[SE] You're my favorite color

COLT

He's got blue eyes, crooked smile
Knows that he drives me wild
Sarcastic and witty, drives like he owns the city
Assertive in the best way, no sleep we stay up playin'

She leans over the pool table carefully, rhinestone studded back pockets on full display, the sort of jeans that are only for going out. That's what she'd told Vesper when she invited him along for an otherwise average night for her and her ranch hands. Much as she's loved their moonlit jaunts, she's keen on raising a little hell in town tonight, so the best dive bar in town it is.

Her belt buckle rubs against the table as she presses in, one polished boot lifting behind her to give her a better angle as she lines up her shot. Golden hair drips down onto the green table from beneath the black velvet hat she's got on, and the stick in her hand slides smoothly in her grip as she tests the shot. The low-cut of her sequined top leaves little to the imagination with her dip, but that's kind of the whole point. Somewhere her jacket's claiming a chair, hardly needed in here where body heat and liquor make up for the chill outside. 

Once, twice, then she drives the pool cue into the white ball. Her one eye that'd pinched shut for aim snaps open as she leans back, admiring the handiwork with a smile as the solid '2' sinks into the side pocket. Across from her, Wyatt slaps the table rail, and Jesse looks like he might eat his hat. Loser of the night has to feed the horses in the morning, you see—hungover or not, cold as shit or not, and they already lost the last game.

A delighted laugh slips free as she winks at them before rounding to Vesper, pool stick extended to him like she's passing a baton. Teams, they had decided, switching off with their partner after every shot, successful or not. "You're up Ves," she croons, fixing him with a warm gaze and a slant to her smirk.

All the things that he says, go straight to my head
Worships me slowly, tells me I'm his only
They say he's morally grey
What can I say? Grey's my favorite color

VESPER

Vesper stands just behind Colt, half-draped in a puddle of shadow as if it were his rightful place. The flickering lamplight, softened by amber glass and a bit of dust, leaves his pale hair brushed with dusk and his constellation freckles nearly hidden. Not that he's the sort to linger unseen, not tonight. His arms cross loosely over the soft chambray of his shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, the faint shimmer of silver rings catching the glow whenever he shifts. Boots planted, black jeans pressed into a relaxed lean, he watches the shot drop with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

His eyes had already travelled the length of her once when they walked in—dripping denim, dipped velvet, and the kind of confidence that doesn’t need to ask permission—but he isn’t above doing it again. Not when she moves like that. Not when her grin is made of gunpowder and gold.

When the '2' vanishes clean into the side pocket, and Jesse’s hat threatens to become a chew toy, Vesper tilts his head toward them, voice a dry and easy drawl. "Think I could scratch every damn shot and you'd still be the ones up at first light." He accepts the cue from Colt with a flick of his fingers, the passing a quiet ritual of touch and heat. Her smirk earns a wink in kind, lazy and slow, like the thought of misbehaving hadn’t even begun to wear thin. Then he circles the table with all the unhurried elegance of a cat about to knock something off a ledge.

The dim bulb above the felt leaves one corner of the table smudged in amber shadow. Vesper’s gaze skims over the angles Colt left him, and the soft twitch of his mouth suggests either mischief or admiration—it’s rarely just one.

He leans down. The chambray pulls faintly across his back, spine bending into a graceful arc as he plants one hand, ringed fingers loose against the edge. The other settles the cue between his knuckles with idle grace. A moment’s pause, and then the sharp click of contact, followed by the hush of rolling. One of the side pockets gulps the ball down smooth. It’s impossible to say whether the angle was just right, or if something just beneath the flickering light had nudged it over the edge. Either way, Vesper straightens with a blinked innocence, cue resting on his shoulder like a harmless weapon.

"Well how about that," he says mildly, eyes like moonlight on black water as they catch Colt’s again with a smirk as he holds out the cue for her.

