about bartending at the grill, and this time the sound that breaks from him is a real laugh—sharp, low, and unwillingly fond. [say]"Now that I believe,"[/say] he mutters, shooting her a wry glance as he nudges the bags farther open with his shadows.
He tips his head toward the produce with a dry smile, already peeling open one of the steak parcels. [say]"Cut those up for me, yeah? Add some butter, pinch of whatever spice ain’t turned to fossil."[/say] There’s a flicker of mischief as he looks back toward the door. [say]"I’ll go see if this world-famous barbecue will light up."[/say]
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Colt - 08-21-2025
[say]"Haven't died yet,"[/say] she grins, as if that's the bar she's set her cooking talents to. [say]"Mm, I don't much eat what I bake,"[/say] she shrugs, understanding the lack of a sweet tooth, although there's plenty that could be made that are less sugary. [say]"It's something easy to do that makes other people happy though, and one or two to balance out the sour can hit right."[/say] Certainly softens the news of shit work for her ranch hands, she has found. A little bribery never hurt. She glances at her brownie batter on the counter, more something to keep her busy while she waited for him than an offering, although she certainly meant for them to eat it tonight. The invitation that she might change his mind lands like a challenge, the corner of her lip curling. She'd have picked something other than brownies if that's the case, but patience, maybe she'd win him over some other night.
His ask surprises her, like she didn't realize she'd just put something vulnerable out there, or that he'd care to pick it up. Admittedly, it's one of the few past pains she has made peace with, so none of it flakes off in her, even under his request. [say]"Horse flipped over on her,"[/say] she says evenly, although her hands stray from the counter and cross over the flour of her apron, one finger tapping on her elbow. [say]"She got up, took two steps, then gone. Neck broke."[/say] She's kept her gaze off him during the tale, finding a corner of the kitchen that the light hits instead, not really wanting to witness whatever shock, pity, or put on sorrow for a woman he never met would surface on him. Hell, she'd barely met her too. [say]"Life's a bitch,"[/say] she shrugs, like that's that.
The moment ripples past easily, just a sigh over a pond, and then the life that they both still have in them remerges from the shadow, bright with his laugh, meaningful with her assigned task. [say]"Yessir,"[/say] she teases, getting into action to gather all the things he's listed. [say]"Don't blame me if you catch fire,"[/say] she calls after him.
Cutting board and knife clatter on the counter, and she bumps the fridge shut with a hip after getting the butter. She reclaims the salt, pepper, and something orange that still smells alright from the cupboard. Another sip from her drink and she's washing her hands, craning her head around her kitchen window to spy him outside. A moment to admire the look of him there, more natural than she cares to admit, before she turns back to the counter. She dives in, slicing, smothering, and seasoning, until the vegetables glisten with the promise of flavor.
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Vesper - 08-25-2025
[say]"How d’you know what you bake’s any good,"[/say] he asks with a flick of a brow, [say]"if you don’t sample it first?"[/say] His tone is light, almost teasing, but it’s easy to imagine him turning the question into something far more suggestive if her answer offered an opening.
As she speaks and thinks about her mother, it hits different than her usual; no bladed edge, no deflection. Just a quiet, clean line of truth laid bare. Her thoughts move like river-stones worn smooth, not sharp or slippery, just...settled. Grief that doesn’t gnaw anymore, but rests in her bones like something accepted. He can feel it as clearly as if it’s his own—the memory of warm kitchens, of song braided with scent, the faint ache of loss dulled by time. It gathers under her skin like a shadow tucked behind a smile, familiar and tender in the way only old pain can be.
He notes the way her gaze slips from his, but says nothing. No interruption, no apology. Just a slight tilt of his head and a murmured, [say]"It sure is."[/say] Then quieter still: [say]"Saw a lot of grief and loss from the stars. Never had to live through any of it, though."[/say] There’s a flick of something there—acknowledgement, maybe even guilt—but he lets it pass unexamined.
As she begins assembling the vegetables, Vesper shifts on his shoes. Outside, the porch groans beneath his steps, and it’s barely a breath before the dogs leap into chaos. [say]"All right, all right,"[/say] he mutters, flapping his hands at them like they’re waves he can part. Smooches is the worst offender, circling his boots like a curse waiting to happen. By the time he’s bent to check the propane and get the ignition to catch, the pup has wedged itself directly beneath his knee. The instant he rises, a paw nearly finds itself underfoot.
[say]"Fuck—!"[/say] He stumbles back, shadows flaring out around his spine like startled wings as he catches himself on the railing. Smooches yips once—either wounded pride or just offended by the indignity—and scampers off, tail high. Vesper curses under his breath, flicks the grill lid closed with a final clang, and pads back toward the door with the long-suffering exhale of a man who knows he’s being tested by gods and dogs alike. Shoes kicked off just inside the threshold, he returns to the kitchen with a dry look and a shake of his head.
[say]"That dog’s got a death wish,"[/say] he mutters, shadows pulling themselves quietly back into his frame as he casts a glance at Colt’s handiwork. His eyes drop to the butter-slicked, spice-kissed vegetables and linger there a second longer than needed before he's smirking up at her. [say]"That looks downright edible. Might need to reassess my stance on your culinary talents."[/say]
RE: someday soon this dust's gonna settle - Colt - 08-25-2025
A laugh slips free at his question, caught off guard by the challenge in it. [say]"'Cause there's never any left and people are askin' for seconds while they still got hold of their first."[/say] One 'brow lifts, and a hand sits on her hip for a moment like she means to abandon the entire idea of dinner for the sake of baking, if only to have something to force on him right now as proof.
His admission about witnessing that sort of pain, but not truly enduring it is one that slips into her with a cold prickle. It runs like ice water down her spine, and all the heat of summer wouldn't be able to turn it into relief. She looks at him at that, but not her usual way, where she's appreciating something lovely trying hard to hide in the dark. This glance is sharper, and she realizes the cut it might give a beat too late. One of her fears being given shape by his voice of all things—a truth that he is too young, if he doesn't even know what loss is, and the unfortunate inevitability that he will one day. It makes his echoed sentiments that life's a bitch fall a bit flatter, the sound of it dying out quick. The chill fades for now, broken apart by warmer words and ideas, but it's sunken in somewhere that she'll look at again, when she's restocked her nerves.
Fortunately there's work to be done, something that always has a way of easing worry, or maybe just sheltering it for the time being. The sound of commotion outside rises like a familiar song, and though she pauses for a moment, especially at the fuck that precedes the yelp, she does not interfere, although she does peek out at the offending Smooches that scurries away. Not surprised, she returns to her vegetables, certain he can manage a small pack of dogs, though it sets amusement tugging at the corner of her lips.
It blossoms into a runaway smile in response to his reentry, grumbling about the storm of noses and paws that he gathered up like a wind. [say]"Better be nice to him,"[/say] she tuts, [say]"that's Frey's dog."[/say] She would concede however, that he's proven to be tremendously troublesome, which seems fitting for a hound kissed by a god who tends not to bother with things that aren't fun, such as obedience.
[say]"No faith,"[/say] she laughs back at his praise, lavished like he expected her to have already mangled and burned the food in the small time he's been gone. [say]"Wouldn't reassess too soon though, you haven't eaten any of it yet."[/say] Although the sparkle of butter seems promising enough. She leans her hip on the counter, finding support under the hang of his smirk. [say]"This mean I'm trusted with more?"[/say]