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

He's got blue eyes, crooked smile
Knows that he drives me wild
Sarcastic and witty, drives like he owns the city
Assertive in the best way, no sleep we stay up playin'

It's hard to say if Vesper's earned any friends in the ranch hands. The scathing look Jesse shoots him for the quip suggests it's a rather simple no, but then the boys have never been keen on losing, or freezing—they might be the best of buds with him yet if they end up on a winning streak, or get five more beers deep. If it'd been a card game they'd take her easy, her bluffing not nearly as formidable as her aim, but Jesse's the one who ran his tongue next to a pool table and landed them in this deal. He'd been hedging on Vesper not being capable of much, but then Jesse's not the most observant. Wyatt knows better, but his loyalty keeps him at the idiot's side, the very same sort that's kept him at Colt's too.

Their systematic defeat is absolutely something Colt's relishing, especially when Jesse's earned it. She's entirely remorseless about securing an extra hour in a warm bed, so a dry laugh rises at Vesper's words, spreading her shameless grin into something with more teeth. The only downside is the rampant arrogance of her mouth makes it difficult to get a seal on the bottle of beer she's reclaimed, hops not particularly the brand of perfume she prefers. One arm folds over her front, the other propped up on it at the elbow, beer bottle dangling loose in her fingers as she holds its neck beside the corner of her smile.

The pride fades steadily, but her sip and everything else becomes an afterthought at that point, her attention settling fully on Vesper and his casual dominance of the space. She could watch him effortlessly claim their victory all night long, bowing over the table in easy command, finding ways to shine even in the dusty dinge of this place, every line of him carved in elegant confidence. Even if she's got a sneaking suspicion that it's more than accuracy guiding his shots, she's just grateful he can hide it, because if he got caught she'd never hear the end of it.

Her smile flutters back to life, pressing in on glass as he looks at her. She takes a quick swig of her beer without breaking eye contact, unwilling to forfeit the view of him more than necessary. "Two crack shots, you lads should just save your coin and swap to water now," she taunts as she reclaims the cue, a sly glance sweeping off Vesper one last time before she pivots back to the game, beer set aside.

As she lines up her shot Jesse makes an obnoxiously shrill noise, and the abrupt laugh that lifts is what sends her hit askew more than anything, the solid '4' thumping uselessly against the side near the corner pocket. She sucks in through her teeth, long and disappointed as she rises. "I always knew you were a cheat," she scolds without heat. "That's why I end up fixin' all the babies you start." She might not care that he ruined her round, but his dusty ego clearly isn't suffering enough if he'd pull that stunt.

With Jesse sulking, something that satisfies her nearly as much as a successful ball in a pocket, Colt steps aside with a grand gesture of her arm for them to please take up the table and score some points. She situates herself beside Vesper, leaning against him until they're nearly flush, the steady plant of one leg the only thing keeping her angled instead of outright surrendered to him. Cue held like a staff in one hand, she extends it across his chest for him to reclaim when they will inevitably be up again. She flops her head to his shoulder with a contented sigh; losing for a little while ain't so bad if it means the felt has stopped separating them for a bit.

All the things that he says, go straight to my head
Worships me slowly, tells me I'm his only
They say he's morally grey
What can I say? Grey's my favorite color

VESPER

He watches her with the sort of indulgent quiet usually reserved for storms on the horizon or fireworks about to go off. Colt doesn’t just move—she prowls, each shift of denim and sequin deliberate, meant for the eye and unapologetically so. In this room full of grit and spilt beer, she’s all polish and spitfire, carved in confidence and just enough recklessness to make it interesting. Even when she fumbles, it’s grace reimagined; an outlaw in rhinestones, too sure of herself to ever fall from the saddle for long.

Vesper snorts under his breath, slow and dry, as he glances sidelong at the ranch hands, an almost-apologetic shrug rolling across his shoulders like a lazy tide. "Or," he drawls, "they might as well keep goin’. Don’t think there’s any comin’ back from this. May as well enjoy the evening."

His voice isn’t unkind, but it’s edged with a smirk that doesn’t bother softenin’ for Jesse’s sake, least of all when his shrill screech ruins Colt's shot. That petty flicker of satisfaction is loud in the man’s thoughts, high and brittle and far too easy to needle. Vesper doesn’t move, but his shadows do, curling along the floor like spilled ink—barely-there tendrils brushing against Jesse’s boots. Not enough to ruin the shot he was about to line up, but hopefully enough to cause him to stumble against the table.

Colt’s weight folds against his side a moment later, steady and familiar, and his arm settles easily around her shoulders in return. It’s casual in the same way velvet’s casual—soft, sure, and designed to make an impression. The cue she hands off is accepted with an absent hum, his fingers brushing hers as he balances it lightly across both palms. "Still think I’m the one startin’ trouble?" he murmurs, tipping his head toward hers with a ghost of a grin. "Didn’t hear me makin’ any birdcalls."

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

He's got blue eyes, crooked smile
Knows that he drives me wild
Sarcastic and witty, drives like he owns the city
Assertive in the best way, no sleep we stay up playin'

A short laugh breaks free, bold and unforgiving as Jesse staggers to the table after getting caught on a shadow. The jostle thoroughly ruins whatever puffed up chest he still clung to. "Looks like Jesse already enjoyed the evening plenty if he can't even walk. That why you playing so shit?" Not suspecting Vesper, and her gaze drawn too high to the nice view of him to notice any midnight hounds weaving around ankles, Jesse just appears to trip over himself. Of course he's not that drunk yet, but she can't miss the opportunity that's presented itself to mock him and his balance. Jesse wheels around as her chuckles die out, staring at the ground for some ledge or object to explain his fumble, but after some grumbling from Wyatt he gets on with the game.

Slipping into his side and wearing his arm is easy, so dangerously easy. It could always be this simple, she supposes, but she doesn't bother to sort any of that out right now, or ever really. The warm buzz of drinks and nearly claimed victory is a sound that eagerly drowns out all the rest that dare to rise up inside her, and she lets it. It doesn't quite hold his voice at bay though, and to it she turns her head up faintly. "You claimin' you're innocent right now sugar?" There's a glint to the gaze she offers him that's a dare. Whether for him to prove it, or ruin it, isn't entirely clear, even to her.

Her smile grows back into something wide and sly the longer she looks at him. "Besides," she clarifies, voice dropping softer, forcing her to lean in further and get on her tiptoes to make sure he can catch it over the bar noise, her hat sheltering them both for a moment as she tilts and turns. "I don't remember sayin' your trouble's a bad thing." She steals a kiss from just the corner of his lips, pulling back with a wild grin and a mild shove as the groans of the boys suggests Vesper's up again.

All the things that he says, go straight to my head
Worships me slowly, tells me I'm his only
They say he's morally grey
What can I say? Grey's my favorite color

VESPER

Vesper snickers low in his throat as Jesse stumbles, the sound silk-wrapped and cruelly amused. The trip is everything he could’ve wanted; just enough shame to humble, just enough mystery to keep the man looking for someone else to blame. He glances down at Colt as her laughter lifts, catching the angle of her grin like it’s something precious and rare.

One brow arches, slow as syrup, and a sly curl tugs at his lips. "All I said," he murmurs, shrugging against her with theatrical innocence, "was that I wasn’t makin’ bird calls." The implication slides between them like smoke, unbothered and smug; if he’s cheating, at least he’s got the good manners to do it with finesse.

She leans in and he tilts closer without hesitation, meeting the kiss at its edge and pressing just slightly forward even as she’s pulling back, like he might make the moment linger on his terms. Her shove earns nothing but a spark in his gaze, blue eyes gleaming with mischief as he straightens and turns a long, unhurried look toward Jesse, who’s scowling into his beer like it’s betrayed him.

The cue bounces lightly against the floor as Vesper moves to the table. One glance tells him exactly what he needs. He lines up a shot with studied calm, long fingers loose and elegant on the grip. The cue ball clicks off its mark, brushing too close to the black 8, and for a second the air in the bar stills with anticipation.

Wyatt slaps Jesse’s chest in giddy, premature victory, only to deflate just as quick when the 8 ball clings to the edge of the pocket and refuses to fall. Vesper hums as if the whole thing was accidental, then shrugs with a laziness that borders on smug. He returns to Colt and slips the cue into her waiting hand, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist. "It's adorable," he drawls, casting a glance back at the disappointed duo. "Watchin’ ‘em get their little hopes up."

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

He's got blue eyes, crooked smile
Knows that he drives me wild
Sarcastic and witty, drives like he owns the city
Assertive in the best way, no sleep we stay up playin'

The way he leans into her kiss rattles her more than she expects. It’s not just the brush of his mouth—that always manages to do her in—it’s the want tucked behind it, enough to leave her buzzing like she’s chewing a live wire. It sets butterflies to life in her chest, each wingbeat on her ribs echoing that desire, and it damn near knocks her breath loose, because this isn't the usual heat. This is what she keeps trying to cover up with the fire, thinking maybe if she burned enough for him she could bury it in ash and choke it out. It normally rises up when she's alone, when he's not close enough for her to catch on, and it's just the thoughts and memories to keep her company. That it's surfacing from the soot spooks her from her spot.

When he turns away to the table she slips off toward the bar. “Double of your house reposado,” she orders sharp and rushed. “A round for everyone!” she calls out after catching Wyatt's eye. It’s half excuse, half gratitude for her favorite dive bar, but it'll do as enough distraction to keep the worry from her hand. Amid the cheers of nearby patrons, she grabs her double and tips it back. At least this is a familiar burn, tipping it down smooth and fast, swallowing before the butterflies can crawl too high in her throat, figuring that if she drenches all those fluttering wings, they'll be too heavy to fly. She sets the glass back on the counter, hoping she left the feeling in it too.

Grabbing three shots in hand she saunters back just as Vesper’s left the boys slumped over their false hope, looking like a cat in cream. Her grin sweeps into place at the sight, wide and dangerous as she divvies out the liquor. “It's no fun if they don't try,” she says with a syrup song too at odds with the wolf's smile she's wearing. “No rum, sorry honey,” she laments for Vesper as she trades the cue for the shot. The faint touch he delivers to her wrist stirs one damp wing back to life.

Gripping the pool cue tight, she turns with a flourish of rhinestone sparkle and loose hair, cocking a hip into the table as she surveys the felt battlefield, preferring to conquer this over others. Chalk dusts her fingers as she strategizes, the end of the stick kissing against the cube before she moves to line up her aim. She leans low, the green fuzz pressing close under her, then cracks the shot home with a clean motion that kicks the errant '4' ball where it belongs—right down a hole. Straightening, a glint in her eyes as they coasts over the boys, she hands the cue back to Vesper. “Y'know, you can always give in if you're tired of being shamed,” she suggests sweetly to the cowboys.

All the things that he says, go straight to my head
Worships me slowly, tells me I'm his only
They say he's morally grey
What can I say? Grey's my favorite color

VESPER

Vesper feels it as much as sees it; the way Colt slips from his side like she’s outrunning the scorch of something she didn’t mean to feel. The kiss might’ve been hers to steal, but the quake behind it was mutual, and Vesper’s been alive long enough to recognize the shift from fire to flame to fear. He watches her retreat to the bar with a stillness born of restraint, sharp blue eyes following the set of her shoulders, the speed of her steps. He doesn’t comment, wouldn’t dream of it.

When she returns, radiant and dangerous with liquor in each hand and bravado freshly lacquered over her nerves, he offers her a dusty smile. The kind that curls faint at the edge and settles in like a secret, unspoken and understood. He eyes the tequila she passes him with a sigh, resigned as an executioner. "A bar without rum, huh?" Still, he throws it back with the ease of someone who’s been dared. The burn hits his chest like wildfire, sharper than rum, and a quiet hiss slips through his teeth that he doesn't bother hiding.

Colt leans in for her next shot, all rhinestones and intent, and Vesper watches like he’s paid admission. When the ball thunks into the pocket, clean and smug, he takes the cue from her outstretched hand with a murmur of appreciation, his gaze flicking to Jesse and Wyatt like they might already be digging their own graves. "At least if y’all call it now," he offers dryly, "you might get a few extra hours sleep."

With a slow step to the side of the table, he lines up on the yellow 1, his long frame folding into the shot like it’s a second skin. One clean hit, and the ball disappears into the side pocket with a satisfying clunk. He straightens without ceremony, rolling the cue once in his hand, and glances toward Colt with a glimmer tucked behind his lashes. Their victory isn’t sealed yet, but he's starting to be able to taste it on his tongue as he offers the cue back to her.

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

He's got blue eyes, crooked smile
Knows that he drives me wild
Sarcastic and witty, drives like he owns the city
Assertive in the best way, no sleep we stay up playin'

She doesn't mean to laugh, but she's already halfway to one between every breath, what with the inevitable defeat across the table and the alcohol warmed haze, so when Vesper regards the shot like it might sprout eyes and blink at him, she can't hold it in. She tilts her hand over her mouth as the sound leaves her, a poor attempt at cover. The depth only worsens when he's smiling through it the way a cat does, forcing the stick to take some of her weight as she leans on it, her hand abandoning the pretense of hiding what’s already obvious. She grabs at his shoulder instead, light but careless about her touch, more a matter of being drawn in each time like she's forgotten the pull from the last one. "Guess we're even for the wine," her voice hums in around the smirk. Not that she'd meant to settle that score, just hadn't wanted to bother the busy bartender with a custom order of shots all around. She'll keep it in mind for next time, to at least require something different for him.

Shaking her head as her hand falls away and she claims a very different sort of shot, her mouth is too wide with the pride of it all to properly seal shut as she rises. Laughter breaks out rich and daring again as Vesper's quip slides in behind hers, and between the pair of them they've torn holes in the egos of the cocky ranch hands, or Jesse at least. Wyatt likely already knew the outcome, which is why he's been tilting his head and muttering to Jesse, who's flushed hot, the raw burn of a man who’s never learned how to lose.

It's a distracting enough color on him that Colt's gaze narrows a bit, watching the ranch hand as her thumbs hook into her pockets while Vesper leans in to kill the yellow ball. She turns her attention at the sound of the strike, finding the bright shine of his gaze easily over the gap of the table. The quiet but meaningful exchange of his thoughts in that look is something that pulls one corner of her lips back up. "Remind me to always play with you on my team," she murmurs as she takes the cue back from him, cutting a glance to Wyatt, who's fingers are now resting firm on Jesse's taut shoulder. A 'brow lifts, not in surprise, but in quiet expectancy, before she settles back over the table.

She takes her time with this shot, letting the boys breathe, and because she's only got one ball on the table she can hit. She tries a few angles, but gives up on them and swings around to a less expected approach, counting on bouncing it off a corner or two to finally get it in the hole. It's trickier, but it's also less likely to knock one of the stripes in if she can pull it off. "Wish us luck," she calls back to Vesper, tossing him a glance over her shoulder before setting the cue into motion. She sweeps off the table with a nod as it rolls, almost thinking about not tipping it, but then it vanishes and the point stays with them. Keeping any smart comment locked in her mouth this time, she extends the stick to Vesper, reluctant to give it up even when he takes it, if only to hold him for a beat. "8 ball's all yours sugar. Let's finish this before he does something stupid."

All the things that he says, go straight to my head
Worships me slowly, tells me I'm his only
They say he's morally grey
What can I say? Grey's my favorite color

VESPER

Vesper huffs a soft laugh, eyes narrowing with affection as he tips his head toward Colt. The eye-roll is deliberate, slow, the kind reserved for someone who knows exactly how often she gets under his skin and how rarely he minds it. "Even for the wine," he repeats, voice dry as dust. 

The look she gives him across the green felt is easy to catch; he’s already watching her, after all. Always is. His brows lift once, the gesture smooth and roguish, and the grin that follows is slower than sin. "Wouldn’t have it any other way." When she asks for luck, he raises a hand, fingers crossed like a charm meant more to tease than protect, and the smirk curving his mouth could gut the heart from anyone paying attention. 

The cue returns to his hand with a little resistance as Colt does her part in sealing their victory. Vesper momentarily feels the warmth of her, the weight of that look, and then something else sharp and bitter on the edges. Jesse’s mind is a stormcloud of ego and desperation, thoughts prickling like thorns. There’s a flicker of something stupid brewing just beneath the surface: the idea of a staged fight, loud enough to justify wrecking the table, maybe even stealing a ball to throw if it came to that. Anything to end the game.

But fate, tonight, doesn’t appear interested in mercy. Colt’s trick shot has lined up the 8 ball with perfect cruelty, tucked at an angle so clean, even Vesper’s shadows don’t need to stir. He leans down, cue resting between loose fingers, his body folding into the moment with all the calm of a man who already knows the ending.

The tip of the cue taps smooth against the white, sending the black ball gliding. Vesper's gaze lifts to Colt as the ball curves once, twice—then thck—sinks home, and he winks.

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

He's got blue eyes, crooked smile
Knows that he drives me wild
Sarcastic and witty, drives like he owns the city
Assertive in the best way, no sleep we stay up playin'

She's on the edge of a breath (since she has no seat to speak of) as Vesper approaches the pool table. Even Jesse, roiling as he is, seems to freeze in the moment as they all watch, anticipation like leather between their teeth. As Vesper leans in, Colt does too, gaze straining on that 8 ball. His hands move, clean and precise, and the sweet sound of the ball disappearing into the pocket sends her breath out with a whoop of celebration. Her hat goes flying with the call and she closes the distance between them quick, not seeming to decide if she means to jump in his arms or on his back, but her feet leave the ground one way or another as she bodies into him, grinning and victorious. "You make an awful good partner, pardner," she drawls with a laugh.

On the other side of the table, Wyatt hauls Jesse away with a strong arm around his shoulders, more of a collar than a comfort. Jesse stumbles off muttering about something not being right, about them being too good, and she hears Wyatt handing down the punishment of mucking stalls on top of the feeding for all of the annoyances Jesse caused him this night. Deadiron might not have a bunkhouse full of gentlemen, but it at least expects bets and word to be upheld. Maybe Jesse would find the grace of losing in the manure he'd be collecting.

All the things that he says, go straight to my head
Worships me slowly, tells me I'm his only
They say he's morally grey
What can I say? Grey's my favorite color

VESPER

The shot sinks and so does the tension, dropping clean into celebration as Colt whoops and closes the distance with all the force of a dust storm rolling in. Her hat arcs away somewhere behind her, forgotten, and Vesper barely has time to straighten before she’s airborne, laughter in her throat and victory in her limbs. She lands on his back with the kind of confidence born in saddles and sun, thighs gripping sure around his waist, arms loosely slung like she’s always belonged there.

His hands go instinctively to her legs, steadying her with ease, not that she needs it. The strength in her is unmistakable, and he knows damn well she could ride him down to the floor if she wanted to. Still, he holds her like she’s worth the effort.

Across the table, Jesse’s muttering earns him nothing but a flat, unreadable look. Vesper doesn’t feed kindling to a fire already losing shape, and Jesse’s pride is already burning itself to the bone. Wyatt’s hauling him away with the firm professionalism of a man used to wrangling livestock, and that’s that.

Vesper’s fingers tighten briefly on Colt’s thigh—just enough of a squeeze to signal her dismount. Once her boots are on the floor again, he turns toward her with a look that’s half promise, half invitation. "Seein’ as we don’t have to be up early," he drawls, "seems a shame to let the night end here."

He’s just about to propose another round when the band, fresh off break, strikes up with a chord that hums through the bones of the floorboards. Music curls back into the dive like it never left. Vesper lifts a brow a flicks his head toward the dance floor before sliding an arm around Colt's waist—possessive in the way velvet is, soft but sure—and guides her through the shifting crowd. His shadows follow, discreet but firm, pressing out like invisible hands to keep any drunken bodies from swaying too close, forming a quiet barrier around them.

~FIN

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!